Eric Withakay

Admin Posts : 3 Join date : 2019-03-29

Name: Eric Withakay
Height: 6’1”
Weight: 170lbs.
Birth: Virgo
Grimoire: Mercator Atlas
Forte: Runes

The quill bobbed in the inkwell for but an instance, my eyes swept across the parchment for anything that might be considered an inconsistent. Taking but a brief moment to examine my placement, the original looming above me on the wall, I meticulously plotted the bends of the rivers and dells dividing up the area. Being able to expedite a laborious process to only taking but a handful of days has allowed for more meticulous details. ‘The value is in the detail’ a fond excerpt from my father’s many monologues, repeated consistently in my mind throughout this final process.

Exhaling heavily, I placed the quill down alongside the inkwell and gave my recent copy another look-over. Even though I had allotted more time to drawing the individual tree lines and adding dimension to the villages, the fact still remained that the maps geographical positions were nothing but accurate. All the landscapes from the Northern Sea to the beginning of the Zerzura Desert of the south were depicted in the once blank spaces in between. Each individual stroke cast to carefully depict, in great detail, the life's work of my bloodline. A chill settled across the room, beckoning the depressions of the past to claw their way to the forefront of my mind.

Taking to my feet, my hands argued with the parchment until it folded into it’s familiarities. Stripped from its typical spot, the faded wood begun to form a distinction between the sunbathed wall and the area blocked by the ancient parchment. Turning towards the bedroom, I tossed another log on the fire, warmth once again kissing each area of the room.

‘At least this will assist in the ink drying.’ As I sauntered down the corridor, the shuffle of my heavy footsteps mixed with the crackling fire and the symphony of nature in the darkest of hours. The room was sparse but for the necessities; a recently made bed, a cupboard of but a few garments, and a plush chair position next the a towering bookshelf. Falling to my knees, the clamer echoing through the room, I reached for the familiar knot in the floorboard. Within moments, I had the oak panel pulled back and removed the swaddled item from it’s secure resting place. Plucking at the twine knot, the leather shell unfolded to reveal my family heirloom; a book.

“The Mercator Atlas” was elegantly chiseled into the stone cover, my fingers following the flowing calligraphy before opening the book. Maps, each page had nothing more than timeless ink work that showed layouts of solitary villages to the spanning region and her character. My hand retrieved the folded up parchment and returned it to its place in the atlas. As the map made contact with the binding, threads unconsciously weaved through the familiar masterpiece and rebound it to the book.

“And you are whole once more Great Atlas.” Closing the unique book, my arms pulled it into an embrace and my eyes were touched by sorrow yet again.