This:

Prologue - Paper Flowers

“****!”

“****!”

“What happened?!”

“**** it, what did you do?”

Angry, melodious voices filled the airy, grandiose hall. A tall, muscular man with golden hair and a deep tan bent over the honey-colored brass control panel, working the levers furiously. He was sweating, the liquid gathering along his perfect upper lip. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps.

Three others hovered behind him, peering into viewing orbs or over the blonde man’s shoulder.

The first was tall and lithe, long fingered and delicately built. Dark eyes stared out from beneath long, curly chocolate locks that fell to his shoulders and glinted in the golden light that radiated throughout the hall. He stared intently into a viewing orb, his body bent forward with the urgency of his search.

The second had a wild mane of wavy red hair that was partially contained by a gilded helmet of shining, polished steel. He was stocky and broad-shouldered, and cloaked in gleaming chain mail. Electric blue eyes were set deep into his face, and at present they glared about with the ferocity of a tiger. His massive hand rested on the pommel of an enormous broadsword strapped to his waist, and he was swearing.

The third hung back in the shadows, almost timidly. His clear gray eyes looked sadly out at the angry activity in front of him. Black hair flopped unashamedly over one eye, obscuring half of his face and providing him with a sepulchral appearance. In his left hand he clutched six black flowers, made of a tissue paper that was delicate in appearance but could have withstood a blow from the broadsword of the cursing warrior.

“He’s gone,” said he, his calm belaying the frantic atmosphere that pervaded the hall.

“He can’t be gone,” snarled the warrior viciously in return.

“What did you do?” moaned the long-fingered man, an edge of hysteria in his voice.

“I don’t know,” answered the blonde miserably. He twisted the levers once more before leaning back and burying his face in his hands. “But Damon is right, he’s gone.”

“This was a simple task, Elior,” snapped the warrior. “How could you screw it up?”

“I don’t know,” said Elior, looking as if he might burst into tears at any moment.

“Einar, there’s really no need-” said Damon mildly, but he was interrupted by the long-fingered man.

“Where could he have gone?” he demanded, pounding his thin hand against the viewing orb.

“There is only one place he could have gone, Ryder, you should know that,” replied Damon. “The question is not where, but what do we do now?”

The other three just stared at him and didn’t answer.

“Very well,” said Damon, and he left the hall abruptly.

~

The boy awoke with his face pressed hard to the cold, wet cobblestones, and a bouquet of black paper flowers clenched in his small fist. 

Yes.  Inkwell is drying up.  Too bad.  Maybe people will see this thread if I post it, and then they will get sucked in again and all their bodily liquids can reincarnate the inkwell.