Inksmith
of Black Wings

When morning raised its iron brow and found my hands laid bare,
You came, old friend, with patient fire and thunder in your care;

No common ink, no idle stain, no fashion born to fade,
But ten dark vows from Vardrum’s heart beneath my skin were laid.

And every line your needle drew, though keen its silver song,
Gave Black Wings breath, gave bone to myth, and made the spirit strong.

You held the storm as craftsmen do—without a boast or pride;
The ravens watched from realms unseen and gathered at your side.

With measured hand you woke each rune, with quiet art and flame,
Till every finger bore a road, and every road a name.

What once had lived in parchment’s dusk, in dream and whispered lore,
Now stands where hand and heartbeat meet, to wander evermore.

Yet there, within the mortal room, the old world still drew near;
The chair, the cloth, the needle-song, your dry grin cutting fear.

Between each bite of silver fire, your quiet jests would rise,
And kept me anchored where I sat while myth opened its eyes.

You wiped the dark and brought it clear, made hidden runes appear,
Till what had lived in thought alone stood breathing, sharp and near.

One rune arose like mountain wrath, one murmured marshland rain;
One knew the grief of sundered kin, one wore the victor’s pain.

One kept the oath no crown could buy, one guarded those I love;
One called the scarlet fire below, one drew blue flame above.

And two, like wings at midnight spread, took watch where shadows run—
Ten pieces of a deathless tale made flesh beneath one sun.

O Inksmith, you stood a rune-smith when the solemn rite began;
At fate’s black forge, calm-handed, with the courage of your clan.

The hammer was your steady will, the anvil was my hand;
The sparks were tongues of elder speech no tyrant understands.

You struck no steel, yet tempered me; you carved no stone, yet still
You raised a fortress out of ink that time shall never kill.

The Road That Would Not Kneel awoke and wound through flesh and vein;
It bore the footfall of the lost, the oath, the love, the pain.

It carried every silent name I swore I would defend,
From first black feather cast to wind until the world’s last end.

And where another might see marks, or patterns sharply spun,
I see ten doors to Vardrum’s night—and you unlocked each one.

For art is not the line alone, nor darkness deftly poured;
It is the trust between two souls, the unrecorded word.

It is the laugh that breaks the ache, the pause before the sting;
The knowing nod that whispers, “Hold”—then gives the mark its wing.

Not blood, yet kin by laughter bound; not named, yet uncle still,
It is your steady patience there, your humour, calm and low,

That turned each hour of sharpened pain to something I could know.
You gave your craft without pretence, your brotherhood without show,

And left within these runes a light no winter can lay low.

Should ravens bear my story north through storm and starless sky,
They’ll speak of Inksmith, the steadfast hand whose work shall never die.

They’ll tell how ten dark thunder-signs were summoned into birth;
How legend left the scribe’s dim room and strode upon the earth.

How every curl and sharpened edge was placed with honour true,
And how the wings were mine in dream—but found their flight through you.

May fortune keep your hand as sure when cruel winds arise;
May fire remain within your heart, and mischief in your eyes.

May every soul who takes your chair depart more wholly known;
For you can turn a secret grief to armour, skin to stone.

And may the halls beyond the mist, where elder bards belong,
Reserve for you a craftsman’s throne and crown your name in song.

No gold could weigh the worth of this, no silver tell it true;
For coin may pay the labour’s hour, but not the soul shone through.

So take instead my lasting thanks, as deep as ravens fly,
As fierce as scarlet at the dawn, as blue as midnight sky.

While these two hands can lift a cup, hold pen, or bare a blade,
They’ll carry proof of what you gave and honour what you made.

And when my road has crossed the veil and left this mortal light,
These runes shall blaze before my shade and name me to the night.

The keepers at the final gate shall know from whence I came:
A son of wings, a keeper sworn, a bearer of the flame.

Then Vardrum’s bards shall strike the chord and let the rafters ring:

“To Inksmith—the hand that marked his friend
and taught Black Wings to sing!”