#inkmaking

[solomonsattic]

A handful of photos from Fulcrum Arts 2022 Fulcrum Festival: Deep Ocean/Deep Space program at Sidestreet Projects. The Water+Color Skill Share workshop featured hands-on explorations of pigments and dyestuffs collected from waterways across L.A County. 

Photo credit: Christopher Wormald. Provided courtesy of Fulcrum Arts. Instagram: @Christopher.s.w and @fulcrumarts

[taacabralstudio]

Cochineal black ink

[somepinkflowers]

{{ #imake 💕#homemadeink 💕 #naturalpigments 🌸🍃🍂🫐}} #somepinkflowers 🌸 I have been playing with #ecodye for years but a few months ago I signed up for a class on #inkmaking from @vintagefables on the @jeanneoliver website. 👏🏽👏🏽💕💕💕 #ohhappyday 🎉 👉🏽👉🏽Giving some #somepinkflowersfact here during my birthmonth 🎂 👉🏽 I make #ink 🌸 #allabouttheprocess 💕 Mostly I have been painting with the inks but I have used a dip pin, too, with the inks for writing in my art*journals. #colorplay 🧡💛💜🤎 #icollectcolor #iamamaker 👋🏽☺️🌸🌸🌸 (at Saint Augustine, Florida) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoccJZsuBdY/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[lycanthrop-ee-art]

The Inkmaker

[samaspic31]

im so fucking mad about capitalism's devaluation of manual labor (especially financial, hi raise the fucking wages) and expectation to outsource labor, leading to dire exploitation (everyone is exploited, but manual workers especially AND don't get compensated for the toll on their body AND get looked down on unlike white collar workers, all that because making intellectual products is worth 10 times more money i fucking guess). The average person used to have so many more practicak skills and we used to know how make so much more stuff, having people cook, clean, take care of your children and sew for you was the height of luxury for a wealthy woman, depending so much on buying to substain your lifestyle was reserved to the extremely wealthy. People were expected to hold more basic skills outside of a hyperspecific field of their career like today and were allowed to spend time on broad and practical knowledge, and today schools do not even out the playing field because it's still mostly theoric regurgitation (which great, but give all the youngsters a cooking, crafting and sewing class and teach them accounting im begging) making people into highly specific tools relying on buying most of what they don't even think they can make, because disempowered. (this is linked to capitalist shaming of perceived failure and beginners and imperfection but that's a whole other can of worms)

Like for example it was just a given painters made their own paint (or started by making it for their mentor, any way they were taught how), it was considered a necessary first step, a way to understand your medium, and a way no to depend on anyone else or a corporation, and i think a lot of artists are missing that step of having to spend effort on the medium itself. I don't know how my graphic tablet works and i can't make acrylic paint and that's a shame

Like it was always normal for the already rich to leave all physical work to exploited workers but today it's everyone else's case too (at least in the economic north), making your own stuff is a counterculture thing, and even poverty or being an exploited worker eats so much of time that it makes it so buying is necessary and stuff made with exploited labor the only affordable option, fucking vicious cycle

there were deep inequalities with how the teaching of those skills were segregated, which was for which gender and social class, im not saying it was universally good, and women were expected to accumulate way more skills just to do all the managing of a household AND get that labor devalued, just, urgh, it was considered important to know at least i guess

also the birth of packaging and the rise of single use plastic+ worldwide transport of goods is heavily linked to this and a consequence of a global economic boom but it's still a fucking disaster-

anyways buy a s little new shit in as little packaging as you can and fuck corporations

[cadere-art]

Hunen is one of the main characters in my (WIP) story Empire's Wake, which takes place in the City-State of Ranai after the death of the last Namitan Emperor. Hunen works under Cevein Þete as Master of Staff, a role he's rapidly earned for his stellar interpersonal skills.

More on Ranaite transsexualism, Hunen trivia, and text from the image under the cut.

Hunen

Age: 33 Gender: Male Ethnicity: Ranaite

Hunen is a senior Archivist in Ranai's Port district. Hunen is one of many Ranaites to embrace a gender different from the one dictated by their birth, a path rooted in solid cultural tradition among Ranaites and other tahen peoples, but viewed as superfluous and backwards in the context of Ranai's growing gender equality and flexible gender roles.

Hunen grew up in the High Vale District of Ranai and, after his graduation, progressed through his career rapidly through his willingness to move to districts with open postings. He worked several years in his home district before requesting a transfer to "anywhere" and ending up at Ranai's Port Archives. Hunen is very secretive as to what, exactly, motivated his transfer out of his home district.

Like all senior Archivists, Hunen's feathers are dyed and his gums are tattooed black. Outside work, Hunen often dresses in civilian Ranaite clothes, but remains obviously marked as an Archivist by his feathers. Hunen favors bold colors and patterns.

Ranaite transsexualism

Note: Ranaite culture is rather binary in terms of genders. There are cultural frameworks for genderlessness or third gender identity, but these are not touched upon here.

Ranaites, like other Tahen peoples to which they are related, do not sex their children at birth. Antioles have internal genitalia: before secondary sex characteristics begin to appear at puberty (and children begin experiencing genital eversion as a result of arousal), specific processes are required to asses the sex of a child. These processes are not employed by the Tahen, and their children and their children possess the gender of "child". Upon puberty, around the age of 10, children are initiated into their sex in a ritualized and involved process, which is followed by gendered socialization until and through adulthood.

Gender is strongly associated with sex, but is understood primarily through the lens of the roles attached to it: historically, Tahen societies have been strongly gendered, with strict gender roles and expectations. As an example, Archivists are traditionally always men -Librarians, their counterpart, always women. The combination of strong gender categories and late gendering of children has produced a solid cultural framework for children who refuse the roles associated with their sex. There is a long cultural tradition among Tahen of children choosing to be initiated in the other gender.

This choice is popularly understood to stem from a desire to engage in the other gender's roles: if a female child dreams of being an inkmaker like its grandfather, then it is sensical that this child will choose to be a man so that it can take on this profession. If a male child is determined to become involved in politics, then this child has no choice but to be a woman so that it may one day become Councillor. Transgender antioles in this framework are understood as deeply devoted to their lifepath.

Transsexualism in contemporary Ranai

Ranai has had a strong movement for gender freedom and equality, starting over a century ago. This movement has been largely successful: Ranaite gender roles are infinitely more flexible than those of continental Tahen peoples. Gender bias and stereotypes are still very much alive, but professions are no longer restricted to one gender or the other: it is possible to be a man in politics (like Aliti) or a woman Archivist (like Cevein).

In this framework of gender equality and freedom, the cultural institutions of transsexualism are often perceived by Ranaites as a holdover from a time gone by. Because gender is still so strongly associated with its traditional roles in the Ranaite mind, the desire to change gender outside of access to other gender roles is difficult to understand for Ranaites. Transsexualism seems superfluous in a world where anyone can be anything they want to be. Hunen's transgender identity is perceived by many as overly conservative, a holdover of a time when professions where restricted by gender: why be a man when you could've been a woman Archivist anyways?

Hunen does not face hostility for being transgender, but finds himself stereotyped as a very traditional person and is faced with confusion when trying to explain his gender as detached from his role as an Archivist.

More Trivia

All senior Archivists have tattooed gums, a painful ritual process in which junior Archivists are ordained as full fledged members of the institution. Popular gossip holds that *all* of an Archivist's "pink flesh" is tattooed, including their genitals. Cevein refuses to engage in such gossip, but Hunen loves to stoke the mystery.

Hunen and Aliti met as young adults, when Aliti was a runner and Hunen a student at the Great Library. They lost contact when Aliti's injury put an end to his running career.

Hunen, as a child, wanted to be a Librarian. He usually avoids mentionning this, as it makes people more confused as to his choice to be a man.

Hunen's willingness to move districts for better postings is seen as unusual: Ranaites are often very attached to their home district and prefer to keep close to their family.

Though Hunen is very secretive about the causes of his latest move, the distance between High Vale District and the Port District as well as his silence about his family implies that some sort of familial conflict motivated the move.

Hunen is an incorrigible gossiper.

[handweavers]

hi! can i ask how you make your natural inks? i've been wanting to try making some myself 🌚

hiya! for a basic introduction i have a pdf on gumroad (free to download or pay what you can if you're feeling generous) on making ink and paint by hand that goes into the fundamentals and includes some recipes. i give this booklet to students when i teach workshops on inkmaking irl and it's a good basic reference guide and primer for those who have little to no experience working with natural pigments

if you're looking for more in depth resources, the following books are great and likely available at your local library: botanical ink by babs behan & making ink by jason logan are both excellent

plants & colour uk also has workshops online and resources on working with handmade ink and paint

and joumana medlej sells books on historical islamic ink-making with recipes if that's something you're interested in, her ebook 'inks and paints of the middle east' is a favourite of mine. art history & islamic studies people may be interested in her translations of al-qalalusi's and al-razi's medieval arabic texts on pigment and ink, they are incredible

[birdofdawning]

The Bookseller’s Eldest Daughter and the Witch’s Girl

Chapter One

There was once a bustling city, filled with merchants and shopkeepers and artisans and traders from distant lands, all working hard and shouting about their wares in the streets and making bargains in the coffee houses. The roads were well-paved and busy, and when you walked down them you might go past a row of colourful shops with a group of shop keepers all standing outside arguing together over some neighbourhood dispute, such as the mushroom farm Mrs Grimple insisted on kept in her cellar, or the annoying proliferation of goats about the city these days; or perhaps they would be gossiping about the Lady Dulcimell’s three quarrelling husbands, or the King’s son’s illness and how many ‘cures’ had been nothing of the sort. You might walk through a noisy market place filled with fine cloth or glassware or exotic birds, and leave with a parcel of fireworks or orchid bulbs that you had been persuaded to buy. And then finally you would come to a small quiet square with a fountain or a shady tree in its centre and you could take a few minutes to rest from the stir and clamour.

Now down a tiny side street in the Antique Quarter of this vigorous, colourful city was a bookshop. It was cluttered and comfortable and smelt of old paper. The Bookseller himself was a tall, gangly man with long fingers who liked to complain about everything no matter how trivial, and I am afraid that his shop might not have done quite so well if it weren’t for his daughters. For the Bookseller had two daughters, both very beautiful: the eldest was solemn and studious, but the youngest was smiling and sociable and beloved by everyone in their neighbourhood.

As well as being rather bad-tempered I am afraid that the bookseller was a parsimonious man, and one day, as he sat with the printer saying 'yes' and 'no' to the new stock on offer he caught sight of the prices being scrawled down on his friend's ledger.

"Why," he said, doing some quick calculations, "what all this? That's an extra thuppenny per book!"

The Printer shrugged. "Paper is a little more expensive at the moment," he said. "Just pass the extra on to your customers. No-one will notice."

But the Bookseller was sure that his customers would notice, and they would go elsewhere, to Ettlemen's Books in the Clockmaker's Quarter, perhaps; and soon word would get around that his business was failing and then the creditors would begin hounding him. He must cut costs to make up the extra thruppenny charge... but from where?

And as he sat at supper that evening he noticed his daughters moving about with the pots and the plates, and it occurred to him how much they cost him. “Three meals every day, and new dresses, and what-not! Why, with such extravagance I will be ruined! The shop will fail and we’ll be living in the streets with the creditors after us!”

He said so aloud, and you will not be surprised to hear that his daughters objected.

“Father, we make our own clothes, and I keep the house and cook all those meals,” said the youngest daughter, “and I make sure I always get the best price in the market when I go shopping.”

“And I run the shop with you, and do the accounts, and worry the printers for new books and hunt throughout the city for old ones,” said the eldest daughter.

But it was no good. “No,” said their father as he wrung his hands, “you will each have to leave and get married. Then the shop may manage to survive.”

The eldest daughter, who did the accounts, scoffed at this because she knew that the shop was in no danger at all. But the youngest daughter said “Well, the clerk’s apprentice wants to marry me and I like him very much. But who can my sister make a match with?”

The eldest daughter frowned and said Nobody! She would stay and help with the shop, of course. But “No, no, that’s no good,” said the Bookseller, “You will have to marry the Inkmaker. He says he needs a wife to keep house for him, and that either one of you will do; he’s not picky.”

“But he must be sixty years old!” said the eldest daughter, aghast.

“And he’s always talking about how much he hates women!” said the youngest daughter.

But the Bookseller said that his mind was quite made up: if his eldest daughter had no other offers she would marry the Inkmaker and that’s all there was to it. And no matter how the two sisters argued, it seemed there was little they could do to convince him otherwise. And so things stood.

Now one day the bookseller was in the back room opening parcels of new books from the printer and the eldest daughter was away bargaining for old books at an estate sale, leaving the youngest daughter to mind the shop. And as she was dusting the shelves (I am afraid that she was the only member of the household who noticed when the shelves needed dusting) the door chimed and an odd-looking man walked in.

Though she didn’t work in the shop as often as the other two, the youngest daughter knew most of their regular customers, and she had never seen this man before. He was very tall and thin with grey hair, and wore well-fitting but sombre clothes. But his eyes sparkled with life, and also — though I won’t pretend the Bookseller’s youngest daughter guessed at this! — with wicked mischief.

“I had heard that you were beautiful, and I see I was not misinformed,” he said, and though the Bookseller’s youngest daughter felt rather uncomfortable at this remark she smiled, and thanked him, and asked how she could help.

The man looked around and then said “Well, I was looking for Bartleby’s A Modern Contemplation of Clouds and Their True Meanings? Do you have that?”

“Um,” said the Bookseller’s youngest daughter looking around the cluttered shop, “I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you immediately. I’ll fetch my father, for he will know.”

“No, no, don’t worry him yet,” said the tall man quickly, “what about Grindlestone’s Catalogue of Hell and Fairy, Including Details of Many of Their Denizens and their Interests in Our World?”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Bookseller’s youngest daughter, “I hope we don’t have that book! It sounds rather sinister!”

“Well, well, perhaps it does, perhaps it does,” said the tall man. “And now tell me, child, do you buy used books? For I have one here that that is positively unique!”

“Y–es,” said the Bookseller’s youngest daughter carefully, “we do buy used books. Though it would be better for you to speak with my father about that.”

“Perhaps you could have a look first,” suggested the tall man, “and see if it’s worth his trouble?”

And out of a satchel he pulled a great tome bound in yellow silk, with leather hinges and brass clasps. He turned it around to face the Bookseller’s youngest daughter and unfastened the clasps and the book fell open, just as if it was eager to be read. Despite herself, the Bookseller’s youngest daughter leaned over to look, and on the page before her she saw an awful picture. It was of a sheep’s head rising out of a boiling cauldron. And as she stared in fascinated horror the sheep’s head seemed to grown bigger and bigger, travelling out of the book until it floated right before her! She screamed once and collapsed on the ground.

With a low chuckle the tall man closed the book, carefully put it away, and left the shop.

When the Bookseller’s eldest daughter came home, she found a strange figure standing motionlessly in the middle of the shop. It wore her sister’s clothes, but instead of her sister’s pretty head an old sheep’s head grew from its shoulders!

Well, you can imagine the to-do that followed. The Bookseller was horrified. “Who will marry her now?!” he wailed as he pushed his poor youngest daughter out to the back of the shop and away from prying eyes. “She will have to live here with me forever! Unless,” he considered, stopping in his tracks, “Unless we could get her into a sanatorium! We could say she had a disease. But then,” he added, his face falling, “that would cost money.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter found that the creature that had been her sister was quite tractable. It would follow where it was lead, and sit where it was told, and eat what was put in front of it. But it didn’t speak and it didn’t do anything but face straight ahead with its great eyes rolling in their sockets. “Keep it in the back room,” said the Bookseller, “I won’t have the neighbours gossiping about us. And make us some dinner.”

So his eldest daughter had a poor attempt at soup — I’m afraid she was an indifferent cook — and then sat and held her unlucky sister’s hand while her father whined and moaned about how their fortunes were all ruined.

The Bookseller was a man of regular habits. Every night, as soon as the kitchen clock struck eight he would stand from his armchair by the fire, sharply tell his daughters to cover over the ashes in the stove before they slept least a fire break out (he had a dread of fire destroying his stock) and take himself to bed. And the two girls would clean the kitchen, lock the door and go to the small bed they shared.

But this evening, once she could hear her father snoring in his room, the eldest daughter gently laid her sister out on their bed, covered her with a blanket, put on her sensible old boots, and slipped out into the night.

Now in the daily way of business the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had travelled all over that city, and she heard all the rumours and gossip that fly about every place where there are people. And while she didn’t necessarily believe everything that was said, she always stored it all away in the back of her mind, just in case. So she remembered hearing that at the end of a lonely lane behind the Braziers’ Quarter was an old house where a witch lived. And people who were in real need would visit this witch to get a neighbour’s curse unspelled, or find a child that had been beguiled by efts, or drive out gnarlings who had taken residence in a cellar.

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter walked through the city — from the Antique Quarter into the Clockmakers’ Quarter, and from the Clockmakers’ Quarter into the Ostlers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets — until she came to the lonely lane behind the Braziers’ Quarter. And, as she had been told, at the very end of that lane sat a rickety old house. There was no mistaking it — it looked like the sort of house a witch would live in. It was tall and thin, with a high attic window and a small white porch. And hanging from the porch was an elegant sign that said:

Dealer in Magic and Spells Reasonable Rates Pls Enquire Within

And below, fiercely handwritten in what looked like mulberry ink:

Hawkers will be transmuted into livestock and sold at market without character (recollect your Homer)

She stepped up onto the porch and tapped three times on the green front door. But it was a witch’s house and she was nervous, so perhaps she tapped a little softly; at any rate no-one came to answer. So then she tried the door, and to her great surprise it was unlatched! (The Witch had rather gotten out of the habit of latching her front door, because nobody with any sense was going to trespass in her house.) Slowly slowly the Bookseller’s eldest daughter pushed the door open and peered into the shadowy hall and whispered “Hello?” And when nobody answered she stepped over the threshold and into the Witch’s house.

Before her were stairs leading up to the first floor, but beyond them the hallway lead to a door, and standing in the doorway holding a candle and looking very surprised was a girl of about her own age. She had long black hair and was wearing a white night dress.

“Oh no,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I was looking for the Witch, but I suppose she’s already gone to bed!”

“Well, she was on her way,” said the girl, raising her candle to peer at the visitor.

“But I need her help!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “It’s very important! Do you think she’d be awful if we woke her up?”

“Oh, I expect she’d probably turn you into a cameleopard and sell you to a travelling menagerie,” said the girl, “She’s frightfully bad-tempered and also very interested in natural history.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrung her hands. “Oh dear! And I know my father won’t let me away from the shop any earlier tomorrow evening, the business and his dinner must always come first! What am I to do?”

“I find sleeping in one’s own bed to be very efficacious in solving whatever little problem comes one’s way,” observed the girl, “perhaps you could try that?”

“But my sister is in my bed, and she has been half turned into a sheep!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“That would seem to be somewhat of an obstacle to a restful night,” the girl admitted. “Although, not ever having found myself in that particular circumstance, I couldn’t say with any certainly.”

And at that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had a wild idea. She eyed the girl anew. “You must be the Witch’s girl!” she decided.

The girl raised her eyebrows. “Must I?”

“Yes! And so of course you would have seen all sorts of strange things while you were in her service!”

“I suppose that’s true,” said the Witch’s girl.

“So perhaps you could help me save my sister!”

“Perhaps I could,” said the Witch’s girl thoughtfully, “But you must know that the Witch always asks a price for her help. That’s how magic works — even for a Witch’s girl. What would you give me to save your sister?”

Now the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wanted to say ‘Anything!’, just like you would have in her place. But she had read about magic and bargains made with queer folk at night, and besides she was a Woman of Business and knew when and how to barter. So she frowned and said “Of course I want to save my sister more than anything. But I’m afraid I have little to offer you. What do you think you would you like?”

The Witch’s girl considered this. “Perhaps,” she suggested after a moment, “I could offer you a little bit of help in return for a very small price.”

“What sort of price?”

The Witch’s girl put her head on one side and looked at the Bookseller’s long-limbed, tangle-headed daughter, and then she said “From some people I might ask for a secret nobody knows. And from others I might ask for a happy memory. But from you I think I will ask for a single kiss on the lips.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter gave her a suspicious look and said “Why, does a kiss have magical properties that you can use for spells?”

The Witch’s girl bristled and said “No! I mean, yes, but no, I was trying to be—!” And then she looked up at the ceiling and sighed in a way that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought unnecessarily theatrical. “Do you want my help?”

“Yes,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Well then, will you risk kissing a witch’s girl? Even if she may potentially later use that kiss in sinister and occult ways?”

Then the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked at the Witch’s dark-eyed girl for a moment, and perhaps she was thinking about her poor enchanted sister and perhaps she wasn’t, but when she answered she said “Alright.”

The Witch’s girl looked a little surprised, but she said “Come along then! And shut the door behind you. The Witch has a horror of strays.” And she turned and lead the way to the back of the house.

Now I don’t know what you think of when you imagine a witch’s kitchen, but when the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stepped into this kitchen she found it was clean and tidy and well kept, though you could still tell that it was a Witch’s kitchen because of the stuffed crocodile hanging from the ceiling and the several jars over the mantelpiece that were labelled things like ‘Unspoken Words Between Lovers’ and ‘Star — unlighted’ and ‘Forgotten Hours’ and one that was unlabelled but which the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected contained marmalade.

The Witch’s girl set a kettle on the stove to boil and asked how the Bookseller’s eldest daughter liked her tea, and when they each had a cup and were sitting at the table she said “I suppose you had better tell me what has happened,” and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter did. And then the Witch’s girl sipped her tea and thought.

“Well,” she said after a while, “Of course I’m only the Witch’s girl, but it seems to me that some magician or other has stolen your sister’s head. And the sheep’s head is there to keep her body (and thus her real head) alive. Have you upset any magicians lately?”

“No!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “we don’t even know any magicians!”

“Perhaps you were recently ill-mannered to a man in a tall pointed hat, possibly covered in stars? You do seem to be rather indifferent to social propriety, so you may not even have noticed how awful you were being.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter rolled her eyes and didn’t answer.

“Well then, taking the bolder hypothesis (that is, assuming you haven’t committed some act of breathtaking insolence toward a member of the magical community) perhaps the magician wanted your sister’s head itself. Is she as pretty as you?”

“Oh, much prettier!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

The Witch’s girl sniffed and said that she didn’t approve of hyperbole. “Now your first problem,” she went on while the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to think that through, “is that you don’t know who this magician (or enchanter or fairy prince) is. And I think I can help you with that. Come to me tomorrow with something of your sister’s, preferably—”

But the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was already holding out a comb with a few brown hairs on it. “My sister’s comb. I am a Woman of Business,” she explained, “And I prefer to learn all I can about a matter before striking out on any new endeavour, even magic. William Samcloth’s Several and Diverse Accounts of Antique Sorceries with Commentary indicated that something like this might be useful. Although I’m afraid we only have volumes one and three.”

“I see,” said the Witch’s girl, taking the comb and trying not to look impressed. “Well then, let us begin.” And with quick, clever fingers she freed the hairs and wove them into a circlet. She placed this on the table, then poured a little pool of wine within the ring... and somehow or other not a drop flowed out beyond the circlet of hair, but instead the formed a dark red mirror that reflected the two girls in the candlelight. Then the Witch’s girl blew over the puddle of wine, making waves, and when the waves cleared the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was looking into the firelit study of a wealthy man.

And here was the man himself, tall and distinguished looking, and still in his shirt and vest, though he had changed the coat we last saw him in for a sapphire-blue dressing gown (which appeared a sort of plum colour to the observers).

“Ah,” said the Witch’s girl, “Mister Prosper. A rich man and an ambitious student of magic.”

But now Mister Prosper was making several odd gestures in the air and reciting something-or-other, though no sound could be heard by the two girls bending over the image in that small kitchen. And then a Very Wonderful Person stepped through the curtains. They were tall, even taller than Mister Prosper, and wore an exquisite tail-coat of crimson. The Person’s face was not visible to the young women, but they had hair like a ruby sunset.

The two spoke for a short time, and then Mister Prosper took up a box from his desk and presented it to the person, who opened it and then—!

“Oh!” cried the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, for inside she saw her own dear sister’s head staring fearfully about! The Person picked up the Bookseller’s youngest daughter’s head by the hair and appeared to examine it, then nodded. A bargain had been made. Putting the head back in its box, the Person turned and appeared to summon someone. A moment later a short figure with vine-leaves for hair stepped into view and went to stand before Mister Prosper, looking rather annoyed about everything. The Wonderful Person bowed and disappeared back through the curtains, and the waters settled down to show only the wood of the kitchen table.

“There you are,” said the Witch’s girl sitting back in quiet triumph. “Mister Prosper stole away the head of your sister to give to That Person, and in return he got a fairy servant. And no doubt he’ll be up to all sorts of carry-on now.”

“But where has my sister’s head gone?” cried the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“Oh, with the fairies,” said the Witch’s girl, and she handed the circlet of hair back to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and fetched a cloth to mop up the wine. “And a few hairs aren’t enough to show her to us while she’s with them.”

“But how am I to get her back?!” cried the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

And the Witch’s girl looked annoyed and said How should she know, she was only the Witch’s girl after all. “I said I would give you a little bit of help, and I have. Now you know what happened to your sister. What happens next is up to you.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought this through and found she had to agree. “Very well,” she said as she rose to her feet, “I suppose if I am to deal with the fairies I will need to consider that meeting very carefully.”

“Very wise,” said the Witch’s girl, “I shall walk you to the door.”

But as the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was about to step outside the Witch’s girl cleared her throat meaningfully and she suddenly remembered her bargain.

“Oh yes, of course,” she said turning back. The Witch’s girl was standing right behind her and without thinking about it too much the Bookseller’s eldest daughter leant down a little and quickly pressed her lips to the Witch’s girl’s.

Now I don’t know what you think kissing a witch’s girl would be like — maybe chilling like deep water? or dried out and dusty like something old and forgotten? — but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter discovered that this Witch’s girl’s lips were warm and alive and as soft as a whisper. And what she meant to be a brisk transaction went on far longer than she had intended; and in fact it was the Witch’s girl who stepped away first.

“Our bargain is fulfilled,” she said a little gruffly, “Good night.”

And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter found herself standing all alone outside that odd house, facing a firmly closed door.

The next chapter

[ghost-shepherdess]

thinking so much about making lake pigments from my leftover dyevats and foraged mushrooms !!!! cant do much other than read up bc im still recovering and my dye and inkmaking supplies havent shipped yet but !!! dreaming lots

[penhero]

PenHero.com Feature Article:  Universal / Empex Aqua Pen c. 1959-1967

The Aqua Pen, the patented brainchild of Max Goldman and Alex Goldman of the Universal Fountain Pen & Pencil Company, Inc., is actually an ink making pen idea that goes back to the Trench Pens of World War I. Trench pens were eyedropper pens that stored dry ink pellets in a small compartment in the end of the barrel. When the user ran out of ink, they would drop one or two pellets in the barrel, fill it with water and give it a few shakes to make ink. The idea was revisited several times since, with the Waterpen in the 1930s and the Grieshaber Graph-O-Matic Inkmaker pen in the 1940s, both using dry “ink batteries” or “ink sticks” that were put in the ink chamber and made ink when the pen was filled with water. The Aqua Pen modernizes these ideas by combining them with a modern cartridge pen concept.

Read the story about this interesting pen here:

[cloudbattrolls]

what magic powersets do I even have. uh.

jikiro - ink mage. specialty is inkmaking.

crista - word mage. specialty is describing things into existence.

zelaya - necromancer. specialty is consensual and ethical raising of the dead, and putting them back to rest.

gliese - necromancer. specialty is actually emotional magic, not that she realizes it yet. this ties into her necromancy (and her psiionics) but she is not yet conscious of that.

ginger - enchantment mage. the magical equivalent of a coder; very straightforward, but extremely practical. specialty is refining the magical qualities of objects.

ria - wrath mage. their magic is tied directly to their vice, and thus their anger. it is also indirectly linked to their two psiionic powers, telekinesis and thought grafting.

amdzah - not a mage, but his dragon lineage grants him abilities like extremely sharp reflexes, enhanced endurance, awareness of any space he's in, and resistance to fire. he is not aware of his lineage.

doroch - necromancer. specialty is being a huge dickhead. also necromantic constructs.

[taacabralstudio]

Natural pigments - copper, solidago, cochineal, indigo

2022

[lesamis]

Since they haven't been asked, number 24 and 25 for the ask game? Happy holidays!

happy holidays to you, anon! 🧡

24: Did you keep any New Year’s Resolutions?

every year i hope that this will be the one where i start doing the dishes right away. this year i got much better at it! i'm definitely not putting off doing the dishes right now as we speak

25: Did you create any characters (in games, art, or writing) this year? Describe one

for a new story in the craftsverse (see the gardener's story i posted in maybe january), i created the royal inkmaker's apprentice this year, a young, slightly stern, and very diligent girl who's exacting in her sense of beauty and insatiably curious. i like her & she's currently giving me a truly horrible time.

[laresearchette]

Sunday, June 25, 2023 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: THE GOLD (Paramount +) THE FREAK BROTHERS (Tubi) 2023 BET AWARDS (BET Canada) 8:00pm MINI RENI (Magnolia Canada) 9:00pm

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

DISNEY + STAR PROTECTORS (LOS PROTECTORES) (Seasons 1–2, all episodes available)

NETFLIX CANADA TITANS (Season 4)

MLB BASEBALL (SN1) 10:00am: Cubs vs. Cardinals (SN) 1:30pm: A’s vs. Jays (SN Now) 1:30pm: Rangers vs. Yankees (SN1) 4:00pm: Diamondbacks vs. Giants (TSN2) 7:00pm: Astros vs. Dodgers

WNBA BASKETBALL (TSN/TSN4) 1:00pm: Mystics vs. Liberty

PRANCER: A CHRISTMAS TALE (Crave) 6:45pm: Ten-year-old Gloria and her grandfather Bud befriend a mysterious reindeer when the family gathers for Christmas. Bud comes to believe that Prancer may actually be magical, but Gloria fears his theory will send him straight to a retirement home.

CFL FOOTBALL (TSN/TSN4) 7:00pm: Argos vs. Elks

FARMING FOR LOVE (CTV) 7:00pm: The farmers and daters take a break from chores and reunite to kick up their boots at a barn party, with a one-on-one date at stake.

BACHELOR IN PARADISE CANADA (City TV) 8:00pm: Drag superstar Queen Priyanka hosts a special event that pushes an already unstable Paradise over the edge.

MYSTIC (Super Channel Heart & Home) 8:00pm: Gordon is missing, but it's Champs Day, and the future of the rescue center is on the line; the KP team could give up their chance of glory to help Issie find her grandfather.

THE COLOUR OF INK (documentary) 9:00pm: Toronto inkmaker Jason S. Logan harvests colors from wild weeds, berries, bark, flowers, rocks and rust to send custom-made inks to artists around the world, from a New York cartoonist to a Tokyo calligrapher.

LITTLE BIRD (Crave) 9:00pm: Burning Down the House

BILLIONAIRE MURDERS (Crave) 9:55pm/10:55pm: Following the investigation into the deaths of billionaire and generic drug mogul Barry Sherman and his philanthropist wife Honey by Toronto Star reporter Kevin Donovan. In Episode Two, Kevin Donovan reveals details of Barry and Honey Shermans' last day alive, what may have happened inside their home on Dec. 13, 2017, and reconstructs the days leading up to the discovery of their bodies.

WORLD LACROSSE MEN'S CHAMPIONSHIP (TSN3) 10:00pm: Canada vs. Haudenosaunee

VERACITY: YOU'VE BEEN POSTED (City TV) 10:00pm: The story of how two women's intimate photos were stolen from their online accounts by total strangers, who then posted the images online without their consent.

[graywyvern]

( via / via )

Pharmakon and the Inkmaker.

   trolldom orb forage slain alms    idol love

among loop fronds    ibis off

Anger's Maldoror.

"The forgetful surf creaming on those ledges" --Plath

"The term could be a combination of ‘disturbing’, ‘dystopian’, ‘android’ and ‘steroid’..."

[the-darkest-of-lights]

Magical pinecone ink The recipe is simple: 1 cup (45 g) pine "scales" 2 cups (475 ml) distilled water 2 teaspoons (8 g) soda ash (or washing soda store-bought) bring the content to a boil then very slow simmer for 2 hours. I ended up with 1/4 cup of dark liquid. The content was strained and voila! In the bottle I added 6 drops of cloves essential oil which helps for storage and potential mold. You could also use wintergreen essential oil. If you don't need to store the ink for a long time, you could skip that step. The ink is placed in the fridge. Magically pinecones are associated with the planets Saturn and Mars Pine is a funerary tree that represents everlasting life and immediately as an evergreen tree. Pine trees were often planted over graves to strengthen the souls of the deceased and help preservation. I found the pine cone I used to make my ink at the oldest cemetery in my area. Pines magical aspects are: necromancy, healing, protection, fertility, prosperity, cleansing, immortality. Spiritual protection from negative energies. Luck ,Joy, Balance , Purification , Banishment pine cone as a symbol of spiritual consciousness and enlightenment, awakening, or immortality. #witchcraft #tradwitch #greenwitch #greenwitchcraft #greenwitchery #greenwitches #pinecone #pineconeink #occult #magicalink #DIY #inkmaking #witchesofinstagram #witchyvibes #witchythings #witchaesthetic #witchblir #hygge #hyggelife #cottagecore #cottagecoreaesthetic #cottagecoreaesthetic #hyggelife #magical #magicalmakers #naturecrafts #naturecrafts https://www.instagram.com/p/CZxixSNvEla/?utm_medium=tumblr