The start of a fantasy thing.

The boy held his breath. Not because he needed to, but because that is just what he does when he performs. The crowd seemed to feed off this intense concentration and elaborate lack of motion and it helped him get into the mood and make this work quite smoothly. He closed his eyes and shut everything out. Everything except for the pen in his had and the book in his lap. When he opened his eyes again, it was if they were the only things that existed - just him and his tools.

He liked it this way.

He put his pen to the paper and started to write, making sure that every stroke of the pen was gentle enough to handle a newborn baby but firm enough to shake the hand of his father if he ever met him again. The ink flowed from his pen so well that were it not for the faint noise of the metal lightly brushing against the page you would think that the pen were merely a guide for the creature of ink to follow with it's tendrils. The resulting letters on the page shone with his brilliance.

-birds-

Both the boy and the crowd waited anxiously for something to happen. He had put his heart into the lines, and he expected them to repay him with the same effort he gave them. The crowd still waited, there had been talk of his talents even among the most cynical. Tales of a boy that had such a mastery of the written word that the tales he wove could tell themselves, however - by the time the stories had disappeared, so too had the boy.

A small wind blew through the crowd and on to the pages of the book in the boys lap, the letters on the page seeming to rustle in the wind more than the actual paper itself. The word rose off the page, letter by letter and started to make a noise that could be described as chirping birds, although with a hollow echoing to them. Faster and faster the word seemed to spin around itself and the noise became louder and more intense.

The rotations became so fast that it no longer resembled a word, letters, or even ink any more. It was now a bright blue orb of light. The orb rose high above the boy and the crowd and grew larger. Blue sparks started to fly from it but instead of falling to the ground, these sparks began to slow and slowly they changed their direction and started to orbit the ball of light. More and more of the sparks joined the orbit and the blue ball of light became smaller and smaller until finally there was nothing left of it.

At this point the blue sparks that had been orbiting the light paired up and fused, revealing blue lights that took the shape of small sparrows. They darted through the air as if catching insects and chirped happily whenever they changed direction.

The boy cleared his throat and at once the lights stopped, a hundred birds frozen in mid air like time had stopped for them. Slowly the lights on them faded and the birds could be seen as nothing more than three-dimensional shadows comprised of nothing but ink.

The boy pointed twirled his finger into the sky and the birds suddenly came awake from their slumber and dove straight down, spiralling in the same formation as the boy's finger. They moved around him and at once spread out through the amazed and confused crowd. Some people jumped at the fright of a bird going past them, causing the birds to run into them and turn back into nothing more than an ink stain on their shirts.

The boy took off his hat and bowed at the crowd, and walked away to a silence that suddenly turned to cheers.

This is the tale of Scribe, the wordsmith.