Oliver stumbled through the twisting, whispering hallways with a stack of paper in his stained hands and his pockets bulging with pens, quills, paintbrushes, and other tools. He heard some eerily chanting song floating to him, a woman singing in a dead language with strange and stretched syllables. A warning. He was getting close.

Finally, he found a giant gate in the wall made of golden pens. It seemed to glow as he put a hand on it and tried peering through the pitch darkness behind the gates. The music was louder.

“I’m looking for the Guardian.” Oliver called out shakily.

The gate suddenly whooshed open, letting him fall in. He landed with a thump.

“State your business.” Came a woman’s voice from nowhere.

“I am in need of ink. I don’t have a drop left.”

The lights suddenly flashed on and a small teenaged girl came forward dressed in a robe and aviator goggles. She gestured to the giant holes in the cement floor behind her.

“Help yourself to any of the uncovered wells. I have all colors and liquids.”