November 2nd, 2025, afternoon.
Luke claims the corner table and has no intention of leaving until the library closes. His rucksack sits tucked beneath his chair, squashed between his knobbly knees. Spread across the desk is his careful collection of sharpened pencils (plus two spares, just in case), and a rubber that is worn down to a stub. But the pièce de résistance is Blaze of Emrys propped open with his pencil case The book is well-loved and well-read judging by the cracked paperback spine. The library is quiet in just the right way. Not completely silent exactly, but hushed, an almost religious quiet he musn't disturb. Luke tries to make himself smaller in his chair, hyper-aware that his pencil scratching might be too loud, and that the way the way he keeps flipping pages might bother someone.
He chews his bottom lip and squints at page thirty-two. There's something about jagged peaks and abandoned valleys where not even the mightiest dare to go.
Right. So the mountains go here, then. Luke's pencil hovers over the parchment-coloured paper of his sketchbook, tracing a tentative line. Not too dark yet, he might need to rub it out if he gets the scale wrong. The Vale would be to the south of the peaks, which means Emrys's village has to be... where is it again?
He flips back seventeen pages, careful not to let the book snap shut. His finger tracks down the paragraphs until he has it.
A frown mars his face when he reads.
Three rivers? He's forgotten about the third one entirely! Luke presses his lips together and studies his map. He'll have to squeeze another tributary in somehow without mucking up the forest, which he's already spent ages getting the treeline just right on. He puffs his cheeks slowly before he hunches back over his work.
The thing about maps is that they have to make sense, not just look pretty, though that's important too. Rivers have to flow downhill. Mountains have a wet and a dry side, and prevailing winds and plate tectonics must be considered too. Don't even get him started on roads! Roads have to connect places people would actually want to go and need to make sense with the terrain. Julian Verona understands that, which is why Luke loves the book and has re-read it a few too many times.
With his tongue pressed between his lips he rubs out a bit of the eastern mountain range and redraws them with more space between. There, that's better, he thinks while he allows himself a tiny smile.
Soon his pencil is getting dull again, so Luke sets it aside and picks up another one, rolling it between his fingers. This one has a better point. He really ought to have brought his automatic pencil sharpener, but it rattles and makes an awful loud grinding sound that everyone would hate him for.
His stomach rumbles quietly. He's eaten his sandwiches ages ago, and the Penguin bar has disappeared shortly after, but there's still an apple in his bag, but reaching for ir would mean stopping, and he's so close to finishing the main continent.
The pencil is really quite dull now. Luke holds it up to the light, frowning at the blunt tip. He can still use it, technically, but the lines won't be as crisp. He switches to his third pencil, the one he's been saving.
The world takes shape beneath his pencil, one scrawled wispy little line at a time. Every now and then he tilts his head, considering his work and finding more wrong than right with. Almost an hour passes before he has no more sharp pencils left. He tries to make do, but slips and inadvertently creates a dark streak across the corner of the painstakingly drawn map.
"No..." Luke whimpers, horror flooding through him.
He grabs his last stub of rubber and attacks the mark, trying to erase it without smudging the surrounding detail. But the paper is thin and he rubs too hard and then-
Riiiiiiiiip
In one motion the map rips apart and his hand shoots outward, crumpling half the map under his sleeve. A few heads turn at the noise, but now hard judging looks are the least of his concern.
Both hands shoot up to his head, grabbing his hair, pulling at the clumps and kneading it into thick curls between his fingers. Dismay deafens him inside and out, for a while he doesn't even notice how red hot his face has become.
@Tristan Verona
