There is no pen like a quill pen. The feel of the freshly trimmed point as it moves across the page is not easily imitated. A quality fountain pen comes close, but has already begun to cross a line by being too easy to handle and needing too little maintenance.
No, I must stick to my guns and insist on nothing but a quill pen.
Typewriters are right out.
They steal all the romance from the written word, and replace it with legibility and speed.
You need not know the goose or swan that provides your quills personally, but it is good to collect them from a healthy bird. Freshly molted feathers are perfect, traditionally one of the three longest feathers from either wing.
Tempered, trimmed, split and cut to a point, you are invested in what you write with a quill.
The keys clicked constantly in the background, blending together to sound a little like the surf or a waterfall. Consistent white noise, almost hypnotic.
In the foreground, other things were happening. Some true, some not so true.
But always overlaid on the constant flow of keystrokes.
Fate brought us to this point. But fate can only go so far without overtly meddling. And fate never, despite all the rumors, never meddles. Meddling directly would be too clumsy. Fate prefers the elegant solutions, where a gentle nudge to a player’s destiny is all that is required. A gentle tug on their strings. Then let the players work it all out for themselves.
This may not be so simple.
Characters lay dying.
The keys continued to tap away, as story wrote over story and worlds collide.
Something pushed each one past their breaking point.
And their authors seemed unable to stop, pouring the words out in torrents, as if writing it all down was the only way to find out what would happen.