He couldn’t find anything. Not one scrap of paper, not even an idle scribble. By the end of his desperate search, quills, parchment, and ink spills from broken bottles stained the floor, and he was no closer to his prize. “Where is it?” he hissed desperately. “Where the buck is it!?” It had to be here – he had made copies! Copies upon copies! Entire nights wasted away painstakingly copying every curvature, every brush stroke, every intricate design. He had drew and wrote and stroked until his jaw had run raw from manipulating the brushes and quills hours on end. He had stored them all away so that whenever he went dry he could get at them, read them, remember them once again, and regain his power before they slipped from his mind and dragged what remained of his memories with them.