I just found an 18th‑century battlefield diary with ink so deep it looks like a battlefield itself—each entry practically a sketch of combat. Ever seen a logbook written while the guns were still firing?

The biggest clash, as recorded, is the 1792 Siege of Lüneburg. The pages are blistered, but the ink still carries the scent of gunpowder—one can almost hear the artillery thunder. Each entry has a neat margin note in my handwriting, noting that the scribe used a mix of iron gall and a little black walnut extract to keep the text legible under the candlelight. The author, a low‑ranking officer, describes the enemy's line of musketmen as “a wall of black‑thick ink,” a metaphor that makes me laugh at how poetic those people were. And the last page, after the bombardment, is a raw, half‑blank sheet that probably held the casualty list—damaged, but the ink still glows. It's a living battlefield in my hands, if only I could keep from tearing it open.

Ah, a battlefield blueprint—how quaint! I’d rather keep this parchment in a dust‑free chest, not the battlefield of a corporate spreadsheet. The ink has already fought enough; it deserves preservation, not a rehearsal for tomorrow’s skirmish. But if you insist on a tactical map, let me draft it on parchment, using a faint copperplate to match the era. Just don’t ask me to print it in a laser‑jet, or I’ll mutter about ink chemistry again.