Kingdom of Winged Lies - The Scribe
The fire crackles in the hearth behind him.
He twitches a hand. The sound, however subtle or falsely comforting it may be, disturbs him, and he shifts slightly in his upholstered chair, straightening. He sets down the pen in his hand, being sure not to dot the precious paper with any splatter of misplaced ink, and turns ever so slightly toward the bookcase. The wall behind it is drenched in shadow cast by the fire, but even so, he can see, in the darkness, the vague figure of someone sitting in the lounge and reading, one leg crossed over the other, a book open wide in one hand, the opposite placed lightly against the armrest.
