A candle stood by the window. Its flickering light left an eerie glow on the pane, the wax dripping slowly down the stick. A small pool of molten wax was left curlding at the bottom of the holder, cooling and hardening.
A book lay open on the desk. it was unremarkable, turned to a page of words after words, a sprawl of handwritten symbols, spinning spidery webs across the page. its red leather cover was woren, stains and slashes marking it. A burn in the left corner spread unevenly, black, like a disease.
Next to the desk, his hand white and gaunt, the veins popping out of the wisend skin, a man gripped the desk. He hunched his shoulders against a chill that floated in the room. He wore a long black robe, trailing along the wooden floor, crumpled in the corners like he'd worn it for years without taking it off. Long black, greasy hair fell down over his face. The heel of his black boots tapped as a twich against the floor, an incesent thump, thump, thump. Like the beat of a heart.
He stood as still as a stone aside from his tapping foot, silent in his fix. Dark scarlet droplets oozed down his arms, pooling between the fingers of the hand that gripped the desk. under his long claw like nails, dark stains were clearly visible.
The man lifted his head to the mirror that stood infront of him, slowly raising two white dead eyes. In the reflection, the candle fluttered in a breeze. The desk stood alone but for a pool of blood slowly growing across the surface.
