Somewhere.
In a small room, papers are scattered all over the floor, books are stacked high and dusty, and other assortments of litter are everywhere. The furniture —a chair and a table —stood creakily in the corner.
Cobwebs form on the ceiling, collecting dead, small insects. The wooden walls were riddled with termites feeding on their oaky goodness—no windows, no wind, only humid, dry air that stank.
The door opens with a groan. Its age is evident from the noise. A frail-looking man enters, hunched and eerie.
"My Lord, I bring good news from the Creator!"
The frail man wheezes, and he slowly closes the door behind him, only leaving it slightly ajar. In his hand is a small candle, held by its shaft, with raw hot wax.
This frail man wears only a tank top and a rag that serves as his undergarments. The clothes are old and in rough shape. It has stains all over, stains of only Gods knows what.
From the table at the corner, a man was hiding underneath in the shadows.
