Derek's study was always a sanctuary of silence, insulated from the rest of the world by thick stone walls and rows upon rows of leather-bound books. The only sounds were the scratching of a quill against parchment, a dry, rhythmic scritch-scritch-scritch, and the occasional pop of the dying fire in the massive stone hearth.
Derek sat hunched over his massive oak desk, a fortress of wood surrounded by towers of paper. The only light came from a single oil lamp, its flame flickering low, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. He rubbed his temples, his fingers stained with black ink, leaving a smudge on his skin. His eyes were heavy, burning with the strain of reading tiny script for hours.
He was completely engrossed in his work. He was reading a report from the northern tenants about the grain stores, calculating the yield against the expected demand. He frowned, dipping his quill into the inkwell again to make a note in the margin. The inkwell was nearly dry.
