Clarison suddenly stopped writing and lifted his head, his sharp eyes staring at the blinds behind the desk. The room was a bit dim, and the flickering candlelight cast reflections on his dark pupils, between pale wrinkles.
A faint screeching sound seemed to travel from afar outside, gathering into a cacophony, making him frown as he wondered what was happening outside. He put away the quill and inserted it into the ink bottle, glancing at the half-finished record on the desk, which was subtly shaking—
As if there was an earthquake.
The thing had become increasingly restless, he thought.
A heavy footstep echoed from the hallway outside, the walker seemed to have a limp, one deep, one shallow. The footsteps paused outside the door, and there was a gentle knock, slow and rhythmic, three short and three long. "Master, it's ready." An old voice responded from outside the door.
