The raindrops pitter-pattered against the wooden window, soaking the window frame of The Windmill Independent Report building in dark hues.
Leia put down his pen, pinching the bridge of his nose, while staring at the manuscript in thought.
The only sounds were the rain and the creaking of the hand-cranked printing press downstairs.
After a long contemplation, he opened his eyes, lifted his head, and gazed through the waterlogged wooden window, looking toward the sea.
On the last day of September, 1459, the rain had been falling for three days in Dam City.
The lead-gray clouds pressed down heavily, dyeing both the sea and the inner river the same color.
At the docks, five black cargo ships with red holy chalice flags just finished unloading.
The deck was wet, with remnants of oats and rye stuck in the crevices.
Right next to these remnants, several vampire soldiers in red uniforms were instructing local militia to load bags of grain onto the carriages.
