The room's darkness was thick and interrupted only by the somber glow of a fire. The blended oranges and yellows that spilled from the old style fireplace created an island of warmth, separating a few chairs and a small coffee table from the yawning blackness that filled the rest of the small library. Towering bookcases, stuffed with with leather bound, dignified volumes, lined the walls like sentries, carrying the weighty judgement of centuries. It was a cold room at night. Too big for one woman to fill with vibrancy after the sun ceased to aid her, too high for the natural light of burning wood to touch the lofty ceilings, too old for it to bend to modern ways and bits of technology.
Francesca noted none of the ancient room's imports, having long since adjusted to it from the days of her youth. Instead, she felt only the chill at her back, the smoky warmth before her, and the cool edge of the blade she traced lightly over her skin. This night carried too much importance for her to waste time marveling at pages filled with archaic knowledge.
Her eyes, caught in the fire, seemed to ignore the idle play of the metal weapon until the resounding echo of a clock announced the midnight hour. Standing, she strolled up to the mantle, gently running her fingers over the pattern that adorned the fire's frame. She took a log and tossed it on the fire, enraptured when it sparked and sent tiny embers into the surrounding air. Her movements had a feel of graceful resignation, a gentle restrain that left her light, but without wasted movement. Turning to the furniture behind her, she chose a nice spot where she could stretch her legs before her while keeping an eye on the only light source. As she sat, the delicate velvet and silk ensemble she wore, for the founder's banquet, caught awkwardly at her knee until it finally settled at her hips. With the obstruction removed, a queer sort of writing revealed the word "HARLOI" in all capital letters. The "H" was clumsily done, with multiple scratch marks surrounding the thickest lines. With each progressive letter, the raised and scarred tissue blended into clearer and defined handwriting. In the same way, the penmanship improved, the age of the scar decreased until reaching the single line at the end, still sporting the signs of a young scar. It was over this line that the point of the blade tickled the skin while Francesca played and stared at the flames before her.
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I'll finish this Later. Just to make things interesting. Heh heh heh.
