A steady drip, drip, drip breaks the silence in the dimly lit room—the lighting waxing and waning as clouds periodically break the beams of moonlight entering through the open drapes. Hanging in the air is a uniquely sweet scent tinged with metal: blood. The books of the noble's personal library stand as silent observers, the only witnesses to the macabre scene. At the desk, frozen in death, the noble’s withered hand appears to be clutching a non-existent quill, in the act of writing his final symphony. The dark carpet and fine cashmere clothes seem barely stained as the crimson liquid pools within the embroidered patterns; the snuffed fire, with the barest embers, drains of its warmth alongside the master of the house. A quill lies upon the scorched logs, its feathers unblemished by flame.
