Long shadows danced in the Stygian dark that filled the rest of the aerie where Lucian—the father of Orin—chose to create his solitarium. As the lambent light flickered throughout the room, what could be seen were papers strewn about chaotically. Some were crumpled, but the ones that remained intact bore horrible scrawls and scribbles of ink. The handwriting was jagged and uneven, as if each word had been captured in a desperate rush. It looked as if the author could not pause to think, for fear that his next thought might slip away while writing the present one. Any details other than this could be summarized in one word: "uncomfortable."
The man's hands trembled as he shuffled through the mess of papers tacked to the wall—crudely drawn maps, cryptic symbols, and sketches of ominous faces that belonged to even more ominous people.
"How much longer can I continue?" A knock at the door broke Lucian's contemplation.
"The location was confirmed, sir," said an equally sleep-deprived man.
"Let's go then," Lucian replied. The two men suited up in beautifully shining armor, almost as if the light emanated solely from the armor and not an outside source. The grandeur of that glow could just about make up for the overall gloominess of the tower. The men set out on horseback, galloping eastward. The sunrise was especially nice to look at that morning; however, Lucian saw only darkness. He had not experienced true light in many years, for his light was not from the sun, a flame, or anything of the sort. Rather, his light was that of his son's presence, which he had not felt since the abduction.