• Knock. Knock.
    A hard rap on the door caused the shadow in the armchair to look up, his slender face and long black hair now illuminated by the teal fire burning in the fireplace on the other side of the room. He was sitted at the end of a long, rectangular table. Seven other figures, both men and women, sat at the table also. There was an open seat at the end of the table, vacated by an absent member of the group.
    Knock. Knock.
    The rap came again, now a bit louder; more urgent. The man in the armchair sighed. "You're late, Toma." He said in a smooth voice. The man flexed his pointer finger in the direction of the large, mahogany double-doors. The one on the left swung open with a tremendous creak and, eager and nervous, Toma slipped like a cat through the crack. Not a second afer his fingers got out of the gap the door shut quickly, again creaking.
    "I apologize, my Lord. I have no excuses." Toma walked quickly to the open seat near the end of the table and sat down, fidgeting with the collar of his tweed coat. His long, nutmeg streaked hair was pulled back in a sloppy pontail and gently hung until it met his shoulder blades.
    Toma was tall and had a willowy build, but his body was graced with the feature of muscle as well. His eyes were a swirling brown with specks of gold, and the only thing really making him look like a Cyrinian citizen was his pale red skin. It glowed in the cold firelight, which reflected off his flesh and danced playfully on the walls of the room.
    "You shouldn't make me wait, Toma," the figure in the armchair said.
    "I apologize sincerely, Cyrin Lord. It shall not happen again. I promise!" Toma looked desperate to appease his master. "But," he started suddenly. "I have news."
    Instantly the other men and women looked up, now interested in what he had to say; another man with short black hair, green eyes and the same red skin smiled, his eagerness showing.
    "Mikhan, do not act so impatient. We do not know yet what Toma said in store," the Cyrin Lord said in a vaguely taunting tone.
    "But, Lord, this cannot be as bad as last time! You remember the 'news' he brought us before," Mikhan said, laughing.
    This time a woman, slender, with red curls and red skin spoke. "Yes, Mikhan, you're right! Information about the death of the most stupid of District guards, Cyrin Limxa, isn't the best knowledge you could bring to a meeting. Especially one regarding the fall of the world of mystic!" She cackled, content with her remark, blue eyes glowing with delight.
    Toma shook with anger now, his flesh gaining a tone of fiery orange. "It was valuable information!" He yelled, eyes burning bright. "Our Cyrin Lord thought it useful, so you have no right---"
    "Toma, Mikhan, this is not the time. I could have easily expected this from you two, but Asupeira, you should strive to accomplish better." The figure held a calm face despite the dissatisfied air to his voice.
    Asupeira, the woman, went stony-faced and flashed her eyes down to the floor. She paused, then looked back up. "What shall my pennance be for sinning this way?" She sighed, apparently already figuring on what it was to be; she put her hands on the table and gently lifted out of her chair a few inches.
    The man in the armchair did not seem to take notice. "Perhaps," he said slowly, knowingly. "Perhaps you would be willing to act as studier on this glorious night?"
    "Yes, my Lord," Asupeira muttered, "I shall try."
    "No, you shall not try. You shall do."