Evil Whisperings...

[Kefkin]

The lightning and thunder clapped loudly through the night. A large storm had come in quickly, surprising everyone. The scribe burst through the door, his ragged panting the only sound echoing throughout the ministry. He paused a second, holding himself up against the wall, his weariness almost immediately overtaking him. He slid slowly to the floor, his eyes rolling into the back of his skull, and slumped to the ground, finding pleasure in needed sleep.

His eyes suddenly darted up as a strange murmuring seemed to arise around him. He slowly pushed himself to his feet, holding his head with one hand hoping to stifle the sounds. Struggling forward he lurched toward a door, quickly opening it and closing it behind him. He pulled back the hood of his cloak, and examined himself in the mirror. The scribe's hair, though once almost jet black, had now turned completely white. He traced a symbol in the air, almost unconciously. Another wave of fatigue hit him, and he stumbled backwards, falling to the ground again.

The midday sun was streaming through the window when he finally awoke. He was still wearing his damp clothing, and began feeling the beginnings of a chill. He quickly changed clothes, and sat down to begin documenting the previous night's experiences.

((TBC))