The room is amazingly bright for such a seemingly melancholy and depressing space. Every light is on, every candle is lit, every curtain is drawn back to allow the bright rays of the midday sun to slant inside. Hunched over a pad of paper is a young man with cropped white hair and pale skin. A pen is clutched between his fingers as he writes frantically on that paper, muttering once in a while "No, no, that's wrong," and violently scratching out whatever it was he wrote. At the sound of your soft footsteps on the carpet, the man looks up at you with just one molten amber eye; the other socket is covered with a black eyepatch through which is a long scar running up and down his face, protruding an inch out of the top and bottom of the patch. With the sunlight behind him, he looks angelic, like the light of heaven surrounds him; but the malice in his one eye begs to prove otherwise. Hatred for the intrusion, and a sudden violent idea glitter across the eye, and you suddenly wonder if perhaps you've come at a bad time. Just as you open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it. "Come here," he says softly, setting down the pen and reaching for something in his pocket. "I need to finish this before nightfall, before that bitch night brings her nightmares back." You approach him slowly, cautiously. There is a flash of a blade and you fall, bleeding profusely from your wrist. The man, with a thick Irish accent, pulls you closer and holds you hand of a warm bucket which you bleed into. "I'm almost out of ink...your timing is perfect. I'm Farfarello," he whispers softly, smiling comfortingly at you.
The safehouse
The flower shop
The commons
The field
The library
The authors
The Life Cafe