It seemed no living soul had ever crossed its threshold. The U-shaped council table was unoccupied, collecting dust that two days of neglect allowed to form. The light was low save for two candles. The only activity was the lone man scribbling away at a small desk, off to the side and near a cold wall. He wrote with furious alacrity. The candles wavered under his powerful strokes, his thick forearms more akin to a grappler’s than a scribe’s. Nothing caused him to pause in his work for more than a moment. His brow creased with concentration as he glanced over a bit of unexpected information, and then he was writing away again with speed and determination. Once every so often a loud bang interrupted his thoughts, and the Guild man allowed himself a brief frown, but Muldor never stopped writing. There was too much to do, and the building repairs were none of his concern. He wasn’t a carpenter. Two weeks hadn’t changed much.
