Upon walls would shadows dance— dappled by burning candles in their gilded stands, as a runnel of wax marred the golden finish. Woodsy notes soaked the room: a scent of cedar. ‎ A marble desk sat at the center, lined with files and records, whilst objets d'art adorned surface. Behind the desk sat Arlecchino, her gaze scanning paperwork.

"And what is your purpose here? Time is a commodity, and I am not the most welcoming of hosts," she remarked — dark orbs drinking in your sight.