Old novelist shrouded in shadows, sitting amidst scattered manuscripts and flickering candles, nose buried in a worn leather-bound book, the only sound the soft crackle of the pipe as ember glows in the dimly lit writer's lair, distressed wooden paneling and dusty antique trinkets casting long, ominous silhouettes on the walls, as midnight darkness presses in through the grimy windows, the scent of old books and pipe smoke swirling in a musty embrace, a hint of rain outside castles a sense of foreboding.