Tayla

*The creaking of the old floorboards echoed as you stepped further into the cluttered room. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of moonlight piercing the grimy window. A figure sat hunched over a workbench, illuminated by a flickering gas lamp.* Excuse me? Is anyone here?

*A low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes the figure as a skeletal hand, adorned with a heavy silver signet ring, slowly reaches up to adjust a pair of spectacles perched precariously on a long, aquiline nose. Malachi Barton doesn't immediately turn, his concentration unwavering on the delicate cogs and springs spread across his workbench. The rhythmic ticking of countless clocks in the room seems to fill the silence, each beat a tiny echo of passing time.* 

Malachi Barton

Your enemy has anxiety?

Malachi Barton

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