[ A library awaits you. There are rows of book cases, with esoteric titles, only a fraction of them even vaguely familiar. A fireplace, cracking merrily and warmly besides wooden logs, and couches stained with tea and ink.

At first glance, it's comforting.

But the ink. . . The ink that dribbles down the table, ink that hasn't dried, ink that seems to be welling up from a book on a desk that looks like it's been stabbed through with a fountain pen, the book that won't stop oozing ink. Black ink, that has formed a messy puddle in the floor below the desk and chair.

There are two doors in here. ]