It's one of those absolutely beautiful days when the sky outside is clear blue for a change instead of grey and the rain from the night before actually cleaned things instead of adding to the layer of grime.  Outside, the people passing on the street don't seem quite as in a rush or beat down as usual and there's a feeling of faint relief in the air, almost as if you can inhale deeply and it will be okay.  Down one of the quieter streets, there's a building with a sign over its front door that proudly proclaims itself to be Seventh Heaven.  The door's locked and the sign on it reads 'closed'... but just to the side of the building, tucked away and private, is a little garage attached to the side of the building.  That door is wide open to let the fresh spring air into its cramped interior.

It's a small space and a great deal of it is taken up with stacked boxes and bits and pieces of things that might be useful items or just might be junk.  There's a washing machine and dryer tucked into one corner and that area is the only neat one in the entire place.  A child's bike and a faded ball lay near the front of the open garage door.  What takes up most of the space however is a monster of a motorcycle, glistening black as a beetle's shell after a rain storm and even parked it looks like speed on wheels.  The air is full of the smell of oil and wax and a hint of gasoline.  And there's a long, lean pair of legs sticking out from under the back of the bike where it's been cranked up, the soft sounds of metal on metal coming dimly from underneath.  There's a tool chest nearby and a decent amount of dirty rags to show that this has been an ongoing process.  Somewhere back through the closed door on the wall that connects this with the rest of the house the faint sound of a radio can be heard playing.  The body attached to the legs under the bike might, or might not, be humming - poorly - snatches of whatever song it is that's playing.

[ You find yourself in a library. Not just any library but a massive one: wall to wall bookshelves, plush armchairs, mahogany floorboards and the entire thing lit with a warm flame that seems almost comforting. The kind that doesn't seem to give off a dangerous heat but perhaps the warmth that reminds one of home and hearth. The books on the shelves are quite anything you want them to be: catalogues, bestiaries, your diaries, anything you ever wished to read, wished to know or wished to find out.

Among these shelves and books in a man dressed in long deep blue robes, almost black as night. He paces, taking books off the shelves, and flipping through them, occasionally commenting on the side and seemingly talking to himself. But there are other books in his hands, these being used to fill empty spots in some shelves. He seems to be looking for something, or perhaps merely setting some books in order. For all you know, he could be doing both. At any rate, he is quite at home here, amongst the books, shelves and bare light. Again, the conversation resumes in a strange language perhaps alien to your ears. Upon one bookshelf is another figure that seems to be merely a shimmer in the air and he seems to be doing most the talking while the man in the robe nods and comments from time to time. However, in the middle of a sentence, he stops and turns. His voice seems low, barely heard and in a more familiar language. ]

Looks like we have company, Aids.
Ah?

[ And with that, the figure is gone and the other man is left amongst the books and firelight, holding a rather thick volume to his chest and clutching a staff with his other hand. ]