Starfall Year 837, the fifteenth of June. As the sounds of pen scrawling against paper echoed, light from luminous fluorite shone upon a desk, extending a mild, pale-gold radiance.
The sounds of writing wafted from the second-floor study of the Moldavian liege's residence, as steady, rhythmic breathing emanated, proof that the writer was of clear and fluid mind. It was a piece of snow-white paper with exquisite crafting, while a large hand was holding a pen, writing words not quite swiftly but with great composure.
[To Saint Igor: Regarding the Essence of Mastery]
After the letterhead was a voluminous chunk of text. Since the first page had been flipped, only the start of the second page could be seen.
"In line with the conclusion above, you should understand my view, and the words I used to describe it."
