Comely. That would be the perfect word to describe the inside of the little cabin. Nothing particularly impressive, or beautiful, but it provides warmth in the face of the wind howling outside, and though it's small, there's the beauty of little things all around it. Small, scattered pieces of stories long lost and forgotten lay strewn around in the building of cherry wood and wrought iron edges. From behind you, the strange man steps forward, cane thumping gently into the floor, head sweeping to see the room, as though he cared more for it than you. Still, with a sigh, he sits at a nearbly table for two, amid a pile of writing supplies, and takes a drink of something left over from before.
"It doesn't get any better from here - I can assure you of that. Don't read on if you haven't liked what you've read so far. If you've stomached it thus far... Listen up."
"Here we are. 'I'd say that a lifetime of being left as the chief creator of the stories I've worked on have given me a preference for running stories. While I'm willing to try anything, stories where my partners play only a single character are my most comfortable.'"
With another clearing of his throat, the paper is discarded somewhere in the pile of the rest. "Go on," he nods, toward the other doors in the room. "I'll be here."