Your eyes lock onto that moving cloth, and every instinct screams at you to move.

You stand slowly, your gaze sweeping the room for anything you could use to defend yourself. There, on the low table near the desk, a pair of decorative copper scissors catch the lamplight. They're ornate, probably meant for cutting parchment or thread, but they'll have to do.

You snatch them up, your sweaty palm closing around the cool metal. Your hands are shaking.

Keeping your eyes on the hanging fabric, you begin backing toward the door. Slowly. Carefully. Each step feels too loud, your breathing too harsh in the quiet room.

The cloth shifts again.

And then you feel it. Or rather, you [i]don't[/i] feel it. That liquid fire coursing through your veins, that new awareness of magic you've never had before, it tells you nothing. There's no arcane resonance coming from that cloth, no spell at work, at least from what you can tell. It seems to be moving because actual air is pushing it. A draft. A breeze from somewhere.

But there are no windows.

Your free hand reaches behind you, fumbling for the doorknob. Your palm is so slick with sweat it almost slips, but you manage to turn it.

The door swings open and you practically stumble backward into...

[b]"Whoa there!"[/b]

Gerta catches you by the shoulders, steadying you. Her eyes widen as she takes in your expression, the scissors clutched in your white-knuckled grip.

[b]"Oh honey, is everything okay? You look paler than milk in a snowstorm!"[/b]

[hr]
[b]What do you do?[/b]