Minotaur came in through the shining doors of writer's cafe, to try his hand at writing. He plumped down on an old rusty chair, trying to come up with an idea. But the storms of role playing games thundered in his mind, barricading the flow of creativity locked within the walls of his brain castle. Little did he know that something was happening at writers cafe. The blood on the floor meant nothing to him. Something was stirring. A maelstrom of terror brewing in writers cafe. But did Minotaur care? No, he was too busy thinking of a story. Not even the CLANK-CLANK of the strangers boots struck minotaur's focused mind. He only realized something had gone wrong when the whole turned black and he fell unconscious on the floor.