Amethyst

The wooden stairs groan ominously under your bare feet as you near the attic. You pull open the trapdoor, a cloud of dust showering down on you, and sneeze as you nervously put your head and torso through, pulling yourself up with your hands. It's dark. Very dark. There's a window at the other end of the long, crowded room, which has a long sloping roof that barely allows you to stand upright, and is filled with old furniture and junk, all coated liberally with dust.