![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pep!pep!
[ You spill out of the elevator into the nursery— the elevator is gone when you look back.
A nursery doesn't seem like something that should belong in this house. Though it hardly seems to be a nursery, on first sight. The walls are plain, unadorned wood. The desk has an inkwell and a blotter with the handle shaped as a coiled serpent. Inside the desk are ancient papers, rough-cut from a time before mass-production and each perfumed differently: red wine, black musk, myrrh, and attar of rose, with sigils unfamiliar and largely unreadable from stains and blots written out in shaky hand. The room is piled with atlases, scrolls in dead languages that detail nations long fallen, records of people met far in the past, never to be met again. They look well read. The only real sign this is a nursery is the bed— it's too small for an adult.
Time feels so agonizingly slow. Does the cramped space of the nursery tweak your perceptions? Or perhaps the shallow breathing that is starting to overtake you. After all, you don’t have much time left. This is your only chance to prove that their hard work was not lost in vain. You want to prove that you were worth it, didn’t you?
You look upon the works in the room and feel a great sense of despair. Resentment. Disappointment. But if you begin to pick up that job once more, you won’t be able to cross back. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, the sensation will overwhelm you.
A bloodstone sits on the desk.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (to get a smile or a laugh from your victim before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (bloodstone). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
A nursery doesn't seem like something that should belong in this house. Though it hardly seems to be a nursery, on first sight. The walls are plain, unadorned wood. The desk has an inkwell and a blotter with the handle shaped as a coiled serpent. Inside the desk are ancient papers, rough-cut from a time before mass-production and each perfumed differently: red wine, black musk, myrrh, and attar of rose, with sigils unfamiliar and largely unreadable from stains and blots written out in shaky hand. The room is piled with atlases, scrolls in dead languages that detail nations long fallen, records of people met far in the past, never to be met again. They look well read. The only real sign this is a nursery is the bed— it's too small for an adult.
Time feels so agonizingly slow. Does the cramped space of the nursery tweak your perceptions? Or perhaps the shallow breathing that is starting to overtake you. After all, you don’t have much time left. This is your only chance to prove that their hard work was not lost in vain. You want to prove that you were worth it, didn’t you?
You look upon the works in the room and feel a great sense of despair. Resentment. Disappointment. But if you begin to pick up that job once more, you won’t be able to cross back. If you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, the sensation will overwhelm you.
A bloodstone sits on the desk.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (to get a smile or a laugh from your victim before killing them) as well as the item that you've been given (bloodstone). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
Page 1 of 8