There is a great expanse between you and the rustic house looming in the distance. If you are a member of LiliS, you find yourself comfortably seated in a small dinghy with a few flower petals scattered at its bottom. Otherwise, you are standing in ankle deep water with the occasional flash of silver under the water when fish dart away.
Looking deeper into the water, you can see tangles of dead vegetation, feel the crunch of bones, both large and small, underneath your shoe. The smell of rancid decay wafts in and out.
Kinda hoped these boots were more waterproof than this...
[As if the worst part of this was wet feet and not the obvious scent of decay that has her on edge. Some places should just be left alone and probably grody dead land is one of them... She'll head for the house, if only for lack of anywhere else to go]
pulling his skirt up so it doesn't get wet when he bends his knees, shifts his foot so he can better look into the water and better feel what kind of bone crunch we're talking about here. are there bones that he can see or like ]
The interior is unassuming but warm. Odd collections of books, tools and gadgets, mismatched furniture with years and years of use are positioned around the living room. There are FOUR doors visible from where you are, oddly shoved into spots along the walls where it doesn’t seem like there should be a door, but, for now, there is. At the back of the room, there is a shadowed flight of stairs heading up to the second level. All around the room, there are cracks and bits of wallpaper peeling away. The grates of the air vent rattle with each stuttered exhale.
In the center of the room, near a pedestal, a woman in sharp clothing and make-up assesses you from head to toe.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable. You will be leaving soon enough.”
The room is empty, dust and spider webs collect in the corners of the walls and window sills. There are the faint stains of where a bed had been pushed against a wall for a decade or two, but there isn't one there now. As if a concession to the emptiness of the room, an antiquated wrap-around chair is pushed against a wall. Opposite the closet that hangs open and empty, you can spot tacks pressed into the wall. A thread lamely wraps around a few.
Leaning against the window, a young woman takes account of you when you enter.
"Well . . . Welcome."
The threads move with the oddly strong push of air. You can feel a chill coming from somewhere, but it may take some searching to find out where. Honestly, considering the state of the room, it could be anywhere.
The kitchen is spartan but usable. A few pots are heaped near the sink, and a mug is placed within it. Knives that are old but well cared for hang from hooks on a plaque. The refrigerator and oven are clearly from a few decades ago if you have any eye for modern day appliances, but they are clean and show no sign of wear.
Again, the wallpaper pulls away from the walls. The grate here has given up and fallen from its fitting. A cold wind blows through, but only at the occasional odd moment.
At a small, round table, a young woman warms her hands around a cup. She greets you with a smile.
The room features a desk and chair. A rather unloved desk, since there is only a cup with a few pens and pencils on it as well as a lamp upon it, but a desk nonetheless. There is nothing else. Exactly opposite the desk, an entire wall that is lush with furs and hairs and texture. It is beautiful, vibrant, and warm. Seated on top of the desk, smoking with a slight frown but he otherwise looks comfortable, there is a very familiar man.
Here, the air is quite cold. The boards of the walls without fur can be easily pried apart and are certainly the source of the chill.
The room is . . . Well, it isn’t empty. There are paintings, countless paintings. Some photorealistic, others blurred through their manifestation in oil and otherwise. Whatever type of painting, they crowd every inch of the walls. Some are grand, intimidating in size, and others are small, scarcely bigger than your palm, but they are all positioned right next to each other.
There is also a pedestal sink . . . And a toilet . . . And a clawfoot bathtub with a man humming to himself inside, feet resting on the edge of the tub. They are all set far apart to enable movement, and the amount of paintings really, but this might be . . . A bathroom? It’s probably a bathroom.
The pipes connecting to the features of the room have large cracks around them. Some even have lost fragments of wall and are just looming gaps of shadow, but it may be best to ignore them for now, much like the man in the tub is ignoring you.
(There is not actually a window, sue ShutterStock.)
The attic is barren. Nothing save a light bulb hanging right above the staircase landing is in sight. The light from the bulb is weak, not able to pierce the deep recesses of the attic. Each step causes the floorboards to creak.
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There is a great expanse between you and the rustic house looming in the distance. If you are a member of LiliS, you find yourself comfortably seated in a small dinghy with a few flower petals scattered at its bottom. Otherwise, you are standing in ankle deep water with the occasional flash of silver under the water when fish dart away.
Looking deeper into the water, you can see tangles of dead vegetation, feel the crunch of bones, both large and small, underneath your shoe. The smell of rancid decay wafts in and out.
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[Glances around, then starts toward the house.]
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Not a very hospital welcoming.
[welp, time to trudge toward the house i guess]
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[As if the worst part of this was wet feet and not the obvious scent of decay that has her on edge. Some places should just be left alone and probably grody dead land is one of them... She'll head for the house, if only for lack of anywhere else to go]
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pulling his skirt up so it doesn't get wet when he bends his knees, shifts his foot so he can better look into the water and better feel what kind of bone crunch we're talking about here. are there bones that he can see or like ]
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I feel like home already.
[ just going to head toward the house, totally not caring about the bones ]
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is there anything to use to row this boat or are we going to have to get dirty here? ]
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(Ignore the dogs. You are not so lucky.)
The interior is unassuming but warm. Odd collections of books, tools and gadgets, mismatched furniture with years and years of use are positioned around the living room. There are FOUR doors visible from where you are, oddly shoved into spots along the walls where it doesn’t seem like there should be a door, but, for now, there is. At the back of the room, there is a shadowed flight of stairs heading up to the second level. All around the room, there are cracks and bits of wallpaper peeling away. The grates of the air vent rattle with each stuttered exhale.
In the center of the room, near a pedestal, a woman in sharp clothing and make-up assesses you from head to toe.
“Don’t make yourself comfortable. You will be leaving soon enough.”
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Where are we going?
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Oh... I'm sorry. I - think we're lost?
[Thorn may notice his shoes are drying off as well, and that the air by his ankles is unaccountably warm.]
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Not exactly looking for a long stay myself.
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Course. Sittin' in one room isn't the point.
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[Says it like it's rote as he enters--oh a lady.]
Ya happen ta be able ta offer an exit?
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And who're you supposed to be?
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[ with a little smile ]
Where should I be going?
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[ mostly musing to herself more than anything, to be honest.
but this is definitely A Lot ]
But 'leaving', huh. Well, I definitely do want to go back -- but are we going somewhere else before that?
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[ So he says, but he's going to look around, going to check that collection of books first and foremost. ]
And who are you supposed to be?
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Leaning against the window, a young woman takes account of you when you enter.
"Well . . . Welcome."
The threads move with the oddly strong push of air. You can feel a chill coming from somewhere, but it may take some searching to find out where. Honestly, considering the state of the room, it could be anywhere.
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Hey there, miss...?
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Again, the wallpaper pulls away from the walls. The grate here has given up and fallen from its fitting. A cold wind blows through, but only at the occasional odd moment.
At a small, round table, a young woman warms her hands around a cup. She greets you with a smile.
“I’ve been waiting.”
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Hello.
I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long.
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Here, the air is quite cold. The boards of the walls without fur can be easily pried apart and are certainly the source of the chill.
“Haah? Here already?”
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There is also a pedestal sink . . . And a toilet . . . And a clawfoot bathtub with a man humming to himself inside, feet resting on the edge of the tub. They are all set far apart to enable movement, and the amount of paintings really, but this might be . . . A bathroom? It’s probably a bathroom.
The pipes connecting to the features of the room have large cracks around them. Some even have lost fragments of wall and are just looming gaps of shadow, but it may be best to ignore them for now, much like the man in the tub is ignoring you.
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(There is not actually a window, sue ShutterStock.)
The attic is barren. Nothing save a light bulb hanging right above the staircase landing is in sight. The light from the bulb is weak, not able to pierce the deep recesses of the attic. Each step causes the floorboards to creak.
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This place is strangely empty.
[ musing aloud but taking careful steps regardless ]
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