I looked upon the scene before me with an utter depression of soul.
[As usual, this post is open for reactions and thread-hopping. Tags to Roderick are also welcome.]
At some point during the night, the crack in the wall of Silent Hall grows. Roderick watches it quietly, fingertips trembling in the dim light, certain that his heart would be fluttering with panic in his chest if it were still beating.
The crack shoots straight up to the tenth floor and down into the sub basement, a jagged fissure that seems to separate the entire building by mere centimeters into two parts with nothing visible in or through the break.
As the early morning hours pass, the building changes.
By the time the sun rises on Chicago, the Kashtta's interior looks as though it's been through years of weathering and neglect. The walls are chipping, the paint faded; the air carries the scent of decaying leaves, and moss, and dirt, and something faint that you can't quite identify and really don't want to.
The stairs and floors creak and moan underfoot as though made of wood. The lights all seem dimmer, more yellow, more prone to flickering. The state of the building is universal; each bedroom, each hallway, each office is in the same condition. Decay.
Roderick observes this all as calmly as he did once before.
He then turns, suddenly, and begins to write on the wall behind him.
At some point during the night, the crack in the wall of Silent Hall grows. Roderick watches it quietly, fingertips trembling in the dim light, certain that his heart would be fluttering with panic in his chest if it were still beating.
The crack shoots straight up to the tenth floor and down into the sub basement, a jagged fissure that seems to separate the entire building by mere centimeters into two parts with nothing visible in or through the break.
As the early morning hours pass, the building changes.
By the time the sun rises on Chicago, the Kashtta's interior looks as though it's been through years of weathering and neglect. The walls are chipping, the paint faded; the air carries the scent of decaying leaves, and moss, and dirt, and something faint that you can't quite identify and really don't want to.
The stairs and floors creak and moan underfoot as though made of wood. The lights all seem dimmer, more yellow, more prone to flickering. The state of the building is universal; each bedroom, each hallway, each office is in the same condition. Decay.
Roderick observes this all as calmly as he did once before.
He then turns, suddenly, and begins to write on the wall behind him.