(no subject)
On the other side of the door is dim lighting and warm air, the sound of rain on the roof and strange birds in the distance, the scent of a summer night in the forest and, of course, the fruits and nuts that make up the supplies of the youth hall pantry, which is where the door happens to be. The room is made of living branches--the floor is one massive branch, the walls smaller, thinner branches woven into a lattice (and here and there covered with tapestries), the ceiling still more branches, covered over with a leaf-thatched roof. The lighting comes from strange lamps that hold some kind of glow-worm, and now and then faint rays of moonlight filtering through the clouds and trees. Everything in the room is made of either wood or silk; there is no glass in the open windows, no metal kitchen tools.
But the strangest thing about the other side of the door is the feeling of lightness, like floating in water only without the resistance of the water. It's not actual floating; there is still gravity, but it's about half what it is on Earth.
Neric moves much more gracefully here than he does in the bar; the familiar feeling makes him happier, and he smiles more brightly, though he glances around to make sure no one else has come into the room.
But the strangest thing about the other side of the door is the feeling of lightness, like floating in water only without the resistance of the water. It's not actual floating; there is still gravity, but it's about half what it is on Earth.
Neric moves much more gracefully here than he does in the bar; the familiar feeling makes him happier, and he smiles more brightly, though he glances around to make sure no one else has come into the room.