Through the Rabbit Hole [Action/Open]
Who: Ada Wong and whoever would like to join her.
Where: The Parlor.
When: Day 1, after noon.
What: Ada arrives and investigates her surroundings~
Warnings: None so far!
One step, and everything swayed. Two steps, and everything had righted itself once more--but she was no longer in Spain, listening to the hoarse and guttural sounds of hunting ganados. The woman in red did not even seem to breathe as her eyes darted across the room, always searching for traps or hidden assassins lying in the shadows, just waiting for the opportunity to spill her blood. But there was nothing, and even as her hand reached behind her for the door (there had to be a door, it looked like she'd just walked into someone's prime piece of real estate), the knob rattled cheerfully as though to confirm that she would not be leaving. Not this way, at least.
Her heels clicked eerily in the silence, hanging mournfully in the air as though knowing she was an intruder here. Wherever here was. She'd not asked to be whisked away, and had to wonder if perhaps she'd been struck on the head again, and was just coming to after a long period of unconsciousness. Possible, but not probable. The first few steps that led her into the parlor soon slowed, and then stopped altogether. Someone had been here, recently. She could still smell the marker even as she glanced at the message scrawled cruely on the table, and away. Filthy bits of cloth, obviously pulled free. Dust covers? It seemed that way--parts of the room still harbored dust, but not the piano, nor the rest of the furniture.
And why was that clock ticking so slowly?
((She's just standing about near the front of the table, looking at the message, so feel free to say hi! Or, you know, scare her to death.))
Where: The Parlor.
When: Day 1, after noon.
What: Ada arrives and investigates her surroundings~
Warnings: None so far!
One step, and everything swayed. Two steps, and everything had righted itself once more--but she was no longer in Spain, listening to the hoarse and guttural sounds of hunting ganados. The woman in red did not even seem to breathe as her eyes darted across the room, always searching for traps or hidden assassins lying in the shadows, just waiting for the opportunity to spill her blood. But there was nothing, and even as her hand reached behind her for the door (there had to be a door, it looked like she'd just walked into someone's prime piece of real estate), the knob rattled cheerfully as though to confirm that she would not be leaving. Not this way, at least.
Her heels clicked eerily in the silence, hanging mournfully in the air as though knowing she was an intruder here. Wherever here was. She'd not asked to be whisked away, and had to wonder if perhaps she'd been struck on the head again, and was just coming to after a long period of unconsciousness. Possible, but not probable. The first few steps that led her into the parlor soon slowed, and then stopped altogether. Someone had been here, recently. She could still smell the marker even as she glanced at the message scrawled cruely on the table, and away. Filthy bits of cloth, obviously pulled free. Dust covers? It seemed that way--parts of the room still harbored dust, but not the piano, nor the rest of the furniture.
And why was that clock ticking so slowly?
((She's just standing about near the front of the table, looking at the message, so feel free to say hi! Or, you know, scare her to death.))