(no subject)
[ooc: Tyki is in prison, but for the purposes of this event he's unconscious in his cell, with a subconscious projection of him conscious in his room. He's confined to the space of his rooms, however, and unlikely to be doing harm to anyone.]
[The outskirts of Tyki's rooms seem ramshackle and cheap, now. But the aura there is undeniably one of affability. Not outgoing, really, but... affable. The perfect word for it: friendly to travelers and interlopers both, not putting on airs. Tyki's mind is a cluster of strangely-connected rooms and all of these are a little threadbare, but in a way where it's clear they've been lived in, used consistently, and are comfortable with people, if not luxurious. Little rag rugs are on the floors, the beds are sagging, the ceilings lean in; windows reveal streets, allow salt air to blow in the rooms, bringing a tangy edge to the air. Watercolor paintings with the colors nearly washed out hang tiptilted on the walls. It's hard to see what they portray. Poor rooms, pushed up door to door on each other with no doors to the outside, but friendly rooms.
That changes as an explorer presses further. Deeper.
The rooms grow more luxurious, full of plush furniture, dark-stained wood, gold accents and velvet, but the windows to the outside world disappear and the ceilings grow higher, darker and more shadowed. These are rooms that could swallow a person up, that muffle all noise, that don't welcome air from the outside. Rooms that a person would have to make a lot of noise in, to even feel heard, or alive. Rooms that demand silence and heavy slowness...
And moving further back, the sensation of oppression gets worse. The ceilings disappear into shadow. The fittings are luxurious, but in the way that a carnivorous flower is luxurious, like a sundew plant, elaborately petaled and boobytrapped for anything that lands on them to take a rest. One wouldn't want to stop here. One would want to keep moving, mostly specifically to turn around.
The sensation of presence, moving back, becomes stronger and stronger. The floors begin to seep with dark fluid in the seams between floorboards, and then slicking the floor like frost on pavement: it's blood.]
[Not that most will likely be inclined to venture that far.
Tyki himself can be found by anyone who cares to drop in. Sitting confusedly in the front rooms, harmless, gazing out the window; or, the further he goes back, becoming... worse.]
[The outskirts of Tyki's rooms seem ramshackle and cheap, now. But the aura there is undeniably one of affability. Not outgoing, really, but... affable. The perfect word for it: friendly to travelers and interlopers both, not putting on airs. Tyki's mind is a cluster of strangely-connected rooms and all of these are a little threadbare, but in a way where it's clear they've been lived in, used consistently, and are comfortable with people, if not luxurious. Little rag rugs are on the floors, the beds are sagging, the ceilings lean in; windows reveal streets, allow salt air to blow in the rooms, bringing a tangy edge to the air. Watercolor paintings with the colors nearly washed out hang tiptilted on the walls. It's hard to see what they portray. Poor rooms, pushed up door to door on each other with no doors to the outside, but friendly rooms.
That changes as an explorer presses further. Deeper.
The rooms grow more luxurious, full of plush furniture, dark-stained wood, gold accents and velvet, but the windows to the outside world disappear and the ceilings grow higher, darker and more shadowed. These are rooms that could swallow a person up, that muffle all noise, that don't welcome air from the outside. Rooms that a person would have to make a lot of noise in, to even feel heard, or alive. Rooms that demand silence and heavy slowness...
And moving further back, the sensation of oppression gets worse. The ceilings disappear into shadow. The fittings are luxurious, but in the way that a carnivorous flower is luxurious, like a sundew plant, elaborately petaled and boobytrapped for anything that lands on them to take a rest. One wouldn't want to stop here. One would want to keep moving, mostly specifically to turn around.
The sensation of presence, moving back, becomes stronger and stronger. The floors begin to seep with dark fluid in the seams between floorboards, and then slicking the floor like frost on pavement: it's blood.]
[Not that most will likely be inclined to venture that far.
Tyki himself can be found by anyone who cares to drop in. Sitting confusedly in the front rooms, harmless, gazing out the window; or, the further he goes back, becoming... worse.]