030
[Anyone walking by the door might notice water slowly spreading out into the hallway from the small opening underneath. Looking inside won't immediately solve the mystery. The room contains nothing but a set of stairs that are barely able to be made out in the darkness; black polished marble that stretches endlessly upward, leading to a single piercing light that seems almost impossibly far away.
The stairway to heaven.
Upon entering, the door softly closes and fades out of existence, making sure there's only one direction to go in. Five steps, and the source of the water becomes more apparent as rain begins to fall from somewhere up above. A quiet drizzle at first that gets heavier with each step, until very soon the downpour is heavy enough to blot out the guiding light up ahead. It's when the steps form a river over your feet and forces you to either stop and brace yourself or fall back down -- that it miraculously tapers off.
One last chance to retreat and try to find another way out, but it's not much of a choice. The climb upward is tiring, and soon the polished marble becomes rocky and uneven. What was once rain turns to fog, and suddenly you're given the impression of a mountainside with a cool breeze up only a little further, telling you that you're getting closer to something.
There may be some disappointment then, when the only thing you come across is an old man sitting by a fire. It's warm though, and it could be worth getting closer to dry yourself off. He's chanting something in another language that may have been understandable if it had resided in someone else's memory. When he locks eyes with you he abruptly stops his chanting, and gazes with the quiet certainty of someone who knows everything that resides within your soul. Ask him a question, and he'll speak in riddles that contain a bizarre truth to them, like any shaman worth his weight.
Ask him the future, and he'll spell out the same story he once told a wandering cowboy.
You never reach the top of wherever you were going. Flashes of bright lights sting your eyes with fragmented images of violence in the streets, murders, explosions, and the types of moments that can never quite leave your mind once you see them. They're so fast and incomplete that it's hard to tell if you're witnessing the victim or the attacker. Before you can figure it out, you find yourself at the door once again, with the feeling that someone is very purposefully forcing you out. The staircase is gone, so there's really only one way to go.]
---
[If the puddle of water that has managed to spread down the hall isn't noticeable enough, the image of a very wet bounty hunter wishing up a hammer and nails, followed shortly with some enthusiastic hammering might be.
He sighs, and picks out a damp journal from his pocket. Spike had been avoiding... well, 'avoiding' isn't the right word, it was more like he was intensely focused on one very specific thing that drowned out the rest of the castle and all the nonsense that came with it. But he'd heard enough that eventually he just had to check what was going on. Must be what he gets.]
I didn't really like that bed anyway.
ooc: Trying something here;; This is how this post works: it's open to either going in the room, running into Spike in the hall, or over the journal (just mention in the subject which you're replying to). The man is Laughing Bull, an old shaman that Spike encountered from time to time, and you're welcome to talk to him for some deep insightful advice that may or may not make sense coming through Spike's mind. ... Also caution: you will get wet on this ride... :|
(Apologies for being so late to the plot! I'm just now catching up, so please don't mind me if you see some really late tags come in. :);;)
The stairway to heaven.
Upon entering, the door softly closes and fades out of existence, making sure there's only one direction to go in. Five steps, and the source of the water becomes more apparent as rain begins to fall from somewhere up above. A quiet drizzle at first that gets heavier with each step, until very soon the downpour is heavy enough to blot out the guiding light up ahead. It's when the steps form a river over your feet and forces you to either stop and brace yourself or fall back down -- that it miraculously tapers off.
One last chance to retreat and try to find another way out, but it's not much of a choice. The climb upward is tiring, and soon the polished marble becomes rocky and uneven. What was once rain turns to fog, and suddenly you're given the impression of a mountainside with a cool breeze up only a little further, telling you that you're getting closer to something.
There may be some disappointment then, when the only thing you come across is an old man sitting by a fire. It's warm though, and it could be worth getting closer to dry yourself off. He's chanting something in another language that may have been understandable if it had resided in someone else's memory. When he locks eyes with you he abruptly stops his chanting, and gazes with the quiet certainty of someone who knows everything that resides within your soul. Ask him a question, and he'll speak in riddles that contain a bizarre truth to them, like any shaman worth his weight.
Ask him the future, and he'll spell out the same story he once told a wandering cowboy.
You never reach the top of wherever you were going. Flashes of bright lights sting your eyes with fragmented images of violence in the streets, murders, explosions, and the types of moments that can never quite leave your mind once you see them. They're so fast and incomplete that it's hard to tell if you're witnessing the victim or the attacker. Before you can figure it out, you find yourself at the door once again, with the feeling that someone is very purposefully forcing you out. The staircase is gone, so there's really only one way to go.]
---
[If the puddle of water that has managed to spread down the hall isn't noticeable enough, the image of a very wet bounty hunter wishing up a hammer and nails, followed shortly with some enthusiastic hammering might be.
He sighs, and picks out a damp journal from his pocket. Spike had been avoiding... well, 'avoiding' isn't the right word, it was more like he was intensely focused on one very specific thing that drowned out the rest of the castle and all the nonsense that came with it. But he'd heard enough that eventually he just had to check what was going on. Must be what he gets.]
I didn't really like that bed anyway.
ooc: Trying something here;; This is how this post works: it's open to either going in the room, running into Spike in the hall, or over the journal (just mention in the subject which you're replying to). The man is Laughing Bull, an old shaman that Spike encountered from time to time, and you're welcome to talk to him for some deep insightful advice that may or may not make sense coming through Spike's mind. ... Also caution: you will get wet on this ride... :|
(Apologies for being so late to the plot! I'm just now catching up, so please don't mind me if you see some really late tags come in. :);;)