A Visitor to the Threshold.
[OOM: Owen asks to see where Desire lives, poor man.]
The skies are shades of molten gold: The clouds drifting above are the deep red of roses or blood, the ground beneath is black and bearing no signs of life or growth. It seems empty here, the barren, tri-color landscape stretches out to the horizon, and though it seems Desire and Owen are standing still, the world revolves and shifts and races beneath their feet.
A knife's edge of white cuts through the dark, the bright point rushing toward them resolving into a standing statue-tower in the image of Desire, its arms raised against the sky, eyes open and the expression a grin of knifelike intensity.
"Owen Harper," Desire says, taking the first step of the many leading to the door in the statue's heart. "Welcome to the Threshold."
The skies are shades of molten gold: The clouds drifting above are the deep red of roses or blood, the ground beneath is black and bearing no signs of life or growth. It seems empty here, the barren, tri-color landscape stretches out to the horizon, and though it seems Desire and Owen are standing still, the world revolves and shifts and races beneath their feet.
A knife's edge of white cuts through the dark, the bright point rushing toward them resolving into a standing statue-tower in the image of Desire, its arms raised against the sky, eyes open and the expression a grin of knifelike intensity.
"Owen Harper," Desire says, taking the first step of the many leading to the door in the statue's heart. "Welcome to the Threshold."