allthekeys (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
allthekeys) wrote2012-07-21 12:00 am
allthekeys) wrote2012-07-21 12:00 am
Day 012
As drawn breaks over the house the chimes of the clock seem to have difficulty penetrating the house, the faded walls of the parlour and ballroom seeming to dim even the everyday sounds now. The call of morning barely makes it past the first few rooms, however the signs of its arrival are still unmistakable as the changes set in.
Colour continues to leak out of the front rooms of the house, seamlessly trickling away to nothing. The effect reaches past the sound of the clock and has now expanded to reach the entire first floor of the first house. Anyone lingering too long will start to imagine that the pigment is fading from their skin, leaving them to blend away into the greyscale scenery -- seemingly unnoticed by their fellow house-mates.
With the fade comes an unbearable heat. The air becomes almost oppressively humid, the storm from outdoors having taken its toll on the stifled air of the house. Yet this heatwave is more ambitious -- it does not cease at the edges of the achromatic rooms of the house, but instead reaches its tendrils to creep up and down stairs -- through hallways and, seemingly, through walls. No part of any of the three houses is safe from the sweltering temperatures, though the basement seems to be something of a reprieve: while still hot, it is a considerable difference from the floors above, a welcome relief for many. What comes with the heat, however, is inescapable even there: the air is heavy and gloom-ridden. The entire house becomes sullen, almost everything somehow muted and darker. At its peaks, some may find it difficult to draw breath.
All the same, some will strangely avoid this hot spell. All sensitives are cold; ice-cold, even, to the touch of others. The difference is perhaps uncomfortably dramatized by the distinctly heavy air around them, but it is impossible to tell for certain. Fortunately for the residents there is one change that may make this shift in temperature more bearable than it might have been otherwise. All those who have grown ill will find themselves slowly recovering, come morning. The worst of the symptoms have begun to recede and the illness itself seems to be going into remission. Fever will lessen and the improvement will continue as the day stretches on, although some suffering it may find they have entered a stage more akin to cold sweats -- their bodies directly opposed to the weather surrounding them.
In the Parlour, on one of the couches neatly and properly with her hands folded in her lap and her lantern at her feet, sits Rose. She is a spot of colour in the otherwise bleak room, though she still seems paler, the way she had during the night. Rose seems otherwise untouched and unmoved by midnight's events, as if the girl in the funeral procession was not her at all. At least, that is, until a closer look is taken -- faint dots line her mouth and bruises mark her wrists, telling a tale of the bindings seen the night before. It is regardless clear that there is no fear or concern in her eyes or her movements. She does little except smile politely to all those who enter the room, acknowledging them in silence. Occasionally she glances back at the clock, as if she is waiting for someone and fears that she may have been stood up. If she is expecting someone -- or something -- however, she offers no real indication of worry. They, or it, shall arrive soon.
The house is otherwise free of occupants outside of the house-guests The boy Lock seems to have disappeared without a trace. No amount of searching will find him, and were it not for the shared memories of those who had met him it would almost be as if he had never existed there at all. Wherever he has gone, he has left no trace or trail by which to follow him. He will be found when he wishes to be, and not a moment sooner.
The Little Girl, Danielle, has similarly gone missing, though she had never left any physical trace in the first place. It seems as though the house has been freed of her watchful eye, at least for the moment. Her rats still remain, ears to the floor. The guests will not yet escape notice.
Even the Companions have decided that it is time to make their exit. All those attached to a companion will find themselves momentarily unable to move. Perfectly paralysed, though certainly awake, as the creatures slip away from them. There is a moment of regret before they take their leave, a lingering glance of hesitation to part from their new friends. Moments later the guests will be able to step forward again, but any who search for their now missing partners will find no trace of them. The cord remains, but there is no feeling now. Even those who said no and who have been haunted by the fleeting feeling of being followed will sense nothing of them. There is only silence in place of the creatures who were once so desperate to meet them and stay by their sides.
In the Parlour, across from the girl there, the heat seems to be centred on the fireplace. It feels almost as if someone has lit the embers there for warmth and light, in spite of the tricking daylight filtering through to the room and the already endless supply of heat. There is the occasional spark or ember in among the coals, but no actual fire will start.
The taps in the Ivory Bathroom seem to be impossible to stop. No matter how far they are turned there is always the faintest trickle of water escaping from the pipes. It is never enough to be truly more than an irritation. When the handles are turned the other way, however, the water does sputter and spurt to life -- bursting momentarily free from its metal confines. The sound that accompanies the sudden activity of the faucets sounds more like a choked sob than air bubbles escaping water.
In all Stairwells the voice of a woman can occasionally be heard. She does little more than sob softly, though occasionally whispers and murmurs can be heard. Indistinguishable and unidentifiable, yet somehow inescapable.
In the Gentleman's Lounge the siren's song from Night 010 seems to have returned. The sound is faint, perhaps, but it is definitely there, like a recording set to repeat with the volume on low. The lyrics are soft and inviting, and the room smells of aromatic perfume.
The door to the Surgery Room has been shut fast. Though the view has been cut off, however, noise can still be heard from under the crack of the door -- the faintest shadows of movement seen. Tools whirr to life and doctors and nurses seem to move within. Occasionally a muffled moan or groan of pain filters under the space, wordless but desperate. Something drips to the floor. It is possible to enter, but no one will be found, which may be fortunate -- the house-guests would not, after all, wish to disturb the delicate procedure.
A faint noise can be detected near all mirrors. It is the sound of someone tapping upon the glass, though no one can be seen except for a shadow out of the corner of one's eye.
The well inside the Pantry seems to have been disturbed somehow. There is a constant, if faint, noise of movement churning the otherwise stagnant water. Occasionally this is broken by the scrapes and screeches of long nails scrabbling and clawing at the hard and harsh surface. Water retrieved will sometimes have a harsh chemical smell, though the liquid itself is clear and perfectly safe to drink.
There is the sound of someone hard at work in the Study, though no one can be found there. At first the sound may be hard to identify, being so alien to the setting. There is no pen scribbling away at words on paper, but instead the stark sound of metal scraping against stone. No spark can be found, but the slow and steady grind is inescapable in the room, the labourer insistent on their work. The sound seems to be centred on the door at the far back of the room.
A quiet humming of a lullaby can be distinguished in the Nursery. A woman's voice seems to comfort an unknown child, with a slow and steady rock to the chair to lull the unseen babe to sleep. On the cot, the quilt seems warmer somehow, as if someone had only moments ago woke to the sounds of infant tears. Occasionally, though, and abruptly, the humming stops and the cries begin again -- and the voice of the lady tending her child turns to quiet hushing noises, as if warning the child to stay silent. There is no threat in the quiet shushing, only fear.
Perhaps the house-guests are not so alone after all.
((ooc: And the winners of our lottery are: Buffy, Hollow Ichigo, Ikki, Ivanova, Laura, Natsu, and Vexen! Your respective mods will be contacting you shortly.
Also, there is a brand new info post located here! It's for sensitives-- we would appreciate it if all those who play them could reply. If you are unsure, read the information post for more details or ask a mod! This post is now linked off the taken page, same as the contact post.))
Colour continues to leak out of the front rooms of the house, seamlessly trickling away to nothing. The effect reaches past the sound of the clock and has now expanded to reach the entire first floor of the first house. Anyone lingering too long will start to imagine that the pigment is fading from their skin, leaving them to blend away into the greyscale scenery -- seemingly unnoticed by their fellow house-mates.
With the fade comes an unbearable heat. The air becomes almost oppressively humid, the storm from outdoors having taken its toll on the stifled air of the house. Yet this heatwave is more ambitious -- it does not cease at the edges of the achromatic rooms of the house, but instead reaches its tendrils to creep up and down stairs -- through hallways and, seemingly, through walls. No part of any of the three houses is safe from the sweltering temperatures, though the basement seems to be something of a reprieve: while still hot, it is a considerable difference from the floors above, a welcome relief for many. What comes with the heat, however, is inescapable even there: the air is heavy and gloom-ridden. The entire house becomes sullen, almost everything somehow muted and darker. At its peaks, some may find it difficult to draw breath.
All the same, some will strangely avoid this hot spell. All sensitives are cold; ice-cold, even, to the touch of others. The difference is perhaps uncomfortably dramatized by the distinctly heavy air around them, but it is impossible to tell for certain. Fortunately for the residents there is one change that may make this shift in temperature more bearable than it might have been otherwise. All those who have grown ill will find themselves slowly recovering, come morning. The worst of the symptoms have begun to recede and the illness itself seems to be going into remission. Fever will lessen and the improvement will continue as the day stretches on, although some suffering it may find they have entered a stage more akin to cold sweats -- their bodies directly opposed to the weather surrounding them.
In the Parlour, on one of the couches neatly and properly with her hands folded in her lap and her lantern at her feet, sits Rose. She is a spot of colour in the otherwise bleak room, though she still seems paler, the way she had during the night. Rose seems otherwise untouched and unmoved by midnight's events, as if the girl in the funeral procession was not her at all. At least, that is, until a closer look is taken -- faint dots line her mouth and bruises mark her wrists, telling a tale of the bindings seen the night before. It is regardless clear that there is no fear or concern in her eyes or her movements. She does little except smile politely to all those who enter the room, acknowledging them in silence. Occasionally she glances back at the clock, as if she is waiting for someone and fears that she may have been stood up. If she is expecting someone -- or something -- however, she offers no real indication of worry. They, or it, shall arrive soon.
The house is otherwise free of occupants outside of the house-guests The boy Lock seems to have disappeared without a trace. No amount of searching will find him, and were it not for the shared memories of those who had met him it would almost be as if he had never existed there at all. Wherever he has gone, he has left no trace or trail by which to follow him. He will be found when he wishes to be, and not a moment sooner.
The Little Girl, Danielle, has similarly gone missing, though she had never left any physical trace in the first place. It seems as though the house has been freed of her watchful eye, at least for the moment. Her rats still remain, ears to the floor. The guests will not yet escape notice.
Even the Companions have decided that it is time to make their exit. All those attached to a companion will find themselves momentarily unable to move. Perfectly paralysed, though certainly awake, as the creatures slip away from them. There is a moment of regret before they take their leave, a lingering glance of hesitation to part from their new friends. Moments later the guests will be able to step forward again, but any who search for their now missing partners will find no trace of them. The cord remains, but there is no feeling now. Even those who said no and who have been haunted by the fleeting feeling of being followed will sense nothing of them. There is only silence in place of the creatures who were once so desperate to meet them and stay by their sides.
In the Parlour, across from the girl there, the heat seems to be centred on the fireplace. It feels almost as if someone has lit the embers there for warmth and light, in spite of the tricking daylight filtering through to the room and the already endless supply of heat. There is the occasional spark or ember in among the coals, but no actual fire will start.
The taps in the Ivory Bathroom seem to be impossible to stop. No matter how far they are turned there is always the faintest trickle of water escaping from the pipes. It is never enough to be truly more than an irritation. When the handles are turned the other way, however, the water does sputter and spurt to life -- bursting momentarily free from its metal confines. The sound that accompanies the sudden activity of the faucets sounds more like a choked sob than air bubbles escaping water.
In all Stairwells the voice of a woman can occasionally be heard. She does little more than sob softly, though occasionally whispers and murmurs can be heard. Indistinguishable and unidentifiable, yet somehow inescapable.
In the Gentleman's Lounge the siren's song from Night 010 seems to have returned. The sound is faint, perhaps, but it is definitely there, like a recording set to repeat with the volume on low. The lyrics are soft and inviting, and the room smells of aromatic perfume.
The door to the Surgery Room has been shut fast. Though the view has been cut off, however, noise can still be heard from under the crack of the door -- the faintest shadows of movement seen. Tools whirr to life and doctors and nurses seem to move within. Occasionally a muffled moan or groan of pain filters under the space, wordless but desperate. Something drips to the floor. It is possible to enter, but no one will be found, which may be fortunate -- the house-guests would not, after all, wish to disturb the delicate procedure.
A faint noise can be detected near all mirrors. It is the sound of someone tapping upon the glass, though no one can be seen except for a shadow out of the corner of one's eye.
The well inside the Pantry seems to have been disturbed somehow. There is a constant, if faint, noise of movement churning the otherwise stagnant water. Occasionally this is broken by the scrapes and screeches of long nails scrabbling and clawing at the hard and harsh surface. Water retrieved will sometimes have a harsh chemical smell, though the liquid itself is clear and perfectly safe to drink.
There is the sound of someone hard at work in the Study, though no one can be found there. At first the sound may be hard to identify, being so alien to the setting. There is no pen scribbling away at words on paper, but instead the stark sound of metal scraping against stone. No spark can be found, but the slow and steady grind is inescapable in the room, the labourer insistent on their work. The sound seems to be centred on the door at the far back of the room.
A quiet humming of a lullaby can be distinguished in the Nursery. A woman's voice seems to comfort an unknown child, with a slow and steady rock to the chair to lull the unseen babe to sleep. On the cot, the quilt seems warmer somehow, as if someone had only moments ago woke to the sounds of infant tears. Occasionally, though, and abruptly, the humming stops and the cries begin again -- and the voice of the lady tending her child turns to quiet hushing noises, as if warning the child to stay silent. There is no threat in the quiet shushing, only fear.
Perhaps the house-guests are not so alone after all.
((ooc: And the winners of our lottery are: Buffy, Hollow Ichigo, Ikki, Ivanova, Laura, Natsu, and Vexen! Your respective mods will be contacting you shortly.
Also, there is a brand new info post located here! It's for sensitives-- we would appreciate it if all those who play them could reply. If you are unsure, read the information post for more details or ask a mod! This post is now linked off the taken page, same as the contact post.))