Neil Perry
There’s a little light coming in through the windows; it’s soft and muffled, moonbeams and streetlamps reflecting off the snow. That’s still falling, in fat, fluffy flakes; it’s piling against the side of the house, covering the bare branches of trees outside. If you press your hand against the glass you can feel how cold it is. It’s all right in here-- not cold, but not really warm, either; it’s indifferent, if a room can be indifferent. The walls without windows are lined with bookshelves, heavy with leather-backed tomes, though the light’s too dim to make out titles. There are a few rich-looking chairs, but if you try them they’re not terribly comfortable.

The door is unlocked, but should you try to open it there’s... nothing. Just a hollow darkness, with no floor should you slide a foot out onto it. This isn’t a way out. So there’s just the empty room; the chairs and the big desk, and the wall behind it, spattered with something dark and faintly gleaming.



[ooc; open to all! different threads will be treated as different instances, unless otherwise arranged. be aware that all threads may deal with disturbing themes :( may be slow, will always backdate]