[heart game]

[dormancy]

There is a click, a soft urging, almost whispered too soft to hear, but you can sense that you are being beckoned somewhere, lead to an elaborate open door with wood panels and great curls of gold leaf. You cannot see what is beyond the door, but it smells sour and sharp. Before you can turn over the thought of should you or shouldn't you, if you are the kind, there is a quiet push at your back and through the door you go . . .

Join #supersafe, because I like being misleading. When in doubt, use this for flower meanings if you character is the type . . .

Comments

[dramatispersonae]

As you draw closer to the corner, you realize that something is amiss. The chaise is in disarray in as much as blankets and pillows strewn about merits that term, meanwhile the small table looks like a storm has passed over it. Ink drips over the edge, and papers and flowers petals are scattered everywhere. You can see a solitary black chess piece on its side . . . The bookshelf doesn't seem to have done much better. It stretches impossibly high, able to hold a great deal of books. However, the half-open books with huge fist fulls of pages missing answers where the question of where the paper came from. There are quite a few books with different colored bindings, but few are in any proper order, shame.

[playfreebird]

[sob; continues heart game trend of just... tidying up

straightening the pillows and folding the blanket]

[dramatispersonae]

You are too sweet. There may be a few fine pieces of paper stuck at odd spots, but that is a very easy matter to take care of.

[playfreebird]

[mostly I never know what else to do

checks the paper scrapes?]

[dramatispersonae]

Sweet but misguided child—

—Charming girl, could be of great use.

—Wrong, wrong, wrong—

[playfreebird]

[pockets them and starts considering the table, trying to right and straighten things out]

[dramatispersonae]

Upon the table, there is an overturned ink pot with a quill left next to it. A book sits open, but it does not have anything written upon the pages left in it. It is soaking up the ink well enough, though. Perched on the edge is a simple jewelry box with a gold key in the lock. It sits open and filled to the brim with flowers, and you can smell an old, old floral scent coming from it. It seems like some of the flowers are decomposing, hmm . . .

[playfreebird]

[sets the ink well upright and closes the book, trying to wipe away the excess ink, and mopping up what he can of the spill with his sleeve

obviously it won't be perfect, but :T]

[dramatispersonae]

There are a few grooves that will have some ink left in them, a few stubborn streaks, too, but it is much better than before. The ink spills over the side, though.

[playfreebird]

[will try to clean this as well!]

[dramatispersonae]

When you look under the table in search of more ink to permanently stain your sleeves with, you can see a few more pawns rolling under the floor, a curl of silver peeking out from underneath a paper . . .

[playfreebird]

[picks it all up carefully—the pawns the paper and the silver]

[dramatispersonae]

There are more random notes that can't be pieced together without the rest if at all. It seems someone was in a fine fit when they tore into those books.

The scissors look imposing, especially with the dark stain of blood upon them. The length of the blade seems too long, the point too sharp, and the flourishes of silver all along the handle are exquisite. However, upon closer look, it seems the blades have rusted in a few spots. It seems these haven't been handled in some time.

The four pawns are heavier than they would appear and feel like they are made from some kind of stone. (Alabaster, two in black, two in white, for those with an eye for it.) They seem lost without a board, though . . .

[playfreebird]

[picks them up and places them on the table, and the scissors. Still keeping the notes.

Picks up the jewelry box with the flowers]

[dramatispersonae]

Inside the box, there are countless flowers. You may have to dig to see them all as there are layers upon layers of them. On top, a solitary ball of a purple flower sits on a bed of red and white blooms. They all seem to be alive and well, though a few of the red are turning colors and giving off a pungent odor.

[playfreebird]

[oooh

can the ones that are turning off be removed without wrecking the others?]

[dramatispersonae]

You can! As you carefully pick the flowers out, you can see there is another layer. However, more distracting is the sensation that you would rather be left well enough alone and are agitated like you were caught in the middle of a, hm, temper tantrum?

[playfreebird]

[:T

checks the layer underneath carefully]

[dramatispersonae]

When you dig deeper, with each dig feeling almost like pushing your hand into thorns though you cannot feel them with your skin, only your mind, you uncover a new layer of colorful flowers. There is a full bed of fibrous green fronds with distinctive white blooms and white bell-shaped flowers placed on top of them. The latter seem to be rotting, and a few petals give away if you touch them.

[playfreebird]

[hesitates, though it's not the feeling of thorns itself that makes him pause

on the one hand, that doesn't seem healthy

on the other, it doesn't seem to want me playing with it]

[dramatispersonae]

What could this box be, one wonders . . .

[playfreebird]

[n-no, that's not so obscure

...

sighs, and tries to remove the worst of the rot]

[dramatispersonae]

Yet another layer looms, but the flowers remain distracting. These feel much sweeter, cooler, somehow. Even if all is amiss, there will be some good; there is some good.

[playfreebird]

[sighs, just...sighs.

taking the worst but not trying to take everything. When that's done, he replaces the box on the table, as neatly as he can]

[dramatispersonae]

Open as it was?