[ Despite all the times Daniil has told him to get some sleep, Matt has not slept. He keeps staying up late, haunting his spirit board for any word from Parisa, from Erik, from Saxsice or Grace or the dead mother and son. From Embry. He feels less like a human person and more like an ambulatory divining rod, some spiritual tuning fork. The nicks on his arm are starting to look like a tally of days, or possibly regrets. Either way, he covers them with a sweater.
One of the staff directs him to the jail. It's strange how many doors here he's never seen before, after all his weeks-turned-months of cataloguing. Just head down to Otherworld, turn the other way, and you're there, wandering down a medieval row of barred cells. As if this really were still the game Portia planned, they cells have been lavishly appointed with clawfoot tubs, fridges, all kinds of amenities. ]
Alia?
[ Sorry Luci, he'll circle back with you later (never). As Matt heads down the grim hall, he's surprised when a familiar sound punctuates the air in the decidedly unfamiliar space.
action!!! | sometime post-vote, the fancy jail (cw: some ritual self-harm)
One of the staff directs him to the jail. It's strange how many doors here he's never seen before, after all his weeks-turned-months of cataloguing. Just head down to Otherworld, turn the other way, and you're there, wandering down a medieval row of barred cells. As if this really were still the game Portia planned, they cells have been lavishly appointed with clawfoot tubs, fridges, all kinds of amenities. ]
Alia?
[ Sorry Luci, he'll circle back with you later (never). As Matt heads down the grim hall, he's surprised when a familiar sound punctuates the air in the decidedly unfamiliar space.
Is that ... a video game? ]