Perhaps the most disturbing thing about this place is how neat it is, everything made out of unfamiliar materials and crafted into clean, unsettling shapes; and what is this fabric on the floor, like a rug but woven of some unlikely fabric, furlike but not? Teren spends some time crouched on the floor, getting her bearings before she creeps down the stairs, keeping low with her eyes alert like a cat in a new room. Her knives are gone-- she'll have to find more, or escape this place. Whichever comes first.
Once downstairs, however, all other thoughts are pushed to the wayside when Teren spots the moving, talking pictures. She approaches the box containing them, touches the screen, and remains there, transfixed, disbelieving. What kind of devilry is this?
II. Reserving the right to remain a square
Finally venturing out of the house, Teren has selected some clothing to wear: it was in the bureau on the opposite side of the room from her bed, but she shan't be caught in a skirt in an unfamiliar place. Instead, it's a pair of too-wide slacks and a man's shirt belted at the waist, rather like a tunic, with a coat slung over the lot. Perhaps by community standards, she looks ridiculous, but how else is one meant to wear these things? With an unsettled sneer and quiet rebuff to any neighbor who makes offerings, Teren skulks about looking for any kind of alcohol, her gaze becoming more frantic as the time passes and she finds none.
Finally, meeting the eyes of someone who looks as confused as she is, she approaches to mutter, "what the fuck kind of place is this?"
III. Respecting the dead
It's been enough time now that Teren has learned the basic pattern of things, and knows well enough to lay low until she can come up with a solid plan. The ghoulish children outside are unpleasant, for certain, but being one both clever and inclined to respect local traditions, she has left the pumpkins lit and stayed indoors, where she lurks at the window and glares out at the little beasts. She's known creatures like them, but the differences are enough to give her pause, to keep her from going out and trying to take care of them. Discretion, it would seem, is key.
Meeting the gaze of someone in another window, or perhaps on the street, she offers a solemn nod of acknowledgment.
Teren von Skraedder | OC
Perhaps the most disturbing thing about this place is how neat it is, everything made out of unfamiliar materials and crafted into clean, unsettling shapes; and what is this fabric on the floor, like a rug but woven of some unlikely fabric, furlike but not?
Teren spends some time crouched on the floor, getting her bearings before she creeps down the stairs, keeping low with her eyes alert like a cat in a new room. Her knives are gone-- she'll have to find more, or escape this place. Whichever comes first.
Once downstairs, however, all other thoughts are pushed to the wayside when Teren spots the moving, talking pictures. She approaches the box containing them, touches the screen, and remains there, transfixed, disbelieving. What kind of devilry is this?
II. Reserving the right to remain a square
Finally venturing out of the house, Teren has selected some clothing to wear: it was in the bureau on the opposite side of the room from her bed, but she shan't be caught in a skirt in an unfamiliar place. Instead, it's a pair of too-wide slacks and a man's shirt belted at the waist, rather like a tunic, with a coat slung over the lot. Perhaps by community standards, she looks ridiculous, but how else is one meant to wear these things?
With an unsettled sneer and quiet rebuff to any neighbor who makes offerings, Teren skulks about looking for any kind of alcohol, her gaze becoming more frantic as the time passes and she finds none.
Finally, meeting the eyes of someone who looks as confused as she is, she approaches to mutter, "what the fuck kind of place is this?"
III. Respecting the dead
It's been enough time now that Teren has learned the basic pattern of things, and knows well enough to lay low until she can come up with a solid plan. The ghoulish children outside are unpleasant, for certain, but being one both clever and inclined to respect local traditions, she has left the pumpkins lit and stayed indoors, where she lurks at the window and glares out at the little beasts.
She's known creatures like them, but the differences are enough to give her pause, to keep her from going out and trying to take care of them.
Discretion, it would seem, is key.
Meeting the gaze of someone in another window, or perhaps on the street, she offers a solemn nod of acknowledgment.