[ ooc: figure i should start wrappin us up but just let me know if i take too many liberties, happy to rewrite! ]
[ Stephen takes in Spectre's ghost story, as shadows move strangely upon the walls around them, as unsettling reflections take form and dissipate on the surface of the brackish water. The fire in his hand grows slightly in volume, and he turns his back toward Spectre as he talks – not out of disinterest in his words, but quite the opposite.
A building that hungers. That feeds. A dimensional anomaly with a mind of its own, unknowable, unkillable. Something that required the intervention of a Sorcerer Supreme, and which even then remained unconquered.
"It could — can — manipulate its space. Turn it into anything it wants. Confuse. Disorient." ]
Can it? [ Stephen mutters, more a confirmation than a question. His ears register the sound of Spectre wading through water behind him, of pills rattling in bottles, but it's secondary to the saturation in the air that he's felt since arriving at this place – darker, heavier, more – viscous than when he'd stepped out of the driver's seat of the beat-up Volvo outside.
In the darkness, his eyes glow. One opens from the center of his forehead, then two from the tops of his cheekbones. The desk's gotten closer. The wall's gotten shorter. The binders on the shelf haven't decreased in number, but they're bulging from the seams where the sides of the bookcase are now closing them in. The room is getting smaller.
Like stomach walls – lined with nerves, pulsing with blood, contracting muscles of the fundus and corpus, drowning contents in gastric acid. Dissolving them slow. Alive.
"I'm not afraid of the dark, Doctor."
A wry smirk crosses Stephen's face, revealing too-sharp teeth even as he remains faced away from Spectre. ]
Me neither. Though you might want to cover your eyes.
[ He opens his mouth, wide – more distended than it should, unhinged at the jaw, white-hot light pouring out from his the depths of his throat, from the sockets of his too-many eyes. The conjured fire sucks into his palm, leaving his lower half dark before giant wings explode from his back, both leathery and feathered in unequal measurements, bright – wreathed in flames so hot they burn blue. Something in the room shrieks as the walls pulsate and shudder, red veins through drywall, illuminated like light through the back of a hand.
The walls of the room grind backward slowly, as if recoiling. Grey hands reach from the water, black nails, gnashing teeth. A pair of Stephen's eyes dart down when arms curl around too-long legs, see – her, glassy-eyed, shards in her cheek and neck.
He doesn't know what Spectre might be seeing. The way the room might be trying to drag him, too, into its depths with its writhing gasps. ]
thanks for ur patience friend 🙏
[ Stephen takes in Spectre's ghost story, as shadows move strangely upon the walls around them, as unsettling reflections take form and dissipate on the surface of the brackish water. The fire in his hand grows slightly in volume, and he turns his back toward Spectre as he talks – not out of disinterest in his words, but quite the opposite.
A building that hungers. That feeds. A dimensional anomaly with a mind of its own, unknowable, unkillable. Something that required the intervention of a Sorcerer Supreme, and which even then remained unconquered.
"It could — can — manipulate its space. Turn it into anything it wants. Confuse. Disorient." ]
Can it? [ Stephen mutters, more a confirmation than a question. His ears register the sound of Spectre wading through water behind him, of pills rattling in bottles, but it's secondary to the saturation in the air that he's felt since arriving at this place – darker, heavier, more – viscous than when he'd stepped out of the driver's seat of the beat-up Volvo outside.
In the darkness, his eyes glow. One opens from the center of his forehead, then two from the tops of his cheekbones. The desk's gotten closer. The wall's gotten shorter. The binders on the shelf haven't decreased in number, but they're bulging from the seams where the sides of the bookcase are now closing them in. The room is getting smaller.
Like stomach walls – lined with nerves, pulsing with blood, contracting muscles of the fundus and corpus, drowning contents in gastric acid. Dissolving them slow. Alive.
"I'm not afraid of the dark, Doctor."
A wry smirk crosses Stephen's face, revealing too-sharp teeth even as he remains faced away from Spectre. ]
Me neither. Though you might want to cover your eyes.
[ He opens his mouth, wide – more distended than it should, unhinged at the jaw, white-hot light pouring out from his the depths of his throat, from the sockets of his too-many eyes. The conjured fire sucks into his palm, leaving his lower half dark before giant wings explode from his back, both leathery and feathered in unequal measurements, bright – wreathed in flames so hot they burn blue. Something in the room shrieks as the walls pulsate and shudder, red veins through drywall, illuminated like light through the back of a hand.
The walls of the room grind backward slowly, as if recoiling. Grey hands reach from the water, black nails, gnashing teeth. A pair of Stephen's eyes dart down when arms curl around too-long legs, see – her, glassy-eyed, shards in her cheek and neck.
He doesn't know what Spectre might be seeing. The way the room might be trying to drag him, too, into its depths with its writhing gasps. ]