[ A second or two pass where Geralt wonders if he'll need to physically drag Kyle along. The skeletal figures don't yet seem dangerous, but he isn't willing to test that theory by waiting it out. (What are they? Or maybe the better question: who are they? To Kyle, specifically?)
Then Kyle moves, and so does he, keeping ahead of the flowing ooze. He pauses only a moment in front of the next door, tries to listen for what might be behind it. He can't hear anything. Only silence.
So he pushes it open, shutting it firmly behind him, blocking out the grasping hands they left back there. The room here is deathly still, abandoned. It looks, at first glance, like the barren room of an orphanage and perhaps that is not too far off the mark: several small beds lined up together, with shitty thin blankets and not much else. There are no desks, chairs, no decorations or personal effects. Only a rack of training swords, sized for young boys. A heavy lock on the wooden door bolted shut from the inside. The air is cold, frozen, and damp, as though they're underground. A cellar.
Scattered on the ground are a handful of silver medallions: all carry the head of a wolf, but each design is unique. Geralt hesitates. Seemingly means to pick one up. He doesn't. He steps over them instead. He's tense—and not once does he look around. As if he knows this place by heart, as if there's no need for him to give it a thorough examination.
He walks to the door, gives the lock a tug that he knows won't break it—not for reasons of strength, but because the Horizon is...often like that. In his experience, at least. ] How's your skill with a lock?
no subject
Then Kyle moves, and so does he, keeping ahead of the flowing ooze. He pauses only a moment in front of the next door, tries to listen for what might be behind it. He can't hear anything. Only silence.
So he pushes it open, shutting it firmly behind him, blocking out the grasping hands they left back there. The room here is deathly still, abandoned. It looks, at first glance, like the barren room of an orphanage and perhaps that is not too far off the mark: several small beds lined up together, with shitty thin blankets and not much else. There are no desks, chairs, no decorations or personal effects. Only a rack of training swords, sized for young boys. A heavy lock on the wooden door bolted shut from the inside. The air is cold, frozen, and damp, as though they're underground. A cellar.
Scattered on the ground are a handful of silver medallions: all carry the head of a wolf, but each design is unique. Geralt hesitates. Seemingly means to pick one up. He doesn't. He steps over them instead. He's tense—and not once does he look around. As if he knows this place by heart, as if there's no need for him to give it a thorough examination.
He walks to the door, gives the lock a tug that he knows won't break it—not for reasons of strength, but because the Horizon is...often like that. In his experience, at least. ] How's your skill with a lock?