[ Geralt rights himself as though he'd not fumbled his entry at all. He steps silently over the smooth white tiles for all the good it may do, given that he's also leaving a trail of blood and dirt. With his sword lost alongside his motorcycle, Geralt begins to dig through the drawers. Silverware, linens. Kitchen knives. He gives one to Steve.
It isn't a dagger. But it'll do. ]
No. [ Or if they were, those people are long gone. ] This appears to be some corner of the Horizon. Traps you for a time.
[ Unhelpful, he knows. He's found no solution other than to wander until they're released. Or in this case, avoid the spreading pink ooze. It pulses against the unbroken window on the other side, sticky, wet, a heaving sickly-sweet organ. Best they not wait for it to spread to the broken one. He gestures for Steve to follow. Behind them, the squelching grows louder, more insistent. Where are the stairs? A door? There must be one. ]
no subject
It isn't a dagger. But it'll do. ]
No. [ Or if they were, those people are long gone. ] This appears to be some corner of the Horizon. Traps you for a time.
[ Unhelpful, he knows. He's found no solution other than to wander until they're released. Or in this case, avoid the spreading pink ooze. It pulses against the unbroken window on the other side, sticky, wet, a heaving sickly-sweet organ. Best they not wait for it to spread to the broken one. He gestures for Steve to follow. Behind them, the squelching grows louder, more insistent. Where are the stairs? A door? There must be one. ]
We need to go up.