[MODERATED - Player Memory] [CRITERIA: Defeat the NPC] [RESERVE: Armani Addams]
The first thing that's apparent is how big everything seems. Like it was when you were a child. You're in a long hallway, dark wood panelling lined with morbid little curios that wouldn't be out of place in a haunted house. Old portraits of Victorian era elders, unmoving. A cuckoo clock chimes out nine and a small bird's skeleton pops out. It's miles up, relatively. Just a few feet ahead dances a small girl, about your height, pirouetting down the hallway. She's dressed in a leotard and black tutu, hair done up in a poor imitation of a bun that would bring great shame to an older Chanel. She's made a crown for herself, black feathers stuck into a tiara, doubtlessly scavenged from the latest roadkill she's tried to preserve. and she's waving a lot more around. (Did she kill a crow for this? Probably not.)
There's music coming from another, adjoining room. Something like a calliope in a minor key, which fits in well with the rest of this house. It's being piped from a distinctly old, but distinctly non-magical turntable, with a record whirring away. Peeking in, there's a little Armani. He's dancing, too, arms outstretched, twirling around. The little Chanel pauses in the doorway, a little smile growing on her face. And then her expression changes, goes stark white. Behind the door dances Armani and at least five porcelain dolls. They twirl and spin with him, not on strings, not controlled by anything other than the little boy himself. Her gasp, quiet though it was, seems to take up all the air in the room. She drops the feathers from her hand, and hot tears spring to her eyes, because she knows what this means.
MEMORY: Haunted House
[CRITERIA: Defeat the NPC]
[RESERVE: Armani Addams]
The first thing that's apparent is how big everything seems. Like it was when you were a child. You're in a long hallway, dark wood panelling lined with morbid little curios that wouldn't be out of place in a haunted house. Old portraits of Victorian era elders, unmoving. A cuckoo clock chimes out nine and a small bird's skeleton pops out. It's miles up, relatively. Just a few feet ahead dances a small girl, about your height, pirouetting down the hallway. She's dressed in a leotard and black tutu, hair done up in a poor imitation of a bun that would bring great shame to an older Chanel. She's made a crown for herself, black feathers stuck into a tiara, doubtlessly scavenged from the latest roadkill she's tried to preserve. and she's waving a lot more around. (Did she kill a crow for this? Probably not.)
There's music coming from another, adjoining room. Something like a calliope in a minor key, which fits in well with the rest of this house. It's being piped from a distinctly old, but distinctly non-magical turntable, with a record whirring away. Peeking in, there's a little Armani. He's dancing, too, arms outstretched, twirling around. The little Chanel pauses in the doorway, a little smile growing on her face. And then her expression changes, goes stark white. Behind the door dances Armani and at least five porcelain dolls. They twirl and spin with him, not on strings, not controlled by anything other than the little boy himself. Her gasp, quiet though it was, seems to take up all the air in the room. She drops the feathers from her hand, and hot tears spring to her eyes, because she knows what this means.