Malcolm's eyes fluttered open and he startled almost immediately. The last time he woke up on cold, unfamiliar ground, he was in chains. Lifting his hand quickly to check whether he was back in that basement, he realized he wasn't... he would have almost breathed a sigh of relief if he hadn't noticed the symbol on his hand. Was... was that blood? No. The odour was pungent. Chemical. It was paint. ....It was too pungent for the smear of paint on his hand. He pushed himself unsteadily to sit up, casting his gaze around.
Oh.
There was paint everywhere, but it wasn't a spill. The symbol on his hand was also painted on the floor, taking up most of the room. He frowned. He didn't know the room, for all its eerie resemblance to the murder dungeon his father had hidden under the house. He glanced around more urgently. Where was he?
He stilled suddenly. Footsteps. They were approaching. He crept to the corner of the room - careful not to touch the weird still-wet paint - where its state of dilapidation allowed him to pull a piece of a wood panel from the wall. He clutched it tightly, watching warily to see who would open the door.
Past Deeds
If anyone would have answers about the town, it should be the authorities, right?
Malcolm was less sanguine about that as he approached the building itself; it was clearly in a state of disuse. He frowned faintly and climbed the steps, trying the door. It opened easily. He stepped inside and looked around.
"Hello?" he called experimentally as he moved further in. The bulletin board caught his attention. As he examined it, he realized some of the smaller pieces looked like they might fit together. He cast around until he noticed a folding table just down the corridor. He dragged it to where the bulletin board was and picked up all the small pieces, laying them out on the table, working to try to fit them together.
Malcolm Bright | Prodigal Son
Malcolm's eyes fluttered open and he startled almost immediately. The last time he woke up on cold, unfamiliar ground, he was in chains. Lifting his hand quickly to check whether he was back in that basement, he realized he wasn't... he would have almost breathed a sigh of relief if he hadn't noticed the symbol on his hand. Was... was that blood? No. The odour was pungent. Chemical. It was paint. ....It was too pungent for the smear of paint on his hand. He pushed himself unsteadily to sit up, casting his gaze around.
Oh.
There was paint everywhere, but it wasn't a spill. The symbol on his hand was also painted on the floor, taking up most of the room. He frowned. He didn't know the room, for all its eerie resemblance to the murder dungeon his father had hidden under the house. He glanced around more urgently. Where was he?
He stilled suddenly. Footsteps. They were approaching. He crept to the corner of the room - careful not to touch the weird still-wet paint - where its state of dilapidation allowed him to pull a piece of a wood panel from the wall. He clutched it tightly, watching warily to see who would open the door.
Past Deeds
If anyone would have answers about the town, it should be the authorities, right?
Malcolm was less sanguine about that as he approached the building itself; it was clearly in a state of disuse. He frowned faintly and climbed the steps, trying the door. It opened easily. He stepped inside and looked around.
"Hello?" he called experimentally as he moved further in. The bulletin board caught his attention. As he examined it, he realized some of the smaller pieces looked like they might fit together. He cast around until he noticed a folding table just down the corridor. He dragged it to where the bulletin board was and picked up all the small pieces, laying them out on the table, working to try to fit them together.
He couldn't help trying to solve a puzzle.