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Lyzzi would like to set fire to the glass rain, and watch them burn.

Lyzzi found herself stuck again.

Lyzzi didn't want to give up, and she had no choice as she blacked out while moving the old shelves away.

The winding hallways slowed him down, though; he felt a certain... reverence. That maybe this ground was sacrosanct, and he was in some way not supposed to be here.

He felt an inexplicable shame at his need to glance into every yawning doorway, into the threadbare sheets and worn-through carpets and flaking wallpaper--and yet he did, at every threshold. At each he paused before resuming the snail's pace picking-through the shambles between rooms, the careful navigation of the treacherous wreckage. At each he stood in the doorway and silently looked in.

He wanted to crawl into the ramshackle beds and pull the grime-heavy blankets over his head, and wait for sleep to come. And at the fifth or possibly the sixth door he actually made to step over the threshold, to do just that. ******** it. Nothing made sense anyway.

But as he gingerly stepped foot onto the rickety-looking floorboards, a thing shot out of the darkness beneath the bed. That's where monsters came from--even Amity in his newborn ignorance of the way the world worked knew that. He didn't even have time to think. The guns came out, a blue gleam streaked through the dark room, and there was a thud and a shriek and a sound like a balloon deflating.

Shaken, he stood in silence to see if the thing was dead. A piece of the dark shape moved, and two gleaming eyes turned up to him.

He cocked the pistols.

DMG: 9

When the gilt room opened up in front of him Amity's concern initially wasn't with the fact that the door was locked, or that he might need to find a way forward. Nothing occurred to him save a silent urge to drift to the pianoforte and draw his trembling fingertips over the keys. He plucked a few notes, and he heard the clicking of the mechanisms in the door, and realized the task that was in front of him.

And what an unfair task it seemed. His eyes searched the crumbling walls for some sort of clue, but it was a helpless thing. He wondered if he'd ever known how to make music--if it was another memory that had been snatched from him for his own protection--or if he himself, whole, with every bit of his life, would have been just as perplexed.

He thought of the fragment he'd caught that first day in the Ruins, and the sweet woman's voice singing about incense and patchouli.

Without knowing what he was doing, he ran his hands over the keys, and after a few false starts, closed his eyes. If failure was inevitable, why worry? Just do what came naturally.

He did not think. He was good at not thinking, or wanted to be.

With hands that were not his own he plucked out a little refrain, and the door swung open. When he looked down, his shaky hands were wet with blood. He stared at them.

No time to think about that, either. Outwards, and onwards.

He was not surprised to find the gleaming prizes outside. He had, in fact, expected it. With his hands in his pockets he stared at them for a long time before plucking one from between the tangled wires and the broken glass.

It seems the splinters also reminded him of the safe way through. He makes it across without any further injuries.

He makes it through and nearly creates a hole in one of the walls. How did that happen? Decyl refuses to tell.

[ BOSS | 5 - 9 = -4 ]