Quoted By:
Trying to push aside the sinking sensation that you are overlooking an alternative - a <span class="mu-i">better</span> alternative - you settle on groping your way through this mess. You stuff your snap-sparker into one of your now-emptied apron pockets, and begin your quiet, shuffling campaign through the room. By keeping your movement deliberate and measured, you are able to keep some semblance of a heading, and before long and without overmuch fuss, you manage to make contact with the wall. You position yourself facing it, putting the palm of your right hand flush against the wall. Simultaneously, you hold your left hand a few inches out from your hip, so that you will not be completely taken by surprise by some lurking furnishing as you progress. With these simple precautions completed, you resume your shuffling progress through the ink-black space, only now you are crab-creeping.
In spite of how physically undemanding the whole process is, you find it to be quite straining, actually. You have absolutely no idea what is in this inscrutably dark room, and after announcing yourself with the light from the snap-sparker, you have gone and turned your back to it. Of course, you don't seriously believe that there is anyo - anything! Anything! Damn it all, there is no one in this house, how many fraying times to do you need to tell yourself that! For the Heights of Hell, you need to keep it together. You cannot afford a crack-up, not tonight. And definitely not here.
Though actually ... come to think of it, perhaps this nagging doubt, this ... fear that you aren't alone is actually just a subtle bout of paranoia induced by either the strickening Organ, or the general effects of the ranged-remediation cast. You - wait, did you already come to this conclusion? Damn it. You ... don't think so. But maybe you ... oh, fray it all, this is a new low, isn't it? You cannot even keep track of your own damned thoughts you simpering -
Your left hand bumps into something solid, and though you nearly cry out in surprise, the interruption is enough to focus you back on the task at hand. After you work your way around the obstruction - a washbasin stand, proof-positive that this is a bedroom - you continue on along the wall, keeping your right hand in position, trying to not dwell on how exposed you feel, how tired you are, how much you ache - and how at least some of your discomfort is presumably being caused by the ranged-remediation cast. Ultimately, there are few obstructions along the wall - an upholstered chair, and a side table to go with it, a chest or dresser, a wrought-iron hat-stand, a desk or perhaps a table - before you find yourself in the far corner of the room. You then switch your hands and reverse your direction, making your way around those obstructions again until you reach the near corner. As you might have expected, there is no door in this room.
