uisgeannan | (no subject)

((Continuing from this!))

[It was a good thing Robin was gone when Euri finally woke up. She had been cranky and hungover and once she remembered what had happened last night she was mortified. Not because they had shamelessly made, or because they nearly had sex, but because she had told him she was a virgin, and on top of that she had even let him into her room without bothering to hide all the witchy objects she owned.

She tried to focus on the latter as she ate breakfast in her room and nursed her hangover because, frankly, thinking about the teasing and comments and gossip from the former didn't seem nearly as bad as the reaction she was bound to get from the other castle residents about being a witch.

She pondered confronting Robin, but the mere thought was far too embarrassing. Besides, there was another memory stuck in her head from the previous night that refused to go away, and it was making her curious.

He had seen her room, but she remembered her inquiry into his own hadn't netted any results. Now that Euri was sober, "barely touched it" sounded like an obvious lie. That was why she eventually found her way to his floor, and to his room.

She was pretty sure Robin was out for the moment, and she had summoned Dog and ordered him to go have father-son bonding time with Nirel. So it was just her, a door, and whatever lay on the other side.

With a hardened expression she concentrated on the doorknob, letting it catch fire and heat up to the point where any and all locks would be rendered useless. She was just going to take a quick peek, nothing more, and then go back and stew over what he was undoubtedly telling the other residents.

When the doorknob cooled enough she used her scarf to open the door, and slipped inside.]

Threaded | Flat

[a good hunch. "barely touched it" couldn't be further from the truth.

the room itself is surprisingly small and strangely dark--the walls are a dull slate grey, muting the color of everything else inside. the floor is made of wood, but most of the floorspace is covered by simple furniture or the occasional boring throw-rug. there's a design carved into the floor, curving around the room, which she might be able to feel through her shoes as she walks in.

the walls are probably the most alarming thing. they're covered in writing. some of it looks complex--drawings, equations, penciled-in lines connecting one thing to the next. long paragraphs, a messy scrawl. some of it is larger and disjointed, like snippets of sentences, or just single words. some of it is the same word repeated over and over again, or barely recognizable drawings of things that may resemble people or animals or shapes. most of it's hard to read without getting closer, but from the door, she can see that circles keep showing up in his designs. some of it's written in chalk, some of it's written in pen, some of it's pencil. some of it's blood (those words are easiest to read) and some of it's carved straight into the wall or the table. there are some blood splatters here and there that don't fit the pattern, as well as a few spots where he must have just scribbled aimlessly.

there's a very simple single bed in the corner; the most comfortable thing in the room. there's a lot of writing centered on the walls around where his head would rest. there are also long, deep gashes carved into the ceiling right above his bed. next to it is a nightstand with a few candles and a tall, narrow shelf where he seems to keep his clothes, neatly stacked and organized and kept away from the chaos of the rest of the room.

heavy curtains frame his window, which is cracked open just enough to let in the sound from outside. sunlight streams through it, but doesn't make the room any brighter. there's a simple wooden chair in front of the window as well.

the rest of the room is covered in shelves and a large table, filled with books and papers and clippings and a few miscellaneous boxes or odd objects. he's got a growing number of takeout boxes building up at the corner of his desk. an old record player and a small collection of records has it's own small table next to the door, also kept clear of any chaos. there's another door that leads to the bathroom, but it's closed.

it reeks of magic in here. it feels like Robin does, but everywhere; it's not a comforting room. the furniture is stiff. he has very few nice things--aside from the mess of books and papers, you could argue he really has very few things at all. the place feels small and full and unnaturally aged, but he's gone to lengths to keep most things off the floor.]