[Despite his rather illuminating conversation with Isaac earlier- bits are still missing. Everything of his previous stay here is muzzed over by time, chill, or exhaustion. All he remembers of this house is that it has some significance, that when he walked upon the path proper there was a dull ache in his gut a little like lonliness and a lot like regret. But whatever might he have to regret?
He could try the door like a normal person- but he does not know who lives here. Does not trust himself to this strange place with it's strange lives and so he opts for the least conspicuous window. It's a kitchen- and whoever lived here before had some healthy sense of paranoia. There are several tripwires he has to avoid connected to surprisingly delicate spring loaded mechanisms that release needles, powder, or vapor and were he not so concerned with keeping himself from being a victim of these devices he might recognize the handiwork.
As it stands it only leaves him ever more wary of sliding inside. But when the last trap is disarmed and he can, and does, slide the window up- he enters all the same. Slips in and shuts the window behind him silent as anything- lean and dark and covered in drakeskin leather armor, knives and swords strapped to him- he makes a proper interloper should he be seen.
There's nothing that strikes him offhand of this place other than a staggering sense of familiarity. He knows this room. Has dreamt of it- but they were nothing more than dreams. Lost in this fugue he doesn't pick up on the patter of footsteps until he has no time whatsoever to hide, no time to find a shadow, so he turns, guiltily, hands cradled around a silver mug that he swears he knows the feel of while warm. Antivan in design and he knows that knotwork, knows the intricate lay of lines etched into it- something he did often enough idly on his own armor. Supposed runes of good health and protection as made by the Dalish.
no subject
He could try the door like a normal person- but he does not know who lives here. Does not trust himself to this strange place with it's strange lives and so he opts for the least conspicuous window. It's a kitchen- and whoever lived here before had some healthy sense of paranoia. There are several tripwires he has to avoid connected to surprisingly delicate spring loaded mechanisms that release needles, powder, or vapor and were he not so concerned with keeping himself from being a victim of these devices he might recognize the handiwork.
As it stands it only leaves him ever more wary of sliding inside. But when the last trap is disarmed and he can, and does, slide the window up- he enters all the same. Slips in and shuts the window behind him silent as anything- lean and dark and covered in drakeskin leather armor, knives and swords strapped to him- he makes a proper interloper should he be seen.
There's nothing that strikes him offhand of this place other than a staggering sense of familiarity. He knows this room. Has dreamt of it- but they were nothing more than dreams. Lost in this fugue he doesn't pick up on the patter of footsteps until he has no time whatsoever to hide, no time to find a shadow, so he turns, guiltily, hands cradled around a silver mug that he swears he knows the feel of while warm. Antivan in design and he knows that knotwork, knows the intricate lay of lines etched into it- something he did often enough idly on his own armor. Supposed runes of good health and protection as made by the Dalish.
Why is this here?]