Play@YSDC

Keeping close to the walls, Darren is able to avoid all the junk and swiftly make his way to the north wall. Crumbling chunks of plaster fall away in his hands as he runs them over the wall. Towards what he thinks is the centre of the wall he can feel a sort of wooden frame buried under the plaster and the outline of what might be a door, open just a crack so that he can get his finger-nails into the gap. It's hard to tell in the darkness, if it's just random firing from his retina, or whether there might be the occasional flash of light from beyond the crack. Try as hard as he might he can't seem to push the crack open any wider. Something on the far side seems to be blocking it.

The scratching, bumping sound continues intermittently. It's definitely coming from beyond the crack in the wall. And there's something else, a voice, whispering, a word, it sounds like 'Ian.'

OOC:   sweet

Hearing his brothers name Darren rams the point of the crowbar into the crack , attempting to widen it.

The tip just about slips into the crack, gaining a little purchase. Darren leans on the crowbar and strains to shift the door.

OOC:   STR roll please

1d100

OOC:   phew

Throwing his whole body onto the crowbar and pushing with all his might, Darren feels the slightest movement, then a sudden rush as the crack in the wall spreads open and the crowbar pings out of his hands. There's a rush of foul smelling air, mildew, urine, and something nastier, like rotting meat. Now the door is open a foot or more he can definitely see flashes of light and hear voices.

Peering through the crack he sees a pile of planks and splinters of wood. Jumbled amongst there are the remains of boxes, metal bowls, old candles, twisted crucibles, disintegrating books, and other assorted junk. There are a few bookshelves still standing against the walls but most have fallen into the centre of the room and shattered. There's a source of flickering light through the low ceiling, but it seems weak, like it's struggling to penetrate through an invisible fog. Around the outside of the room is a mildew-rotted sofa and equally decayed stuffed chairs. They cast long shadows that seem to bleed and ooze into the corners of the room, occasionally lit starkly by flashes of light coming from somewhere off to the west.

The rough-cut flat stone slabs that make up the floor are laid directly onto the earth. The walls to the north and east are also made of rough stone. He can't see the west, and the south wall directly in front of him is crumbling and half-rotted lath and plaster. Whatever remains of the wood and metal door mechanism is twisted and sheared. To the east is a high window, well out of reach.

The voices come from the west but they're muffled and indistinct, swallowed up by the oppressive atmosphere.

1d100

OOC:   Yaaay fail!!!

Darren pushes against the frozen door with his shoulder. It budges slightly and he squeezes into the gap. The space is tight and he feels the wooden frame scraping against his skin, snagging his clothes and tugging at the seams.

Then with a sudden release he's through. Into the room beyond.

Breathing a sigh of relief, grasping the crowbar tightly Darren takes in his surroundings.

The room is in almost complete darkness but Darren recognises it as the space under the Parlour, the collapsed bookshelves piled in the centre of the room. Flashes of light and muffled voices come from the room to the west. The rank smell of mildew, damp, urine, and decay is even stronger in here.

Holding the crowbar in front of him, slowly moving it from side Darren moves slowly towards the sounds in the west.

Creeping slowly towards the door, Darren notices a shadow crossing in front of the weak and flickering light that oozes through the door. He holds his crowbar out in front of him in a defensive posture. The shadow moves, it moves fast. Something swings towards Darren's head, faster than he can react. Then it stops. Doesn't connect. Darren steps forward into the light.

OOC:   Moving here.