[center][h3][color=ff8800]Asmund Gjanarsson[/color][/h3][/center]
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Apartment 305 was a spacious thing to have. There was a large window on one side, a number of small lamps hidden behind decorative, opal glass mounted along the walls, the door on the other side and - most important of all - a high ceiling. Aside from that, Asmund had found it holding nothing but void. There was no trace whatsoever of a roommate. This was unusual, but if numbers were uneven, someone had to pick it. It meant that he wouldn't have someone to talk to when he felt lonely and didn't want to go out. On the other hand, it also meant that he would have the whole room for himself.

The gifted was looking at himself via a huge mirror that featured a massive frame plated with silver that was leaning against the wall. It was ornate and gave the impression of being really old, maybe antique, but its owner knew it wasn't that valuable. Yet it was in better shape than the clothing of the man it was reflecting. Asmund's white shirt was clean, but he couldn't deny the fact that it was worn out and had become thin. The same thing went for his black shorts. Much to his excuse, it had to be said that it was difficult and expensive to get clothing for someone who was close to nine feet and had arms thicker than most men's thighs.

He turned around, inspecting the mess he had filled the once empty room with: The mirror, a cabinet that seemed to stem from the same era, a large, baroque writing table and a set of two chairs that perfectly fit to it. They were meant for visitors, for himself he had brought an enlarged, reinforced version that failed to completely mimic the style of the others. The bed was standing close to the window, and seeing this he asked himself if he should rearrange things and tidy up or just pick the other option: Do nothing and start living with things as they were until you got so used to them that the desire to rearrange and clean up would finally subside.

He decided for the latter and left 305, locking the door behind him. This morning's sun was just too attractive for not going out. Unbeknown to him, his slow trip through the gardens around the lake led him closer and closer to Laurel's location. Asmund's walk was the far opposite of her silence, his shoes were like ships flattening a lot of grass and grinding the ground below it with each step he made.