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[center][h2] Siobhan [/h2][/center]

The car stopped in a bit of an awkward spot towards the bottom of a long, previously-scenic path up the the hill to the chalet itself. The walk took about 20 minutes all in all, including the time taken to find ways around the worst bits of the overgrowth, and the one point where Ana nearly lost her shoes to the mud. The pathway itself culminated in a relatively antique paved walk up to the grand front doors of the house - though those doors had long since rotten apart and been lost to the elements, or been stolen before their time.

In front of the doorway arch, with its gothic pillars standing to a crumbled and cracked attention at either side, there stood a man.

He was slender, athletic looking, and tanned. On his face was a mature stubble, marked by a scar on his left cheek. He was attractive, either despite of, or in part because of, his scowl.

“All ready?” He said, in poor but functional French. 

“I think so.” Ana replied before looking to Siobhan.

In the pit of Siobhan’s stomach, however, something uncomfortable turned over. Her skin crawled with the sensation of hands brushing the air over it. Her eyes instinctively looked up to the attic window, and saw nothing.

But she knew that they were no longer alone. Not truly. Not properly. Not any more.

[@Lady Selune]