[CENTER][url=https://open.spotify.com/track/1n9jiyTDiY1NvsDA0W401C?si=ad501649f2ab4339][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019ac7e8-9d61-7059-9994-7033a1ea72a9.webp[/img][/url][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=#696969][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [color=white][I]The House[/I][/color][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=#696969][b]#2.04[/b][/COLOR][/right][/sup][/indent][center][COLOR=dimgray][SUP][sub]______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________[/sub][/SUP][/COLOR][/center]
[right]𝕸𝖞 𝖓𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖘 𝖘𝖔𝖎𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖇𝖞 𝖆 𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖙-𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖕𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖜𝖆𝖘𝖍 𝖘𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖐𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖉 𝖒𝖊, 
𝕾𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖓 𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖈𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖌𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖊.

𝕿𝖆𝖐𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉, 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖒𝖊:
"𝕯𝖔𝖓'𝖙 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖉𝖔𝖜𝖓, 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖑𝖑 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖈𝖐."
𝕭𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖘 𝖒𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖜 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖔 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐.[/right]
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[indent][color=A9A9A9][color=000000]ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰?

ℌ𝔬𝔴 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 ℑ 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔤𝔬?

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔬𝔣 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔶 𝔰𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔞𝔠𝔥 𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰; 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔟𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔦𝔰 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔭𝔭𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔰, 𝔫𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔡?

ℭ𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨𝔰 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔬𝔯 𝔡𝔦𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫. ℑ𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔣-𝔣𝔲𝔩𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔶𝔠𝔩𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫, 𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔲𝔫𝔪𝔞𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔢𝔩 ℌ𝔬𝔲𝔰𝔢 𝔰𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔰𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔰𝔣𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯'𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔴. 𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔪𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔡𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔤𝔲𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔱.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔲𝔫𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔞 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔫𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤.

ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ 𝔢𝔞𝔱, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔤𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔠𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔰𝔪𝔬𝔰, ℑ 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱 𝔞 𝔫𝔢𝔴 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔩.
𝔈𝔳𝔢𝔯-𝔥𝔲𝔫𝔤𝔯𝔶.

ℌ𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫, 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔬. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔣𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔱 𝔞𝔩𝔩, 𝔟𝔢𝔣𝔬𝔯𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢, ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲; ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.

𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔤𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢, 𝔴𝔢 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢𝔰. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔡𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫. ℑ 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔡 𝔞 𝔤𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱 𝔭𝔲𝔯𝔭𝔬𝔰𝔢 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲.

𝔉𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔬𝔨, 𝔍𝔬𝔥𝔫.

𝔒𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔱𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔡𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔭𝔢𝔫.[/color]

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John didn't feel himself hit the ground, but he was certainly pretty bloody sore. Slowly, achingly, he pushed himself up with one hand and rolled his protesting body over, lying on his back to stare up at the ceiling. He was on the rug, the rug having apparently reappeared once more in place of the hole, and though he couldn't see from his angle, the intense red circular pattern emblazoned upon the threads haloed him quite neatly. With languished movements, he pivoted his head about the room, checking that all had returned to normal, or at least what passed for it in this House. Everything seemed in order; the hole was gone, the furniture back in its place, the front door still quietly and obstinately shut. John pulled himself to his feet, silently registering that Astra was missing, but could not find it in him yet to do anything but collapse onto the sofa and sink back into the cushions. His eyes bore into the fireplace, sifting through long-cold ashes, and then pulled up, up, past the mantle and settling on the mounted bow and arrows proudly displayed above the hearth, modern and powerful in their construction. Hmm. That hadn't been there before. 

The eclectic decor John had noticed the first time he'd passed through the antechamber was absent entirely and instead replaced with items and artefacts that felt just as disconnected as the previous jumbled collection but yet somehow also more pointed and deliberate. John swivelled about on the sofa as he swept his gaze across the room, cataloguing the new ornaments; they seemed in some way significant, though he could not summon even a fraction of personal relevance or grasp a shared correlation between a single pair of fresh relics. Including the new bow and quiver above the fireplace, there were eleven curios now spaced evenly around the room, and John spent several minutes examining each one, trying to discern the reason for their sudden appearance.

A chunk of otherworldly rock laced with hints of crystalline green sat on a small plinth next to an imposing and taxidermied black bat, wings posed as if spread in flight and snout contorted into a frightening snarl. Between them was a replica sword, or at least John hoped it was a replica, old in its styling but masterfully crafted and well-maintained. On the wall hung a length of thick, indomitable steel chain, crossing over itself against a backdrop of delicate but artfully-made green silk, upon which was inked the stylised symbol of a dragon. Moving his eyes back to the fireplace, resting upon the mantle beneath the bow stood a hand-carved statue of distinctly Egyptian artform, a righteous figure bearing the skull of a heron. The statue was flanked by headdresses of equally sophisticated taste and expense; one was a tiara of rich gold, elegant and cultured with a large shining diamond acting as the statement centrepiece, while the other spoke out in deep crimson, harsh-angled bands lashing about themselves to form a woven circlet dotted with rubies. Looking now toward the other side of the room, only a few items were left: a small scale-model of a nuclear warhead, sat upon mirrored glass that by some trick or illusion of the mind showed a humble microscope in its reflection; and a worn pair of old-world revolvers, well-used but well-loved, crossed in front of a simple, but powerfully symbolic weapon - a humble wooden stake, hand-hewn from a shard of strong ironwood.

John didn't have a single idea what any of it meant, or if it was indeed supposed to mean anything at all.

He stood up from the sofa. The longer he sat, the more he felt the strange sensation of being [i]watched[/i], and he was struck by the realization that he simply couldn't waste time sitting around being stared at by inanimate objects. Astra was still missing after their impromptu fall, and her absence weighed heavily on his conscience as he was seized with the fear that something else might find her before he did, and this time he may happen upon her too late; that dark, hungry thing may return, or even worse, whatever doppelganger of his stalked these halls that had cast them into the hole to begin with. He shivered at the thought of that harried duplicate, unable to shake the feeling that something far more sinister and perverse than he realised was transpiring within this House. Spurred on only by a deep fright beginning to take root at the base of his spine, John pushed against his own aching and bruised body to cross the room, leaving through the same double doors his own double had burst through previously - wholly unprepared for what new horror he might find beyond, but launching headlong into it nonetheless.

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It didn't take long for the House to turn on him once more; now that the illusion any of this was even remotely 'normal' had been shattered, the environment seemed almost eager to disturb him, delighting in subjecting him to wickedness. No longer was the House satisfied with mere distortions - now it engaged in depravity, pushing John through rooms that would turn stomachs in an abbatoir, let alone a home. Floorboards gave way to metal grating suspended above yawning abysses, the walls covered in blood and viscera and gore displayed to sickening extremes. More rooms even further in changed track, swapping carnage for revulsion, dingy mould-caked plaster the only dressing for floors smeared with excrement, furnishings reduced to stained mattresses and tarpaulins. Those dim-lit dungeons were themselves transfigured into stone caverns, the rock slick and slimy and the air fetid, hot and reeking of soured meat, rancid, beastly. When John's surroundings shifted one last time to sterile linoleum and faded-white corridors, he found himself missing topsy-turvy rooms with impractical decor and impossible blueprints very deeply. 

These hallways were well-known to John; he had trodden these floors for eighteen months in a previous lifetime, piecing back together what had been left of his mind with little help from staff more concerned with ridicule than repair. Ravenscar was unmistakable; time had done nothing to distance him from what he'd experienced there. Cautiously walking these halls, he relived the scalding showers and ice-cold hoses, the scorn of the nurses and the stomach pains from weeks on gruel, the bruises inflicted by bored orderlies; bile rose in the back of his throat, and in swallowing it back down he flashed forcibly to choked consumption of pills meant to numb and sedate, medication designed for pliability rather than care. Cell doors lined either side of the corridor and John could hear ghostly moans and soft wails, occassional metal crashing, the distinct creaking echoes of a door swinging open and closed again to be followed by low, fleshy thuds. This was not a place of healing, and the House knew. The House inflicted harm, and revelled in it.

John's terrible reminiscence was interrupted by lilting sobs distinct from the background noise of haunted memories. Little hitches and cries, clear distress stifled into sniffles for fear of being heard. It was the weeping of someone who wished to hide, lest the root of their woe sought them out. He followed the sound carefully, quietly, treading softly to conceal his footsteps so as not to frighten away whoever he was looking for, and as he approached, he peered through cell door windows and feeding slots to determine the source of the noise; only after checking a good seven or eight cells did he find her.

Astra was huddled into the far corner, facing away from the door and doing her apparent utmost to shrink herself away, minimize the space she occupied in hopes of disappearing entirely. Her clothes were more ragged and soiled than when John had last seen her before the fall, but John could not suppress the feeling of immense relief at having found her again, and seemingly unharmed at that. Gently, he opened the door and crept in, keen to have them both alight this twisted place.
[color=BDB76B]"Astra, Jesus. I'm glad I found you,"[/color] he began, resting a hand on her shoulder as he neared. Her entire body flinched and went rigid before she whipped her head around to look at him; in the next second she was up and on her feet, rushing across the small cell to sequester herself against the opposite corner. John didn't move.
[color=48D1CC]"Don't touch me! Who are you?! How did you find me?!"[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"Astra, it's me, you're okay-"[/color]
[color=48D1CC]"I don't know you! How do you know my- I don't even know if that [i]is[/i] my name!"[/color]
[color=BDB76B]"It's John - John Constantine - we got separated by the fall-"[/color] as he spoke he took slow, tiny steps toward her, opening his arms and displaying empty hands to show he meant no harm, bore no weapon.
[color=48D1CC]"[i]No![/i]"[/color] She screamed, wild and frantic.
[color=BDB76B]"I'm just trying to help you- us- I'm just trying to get us out of here, but we lost each other after the fall. Don't you remember?"[/color]
[color=48D1CC]"You're not real! You're a trick! A clever game - just going to [i]hurt[/i] me again! I won't let you!"[/color]

She was away, throwing the cell door open and flying through it, sprinting down the corridors. John gave quick chase, painfully aware that pursuing her would only further cement the false suspicions in her mind, but seeing little alternative available. If he lost her down here in these transmuted nightmares he might never find her again, nor forgive himself for doing so. They fled and flew in sync, hunter and quarry, John desperately flinging pleas and promises ahead of him while Astra only shrieked back to leave her alone, let her be, quit his chase and go back from whence he came. Around them the corridor began to loop, the same cracked tiles and stained floors passing by again and again, uncaring for whichever way they turned, whatever direction they picked; every new corner was merely a fresh iteration of that same hallway, inescapable. As they looped, the lights began to dim, fluorescent tubes blinking out one by one until their flight was illuminated only by the bare, worn-out bulbs within the cells, casting striped shadows through barred windows out onto their shared path - yet even these began to burn out with each new repetition. John was sure they'd ran for miles, yet they'd not moved an inch, every footfall plunging them further and further into recurring darkness until they were sprinting through the black.

John didn't see the wall before he slammed into it, mid-stride but managing to twist just as he made impact and baring the brunt of the collision with his shoulder. He yelled out in pain as he felt the joint pop out of the socket, bouncing off the ceramic tiles and tumbling to the floor, eliciting another agonised cry as he landed awkwardly on his freshly-dislocated shoulder. He gingerly cradled his arm, breathing heavy on his back, exhausted and in pain before summoning the strength to sit himself up and blink in the black. He waited for some time for his eyes to adjust, but the grainy darkness was impenetrable, blinding him on all sides. John sighed. He could no longer even hear Astra - and now he barely knew which way was forward, although he suspected that sort of thing didn't matter much here anyway. Whichever way you went, you went the way the House wanted you to go.

To this end, he carefully stood up, removing his jacket and fashioning a rudimentary approximation of a sling for his arm, hissing through his teeth every time a movement jostled the shoulder. Once secured as best as he could manage, John reached his free arm out into the darkness and crept forward on shuffling feet until his fingers brushed the wall in front of him. He pushed his palm against the tile, and the slowly began to move sideways, keeping his hand against the wall for orientation as he guided himself further down the dark corridor. John walked like this for a long while, listening out for Astra again; around him, the air shifted and grew colder, and he felt his breath fogging in front of him even if he couldn't see it.

[center][b]-[/b][/center]
He walked for what may have been five miles or fifty feet before stumbling, falling against the opposite wall. He hadn't fallen far, but paid it no mind, preoccupied by the hot bark of pain from his shoulder; still the darkness prevailed, and he was still unable to see. He reached out and found the wall again, progressing onwards steadily - until he began to feel the other wall brush against his shoulder once more. He winched and shrank in closer, bending more at the elbow, carrying on; slowly, he felt the wall encroaching again. He pushed himself into his palm. Still the walls drew together. John tutted; the corridor must taper and end here. He had walked all this way into a dead end.

He pivoted, a slow one-eighty turn until he faced the way he'd come, and set off to find another route. The walls grew closer. John did not allow himself to panic. In a darkness so deep, how could he really tell that he'd turned around? Another pivot; the passageway grew narrower still. It pressed against his shoulder and he grimaced, feeling the dislocated joint grinding against itself; John flattened his back against the wall and sidled along. Closer - tighter - the wall pressed on his belly and chest, made it hard to breathe, hard to move; he was becoming stuck, wedged between concrete in the silent dark. He reached an arm out for purchase, searching for a way out, an opening, a door - anything to pry himself free, loosen the architecture from its vice grip about his body, a crevice or a handle; he found only a pinch point where the walls finally met. The House rumbled, stone scraping across stone reverberating through his ears. 

Ever-so-faintly, he saw a light. A sliver, a fraction, a single pixel-thin line projected to his right over his aching shoulder. He couldn't reach it with his free arm, and in a panicked, excruciating movement, he pulled his arm loose of its sling and wrenched it up, feeling the joint slither and creak with stabs of pained protest until his fingertips brushed the smallest crack in the pinning wall. John shuffled sideways, trying to push his fingers into the gap; his breath was shallow and difficult to find, but he felt his hand find purchase, however miniscule. The House fought him every step of the way, but the crack was here for a reason, surely? Mercy, or a cruel joke, John cared not which; he just focused on worming his fingers further into the crevice, and the more he pushed the wider it seemed to grow until he was sidling into it entirely, pushing with all his might against the walls, expanding this new space. The House shuddered, wobbling him about as if spasming, retching. The light grew brighter, enveloping John whole - and then the floor convulsed, and with a great lurching movement, he was out.

He hit the ground hard and swore loud as the impact forced his shoulder back into place. He groaned, writhing on the floor in pain for the second time in as many...hours? Days? Weeks? He couldn't tell; there was no tracking calendars or clocks in the House, and the passage of time seemed fluid and ultimately irrelevant. He was tired, and could feel his mind slipping away, lapsing into sleep. Perhaps he could just lie here, lie here and rest...the House could wait, just for a couple hours...

Any thought or temptation of sleep was expelled with a piercing scream that shook through John's bones and jolted him up, and was then cut off so suddenly that the silence left behind was far more bloodcurdling than any shriek could be. John shot to his feet, any feeling of pain or lethargy forgotten as he sprinted down wooden hallways and through carpeted rooms, the House architecture having returned to something cozy and warm, in mockery of whatever new horror it had now unleashed. He tore through the House to the source of the scream, and found it all-too-quickly.

A crowd of the black creatures loomed over something on the floor, tearing and gnashing at it. The egg-with-wings from John's first encounter with these strange beings was not present but there was no mistaking: though these monsters varied wildly in shape and size, some resembling human and some in contempt of anything approaching 'natural', they were all of the same ilk, kin to one another. They shared the same shimmering-black skin, and regardless of form all sported that same maw that split their bodies in half and kept going. There was a body beneath them, deep dark fears welling up within John as he caught glimpses through the frenzy. It was shredded, rent asunder, pulled apart. He saw a flash of dirty blonde hair, and turned away in a rush of unspeakable emotion. The creatures did not notice him, so engrossed in their feast, but Astra's corpse would not last much longer under their hungry mouths, and John did not want to be here when they began seeking another meal-

One of the creatures sank its teeth into a section of the wall and tore away a chunk of brick and plaster and what was left behind John could not say. The [color=2E2C2C]wall[/color] was gone. Only an absence truly fundamental remained; 'remained' was not even the right word for it, but John couldn't comprehend anything else. The creature took another bite of the [color=2E2C2C]wall[/color] and the [color=2E2C2C]hole[/color] grew bigger, a gap in the very fabric of reality; where this beast tore with its fangs, [color=2E2C2C]nothingness[/color] crept in behind it. 

The others finished with the [color=2E2C2C]corpse[/color], no more [color=2E2C2C]Astra[/color] left to eat and they too started in on the [color=2E2C2C]wall[/color], moving to the [color=2E2C2C]floor[/color], the [color=2E2C2C]corners[/color], the [color=2E2C2C]ceiling[/color]. Everywhere the things dined, patches of [color=2E2C2C]nothing[/color] were left behind, not mere darkness or holes in the material but a true absence of anything. Their appetites swallowed up the [color=2E2C2C]entire room[/color], until [color=2E2C2C]not a single feature[/color] was left; not the [color=2E2C2C]wall, light fixtures, furniture, coving, window lintels, carpet, floorboards[/color], not the [color=2E2C2C]corners or skirting or ceiling[/color] nor [color=2E2C2C]switches or hooks or ornaments[/color]. Even the [color=2E2C2C]sparse furniture[/color] was consumed, until John stood on a precipice overlooking [color=2E2C2C]the nothing that had once been the room[/color].

The H[color=2E2C2C]o[/color]use was being eaten.

There came from that [color=2E2C2C]nothing[/color] something deep and gutteral and ancient, so very very far below John, something akin to a laugh. There was no peering into that darkness, for there was no darkness. But still - in the last second before he turned on his heels and fled, shaken to his soul - he thought he saw something [i]move[/i] down there.[/color][/indent]
[hr]
[right]𝕭𝖔𝖙𝖙𝖑𝖊, 𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖑, 𝖔𝖗 𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖗𝖊𝖑? 𝕬𝖑𝖑 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖊𝖒𝖕𝖙𝖞; 𝖉𝖚𝖌 𝖔𝖗 𝖉𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖐 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖔𝖚𝖙.
𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖒𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊'𝖘 𝖕𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖒𝖊 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖆𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉.

𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝖜𝖊 𝖘𝖊𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖞 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖊 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖜𝖊'𝖛𝖊 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓;
𝕷𝖔𝖔𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖚𝖕 𝕴 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉 𝖘𝖆𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊.
𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖒𝖊 𝖒𝖞 𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖛𝖊𝖑.
𝕴'𝖒 𝖌𝖔𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖓.[/right]