Schwelderade

proclaimingThe library conceals a secret passage leading to the second floor of the castle. There is a gallery of mirrors and the dining room has a leather clad ceiling. Scenes from age old fairytales adorn the stained glass windows and sculptures line the walls to match these sun-lit murals. The House has a definite air of royalty surrounding it, but a darker one than that of its neighbors, perhaps a bit colder. It wasn't warm and plush it was royal in a different way, a fiercer, stronger way that the younger houses could not compete with. And as you ventured deeper in, into the sparcer more utilitarian rooms you noticed it seemed sadder inside somehow, the energy there telling of dark histories the paintings and murals fought to displace but could never quite combat.

 Library  Reappearing with a shudder as he stepped into the library. The wood still held a tinge of smoke, no matter how often it was aired out, stepping into Schwelderade was stepping back in time no matter how it passed. His eyes, for a long moment, studied the armor along the walls. Weaponry and ancient shields adorned the crimson walls over every bookcase. Nobility, clans, families forgotten but for the presence of their arms here, their sacrifices memorialized. He saw faces as he studied each, pulled back as ghosts surrounded him, laughter and grins, clapping of backs and shoves as they celebrated. His ears lowered, a lip curling as he shook himself, moving through them like the smoke they were. Ash. He almost laughed at the rainbows cast along the shelves, the thick, red-graced-black rugs of patterns and weaving that could make the Bel'dalur go green with envy. Had more than once.

Eyes rising to the glass that cast them, scenes from age-old fairytales here but even that failed to lighten the smokey chill that permeated the space. The whole house. The voivodate was a colder nobility than that of its neighbors, too many skeletons in the floors to put off the warm pompery of the other houses, to flaunt and to dance. He smirked at the recalled word, 'cushy' indeed, he snorted. Theirs was a practical manner, not the warm plush grandeur, they were a darker force. Fiercer, strong in a way the others could not relate to, even the consiligariate had a feel to it he had seen stagger the others, all the more so those that could not place it. A somber tone that soaked the walls, drenched the floors, and even the utterly oblivious could feel the severely as they ventured deeper; but none was so consuming as this. The physical miasma of history that occasionally rose in echoes the sensitive could witness. Sometimes even the numb could see ghosts in the halls, he had learned to live with the same. They were all friends here, with the tyrant locked away.

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