Dima moves to follow; he would prefer to see what's behind the door (he'd also like for Faolan to take his hand again, and yes, he is watching Faolan when the man looks back; yes his heart slips briefly on that shared sight). He sees Rin pull a faux-offended face at Sen.
And, as he aproaches the group, intending to keep near the back, he dares it: He offers his hand toward Faolan, and Messages: [ For stealth? ]
<.>
Faolan looks again at Dmitri, then down at his hand, held in - offer? Plea?
There's no need for stealth now. Whatever's here knows they are here - Dmitri knows that.
It's a moment. Faolan knows this is a perfect moment to put Dmitri off - to laugh at him, to rebuff him, to speak again of what he might have done (what he might still do to Faolan.) As much as he doesn't have the heart for romance, neither does he have the heart for cruelty, however. His hand eases into Dmitri's, but not without an unreadable, mostly-rhetorical, [ Is it? ]
Sen raises the crossbow and Faolan settles his free hand on his scimitar, ready for - whatever may occur.
Nothing occurs when the door pushes open.
In the room's four corners are a pair of small beds, a chest of toys, and a dollhouse - a perfect replica of the Durst house in miniature.
In the center of the room, lying entwined, are a pair of small skeletons, one of them holding the tattered remains of a doll.
<.>
Dima's on the verge of messaging again - knows the impulse to offer, simply 'No' - when the door opens, and the room falls into view.
This is... Oh.
This is far from hearteningly.
He sees the dollhouse, but his attention fixes - of course it fixes - on the skeletons; on what they could mean, seem at this moment to mean. And he squeezes Faolan’s hand, turning, seeking to meet his eyes. [ Stay here. ] It's a request; an imploring. An attempt at shielding something he can't quite see the shape of.
Dima is going to approach the skeletons, and examine them for signs of identity and signs of just how long they've been here.
<.>
Approaching the skeletons, Dima quickly sees they're wearing the same clothes as the children the party met outside; the doll in the smaller skeleton's arms is indeed Hildabear.
They have clearly been here a very, very long time.
Long enough to become skeletons and their clothes to rot away in an enclosed room.
Sen is dumbfounded; he lowers his arm and steps in the room after Dima; no words come, however. Sometimes, eloquence means knowing when *not* to speak.
<.>
There isn't a lot in life that unsettles Rin. In this moment, though, they know unease - they know a cutting sadness? - at the sight within the room.
They don't want to keep looking at it.
There's nothing they can do with that, or for it.
So Rin drifts quietly, quietly toward the dollhouse and inspects it - it's an intricate thing (it's something they might have like, when they were very young) - giving particular attention to the attic and the rooms they've not yet seen.
[INSP: 18]
<.>
Rin finds that the front of the dollhouse swings open on cleverly disguised hinges, allowing them to see a cross-section of the house. Within are all of the details, down to the rugs and crystalware.
They are able to see numerous secret doors, including one here in the attic that leads to a spiral staircase.
Faolan looks on in undisguised horror, his empty hand now gripping the doorframe. The other things in the room don't matter.
It's the pitiful sight in the center that holds him (will stay with him.)
He thinks about rushing to stop Dmitri from inspecting the bodies, fearing the man will take something from them as he did the skeleton downstairs.
Them, he thinks, We can't leave them like this.
As the thought forms, so do the ghostly apparitions of Thorn and Rose beside their bodies.
"Please don't touch our things," Rose says, her voice a dim echo of that of the girl they met in the street.
<.>
At the ghost's (girl's?) words, Rin steps back from the dollhouse. It was fair game for looking when no one was around, but if the children are still here - even if they are a little see-through - things get a little murkier. They twist their lip a little and offer, "It's a good dollhouse."
Dima, who had dropped to one knee to examine the skeletons (the remains) (the remnants of these children, and there's a surging desire to usher Faolan from the room, to keep him from looking; there's a flashing image of the man hugging the children - 'children' - outside, attempting to offer comfort, and Dima's heart twists), wonders at the appearance of the ghosts. Wonders how long they've been tethered here; what drew them to this moment.
He can't precisely move, or he won't, and he knows better than to speak at length - when has he known what to say to children, let alone their spirits? - and speaks only, "Pardon, we— Wandered in."
<.>
The girl doesn't respond to Rin; it seems enough that they moved away from the dollhouse; from beside her, clutching her spectral skirt, Thorn Durst peers at the tiefling with unblinking, haunted eyes.
She does, however, respond to Dima when he speaks.
"No, you didn't. You unlocked the door."
She points at the door in question and, by proxy, at Faolan. He jerks in faint surprise, then looks down at the door's lock.
And back up again, realizing this wasn't an accident.
"Who locked it?" His voice is almost inaudible, hoarse. He tries again. "The door. Who locked it?"
"Our mother and father," Rose replies. Thorn immediately pipes up, " To protect us from the monster in the basement."
Rose hushes him and frowns, then continues, "They never came for us. No one came, and there was no food."
<.>
Technically, the godsforsaken elf unlocked the door.
Dima isn't going to point that out. Especially when Faolan's unlocked a more important piece of information—
To protect them.
To leave them, knowingly or not, in abandonment.
He considers. He nods. He looks at the bones - there's a thought here; there's something that might be done, if they can find the way, the right set of skills - then looks at the girl and speaks, "So we did.
"There's something happening in your home. This— Monster you speak of. We're looking for it.
"Do you know anything about it?"
And, after a moment: "Do you know where it came from."
<.>
Both children shake their heads.
Unsure what to do, Faolan slowly begins to approach, thinking - he wishes he could lay these bones to rest. He wishes this hadn't happened. He wishes the children could be as lively as -
Focused suddenly, he asks, "Do you remember meeting us outside in the road?"
Again, the children trade looks - now showing more confusion in their faded expressions. Rose again answers for them both. "We couldn't leave. The door was locked."
<.>
Rin thinks - but mercifully and for once doesn't say - that they knew there was something off with those kids. Mostly, that doesn't matter a whole lot right now. Mostly, they just don't like anything about this situation, and they step just a little closer to Sen.
Dima doesn't want that question to linger. (It's something they'll all need to deal with. Something with a meaning that can hold no good, and the word that comes to Dima's mind is 'lure,' and 'trap,' and what are those beings - what is that being? - they met outside?) (What was it that dared to lure Faolan's compassion for the sake of some foul trick?)
His jaw sets. He exhales. And Dima speaks, "No; of course you couldn't." And (thinking; calculating): "How long have you been here?"
<.>
Sen slides a hand to the small of Rin's back in gentle reassurance - or solidarity. Or flirtation. Whatever they need, he's happy. (And really, he could use at least the solidarity, himself. This situation is grotesque. Abominable.)
(Fucking odd.)
Rose considers a moment, her mouth puckering with thought as she gazes towards the sad little window of their attic room. "I lost count of the winters. At least sixty."
Faolan makes a small, pained noise, but quickly turns away under the guise of inspecting the window in question.
Sen doesn't quite as easily hide his reaction: a sucked-in breath that comes out again as “Fuck.”
<.>
Rin doesn't mind that hand at all. They don't usually care for being touched by strangers, but Sen's not really a stranger, and if they're being honest, it's kind of... not bad to not be looking at this all alone. So they don't move at all. So they only continue to watch, not sure at all what to make of this, or what any of them are doing here, or what they're supposed to do about ghost children.
Dima, meanwhile, nods at the girl's response. "That's quite some time." Quite some time, but possibly, possibly not too much.
(If only he could remember more of the Dursts.) (If only the deeds had mentioned some date— He could ask about the deeds! But the thought that follows says it might not be a question for children. Says that he should take care in prodding the edges of what these ghosts remember, what pains they might yet hold.)
(Another thought, stray and barely registering: It's a little easier to talk to ghost children than flesh-and-blood children.)
He should be careful, he knows, not to promise more than he can reasonably offer. But there isn't any hurry, is there? They've waited at least sixty years; perhaps they won't mind a little longer.
(What would Faolan want for them?) (And.) (What does Dima want for them.)
"There are a few more questions we'd like to ask you, but—" Think of the names Faolan shared. "It's Rose and Thorn, yes?
"Would you like to be freed of this room?"
<.>
Faolan bites the inside of his cheek to keep silent, folds his arms, and makes a slow beeline for the door. He can't listen to this.
He knows it's right - this talk of moving on. It's right, it's natural.
But it's miserable, too.
Those poor children.
Rose shakes her head no and Thorn follows suit. They've been so long in this room, trapped as shadows of who they were; they can't imagine any longer anything beyond the small (un)life they've had.
<.>
It makes sense.
Ghosts who linger long enough forget what possibility can mean, what the world can be, and these children had— Mm. Painfully, painfully few years to learn in the first place. The world they know most is in these walls, is a composition of memory and dust-riddled absence.
Dima watches them, breathing slowly, letting the rest of the room fall out of focus (save for one presence that seems to shimmer radiance) (save for one presence, who's heading for the door) (’Don't go far,’ he thinks; ’Please, Faolan, don't go far’). He keeps his eyes on the ghosts; needs to, in case the moment takes a turn for the worst, or in case they should lose interest and disperse.
"Rosavalda; Thornboldt. You've been here for a very long time. It would be different to exist outside, but— But we could help you." (It's odd, to speak 'we' like this. He doesn't have the space to think on it.)
"We could find you a home. Somewhere safe. Where you could be together still, and drink warm tea with honey, and have biscuits whenever you like.
"You'd see trees and streams. Beautiful things. I know of a woodworker— Oh, she's skillful. She could build on new dollhouse for you, twice as large as the one you have now.
"We could mend" (the briefest pause; what was the name again?) "Hildabear; you could hold her through it all.
"You'd have each other still. You would— You could play freely. You'd have soft beds, and new clothes.
"And you'd feel warm again."
<.>
Faolan wishes he could bring himself to flee the room. It's not his nature, but this is unbearable - two children, dead from neglect (padlocked away in an attic -), and Dmitri trying to convince them to move on to whatever awaits past life.
- Except.
Except that isn't what he's saying at all. Oh, it starts as a gentle framing of a beautiful next world, but then he speaks of food, of honey and beautiful things - of a woodworker he knows.
(Faolan's heart clenches in his chest, lodges in his throat.) He's looking now, not at the corpses, but at Dmitri (who said 'we', and just what is he thinking?)
This man doesn't deserve his hope. No noble does, and not one who just drew a dagger on a potential infant. (...Maybe it was stupidity, a panicked act?) (He swore never again.)
He doesn't deserve it, and - the more Faolan thinks about it, the more he thinks maybe, he shouldn't be giving these children hope, either. (Not for the mending of the doll, and not for warmth, and not for life.)
(...But it's. Possible. The druids know ways.)
He almost says Dima, don't make promises to them.
But Sen is stepping forward and placing a hand on Dmitri's shoulder, whispering something in his ear that Faolan can't hear, and the moment might be past for him to intervene.
Sen, realizing what Dima means to do - what Dima might, someday, be ABLE to do - steps forward as Dima talks, realizing it isn't enough to say these things. These are ghosts, yes, but frightened children in need of convincing.
He grasps Dima by the shoulder and whispers at his ear, "You want these things for them. You can see beauty in a future for them beyond the walls of this wretched house. Convince them of yourself. Swear to yourself that the world you'll give them is better than this one."
And, banking on what he's been observing since the four of them came together (was it only a day ago?), he adds, "Do this for Faolan."
[PERSUA, d: 27; with Bardic Inspiration from Sen]
Thorn steps out a little from behind his sister's skirts; maybe it was the mention of Hildabear that did it, or perhaps it's just that he was young when he died, and can hardly recall their parents. He regards Dima curiously, then tugs at his sister's hand. His whisper isn't particularly quiet. "He'll fix Hildabear, Rose-"
Rose hushes him, her expression both very young and very old; at ten, of course she must have known - suspected - they weren't locked away without food for their protection. And of course, she wants to feel warm again. (And - perhaps a new dollhouse, too.)
They fear being abandoned again; these strange men - and the tiefling - might not.
A moment of silence passes and, after giving Dima the same critical (curious) look as her brother, she ventures, "You'll never leave us?"
no subject
And, as he aproaches the group, intending to keep near the back, he dares it: He offers his hand toward Faolan, and Messages: [ For stealth? ]
<.>
Faolan looks again at Dmitri, then down at his hand, held in - offer? Plea?
There's no need for stealth now. Whatever's here knows they are here - Dmitri knows that.
It's a moment. Faolan knows this is a perfect moment to put Dmitri off - to laugh at him, to rebuff him, to speak again of what he might have done (what he might still do to Faolan.) As much as he doesn't have the heart for romance, neither does he have the heart for cruelty, however. His hand eases into Dmitri's, but not without an unreadable, mostly-rhetorical, [ Is it? ]
Sen raises the crossbow and Faolan settles his free hand on his scimitar, ready for - whatever may occur.
Nothing occurs when the door pushes open.
In the room's four corners are a pair of small beds, a chest of toys, and a dollhouse - a perfect replica of the Durst house in miniature.
In the center of the room, lying entwined, are a pair of small skeletons, one of them holding the tattered remains of a doll.
<.>
Dima's on the verge of messaging again - knows the impulse to offer, simply 'No' - when the door opens, and the room falls into view.
This is... Oh.
This is far from hearteningly.
He sees the dollhouse, but his attention fixes - of course it fixes - on the skeletons; on what they could mean, seem at this moment to mean. And he squeezes Faolan’s hand, turning, seeking to meet his eyes. [ Stay here. ] It's a request; an imploring. An attempt at shielding something he can't quite see the shape of.
Dima is going to approach the skeletons, and examine them for signs of identity and signs of just how long they've been here.
<.>
Approaching the skeletons, Dima quickly sees they're wearing the same clothes as the children the party met outside; the doll in the smaller skeleton's arms is indeed Hildabear.
They have clearly been here a very, very long time.
Long enough to become skeletons and their clothes to rot away in an enclosed room.
Sen is dumbfounded; he lowers his arm and steps in the room after Dima; no words come, however. Sometimes, eloquence means knowing when *not* to speak.
<.>
There isn't a lot in life that unsettles Rin. In this moment, though, they know unease - they know a cutting sadness? - at the sight within the room.
They don't want to keep looking at it.
There's nothing they can do with that, or for it.
So Rin drifts quietly, quietly toward the dollhouse and inspects it - it's an intricate thing (it's something they might have like, when they were very young) - giving particular attention to the attic and the rooms they've not yet seen.
[INSP: 18]
<.>
Rin finds that the front of the dollhouse swings open on cleverly disguised hinges, allowing them to see a cross-section of the house. Within are all of the details, down to the rugs and crystalware.
They are able to see numerous secret doors, including one here in the attic that leads to a spiral staircase.
Faolan looks on in undisguised horror, his empty hand now gripping the doorframe. The other things in the room don't matter.
It's the pitiful sight in the center that holds him (will stay with him.)
He thinks about rushing to stop Dmitri from inspecting the bodies, fearing the man will take something from them as he did the skeleton downstairs.
Them, he thinks, We can't leave them like this.
As the thought forms, so do the ghostly apparitions of Thorn and Rose beside their bodies.
"Please don't touch our things," Rose says, her voice a dim echo of that of the girl they met in the street.
<.>
At the ghost's (girl's?) words, Rin steps back from the dollhouse. It was fair game for looking when no one was around, but if the children are still here - even if they are a little see-through - things get a little murkier. They twist their lip a little and offer, "It's a good dollhouse."
Dima, who had dropped to one knee to examine the skeletons (the remains) (the remnants of these children, and there's a surging desire to usher Faolan from the room, to keep him from looking; there's a flashing image of the man hugging the children - 'children' - outside, attempting to offer comfort, and Dima's heart twists), wonders at the appearance of the ghosts. Wonders how long they've been tethered here; what drew them to this moment.
He can't precisely move, or he won't, and he knows better than to speak at length - when has he known what to say to children, let alone their spirits? - and speaks only, "Pardon, we— Wandered in."
<.>
The girl doesn't respond to Rin; it seems enough that they moved away from the dollhouse; from beside her, clutching her spectral skirt, Thorn Durst peers at the tiefling with unblinking, haunted eyes.
She does, however, respond to Dima when he speaks.
"No, you didn't. You unlocked the door."
She points at the door in question and, by proxy, at Faolan. He jerks in faint surprise, then looks down at the door's lock.
And back up again, realizing this wasn't an accident.
"Who locked it?" His voice is almost inaudible, hoarse. He tries again. "The door. Who locked it?"
"Our mother and father," Rose replies. Thorn immediately pipes up, " To protect us from the monster in the basement."
Rose hushes him and frowns, then continues, "They never came for us. No one came, and there was no food."
<.>
Technically, the godsforsaken elf unlocked the door.
Dima isn't going to point that out. Especially when Faolan's unlocked a more important piece of information—
To protect them.
To leave them, knowingly or not, in abandonment.
He considers. He nods. He looks at the bones - there's a thought here; there's something that might be done, if they can find the way, the right set of skills - then looks at the girl and speaks, "So we did.
"There's something happening in your home. This— Monster you speak of. We're looking for it.
"Do you know anything about it?"
And, after a moment: "Do you know where it came from."
<.>
Both children shake their heads.
Unsure what to do, Faolan slowly begins to approach, thinking - he wishes he could lay these bones to rest. He wishes this hadn't happened. He wishes the children could be as lively as -
Focused suddenly, he asks, "Do you remember meeting us outside in the road?"
Again, the children trade looks - now showing more confusion in their faded expressions. Rose again answers for them both. "We couldn't leave. The door was locked."
<.>
Rin thinks - but mercifully and for once doesn't say - that they knew there was something off with those kids. Mostly, that doesn't matter a whole lot right now. Mostly, they just don't like anything about this situation, and they step just a little closer to Sen.
Dima doesn't want that question to linger. (It's something they'll all need to deal with. Something with a meaning that can hold no good, and the word that comes to Dima's mind is 'lure,' and 'trap,' and what are those beings - what is that being? - they met outside?) (What was it that dared to lure Faolan's compassion for the sake of some foul trick?)
His jaw sets. He exhales. And Dima speaks, "No; of course you couldn't." And (thinking; calculating): "How long have you been here?"
<.>
Sen slides a hand to the small of Rin's back in gentle reassurance - or solidarity. Or flirtation. Whatever they need, he's happy. (And really, he could use at least the solidarity, himself. This situation is grotesque. Abominable.)
(Fucking odd.)
Rose considers a moment, her mouth puckering with thought as she gazes towards the sad little window of their attic room. "I lost count of the winters. At least sixty."
Faolan makes a small, pained noise, but quickly turns away under the guise of inspecting the window in question.
Sen doesn't quite as easily hide his reaction: a sucked-in breath that comes out again as “Fuck.”
<.>
Rin doesn't mind that hand at all. They don't usually care for being touched by strangers, but Sen's not really a stranger, and if they're being honest, it's kind of... not bad to not be looking at this all alone. So they don't move at all. So they only continue to watch, not sure at all what to make of this, or what any of them are doing here, or what they're supposed to do about ghost children.
Dima, meanwhile, nods at the girl's response. "That's quite some time." Quite some time, but possibly, possibly not too much.
(If only he could remember more of the Dursts.) (If only the deeds had mentioned some date— He could ask about the deeds! But the thought that follows says it might not be a question for children. Says that he should take care in prodding the edges of what these ghosts remember, what pains they might yet hold.)
(Another thought, stray and barely registering: It's a little easier to talk to ghost children than flesh-and-blood children.)
He should be careful, he knows, not to promise more than he can reasonably offer. But there isn't any hurry, is there? They've waited at least sixty years; perhaps they won't mind a little longer.
(What would Faolan want for them?) (And.) (What does Dima want for them.)
"There are a few more questions we'd like to ask you, but—" Think of the names Faolan shared. "It's Rose and Thorn, yes?
"Would you like to be freed of this room?"
<.>
Faolan bites the inside of his cheek to keep silent, folds his arms, and makes a slow beeline for the door. He can't listen to this.
He knows it's right - this talk of moving on. It's right, it's natural.
But it's miserable, too.
Those poor children.
Rose shakes her head no and Thorn follows suit. They've been so long in this room, trapped as shadows of who they were; they can't imagine any longer anything beyond the small (un)life they've had.
<.>
It makes sense.
Ghosts who linger long enough forget what possibility can mean, what the world can be, and these children had— Mm. Painfully, painfully few years to learn in the first place. The world they know most is in these walls, is a composition of memory and dust-riddled absence.
Dima watches them, breathing slowly, letting the rest of the room fall out of focus (save for one presence that seems to shimmer radiance) (save for one presence, who's heading for the door) (’Don't go far,’ he thinks; ’Please, Faolan, don't go far’). He keeps his eyes on the ghosts; needs to, in case the moment takes a turn for the worst, or in case they should lose interest and disperse.
"Rosavalda; Thornboldt. You've been here for a very long time. It would be different to exist outside, but— But we could help you." (It's odd, to speak 'we' like this. He doesn't have the space to think on it.)
"We could find you a home. Somewhere safe. Where you could be together still, and drink warm tea with honey, and have biscuits whenever you like.
"You'd see trees and streams. Beautiful things. I know of a woodworker— Oh, she's skillful. She could build on new dollhouse for you, twice as large as the one you have now.
"We could mend" (the briefest pause; what was the name again?) "Hildabear; you could hold her through it all.
"You'd have each other still. You would— You could play freely. You'd have soft beds, and new clothes.
"And you'd feel warm again."
<.>
Faolan wishes he could bring himself to flee the room. It's not his nature, but this is unbearable - two children, dead from neglect (padlocked away in an attic -), and Dmitri trying to convince them to move on to whatever awaits past life.
- Except.
Except that isn't what he's saying at all. Oh, it starts as a gentle framing of a beautiful next world, but then he speaks of food, of honey and beautiful things - of a woodworker he knows.
(Faolan's heart clenches in his chest, lodges in his throat.) He's looking now, not at the corpses, but at Dmitri (who said 'we', and just what is he thinking?)
This man doesn't deserve his hope. No noble does, and not one who just drew a dagger on a potential infant. (...Maybe it was stupidity, a panicked act?) (He swore never again.)
He doesn't deserve it, and - the more Faolan thinks about it, the more he thinks maybe, he shouldn't be giving these children hope, either. (Not for the mending of the doll, and not for warmth, and not for life.)
(...But it's. Possible. The druids know ways.)
He almost says Dima, don't make promises to them.
But Sen is stepping forward and placing a hand on Dmitri's shoulder, whispering something in his ear that Faolan can't hear, and the moment might be past for him to intervene.
Sen, realizing what Dima means to do - what Dima might, someday, be ABLE to do - steps forward as Dima talks, realizing it isn't enough to say these things. These are ghosts, yes, but frightened children in need of convincing.
He grasps Dima by the shoulder and whispers at his ear, "You want these things for them. You can see beauty in a future for them beyond the walls of this wretched house. Convince them of yourself. Swear to yourself that the world you'll give them is better than this one."
And, banking on what he's been observing since the four of them came together (was it only a day ago?), he adds, "Do this for Faolan."
[PERSUA, d: 27; with Bardic Inspiration from Sen]
Thorn steps out a little from behind his sister's skirts; maybe it was the mention of Hildabear that did it, or perhaps it's just that he was young when he died, and can hardly recall their parents. He regards Dima curiously, then tugs at his sister's hand. His whisper isn't particularly quiet. "He'll fix Hildabear, Rose-"
Rose hushes him, her expression both very young and very old; at ten, of course she must have known - suspected - they weren't locked away without food for their protection. And of course, she wants to feel warm again. (And - perhaps a new dollhouse, too.)
They fear being abandoned again; these strange men - and the tiefling - might not.
A moment of silence passes and, after giving Dima the same critical (curious) look as her brother, she ventures, "You'll never leave us?"
Faolan is listening very, very closely.
<.>