A Heart so Cold

archebold Fear is the price of imagination "You and I, species not withstanding, are actually one in the same. We both have associations with death, we both defy it, or at least seek to." He alluded, since Archebold for the most part could simply mock death, Isla seemed to spend every day seeking to deny it another soul. A coin with two heads, except one held a single scratch to tell it apart, an imperfection. How he viewed the healer. Though not in a condescending manor, but intrigued. "There is beauty in the darkness, so incomprehensible isn't It? We can't understand it, and so we are attracted to it. The lure of what has yet to be revealed...it's what drives us." As the manor began to slip and reveal itself from around the corner, the shell of itself appeared in ruin, masking the work that had been done inside. As they approached the rotted oak doors, he would reach and pull it open slowly. The wood creaking sounding like the manor itself was mourning being entered. Stepping in he would strike a flint to light a pool of oil, dipping a torch into it to burn their way in, lighting the halls to open a path for Isla to follow. Once upon a time the halls of this manor would have been a vision. Whomever lived here must have been someone of significance and good taste for the arts. Sculptures and paintings lined the hall, dusted and still strung with cobwebs. "Please, come in." He'd call to the healer as he turned to await her. Had she stepped in, the tapping of his walking stick echoed through the halls as they would continue. "It is still a work I progress..." He'd remark to excuse the appearance, though the rooms he frequented the most would accept the most attention.