[Leander is already there. Has been there. He's opened the door, and closed it again, but the latch hasn't caught. It would be simple enough to push open.
On approach it becomes clear to the discerning eye that something about the door itself has changed. Happened to it. Alongside the mechanism's iron plating, the wood is worn smooth, as it would become after decades of grasping fingers; the surface is raised in places along the grain, as it might become after many seasons left outside; the pattern of the grain itself has shifted. Warped. As if by defect, natural or otherwise. Even the plating itself shows signs of buckling, the little bolts not quite set. An error of design, perhaps... overlooking this amount of protrusion seems unlikely.
It's not a mistake, any of it: this was design wrought with patience. Hours worth of it. Materials shifted, pried apart, put back together.
The latch still works, it just hasn't caught. Enter, it suggests. Simple enough.
Inside, the room is just as orderly as Ilias would have left it, with all the little signs of a life permanently interrupted, the contents undisturbed save for a few candles, necessarily lit. A few pieces of the lock's mechanism lie on the table nearest the doorway, as though placed there in a handful. (Some are twisted beyond repair. Ask him if he truly gives a shit.)
Leander himself sits on the bed, his back facing the door. Rounded shoulders, head at a slight angle, hands in his lap.
no subject
On approach it becomes clear to the discerning eye that something about the door itself has changed. Happened to it. Alongside the mechanism's iron plating, the wood is worn smooth, as it would become after decades of grasping fingers; the surface is raised in places along the grain, as it might become after many seasons left outside; the pattern of the grain itself has shifted. Warped. As if by defect, natural or otherwise.
Even the plating itself shows signs of buckling, the little bolts not quite set. An error of design, perhaps... overlooking this amount of protrusion seems unlikely.
It's not a mistake, any of it: this was design wrought with patience. Hours worth of it. Materials shifted, pried apart, put back together.
The latch still works, it just hasn't caught. Enter, it suggests. Simple enough.
Inside, the room is just as orderly as Ilias would have left it, with all the little signs of a life permanently interrupted, the contents undisturbed save for a few candles, necessarily lit. A few pieces of the lock's mechanism lie on the table nearest the doorway, as though placed there in a handful. (Some are twisted beyond repair. Ask him if he truly gives a shit.)
Leander himself sits on the bed, his back facing the door. Rounded shoulders, head at a slight angle, hands in his lap.
Just
sitting.]