[ when you step through the door, it's almost as if you haven't gone anywhere at all. the air is still stagnant and the room itself is still dim, save for a light shining from above that shouldn't be there. the riku that you saw previously is gone, however, and the room is much more closed off—it actually looks like a large, expansive library in a mansion, but everything looks like it's covered in dust and grime. maybe it hasn't been kept up with over the years…
it's hard to miss a few silver platforms, though. they're just like the ones the keyblades floated upon—no, they are the same. yet, they're empty… for now, probably.
there is only one desk that has anything on it; there are numerous books on top of each other, dog-eared and bookmarked in several places. scattered documents litter the rest of the desk, along with pens and markers. most pages have handwritten notes—what's notable is that one is smooth and cursive and another is jagged and curt, like the writer was in a hurry. Neither look anything alike. a new sketchbook sits on the very edge of the desk with a new pack of crayons, on top of that being a small white plastic bag with filled with snacks and three bars of ice cream in white wrappers.
in a comfy armchair with linens and a pillow lies riku. he looks a little older and thinner than in the previous room. decked out in black leather, he lies on his back with a blindfold knotted behind his head. His face looks flushed and feverish, and his black coat is open to expose a black tank top underneath. Nearby there's a thermometer along with varying medicines, an empty bowl of soup, and a few feverish scribbles. he doesn't seem to be fully conscious here either, though at least it doesn't look like anything can come to haunt you. ]
no subject
[ when you step through the door, it's almost as if you haven't gone anywhere at all. the air is still stagnant and the room itself is still dim, save for a light shining from above that shouldn't be there. the riku that you saw previously is gone, however, and the room is much more closed off—it actually looks like a large, expansive library in a mansion, but everything looks like it's covered in dust and grime. maybe it hasn't been kept up with over the years…
it's hard to miss a few silver platforms, though. they're just like the ones the keyblades floated upon—no, they are the same. yet, they're empty… for now, probably.
there is only one desk that has anything on it; there are numerous books on top of each other, dog-eared and bookmarked in several places. scattered documents litter the rest of the desk, along with pens and markers. most pages have handwritten notes—what's notable is that one is smooth and cursive and another is jagged and curt, like the writer was in a hurry. Neither look anything alike. a new sketchbook sits on the very edge of the desk with a new pack of crayons, on top of that being a small white plastic bag with filled with snacks and three bars of ice cream in white wrappers.
in a comfy armchair with linens and a pillow lies riku. he looks a little older and thinner than in the previous room. decked out in black leather, he lies on his back with a blindfold knotted behind his head. His face looks flushed and feverish, and his black coat is open to expose a black tank top underneath. Nearby there's a thermometer along with varying medicines, an empty bowl of soup, and a few feverish scribbles. he doesn't seem to be fully conscious here either, though at least it doesn't look like anything can come to haunt you. ]