No Questions Asked

[victorianflorist]

In front of you is a polished stone dish held delicately in the hands of a white marble statue. Its face is twisted and grotesque in such a way that it's hard for you to discern whether it is in great pain or snarling at you, the viewer. The bowl is tipped slightly towards you, allowing it to rest at an angle.

Around you are three walls, one ahead, in front of which lies the gargoyle-like in form, but not function, statue. While two to your flanks. Glancing behind you, you see your beat-up station wagon sitting in the parking lot of your local 24-hr diner, a place that you had never visited before but your aunt claimed was where she had worked in high school. Such statements often intertwined with the implication that one of your many cousins was conceived there, though your family's faux politeness at their functions forbid the mention of such things at such events.

You take a deep breath, the air is cold, brutally cold. The snot takes to running from your nose instantly, you pull it back with a loud, disgusting snort. Despite the discomfort, you note how clean the air smells, devoid of the heat, smoke, and grease you'd expect so close to the diner, of which you can faintly see the flickering sign behind your vehicle. The air smells only of frozen earth and cold stone, a scent evocative of a cavern you experienced in your youth, a misguided attempt by your mother to entertain you on a visitation she fought so hard to retain and yet did so little with. You hold the memory for a moment, in the way that our minds do before it sinks back into the depths of your mind, like a snapping turtle retreating into the murk. You still know it's there, sharp and volatile, primed to snap.

You hear only the distant buzz of the neon sign far behind you, likely echoing off the barriers to your sides. Its steady hum fades quickly, the waning escape of a mosquito late in a summer evening before you can't hear it anymore.

You glance behind again and the sign is gone, as is your tan station wagon with the rusted rims. In the place of your path lies a new wall, as stoic as the others.

So it is you, the bowl, and the walls.

[skinstealer]

may as well go for the bowl...but go carefully

what do you know about this place?

[victorianflorist]

You approach the bowl, the basin your mind corrects, as it dawns on you that your arms are near their full extension as you size it up. It's of a stone that you can't name, it's not unfamiliar, you simply can't find the word for it.

The interior of the basin is engraved with a spiral pattern, germinating at the rim and terminating at what is the center of gravity at its tilted angle, not its natural center. At the end of this spiral is a small indentation, deeper than the rest of the groove, a pinhole sits at the center of this indentation. You trace your right hand along the spiral, noting how far apart they are using your four fingers and thumb.

The grotesque statue looms at you from behind the basin, its tongue and teeth rendered in shocking detail, down to individual taste buds and grooves along the tips of the incisors. You take note of its bulging eyes, almost strained with the appearance of what suggests raised blood vessels in the carving around them.

You try to think about what you know about where you are.












You are struck with a blinding pain in your skull, burning and bright. The eyes of the grotesque bear into your mind, as grass withers around you. Something feels as if it's been TAKEN from you, but you can't quite remember what.








You reach out with your hands and grasp the basin, gripping with your left hand and your right, you trace the grooves again using the same hand as before, using your three fingers and thumb to feel it again.

[knux400]

Put something in the bowl, preferably a liquid if we have any.

Also, tap the side of the bowl with your right index finger, followed by your right middle finger, then your right ring finger, then right pinky finger.

[skinstealer]

okay no more of that

seconding liquid

[victorianflorist]

Warning: Descriptions of Violence and Child Abuse

You begin to tap your thumb and fingers together, starting with your forefinger and ending with your pinkie, an old fidget you never managed to quash. Your eyes are drawn to the stump of your middle finger, you feel it with your thumb, noting how smooth it is after so many years. A memory surfaces unbidden, like a creature of the deep breaking through the ice, slow and laboriously. Reminding you both of an animal unwieldy out of the water and a newborn, mewling and stumbling as it attempts to gain its footing.

You are in the dining room. You gently place the china on the table, setting six places with the fine serving ware, and tracing the spiral pattern in the dishes as you go. You take out the fabric napkins next, folding them each into a slate grey triangle which you place beside each plate. You try not to rattle the ancient table as you do, conscious of your mother in the kitchen next door. As you finish setting each cup, you take a deep breath. In and out. Nose and mouth. In and- You hear an abrupt and decisive chop from the kitchen and raise your eyes to your mother. The woman who's raised you lifts her arm again in a swift motion and swings the cleaver down again, neatly separating a portion of the pork she is butchering into a pork chop. You tread into the kitchen gently making your way to the silverware drawer quickly and decisively. Your heart pounds as the knife comes down again every few heartbeats, neatly severing the next portion and digging a groove into the wooden chopping block.

You reach the silverware drawer, a few feet behind your mother. She begins humming in the back of her throat, the sound of a hymn you remember hearing a few Sundays ago. You collect the silverware, enough for each setting, and begin walking back towards the dining room, your slippers rubber soles not making a sound on the tile.

Your soles don't stop you from slipping in the juice on the floor, some reddish fluid that your suddenly frantic mind figures must have come from the package of the meat. The silverware goes everywhere as it tumbles from your grasp, knives, spoons, and forks alike tumbling both before and behind you. You lie dazed for a moment, looking up into the yellow light above you.

The light is blotted out for a moment as your mother, still humming her hymn, leans down over you. Her hair cascades around you both but you can't make out her face, or her expression. She grabs you firmly by the wrist and yanks you to your feet, still humming her God-forsaken hymn. You try to pull away but her grip is like iron, cast around your wrist in perpetuity. She drags you to the chopping block and unfolds your fingers setting the middle upon the blood-soaked wood, your ears filled with rushing blood and the sound of that fucking hymn.

The cleaver flashes and the memory goes white.

You shake your head slightly, the memory falling away like sand through your fingers. You wipe the sweat from your brow and pat yourself down, taking inventory of what you have on you.

In your pockets are;
3 sticks of Mint Gum
1 ticket for a one-way flight to ████████
1 sharpened pencil
1 unsharpened pencil
1 wallet/change purse
1 set of keys for your station wagon
1 pocket knife

You note that none of these are liquid, which was your first instinct. You take out your wallet and remove a penny from it, placing it within the groove, urging it to roll down. You receive no response from the bowl or the statue.

[skinstealer]

offer the gargoyle the gum. maybe it would like a treat

[victorianflorist]

You retrieve the penny, tucking it back away in your change purse and unwrap a stick of gum and offer it to the gargoyle. It does not respond, so you pop it into your mouth and start chewing.

You look closer into the bowl and notice something glinting in the pinhole at the center of the spiral.

[skinstealer]

take a little peek...just a peek

[victorianflorist]

CW: Descriptions of Blood

You peer into the pinhole, careful to keep your eye at what you hope is a safe distance. You notice that it appears as if the tip of something is sticking out of the hole. Curious, you use your right forefinger to poke at it, placing your finger squarely over the hole something shoots out, pricking your finger hard.

You yank your hand back as deep red blood rapidly wells up from the small hole that you feel burning deep into your fingertip.

[skinstealer]

wow something is out for your fucking hand

back away from the bowl and see what's in the other direction fuck this thing

[victorianflorist]

You turn away from the bowl for a moment, your finger beginning to drip as blood continues to seep from the small wound oddly quickly, you think back to the times you tested your grandmother's blood sugar but push the painful reminiscence back down.

You are still in what now feels like a small room, on all sides are stoic stone walls, with the gargoyle and basin in front of the fourth. Your station wagon and the diner are nowhere to be seen.

You feel oddly compelled to revisit the spiral in the basin, and gently trail your wounded finger along the groove absentmindedly. Your blood pools readily within the rut, flowing slightly downwards. You draw your finger along the rest of the groove pulling it from the center outwards. The wound closes rapidly on your finger as you cross the rim of the basin. The spiral is now completely painted with your blood.

It drains slowly into the center, pooling in the terminus of the spiral. From the blood emerges a pristine key, crafted of red, unidentifiable metal.

[skinstealer]

may as well figure out where this goes to I GUESS

[victorianflorist]

You look at the key with no small amount of contempt. Thinking that if that was the intention it couldn't have killed someone to perhaps put some writing on the wall suggesting or hinting as such. You roll your eyes and take up the key.

As you do so, the grotesque statue lowers its arm with a deep, resonating grinding sound. The bowl remains within its grip, however, as it moves, it exposes the presence of a keyhole on the chest of the gargoyle. One shaped like a droplet, matching the embellishments on the keys haft.

[skinstealer]

put that bad boy in but make sure you dont lose any more fingers and/or blood

[victorianflorist]

You insert the key into the keyhole and turn it. The sound of machinery is loud, you not only hear it but you also feel it in your bones as great cogs click and tumblers fall into place. The statue splits down the middle, opening up into a larger chamber than the one you were in. More pressingly, however, it appears that the key you're holding has now become the handle of a large, one-handed sword with a double edge.

You inspect the blade, formed of the same metal that the key was, and notice its apparent sharpness. As you stare into it, you see a flash of the gargoyles' eyes in the reflection of the blade. You feel as if something has been GIFTED to you, and you careful hold the blade at your side, feeling natural in handling it already.

You walk though the now open doorway, the halves of the grotesque on your left and right, the basin having moved with the right half. You are now in a larger room than previously, it evokes the word clearing in your mind, and you come to notice twisted, gnarled trees forming what seems to be a grove, their roots breaking the untamed grass coating the ground from wall to wall.

You look up at the sky and see only the slate grey of rain clouds which have yet to give up the ghost and let the day be deary. The sort of time that feels both fleeting and transient while stretching for blissful and tragic eternity. Today the sky looked tired, bloated, and exhausted. The early morning moon winks through the clouds at very rare moments.

[skinstealer]

try to figure out if the trees are climbable

[Ignispark]

Utilize sword to mow grass.

[victorianflorist]

You approach the clearing, examining the gnarled bark of the twisted grove. You could easily scale the trees but something about the shapes and forms of the bark profoundly disturb you and you feel apprehensive at the thought of scaling them.

You use your blade like one would a sickle, mowing down a neat wedge of grass. The grass you severed withers before you, both the root and fell blades fading to a dun brown, crunching as you step on the clippings. You feel something as the blade TAKES something from the grass.

[skinstealer]

investigate what the blade took, see if it's holding anything