[SC Only, IC] Yarbricht Inn, Mk.5

[Myraxia]

The wind and rain whip in off the sea as you trudge out of the treeline. A stormfront forms a solid wall out over the horizon, looming in closer by the second. Shelter, you think, is a must. A forest of pines at your back, the wind howls between the trunks, creating an eerie effect like the moaning of a thousand ghosts, somewhere just out of view. Ahead, a high cliff leads down to the sea, which lashes at its base like a raging animal. The rain stings your eyes as you look up, trying in vain to shield your vision in order to look ahead.

At the head of the cliff, stands a building - your destination, and solace from the storm. A grand old three story building - even through the rain, it has presence. It seems solid, standing like a bastion against the elements. The walls are snaked through with creeping vine, and the windows stained with years of grime, but the light shining through from the interior seems friendly and welcoming. A heavy pinewood door sits in the frame, with a distinctive wolf’s head knocker embedded in it’s center. Despite the weight, it swings easily, without so much as a creak.

The inside of the Inn is warm and dry, a welcome change from the conditions outside. A roaring fire burns in the fireplace at one end of the room, filling the room with a golden glow. At the back of the room, a solid bar of stone and wood stands proud, a brass railing along the near edge. Behind it, an assortment of bottles that might once have been all the colours of the rainbow, now faded by age and use. A stack of kegs, presumably containing beer of some kind, stand near a door leading back further into the building. The ceiling is lined with thick wooden beams, oak you think, which are darkened and cracked by smoke and time. Hanging in the doorway you’ve just entered by is a very battered looking sign reading “No Fighting!” - looking at it, it seems to have been set on fire more than once, as well as shot several times. Indeed, it appears to have been repaired at least once. Perhaps more of a guideline, than an actual rule? The unmistakable aroma of woodsmoke and good food, with an undertone of tobacco smoke, fll the room.

The rest of the room is dominated by tables of varying types. Along the walls are square tables, accompanied by high-backed benches, worked with leather that might once have been fine quality. The central portion of the room is dominated by several longer, rectangular tables, set with a mismatched collection of chairs and stools. Several of these seem to have been repaired, often not with the original parts. At least one has five legs. The fireplace itself is surrounded by smaller rounded tables and a few old wingback chairs, dust and mothballs covering them. These tables look to be some of the most heavily used in the room, pitted, scarred and burned. Every table has at least one ashtray, not that this seems to have stopped the table being covered in cigarette burns, and dog-eared menu cards. Why is every price only listed in Ruons? Does anyone even use those anymore?

A man whose age you can only describe as ‘middling’ looks up from his task behind the bar. One of the first impressions you have is his height. It’s… incredible. He hunches to avoid hitting his head on any of the low beams hanging from the ceiling, but you can’t help but draw similarities to some of the trees in the forest outside. The second impression is his smile - an infectious grin, splitting his silver beard in two. His smiling attitude is almost a relief - if he wasn’t so friendly, you don’t doubt he could kill a man with a single blow. Atop his head sits a old hat of red felt, lined with white fur - it’s odd, you don’t believe you’ve ever seen a hat quite like it. Other than that, his dress is unremarkable - a grey shirt with black trousers. The grey hairs on his arms stand out, even from a distance. His voice booms, a quite unplaceable accent colouring it. “Welcome to the Yarbricht Inn! Enjoy your stay!”

RULES

- Sovereign Charter only, but you're welcome to join the region if you want to participate!
- There are no sign up sheets, characters should be described and named in their posts.
- Feel free to describe, customize your environments. This is your story as well.
- There is no such thing as god modding, only poor writing, let’s write a great, exciting story. Other writers will let you know (or I will) if there's a problem.
- As above, anyone is free to join, this is broadly an introductory Roleplay for people to get used to Roleplaying in the Sovereign Charter
- Keep posts to a reasonable length, paragraph (with space in between) as needed.
- One post a week at least please.
- This is, as they say, a Christmas tradition. In the spirit of the holiday, let’s all get along.
- Any questions? Please ask me, Myraxia
- Ruleset Shamelessly stolen from Enfaru
- Yes, it is Mk.5, the Trust one didn’t count

[Asgareth]

Mandrei “Yip” Andronan huffed, as he hurriedly made his way up the path, desperate to get out of the rain. It was cold. Too cold for his liking. He desperately wanted to find a warm fire, and a good meal. Thankfully for Yip, he knew just where to go. He had been given leave, following the removal of the 3rd Ground Force from the Asgarthian desert. The removal had irritated Yip greatly. Unlike many of his companions, he had failed to see action. Two days before, he had returned from Auruum, following the failed Winter’s Aria project. He had missed all the fighting; causing many of his friends to mock him. The initial advance. The retreat. The nuke. He'd missed it all, just in time to retreat.

But still, he would not complain about a vacation. He had been to the inn once before, several years ago, after passing his basic training. It looked a little different these days. Perhaps it had something to do with the war. He hoped they still served the stew. He had been rather fond of it last time. He drew nearer the inn, and began to remember odd features. The trees, the brickwork. The door knocker, resembling a wolf. Opening the door, he smiled as he recognised the innkeeper.
“Long time no see! Howdy partner! It’s me, Yip! Don’t you remember?” He exclaimed excitedly, as he moved forward. “I would like a room. Preferably one with a bed. Lock, optional. And a cider! Do you still serve the stew? Room three was rather nice, the last time I was here. Is that available?”

[Myraxia]

If anything, the man's grin grew even wider. Somehow.
"And a room you shall have!" As if summoned by that declaration, a key was deposited with a thud onto the bar, creating a new dent amidst innumerable more. A battered tag attached to the rusty iron key might have feasibly read 'Three'. The man gestured broadly at a side door, which blended in alarmingly to the wall. "You remember where the rooms are, yes?"
Payment was swiftly swept off the bar - possibly into a pouch, although from a certain angle they might have just vanished. A tankard - an old fashioned sort, wood banded with iron - thudded into the spot recently occupied by the coins, the contents sloshing from side to side but not a drop spilling. "And a cider, a local brew I believe. As to the stew, it'll be out in a minute!" The man winked at Yip, grin staying fixed in place, before bursting into motion - stooping under a low beam and through the door behind the bar into what seemed to be a darkened room - leaving the Asgarthian sat with only the crackle of the fire for company.

[Harren Island]

As he looked upon the building ahead, noting that it must have been quite resplendent at one time, Sander Makarioa pulled an old silver hip flask out of his trench coat pocket and unscrewed the cap. It had a leather grip and an engraving of a lily, covered by his thickly gloved fingers. He closed his eyes against the downpour as he lifted his chin to upend the contents, gulping as the rainwater followed the contour of his neck down to his chest, chilling him. When it was empty, he screwed the cap back on and forced it back into his pocket.

He crunched forwards along the stony path, taking his time and ensuring his footing was secure. His boots had been well made, they kept his feet dry and allowed him to find purchase on the slick rocks, however, they had seen better days and the faded leather had started to tear.

Upon arriving at the door, he paused, taking a look around, gazing into each window and back the way he came, making sure that no one was watching. Then he put his left arm on the doorframe to steady himself and lifted his left leg up, clasping the boot heel with his right hand. He twisted and it came away. Putting his left foot back down but only on the toes, he gripped the heel carefully with both hands and opened it. A cavity gaped open and he pulled his right glove off with his teeth, taking a quick glance around but seeing nothing through the foul weather, before gently picking out a dark blue sapphire, finely cut in a teardrop shape. Gripping it tightly, he sealed the heel and reattached it before putting his glove back on and opening the door.

He stepped through into the reddish gloom, glad for the immediate relief from the chill of the wind. Taking off his trench coat, he stuffed his gloves into one of its pockets and hung it, still dripping, on a peg at the side of the entrance. He wore suit trousers and a waistcoat, dark blue, over what once would have been a pure white cotton shirt. Attached to his belt at the hip was a weirdly shaped scabbard, not as long as you’d expect and wider than one for most swords. He unclasped his belt in order to slide the scabbard off and hung it up next to his coat before doing his belt up again and finally stepping further into the room.

He walked over to the bar, sliding his hair back with his left hand and then offering his right to the bartender, a giant of a man larger than anyone he’d seen before. “My good man, I will be needing a room for a while, a double of your finest whisky, a local map and any kind of roast poultry you might have.”, he produced the sapphire, glittering in the firelight, and flattened out a handkerchief for it to lay on instead of the sticky counter, “I lack the coinage, however I pray this will suffice.”.

[Verschwald]

Hans Wirnhier pulled his old sailor’s oilskin tighter around him, grateful for what little warmth the garment gave him. He’d dealt with conditions like this before, including arguably worse storms than this out in the Rusinan sea - fishing boats weren’t known for their resilience to conditions - but that didn’t mean he enjoyed them. Once one left the edge of the treeline here, the rocky path to the top of the cliff wasn’t especially covered, either. Gritting his teeth and lowering his head, he forged onwards through the whipping rain.


Before too long, though, he found himself in the lee of the building, shielded from the worst of the weather by the grand old edifice itself. And a grand old building it was, he considered, as he looked up at it. Despite being weathered by age and conditions, it still had a certain… presence. It seemed solid, one last bastion of civilisation against the elements. Shaking his head to try and dislodge some of the rainwater from his hair, he pushed open the door and entered the common room.
The warmth of the fire was immediately felt, and immediately welcome. Noting a few other patrons stood at the bar - surprisingly few, but then with these conditions who would willingly venture out? - he shrugged off his oilskin, the heavy material dripping with residual moisture, and hung it on a peg next to a long coat (was that a scabbard tucked inside?) before approaching the bar himself, waiting for the man before him to finish ordering before making his own.
“Obstgeist, my good man, assuming you have it? Something edible to chase it down with wouldn’t go amiss either.”

[Romae in Perpetuum]

If one happened to be watching the pathway up to the inn, about ten minutes later, they would have seen the most peculiar sight. Two men struggling up the path, desperately trying to battle through the storm. Both were swaddled in furs and appeared to be of similar height, though the lead figure had a substantial lead on his companion who appeared, at first glance, to be much bulkier. As the two drew closer it became apparent that the latter’s bulk was in fact due to the sheer amount of luggage he was carrying, and his delay due to his valiant attempts to prevent it all being blown away with the wind.

As the pair approached the heavy wooden door those inside could hear shouts from outside.
“Come on man, we don’t have all day! Now is this the place? Yes of course I checked the bloody guidebook! Cliff, forest, sea; what else could it be? Oh, what are the chances of that happening again? Now how does this damned doorknob wor…”

The man, however, was abruptly cut off by the door violently swinging open and bashing into the adjacent wall with a loud bang, followed swiftly by a ball of furs falling through the doorway. To his credit he managed to steady himself on the doorframe before falling flat on his face. But the motion had dislodged his hood; revealing a young man with a thin face and dark hair, who’s complexion would have been quite light, if his face had not been turning a bright red, and not just because of the sudden heat.
“Ahh sorry about that.” He murmured to the room in his clipped voice, before taking a moment to survey the cosy interior; a wide grin spreading across his face as he did. He was interrupted in this, however, by his companion, who had taken the opportunity to catch up, and was tapping his shoulder. “Hm? Oh yes the rain!” The first man hurried into the room and headed straight for the bar, whilst the second collapsed into the nearest available chair, surrounded by copious amounts of baggage.

“Barkeep! I and my companion…” The young man suddenly stopped, having noticed the size of the barman. “Good gods, the size of you! Didn’t I once see you in a market place on the isle of Kos cracking men’s skulls open for 2 denarii?” He shook away the thought. “Regardless I am Quintus Valerius Marcellus, and that over there is my man Veneris.” He said waving in the general direction of the collapsed man. “I would like to request your most authentic room!” Marcellus continued enthusiastically, putting unusual stress on the penultimate word.
“As for my man, a nice spot by the fire.” He said, looking around to see where Veneris had got to. “Ah and a large cup of warm wine might be prudent, on second thoughts make it two…”

[Myraxia]

Bursting back into the room just as Sander entered bearing an extremely large, steaming bowl, the bartender's grin fixated on the new arrival. "Just a moment please, sir!" Refocusing to the bar, he placed the bowl in front of Yip. "One serving of beef stew, seasoned with garlic, paprika and thyme!" The aroma wafting off the bowl filled the room, and anyone would be forced to admit, it did smell delicious.
He then turned to face Sander, picking the sapphire up off the bar and examining it with a critical eye. The man would never have been described as a jeweller, but he certainly seemed to know what he was looking for. The grin, which dropped momentarily while he focused on the gem, returned with full force. "It'd be churlish of me to turn a weary traveller away! This will certainly suffice." The gem vanished behind the bar. "Now, as to your room -" With a thud a key hit the bartop, complete with a very scratched label that might, if you squinted a bit, read "Twelve". A glass swiftly followed it, amber liquid sloshing around - coming perilously close to the top but not spilling over. "Adrani Single Malt." He leaned in, glancing down the bar at the Asgarthian and shielding his mouth with a hand, like he was trying to catch the words as they left. "Some say it's the finest in the world." He returned to his previous position. "And as to the ma- ah." The grin actually faltered at this point, albeit briefly. "I'll... see what I can find in the back as to your map. And roast poultry?" The grin returned, full force. "Our roast turkey is renowned throughout the realms!" He moved again, suddenly as always, ducking back into the back room.

---

The Yarbricht Inn is an interesting phenomenon. In certain academic circles, as well as certain less regulated research groups, it is well known. Many swear blindly that it doesn't exist - a made-up tale, or possibly even a mass hallucination. There are reported sightings of the Inn all over the Charter - and presumably many more appearances that have gone unreported - from the steppes of central Rusina to the dense forests of Strei-Ar, including one unconfirmed tale that puts it deep into wilds of Sindell-Ui, far inside the arctic circle. But regardless of it's true nature - which none living can speak to regardless - the Yarbricht Inn is a legend. The tales are always broadly the same - in conditions of poor weather, in desperate need of shelter, an Inn appears, where previously none can be recalled, yet somehow people know it is there. Some say it appears around magic hotspots, but truly, who can say? The many myths surrounding it have led many to seek it out over the years - some for the thrill of the unknown, some in a wasted attempt to determine it's true nature (many of this group never return) and some simply to experience the food - oft reported to be of excellent quality.

---

Returning to the room bearing a platter, the bartender set it down in front of Sander. "One roast turkey, with all the trimmings." Looking at the mountain of food on the plate, you can well believe his claim.
"Now," he turned to the Verschwaldian, patiently waiting his turn. "My thanks for your patience, sir. Obstgeist, was it?" With a now familiar thud, another glass was produced, and filled with a clear liquid smelling very strongly of cherries. "Tiefmark '22. A personal favourite of mine. You are clearly a man of taste, my friend. I'll have something for you to eat in just a moment, but first," he turned to the newly arrived Romans, his smile radiating across the bar at them.
"An interesting request, but one I can happily fulfill." Thud Another key appears, this one looking perhaps even more ornate than those previously produced. The battered and scratched tag could conceivably have the number 'One' on it. "As to your man, the common room fire is always welcoming. Now, to your wine," two thuds, one after the other, as a mismatching pair of glasses appeared onto the bar. "A fortified wine, in the Commonwealth style. Just the thing for nights like this. I'd also be remiss if I didn't tell you that the price of your room includes a meal. After all, if I'm letting you sleep under my roof, it seems only reasonable to feed you too! Now, if you'll excuse me," He vanished into the back room behind the bar, the door swinging behind him. The room feels slightly... emptier without his presence.

[Skjoldur]

Yarbricht Inn

The shadowy figure was stumbling through the storm. He was a small man for a skjoldurian standing around 5,10. As he forced his way forward the house he began to see it more clearly. It was not what he was expecting at all, he had been expecting a small cottage type, instead what bore out in front of him was a house he could only describe as peculiar. It seemed friendly but Igor, for that was his name, was uneasy, he had a bad feeling about this place it gave out a sense of uneasiness, perhaps it was his training going into overdrive? He shrugged it off as he got to the door his bag ripped revealing an assortment of equipment. He swore to himself as he hastily stuffed the items back into his back. As he stuffed a camp mat back into his back the more observant would have been able to notice the guns and knives perfectly placed inside.
Igor was about to knock when the door opened with a loud creak. On the other side stood a giant of a man. Igor was used being surrounded by larger men, indeed he had even manged to turn it to his advantage allowing him to become one of the best at his job. But even he was nervous around this man. He towered over Igor and looked like he could kill him with one just punch. Igor smiled,
“good even sir, may I come in?”
Without a word the man turned letting Igor in. Igor wondered in looking around remembering to note how noisy the door was, just in case he had to make a quick exit. He turned to the man eying him up to see if he had any notable injuries he could exploit later. He politely turned to the man and remarked
“this is a lovely place you have here, how long have you owned it?”
After not receiving a reply Igor shrugged
“I was wondering if you had a room? I’m doing some work on the wildlife around here, so it would have to be infinitely, I will pay you for the first week”
He then produced a bag of gold which he left on counter, turning around he noted the wet clothes and the roaring fire, indeed there were more people here, excellent!

[Harren Island]

Sander hadn’t seen a meal like this in a long, long time and it looked absolutely gorgeous; golden and glazed with herbs, with grill-roasted sprouts, parsnips, butternut squash and carrots tossed in a melted red leicester and pine nut pesto with a side salad dressed in nutty vinaigrette and crushed walnuts. The smell was intoxicating and Sander was wildly salivating before he even made it to one of the circular tables by the fire with a wing-backed chair. He put down the platter, using it to push the table’s ashtray to the side and went to retrieve his drink, thanking the barman as he did so before returning to his chair and brushing the dust off it. He collapsed into it with a contented sigh, the cushioning enveloping him snugly and taking the aches from his bones.

Before he started demolishing the art that was his meal, he took a moment to admire how picturesque the moment was, trying to etch it into his memory. The crackling fire wafting warmth around the room, casting gently waving shadows from the fireplace and furniture and even from the Turkey itself. Wind and rain pummelled the glass of a window to his side, forcing barely visible rivulets of water to trickle almost horizontally across the pane and creating a background drumming that only added to the cosy atmosphere inside.

The dish was even more delicious than it looked, especially when Sander found the ground walnut and onion stuffing, laced with sage and thyme but he found that he was unable to finish it. Loathe to let something so delightful go to waste, he grabbed some fresh cutlery and offered the rest to the exhausted Roman valet, heaven knows the poor fellow looked like he needed it.

Stretching and patting his belly, truly full and bloated in a good way, he picked up his drink and took wonderfully burning sips as he languidly meandered around the establishment. This sort of place must have a games room and one of these other weary travellers might be up for a bit of billiards.

[Romae in Perpetuum]

“Oh, I’ll just have the house special.” Marcellus called after the retreating barman. “Or something local, I’m not picky.” He took a long draught of wine and was impressed by the quality, he had never heard of this Commonwealth before, but their wine was almost as good as any he had gotten back in the Imperium, almost. Remembering that he had packed some spices in one of his trunks he turned to see where his freedman had got with his luggage but saw him tucking into some leftovers; the young man shrugged, his man had better have left him a sausage.

Suddenly feeling the warmth Marcellus shrugged off his furs and threw them with the rest of the luggage; revealing himself to be wearing a very fine red tunic, trimmed with gold, as well as a thick leather belt clasped with a matching gold buckle, from which hung a gladius in an elaborate leather sheath engraved with intricate silver patterns. Striding over to Veneris, who was still picking over the now desiccated meal, he passed a cup of wine to his freedman, gave him the room key and instructed him to take the bags up.

Taking another sip of wine Marcellus surveyed the room as his man struggled with the bags. He could see a fair few others sheltering here with him and felt he should probably talk to someone, if only to tell his sisters an interesting story. The fellow he had come in with of smelt faintly of fish and he could smell a Skjoldurian a mile away, he’d spent a fair bit of time there on his travels (and had the scar to prove it). That left the man by the fire and the fellow who had fed his freedman; it never hurt to be courteous Marcellus thought ambling over to the fellow in the waistcoat and plopping himself down in the opposite chair.
“Good of you to feed my man.” He began cheerfully, offering his hand. “I’m Quintus Valerius Marcellus, and you can probably guess where I’m from. Who might you be?”

[Asgareth]

The stew was pleasant, just as he remembered it; though there was perhaps not as much paprika as he would like. The inn was swiftly becoming busy, and Yip was thankful for arriving so early. Now that he looked around, the inn seemed different. Perhaps it was the clientele; they left much to be desired. He could detect the unmistakable accents of a couple of Romans. He’d had little to do with them, but many commented on their foul smell, their misguided obnoxiousness, and their inability to hold their drink. A few more Archonian accents could be detected, though he was unfamiliar with any. He was pleasantly surprised to see so many Archonians, so far north; though he imagined anywhere was better than the Strei-Archonian hellhole they came from.

He turned back to his stew. Mammoth, if he was not mistaken. Most likely from Drekhi; mammoth hunting was pretty big up there, or so an old man had once told him in a pub. The cider, meanwhile, was semi-decent, at best. He was fairly certain it was not made from apple, or any known fruit. Parsnip, perhaps? It was neither sweet or dry, and neither cool or warm. A change of drink was most desired.
“Double Adrani Whiskey.” He called out at the innkeeper. “On the rocks. Finest whiskey in the known universe, don’t you know? And do you offer desert? I didn’t get that far last time. Spent three nights lying face down in my vomit. Still think that Iryllian woman slipped something into my drink. Can never trust an Iryllian, can you?” He finished, speaking to no one in particular.

[Harren Island]

Sander noted that the Roman hadn't even allowed his 'man' to rest or to finish his meal before packing him off to complete a task that could easily have waited. He hadn't even asked if the chair was free before sitting down at Sander's table. Sigh, bloody Romans.

Sander leant forwards, holding his swiftly depleting whisky glass in his left hand as he extended his right to give the Roman a firm handshake, answering with a carefully practiced air of nonchalance, "Louis Bissett, from Nouvel Acadie, at your service.", then the deflection, "You’ll have to tell me what a fine Roman like you is doing this far from the comforts of the Imperium, perhaps over a game of something." Without rushing, Sander stood up and gestured with his glass towards rear door, "I was about to go looking for a games room if you’d care to join me.".

Just as he was about to walk away a thought occurred and Sander paused, head slightly cocking as a frown appeared across his face. He hadn't realised before but he should have. That kind of meal, the one he’d just had, would have taken multiple hours to prepare, yet it took less than a minute to deliver after ordering. How did he not notice that? He looked down at the amber liquid rippling in his glass and remembered the empty hip flask in his jacket pocket. With a deliberate and firm movement he put the glass down on the table with an audible clink.

He quickly stamped down his imagination as it tried to run wild. He was tired, obviously effected by drink and knew there would be a reasonable explanation. He resolved to ask the Innkeeper in the morning when he had a clearer mind and when things weren’t as busy. For now though, he wanted to lose himself in a game of something.

[Romae in Perpetuum]

A Gaul? Thought Marcellus shaking the fellows’ hand with gusto. Not a chance. Whilst he was sceptical about the gossip that the entire Gallic race were sharp toothed, moustachioed, savages; who subsisted entirely on their own broods, there was no chance one would be this courteous to a Roman. Particularly one who reeked of the aristocracy, Marcellus wondered what the man was up to that he felt the need to hide his identity even out there in the middle of nowhere. Ah well, it would be fun trying to figure it out. Not for the first time the young man wondered if he should attempt to dress down or disguise his voice. He had tried it travelling through eastern Asgareth, but the clothes had itched, and people didn’t tend to be half as nice if they didn’t think you had gold…

The young Roman raised his eyebrow at the outburst from the man he presumed to be an Asgarthian by his accent and obvious inability to hold his drink.
“Well Monsieur Bisquet, err sorry my Gaulish is dreadful ah well, I imagine you’ll all pick up Latin soon enough eh?” He drained his cup of wine and gestured towards the bar for another. “My great-grandmother recently died, leaving me an old guidebook, my man Veneris up there and an obscene amount of money. So, I took a year off from university, booked passage on a ship and a couple months later here I am!”

He jumped up from his chair energetically. “As for games, it would be my pleasure. I was on the university Latrunculi team, well I say on; drank with is probably more accurate. You’ll have to tell me about your Gallic games though! See if they compare to what I played in Gallia Narbonesis, you been there? Lovely place, oh and the girls! I remember when…

[Harren Island]

Sander's eyes narrowed for a moment when he thought the Roman was testing him by asking about Gallic games but when Marcellus rambled on without waiting for a response, Sander relaxed, it seemed like the Roman just loved the sound of his own voice... and his own accomplishments by the sound of it. He made a note of that, if Marcellus ever pointed the conversation in a dangerous direction, all Sander would have to do is ask him about himself. The words settled into a background drone as they both meandered out of the rear door to look for the games room.

Everything beyond the barroom was dark and gloomy, lit only by the orange light spilling out from behind them. Sander couldn't see any light switches anywhere and taking his time to look around, he only spotted old fashioned oil lamps, affixed to the walls and currently unlit. A sense of nostalgia washed over him and he smiled, unclasping one of the lamps from the wall and twisting its hinged door open with a squeak of dry metal, he hadn't used this sort of thing in years. Rooting around in his waistcoat pocket he pulled out his matchbook and slid the box open with his thumb before tapping a couple matches out. Transferring the matchbox to his left hand, with the lamp held in the crook of his left arm, he tried repeatedly to strike the match but it wasn't catching. Perhaps the matches had gotten wet or the strip on the matchbox itself had been worn away. Cursing under his breath he looked around and decided to strike it against a wooden beam, the match caught at once with a flare, sputtering and hissing before settling into a nice teardrop flame. Sander gently put the flame into the lamp's hinged opening and the lamp caught. He blew out the match and clamped the alcove shut with a squeal. Twisting a knob on its side, the light grew until it lit up their section of the hallway. "Right, now we can find the Games Room.".

Holding the lamp aloft, Sander led the way along the corridor, passing old and dried wallpaper with blue and white floral patterns. They'd stopped at a couple solid, wooden doors but had found them locked or jammed. Eventually Sander found a door that clicked open when he tried the handle, "Ah finally", he exclaimed as he went to push it open, however the door stopped with a loud thud as it impacted something on the other side. "Damn and blast it, there's something blocking the door, help me push it.".

With a concerted effort, even though Sander suspected he'd done the majority of the legwork, the door opened with a loud scrape and the crash of furniture on the other side. Hoping he hadn't broken anything, Sander stepped in and brought the lamp around to see what had fallen. The door had been blocked by two stacked chairs and a wooden cupboard that were now spilled across the pitted wooden floor. He stooped and picked them back up, dragging them to the side of the wall so they didn't block the door. Opening the cupboard, he found it was empty apart from dust and cobwebs. Good. Nothing broken.