User blog:Stormlilly/e4m2

 The previously locked room turns out to be a Planetarium; the ceiling lined with a pitch-black material that glows gently with the thousand twinkling surfaces of distant stars. It is almost enough to make you think that youv'e wandered outside, but the truth of the matter is obvious even now. For there is a thick, horrifyingly sweet stench in the room that smells of burnt rubber and rotten fruit.



 Leaning over a representation of the modern globe, the Financier looks violently ill, though he is maintaining some measure of control. The globe itself is not made of wood or any material you have seen, but a strange and viscous pink substance that appears to be writhing as you watch it. As you do – you realize with a sudden disgusting movement in your stomach – that the source of the stench is the globe; and that the Financier's hands are stuck to it.



 He turns to mouth the phrase 'help me' weakly, and you dash forward, bowling into him and sending him sprawling to the ground. He screams as you do so, and stench of burning fills your nostrils to the point where it is all you can smell – the unfamiliar scent of charred skin ripping from something else that unmistakeably smells of skin.



 The burns on his hands are a small price to pay, however, as moments after you free the Financier from the globe, the surface turns a mottled and rotten green – and decays rapidly, swallowed by an equally verdant fire.



 Both of you catch your breath, and the Financier rises to his feet – somehow looking more collected for the experience.



“ I know what needs to be done. I think.” He sighs, and stares at you with determination. “We were called here, perhaps as part of a greater scheme. Perhaps as a sacrifice. Or perhaps...” His eyes close and his fists clench. “In some last, desperate hope that we might be able to stop this madness. I'll be in the library. Excuse me.”



 He leaves, and you watch him go, wondering if the library will even be open again – and if it isn't a trap. Downstairs, you hear the sound of writing coming from the Aristocrat's room – writing loud enough that you can hear every snap of the pen against paper.

You:

Try the Aristocrat's patience.

Visit the Library

<p style="text-align: LEFT; margin-bottom: 0in">Visit the Firing Range