Dark clouds cascade shadows over the dingy and effete mansion. Their sizes utterly engulf the decayed residence, housing the mansion in a home in which to call it's own; within the dark. Tonight's breeze is a stinging coldness that brushes against dead bark of isolated trees, most separated by miles as they attempt to wrap around icy stone walls. Thunderous flashes color the vista in a light purplish hue. Right past the window comes another bolt, the flash so bright it overtakes the near whole of the room. A thwack against the window by a severed tree branch leaves what is yet another mark on the glass, but nobody will ever be the one to see it excluding a rather grotesque looking man wrapped in his metal-forged chair. He peers into the lushes vista of decayed tree, remains of withered stubs and 'Ceremonies', for a lacking term, of tar-colored human fossils, fascination drawn on his face for what these old relics once used to see. These 'Ceremonies', marked by stones, crossing sticks and much more, form a passageway, a locked gateway, in his dreams and fantasies every waking moment. That is why he attempts to rise, away from the other world tugging him into a spiral, but his shaken bones crack and wilt beneath. For now, he's decided himself no match for the urges that both infest and bloom within his mind; like toxic plant-life, another world wonder of which he has never seen. Another strike - His vision distorts. For he'd seen something shift in his peripheral - the old age places a new set of wrinkles on his dilapidated face, mainly around squinting eyes. The world appears unchanged he thinks - his memories fading. He can't even be sure of what he was doing sitting on that leisure piece of furniture at a time like this. It was time for breakfast. The man grabs his invisible keys, the ones to his self-made wheelchair, and transitions from the uncomfortable seat to a different uncomfortability. On he drives out of his room and toward the stairs of a quarter-hour's height. He stops at arrival, making sure to prepare himself calm and steady. He breathes in, pushes on the invisible accelerator, and lets out the pressure, whilst the automated, self-latching escalator boosts him down. With the exhilaration of the rush, he yells out his "excitement", as he'd done time and time again. He can hear the metal plates roaring underneath him as he swoons to pick up the pace, but he neglects the pace of the motion and focuses on the speed of his descent; corridor almost unending, it seems he'd gone down a thousand days. Finally, he touches the downstairs area. Invisible forces disappear, and he's left with two wheels and a falling piece of black hair - another error of the ol' perception. He trudges to his food storage. With a lump in his posture, he passes through the vacant hall, adorned with great and extravagant decor; in other man's diction; in his own, moreso a descriptor of blank, but if he ponders long and hard, he could call it "Home". The hall narrows. Above is a dilapidated sign: "Home; my sweet earth". How he wishes he desired to renew the faded paint, on the creaking sign and his rotting exterior, but even if, it's far too effete for repair now. He opens the plaza door at the end of the hall, thinking about his next meal as he trudges to an empty kitchen. Whilst gambling whether there's still food at all within the storage unit, he blinks, and finds his answer. Just as the old coot thought, he'd forgotten, just like the inkling in his stomach urging he'd forgotten something else. A sigh is pushed from his mouth. And a bad wrinkle strikes, again. He stares up at the sky - a roof without light. With no clock, he can sense the time pattering by, he hears it: echoes of Dead-Night - between midnight and dawn. He listens, mind scatterbrained like he were gripping onto a slipping memory. Plaza smells of something, pungent and most unpleasant. Then a misty cold air surrounds him. The man's mortality flashes in his eyes, roars in his ear. He jumps and the plaza lights deactivate, plunging him in darkness. But he can still smell, smell the rot laying ahead, inches away. Lights flicker as he stabilizes himself, and a long-clawed hand reaches from within the abyssal. But a hand not set for his life~A hand which extends to his aid.