@unknown-rps
The doors to the great hall of the palatial church slammed open, the singular figure standing, both arms at his sides, one hand grasping a broom. The sheer scarf at his neck was airborne in a flourish, as the doors boomed dramatically to the sides. His chin was high, and his posture nary suggested he’d physically touched the barriers.
Gil couldn’t say he enjoyed the look of the place. The utter feel of it reminded him of the many churches and temples of his own home plane, if not seedier... There was an unseemly stench of deceit about, the tell-tale signs of a power-struggle. Not that he had a care for politics or petty intrigues. Today, Gil was on a mission.
He strode in. Dark platform boots clomping on the floor, wet and sticky. Deep red footprints marked the treads on his soles, following him as he made a direct line down the audience chamber.
“Forgiveness for letting myself in, the door was unlocked.” He said, smirking at his own private joke, nary worrying for the eyes that followed him, or the weapons raised his way. “I’m here to speak with the mistress of the house.”
“I hope this is the right address. I’d be terribly embarrassed if I’d come to the wrong place, if not vexed.”
