07-06-2016, 10:16 PM
The pair of youths are treated to the sound of William's knocking, driving a soft echo through to the other side. Soft, because when William knocks on the double doors, with their ornate bronze handles of no particular significance or symbolic description, he is received with a solidity that suggests bomb-proofing and a vague ache in those knuckles.
Luckily enough, there is a well concealed buzzer to one side, the soft round button, friendly and inviting for the young man with archaic tendencies of announcement.
The doorbell chimes and with it comes the sudden rolling thrum of a bell toll. Ominous, powerful and all encompassing, it travels through the estate house with a bloom of announcement that might suggest royalty has come calling or...someone destined for the gallows. No doubt, this is just another bit of intimidation meant to scare off any religious acolytes terribly determined enough to have made it this far. You'd think there were some angels in black wings behind that door, waiting to chop down the poor individuals come looking to spread the truth.
Instead, there is a brief period of silence, with the toning echoes of that bell sound, steadily humming under their feet and inside of their heads. Then, the sound of clipping heels on well pressed shoes, steadily approaching on the other side of the door.
Followed smoothly and carefully with a guarded sigh and the deep metallic thunder of several tumblers attached to several thick locks, thudding and thrumming and clambering reluctantly into niches, before the door on the left swings open with slow, ponderous, even agonizing difficulty. It reveals a bit of the interior, swinging wide enough for a foot and a half of space, showing stark white walls decorated in vague and abstract paintings, corners of spartan molding and the slick, clean marble of white flooring, shot through with veins of silver.
The man who answers the door has a slightly drooping face, though not enough of one to suggest his skin is sagging. More than he is long in it, facial hair a pinched and well groomed goatee below the lower lip and dusting a line around his mouth. His spectacles are gold, with delicate looking lenses and the eyes behind them, a quarter brighter than the deep blue sea. He wears a cravat of yellow, over a dark navy blue blazer that is quite form fitting, over a simple pair of slacks with shortened cuffs, revealing the blues, yellows and browns of argyle socks inside of tan armani shoes.
All this might suggest benevolent old man, except for the double-barreled shotgun settled over one shoulder, with all the comfort of one who is familiar with how to use it.
He eyeballs the pair infront of him, jaw skewed to one side, hair a mop of slicked back salt and pepper, over a furrowed brow.
"Alright. So which one are you two?" There is a faint accent. British isles, perhaps but long since buried under years of North American living. If he looks bored, they're not looking close enough. Irritated, perhaps a little bemused.
Luckily enough, there is a well concealed buzzer to one side, the soft round button, friendly and inviting for the young man with archaic tendencies of announcement.
The doorbell chimes and with it comes the sudden rolling thrum of a bell toll. Ominous, powerful and all encompassing, it travels through the estate house with a bloom of announcement that might suggest royalty has come calling or...someone destined for the gallows. No doubt, this is just another bit of intimidation meant to scare off any religious acolytes terribly determined enough to have made it this far. You'd think there were some angels in black wings behind that door, waiting to chop down the poor individuals come looking to spread the truth.
Instead, there is a brief period of silence, with the toning echoes of that bell sound, steadily humming under their feet and inside of their heads. Then, the sound of clipping heels on well pressed shoes, steadily approaching on the other side of the door.
Followed smoothly and carefully with a guarded sigh and the deep metallic thunder of several tumblers attached to several thick locks, thudding and thrumming and clambering reluctantly into niches, before the door on the left swings open with slow, ponderous, even agonizing difficulty. It reveals a bit of the interior, swinging wide enough for a foot and a half of space, showing stark white walls decorated in vague and abstract paintings, corners of spartan molding and the slick, clean marble of white flooring, shot through with veins of silver.
The man who answers the door has a slightly drooping face, though not enough of one to suggest his skin is sagging. More than he is long in it, facial hair a pinched and well groomed goatee below the lower lip and dusting a line around his mouth. His spectacles are gold, with delicate looking lenses and the eyes behind them, a quarter brighter than the deep blue sea. He wears a cravat of yellow, over a dark navy blue blazer that is quite form fitting, over a simple pair of slacks with shortened cuffs, revealing the blues, yellows and browns of argyle socks inside of tan armani shoes.
All this might suggest benevolent old man, except for the double-barreled shotgun settled over one shoulder, with all the comfort of one who is familiar with how to use it.
He eyeballs the pair infront of him, jaw skewed to one side, hair a mop of slicked back salt and pepper, over a furrowed brow.
"Alright. So which one are you two?" There is a faint accent. British isles, perhaps but long since buried under years of North American living. If he looks bored, they're not looking close enough. Irritated, perhaps a little bemused.