There is a presence found behind this man that echoed a shadow retreating from whatever light source created it, a shadow that no longer belonged to the man at all. For a moment the fabrication merely stares, absorbing the confusion given by the other.
One who lacked in life would certainly lack in understanding of what it meant to feel the fear of a Hell that could easily tear it apart. A dead rose with wilted thorns was unable to prick skin tougher than itself.
❝You do not belong here. Tell me, what has called you to this place.❞
The young man’s gaze is…admittedly, slightly disturbing. Something moves from the corner of his eye, and he turns to look–but it is merely the painting of a woman. A lovely maiden clothed it red, not unlike himself. Peering back at the violet-haired youth, he frowns slightly. ’How is it that I always seem to wind up where I “don’t belong”?’ Taking a step closer, he purses his lips. “I do not know." And it is truthful. One moment he had been inspecting the mansion once again [for he cannot simply leave the place to rot; he does own that palace of damnation], and then from the ballroom he found himself here, in this burgundy hallway with a similar picture to what hung in the great hall. "I know not even where this place is.”
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