Aungier House Mods (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aungier_mods) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
aungier2013-07-10 09:36 am
aungier_mods) wrote in aungier2013-07-10 09:36 am
Entry tags:
DAY CHANGE: November 3nd, 1888
The heavens opened before the sun even rose on that Tuesday morning, releasing their heaviness in thick, chilly sheets of rain that bear down on the estate until late morning, when the downpour gives out to a moody sputter instead. Looking out from the house's top floors, the moors are cloaked in a soupy smog that reduces the view to a blur of purple-green- assuming, of course, that the thick, ever-replenishing condensation fogging up the glass has been wiped away at all.
Everything feels damp and clammy. Attempts to warm the house in response to the early rainfall have left it feeling unpleasantly humid instead: collars stick to throats and the lightest chemises feel heavy to wear. Even the automatons seem to be struggling in such conditions; no one is surprised to find one of them staggering convulsively around the ground floor around midday, but it is enough to provoke Lady Valdemar into a frightful temper, demanding that anyone with the slightest training repair them this very instant. Lord Valdemar, whose drawn, martyred face almost seems to invite scorn, is quick to palm off responsibility and does his part simply by leaving a note in the vestibule.
The day draws on and, as the evening sets in and the temperature drops, fires refuse to light with the first couple of tries and the rooms remain stubbornly cold. It is perhaps no wonder that both Lord and Lady take to their rooms early, claiming weariness- but then, curiously, just about everyone in the house has felt the same exhaustion creeping into their own bones throughout the day, old or young. No matter how close and how cold the house, all but the most determined will be driven to their bed and into a deep, all-consuming sleep.
Everything feels damp and clammy. Attempts to warm the house in response to the early rainfall have left it feeling unpleasantly humid instead: collars stick to throats and the lightest chemises feel heavy to wear. Even the automatons seem to be struggling in such conditions; no one is surprised to find one of them staggering convulsively around the ground floor around midday, but it is enough to provoke Lady Valdemar into a frightful temper, demanding that anyone with the slightest training repair them this very instant. Lord Valdemar, whose drawn, martyred face almost seems to invite scorn, is quick to palm off responsibility and does his part simply by leaving a note in the vestibule.
The day draws on and, as the evening sets in and the temperature drops, fires refuse to light with the first couple of tries and the rooms remain stubbornly cold. It is perhaps no wonder that both Lord and Lady take to their rooms early, claiming weariness- but then, curiously, just about everyone in the house has felt the same exhaustion creeping into their own bones throughout the day, old or young. No matter how close and how cold the house, all but the most determined will be driven to their bed and into a deep, all-consuming sleep.