The paint is chipping, both inside and out. The furniture is shredded beyond repair or missing all together. The little wallpaper that still clings to the walls bears outlines of old paintings that used to hang proudly but like the wooden setting, are also gone. A silver spoon resets in the middle of the dusty floor, forgotten. Tattered cloth that once covered the windows and provided privacy for those withing, moves with a non-existent breeze. It is also quite over grown with a few man eating plants but mostly just old dead leaves. This is another place in which I believe The Black King has no need, at least he has left it alone all of these years. Whether or not that will remain is to be seen.
I am curios though, if anyone will one day inhabit this place. With a bit of elbow grease, something I would never to contribute to, it could be a quaint place to lay your head.
-Cheshire
