On the other side, cobwebs span walls darkened by drawn curtains, heavy and velvet. The barest outline of gleaming edges glint through callow darkness here and there, shivering into view in bits of silver and gold.
Curiously, you fight your way through the cobwebs, muttering something about "arachniphobia". The spider's threads, as white as a banshee's smile cling to your clothing like glue, binding your hair and fingers as you swipe at the carefully constructed webs. Blech. There's nothing worse than getting a spiderweb RIGHT in the face, you think, and yank the gooey junk from your features with a grimace.
After picking the majority of the silken stuff from your hands you discover a golden cord hanging from the curtains... and of course, pull. Sunlight shafts in, blindingly golden as slants through the perfectly clear pane of glass, seemingly untouched by the cobwebs encloaking the REST of the room. Now your surroundings are more visible.
Black walls. JUST black. Nothing else. The floor is black stone, polished smoothly, with few tiny grey lines running through it...probably marble. Those glints you noticed earlier? Armour, swords, axes, daggers, throwing stars, arrows. Every weapon imaginable line the walls, dusty though still razor sharp you note, sliding a fingertip along a dagger's edge. Ouch. Quite the arsenal.
With a little grin you spot a suit of armour, perfectly preserved beneath a thin semi-transparent cloth of black. Pulling it off, you happen to unsettle a few spiders... all of which give you dirty looks with eight eyes before crawling off.
The suit gleams like dawn over a glass mountain, each leaflet of alternating silver and painted on gold perfectly aligned with the next. The scales fall from beneath two curved shoulder peices, that bear hooked edges, as sharp as a hawk's gaze. A thick black belt with a strange symbol clinches the waist, causes a ripple of highlights along the freefalling scales. It's collar is high, flexible black leather to ward off arrows and daggers, yet allow the wearer to turn his or her neck at will. It must weight a TON you muse, touching it almost hesitantly.
