Agreed. The water lures. ( Cold and limpid, devoid of the putrefaction that otherwise hangs and clings like ivy, strangling, across walls tall and wood tattered. He hesitates, hand lingered over the door's frame, drifting onto the bathtub's lip, searching the perimeter for debris and residue of spirits broken, or waiting, or unheard.

No more present themselves, the world of this room deafeningly silent. He struggles to breathe for it. Walks on. )

You sense danger? ( His own ears feel clogged, linen-filled, with that strange overstimulation of the senses that follows a reckoning with spirits. ) You are... a warrior?

( Betrayed by build, by instincts. All the same, many are the peacemakers who come broad of back and cunningly armed. )