Wednesday Night Writing Exercise: The Storm Chamber

I’d had a plan this week for theming places around colors without their usual association (red without fire, green without plants, and so on). Then this happened–or rather, the first part of this happened, and it fell to me to try to figure out why in blazes anyone would have a chamber where the floor was shaped and textured to look like a stormy sea. I’m still not entirely sure, but I want their room. As long as I don’t have to go through it in the dark.

The floor is rough—polished, yes, but uneven. It rises, it falls, it curls over itself, streaks of white marking the highest points, a stormy sea in polished, blue-green stone. One cannot tell walls from ceiling as they curve inward to loom overhead, gray like pigeons. The air itself carries mist and the scent of brine, just condensed enough to swirl about my fingers as I wave them through the air. And the light—there must be a source somewhere, for the mist to be so visible, but I cannot find it, cannot even begin to look for it, everywhere and nowhere like shadows on a cloudy day, and with a slight shift to it that makes the entire room seem to move the moment I focus on one point.

What purpose could such a place hold? I am well aware of the builder’s disdain for the ground, and her architectural revels in the fact that as she may never need to touch the floor, neither need she concern herself with such trivial things as one’s ability to walk across it. No, it is not this strange floor that bothers me, but the lack of shelves, of tables, of so much as a place to seat oneself and admire the seamless expanse of stony waves.

I pick my way to the center of the room, where the floor dips, then fountains up, not much higher than the tallest of the other breakers. The mist seems to shy from this point, so it seems logical that there would lie my answer. Or, equally logical, that this location is too logical, and there lies a trap. The builder was only above such tactics in the positional sense.

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