You find yourselves in cylindrical room. It is short, so anyone over five and a half feet definitely has to stoop, as if it was designed for a child, but it's still maybe twenty feet wide. There are no visible doors or windows, but everything is mirrors.
Literally.
The ceiling is made of mirrors -- largely rectangular ones, though in the dead center is a circular one. The floor matches it, made of mostly rectangular mirrors with a circular one in the center. All the walls, ringing the room, are covered from floor to ceiling in mirrors. You reflect into infinity in every direction and it has the unnerving feeling like one of your hundreds of reflections might suddenly do something different from the others.
The mirrors aren't all in the same condition, however. The tops of the walls, and the mirrors on the ceiling, are tarnished and gross, showing age spots, discoloration, handprints. Things are smeared on them, dark fluids and dirt. The circular mirror in the center is chipped, including a large sharp-seeming chip toward one edge which leaves a small black peephole into -- what, exactly?
The floor and the lower parts of the walls seem, in comparison, glitteringly clean, but these are the ones where you can see your reflections best, where, as you turn and glance around, you have the biggest sense that something turned in the wrong direction, a hand moved where it shouldn't, the wrong color for your clothes or hair or eyes was briefly glimpsed. The circular mirror in the center is also the brightest and cleanest of these mirrors, so much so it seems almost to be glowing.
Floating in the center of the room, exactly halfway between the two circular mirrors, is a bowl. It is currently empty and despite floating in space doesn't seem to be movable from its current location.
STARTING ROOM
Literally.
The ceiling is made of mirrors -- largely rectangular ones, though in the dead center is a circular one. The floor matches it, made of mostly rectangular mirrors with a circular one in the center. All the walls, ringing the room, are covered from floor to ceiling in mirrors. You reflect into infinity in every direction and it has the unnerving feeling like one of your hundreds of reflections might suddenly do something different from the others.
The mirrors aren't all in the same condition, however. The tops of the walls, and the mirrors on the ceiling, are tarnished and gross, showing age spots, discoloration, handprints. Things are smeared on them, dark fluids and dirt. The circular mirror in the center is chipped, including a large sharp-seeming chip toward one edge which leaves a small black peephole into -- what, exactly?
The floor and the lower parts of the walls seem, in comparison, glitteringly clean, but these are the ones where you can see your reflections best, where, as you turn and glance around, you have the biggest sense that something turned in the wrong direction, a hand moved where it shouldn't, the wrong color for your clothes or hair or eyes was briefly glimpsed. The circular mirror in the center is also the brightest and cleanest of these mirrors, so much so it seems almost to be glowing.
Floating in the center of the room, exactly halfway between the two circular mirrors, is a bowl. It is currently empty and despite floating in space doesn't seem to be movable from its current location.