This was both good news and bad news. Which was luckily a state of being that Kenning had become accustomed to.
With the pressure upon his... everything, Kenning takes a few deep breaths. He should move. He should probably move. He needs to move.
Here was the good news - He doubted he would be found here. It felt like a temporal glue trap. He couldn't think of any sane and healthy Reaper that would subject themself to this.
The bad news was that he fell under 1/3 of this label. He was counting on the lack of the other 2/3 right now to give him an edge.
He needed to move.
He shakily rose to his feet, using the scythe still as a support. He gropes for the sweet spot along the blade where he can reach into the warped pocket of impossible space, grabbing onto a feebly wriggling soul, and swallowing it down for shuddering morale. And he moves, looking for some respite.
At first it seems like Kenning is gaining ground, going in a direction that makes some semblance of sense. Hallways have proper ends, doors lead into rooms which lead into hallways which lead into ballrooms, foyers, balconies-
Something wasn’t right.
Fortunately, there were rooms that contained beds. Some that contained nothing but beds. There were rooms that seemed to be entirely comprised of mattresses. Rooms that had lounge chairs that circled a central point where there was only a single cushion in the middle. Even if comfort was in sight, the oppressive green and the almost stillness in the air kept there from being any true rest to be had inside of the Manor’s walls. Respite was not waiting for an intruder such as the one now dripping bright red blood all over the floor.
He had been hoping for entirely too much. With an angered sigh, he settles instead for relief, which he takes in the form of one of the beds, pulling aside the covers, not to sleep, but instead to rip off the sheets and begin to shred them with his scythe for bandaging. They seem clean at least. Soft, too. This place was fucking bizarre, but very... fancy. Reminded him of Samael's home. He tried not to think about this desperation for a connection to comfort, and instead took his bandages to one of the lounges, curling small into a chair to treat himself.
"This would be a really shitty way to die," he gripes to no one in particular, trying to tourniquet the gash where the last Abaddon had managed to get in one final blow. Kenning was going to save that particular soul for when things got bad. He looks around next for an idea of what to do next. He doesn't need food, but some might be comforting. And he'll squeeze every iota of comfort he can find out of this hellhole.