Addressed; @daguerreopher
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The Madame Dauphine, Marie Antoinette, was never accustomed to an environment so barren and stripped of life. The air, overwhelmingly dense and thick, felt suffocating to stand in—even to breathe in. In some strange, inexplicable way, it had felt as though the entirety of the world around her had ceased to exist when she stepped through the impossibly towering doors of the manor. Her head sways left to right curiously, taking in the aged windows that gazed back down upon her, obscured by heavy curtains that protected the overcast sky just behind—the quiet only aids in disturbing her, completely alone and feeling unlike herself. Her head falls to the floor, she swallows, and she veers around back from the doors through which she came. Her arms outstretch and grapple to the large, cold metal door handles that seemed to be rusting.
Marie pulls, once. When the doors refuse to pry open the first time, she tries again, utilizing what little strength she has in her body. She huffs dryly when her attempts fail, releasing the handles and staring down at her palms, as if they might've offered an explanation. She turns an unsure glance over her shoulder, allowing her arms to fall daftly against the wide-hipped pannier of her dress, before turning once more. Her eyes widen at her surroundings, utterly dumbfounded by the predicament she's found herself in. Her heels take a few steps forward on instinct, leering forward and scanning the endless hallways that were shrouded in darkness. Finally, she lets out a breath.
“Hello?” She calls out into the darkness, half expecting silence, and in a way hoping that there’d be no response, rooted in some deep childish fear of what might linger in the places she can’t see. Even still, she waits, eyebrows curled slightly in wry concern.