Hope has all but been massacred in the alley, distrust ruts around with solipsism in broad daylight. The houses are run down, graying, with more blasted patches of dirt and weeds, then parched and thirsty patches of grass. Old sneakers hang from power lines. Carrion Birds sit in parliaments, waiting. It's more than just this. Sneaking in, the feeling of void steals into the soul. Realization then hits as one gets nearer, that the house, a three family home with two beaten and run-down doors, and security bars on the windows, is supernally dead.
Ronaldo House is (currently) a Level 3 Dead Zone. Any spell with lesser Potency is stripped and a -3 penalty is levied upon any new spellcasting.
The inside isn't much better than the outside. It's not like the theatre, where a run down building gives way to a quirky, expansive interior. Second hand furniture an attempts to regularly dust are the only signs of creature comforts. But it's safe. It's why he had kept it.
"You okay?"
Bluish eyes studied the Acanthus after passing her Crimson Veil and killing the two Seers. There was more --so much more-- to talk about, but the angel was most concerned with the fragility of his friend's Soul at the moment.