As though the door is mocking you (although you got the feeling, on seeing the door, that it wasn’t going to be this easy), the door is locked. You push down hard on the handle, and ram your shoulder, painfully, against the wood, but the door doesn’t open.
You cry out, angrily, but figure that there must be a way. Perhaps the door is locked. But there isn’t any sign of a key anywhere. So…
You ponder for a second, and then your eyes alight on the knocker, gleaming in the orange light of the floating torch. It is more remarkable than the rest of the door, more remarkable than that of the handle, indeed.
Your eyes turn back to the long, dark, and narrow, corridor that is behind you. Your hands grip the torch.
As the barely perceptible drips of condensed moisture plip plop randomly on the uneven floor nearby, you draw up your gumption and willpower and turn back to this arcane entryway.
Hmm, you hear your inner child chuckle, I wonder...
After a moment of concentration, you give up waiting for the little gal to enlighten further, and regard the annoying door grimly. It wouldn't hurt to see if the handle moved in some other way that up or down, would it?
Liking this idea more by the second, you shift the green torchmatch to your right hand, and place your more sensitive hand firmly around the slightly chilly metallic turning of the handle. Holding your breath for some reason, you jiggle, pull, wiggle and rotate the obstinate device every which way, a tiny bubble of hope or anticipation floating slowly up through your chest. So faintly you swear it was a drip of water hitting the handle, something makes a noise you could not reproduce or imitate, and immediately you step back, alert. The door is not quite the same as it was a second ago, but you cannot put your finger on the exact change.