NationStates Jolt Archive

"Are...are you sure about this? It seems dangerous."

"Of course I'm sure. These people are just want we need and want. Now go write up the invitations."

"As you wish, Sir." There was a loud bang as the aged oak door slammed shut behind him. He stood in the cool darkness, looking up at the deep sky, watching as the clouds reached out to strangely the gibbous moon with long, wispy fingers. He shivered despite himself; the night reminded him too much of the last time. He still remembered the screams.

The servant sat at the desk and began to write, hesitating for a moment; not wanting to write the letters. The last thing he wanted was to put others in danger, but he feared that he had no other option. After all, it was not his place to question his master's motivations and desires. As much as he didn't want to be responsible for luring others to their likely doom, he knew that the only other option was for him to try and deal with the problem himself. He wasn't a coward, but he was a realist.

He sighed and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He shuddered and winced as he heard the inhuman howls and screams coming from the distant woods. Woods that suddenly seemed to be very close and suffocating. Steeling his resolve, he picked up his pen again and set it to paper, writing out the invitations.

Dear Sir or Madam,

Your assistance is urgently requested to deal with an... unusual set
of circumstances at our ancestral home.

Discretion is of the utmost importance, which is why we have decided
to contact you. We have heard that you have dealt with similar
oddities before, and your name was highly recommended.

You will have the assistance of a small group of similar specialists,
and I dearly hope that you will be able lend whatever aid you might be
able to offer. Should you accept this offer, please feel free to use
the enclosed return envelope. If you require any basic equipment or
items, I will do my best to provide them and have them waiting for you
upon arrival.

After receiving your acceptance, I will provide transportation for you
to take you to the estate. The surrounded woods are populated by
wolves, and it would be best for you to not attempt the journey on
your own. The thought of you getting injured en route would weigh
heavily on my soul.

Thank you for your consideration,

Eliza Lauter

As he finished off the last letter and sealed it, fear and sadness came over him. Again, he hoped that these individuals did not suffer the same fate as those who came before them.
***************************************************
Now, for all the Out of Character stuff.

You don't have to role-play every bit of your arrival, you can assume that you've all made it to the Karmicaria safe and sound. Unless you feel that something will happen en route. If not, pick up from your arrival at the Castle. After all have posted, I will continue on.

Description of the Castle

The trip to the estate would be viewed as perfectly mundane, except for the occasional drop of wrongness that could be sensed; like a specter in the corner of one's eye, some things just weren't right.

The moon, for one, seemed brighter than it should be; casting a ghastly glow on everything its diseased beams touched. The trees looked like something out of the Inferno: twisted and unhealthy, almost looking like the screaming souls of suicides were trapped inside. The driver is robotic in his duties; no questions are answered, save to say "We'll be there soon."

The manor house itself, might once have been called a castle. Endless years ago, it might have been called stately or even majestic. Now, it is a crumbling husk of its former glory. The high security wall is a slouching guardian, mortar and stone missing in sections. It hasn't been vandalized, and it isn't a matter of aging; it looks sickly. If estates could contract consumption, this wall, this house, this land would be in its final death throws.

The courtyard leading up to the house was once an object of beauty. One can almost imagine the spectacular fountains with their glittering sprays; an award winning garden with intricate hedge sculptures; even an artificial stream winding its lazy way through the whole courtyard, terminating in a small grove of exquisite elms. Sadly, those days have long since past. The fountains are choked with weeds and offal, their pipes rusted to uselessness, and their statuary crumbling ruins; now they serve as little more than roosts for cruel, uncaring birds who have soiled and pecked away any traces of the former beauty. The garden is little more than scrub weed and dust, the topiary brown and crumbling; a patch that might have once been a hedgerow of roses is now a twisted brier patch of thorns, more suited to being a bundle of razor wire than something that pleases the senses. Likewise, the stream has all but dried up and is nothing more that a breeding ground for mosquitoes; its stagnant water assaulting to the senses. The elms mirror the twisted screaming trees seen en route, save they are more horrid, more twisted, more diseased.

Past all this decay and neglect lies the house itself. The manor reflects the decay of the surrounding lands in all ways and more. It is hard to pin down what is worse about the building, but it seems to be the cancerous epicenter for everything seen so far. It does not sit on the grounds, nor does it loom: it squats and slouches.

The door opens into a yawning mouth, leading any sojourner down its gullet to God knows what.

She was still seething when she accepted the letter, and afterwards felt compelled to go through on her word. She knew she tended towards the impulsive when she was less than pleased, and yet, like a moth to flame, she simply couldn't avoid it. After one's just had one's life's work and most deeply-held theories openly mocked, any sort of flattering comment and suggestion of one's expertise are quite seductive... even when, in hindsight, it doesn't really make much sense. 'Dealt with similar oddities before?' She's a sociologist, not some action hero with a rapier wit and a winning smirk like Magnus Hesche. 'Your name was highly recommended?'

She can't imagine by whom. Everyone else in the sociology department of the University of Stonozka figures she's a crank who writes good material on the effect of mythology, especially modern mythology, on culture and social interaction. Sure, she received the Scolopendran Sociological Institute's Jackson Anthropology Medal three times, but it was always with a particular reticence on the SSI. Just because a good number of her theories are... quite unique doesn't mean that they should throw out the baby of her good theses out with the bathwater of ramblings about how the Intelligence Section is breeding Awakened chupacabras to harass the meat animal herds of unfriendly countries to perform psychological destabilization warfare on their populations. Maybe if they rewarded her good efforts and gently chided her proclivity towards the fantastic, she could eventually become a more... conventional member of the scientific community.

Which brings her mind back to last night, and she turns to quietly boiling in her juices again. The Federated Segments prides itself on its' intelligentsia's relatively bohemian attitude; public places are preferred arenas for intelligent discourse than closed dinner parties amongst a learned elite, mostly for two reasons. Reason the first, if it's public, one never knows who might chime in with what. Reason the second, 'Pendrans don't really appreciate closeted elitism that much. That being said, they fully realize they themselves are culturally inclined towards a sort of intellectual elitism; while they've not a problem with the uneducated they certainly tend to dislike people who refuse to think. The downside, of course, is that all these discourses tend to be very public and those on the fringes of accepted science--or well off the edge--do have to put up with a good deal of social groupthink enforced by public opinion.

In hindsight, a small portion of her ego quietly points out that maybe that the restaraunt wasn't the best place to broach her latest theory. This portion of her mind is immediately censured by a unanimous vote of the rest of her psyche and told to go sit in the corner. That doesn't enter into it. The Segments are all about the free exchange of ideas, aren't they? All ideas should be considered equally valid until evidence exists to prefer one over the other. Her idea is perfectly reasonable, after all. Reality is broken; everyone knows it even if it isn't really considered a topic appropriate for polite conversation. Everyone's had to deal with brainslide at least once or twice by looking at a map at the wrong time, usually of overlapping nations or geography, and it's a scary thing. The Office of Psionic Operations isn't even secret, and the existence of HELLSING is a secret so open as to be laughable. There's no way the government can deny these basic truths, and yet their policy of being secretive about it only produces a greater fear of the unknown, especially when escort carriers occasionally return to drydock bleeding from every armor joint. What can be the possible use of trying to disguise any of the attempts being made for the common defense, especially when there's plenty of civilian research on the matter that isn't snapped up and classified by spooks in the charcoal grey of the OPO?

"What, are you going to suggest the Feds aren't actually protecting us, but working for the Grey Bigfoot Vampire Empire?"

She grimaces to herself in the backseat thinking about it right now, distorting her actually quite pleasant dark chocolate face into something far more severe. What lines there are suggest she's more prone to smiling, but there's enough uncertainty that these sorts of replays aren't all too uncommon. Of course that's not her theory; she's a sociologist, not a conspiracy theorist. Quite naturally, people are generating varied mythos surrounding the unexplainable events in their lives in order to explain things better and feel more secure, even if this security comes in the form of believing there really are fell forces behind things that go bump in the night. The resources of HELLSING and the OPO probably have a much clearer idea of what's going on, so they could specify... but they don't. Why? Perhaps the causality is somewhat circular; mythos affects society which in turns modifies mythos... but perhaps there's a deeper reality to this mythos. What if various fears are, through whatever broke reality, made real? One could argue that at that point the natural reaction would be to try and allay fears... but that could simply align the various mythologies and 'observed' cryptofauna along certain lines, making those more powerful, better observed, and thus more real. Meanwhile, with there being a good deal of denial going around and those who do believe in fractal cryptofauna not being able to agree on what their critters look like, maybe this makes the OPO's job easier by taking the chaotic nature of human fear and making sure it keeps its primary weakness: it is chaotic and can be rubbed away in everyday life by reason.

Which of course brought up cries of 'perfect information paradox' and general scoffs of disbelief from everyone in the dining room. Believing in Bigfoot or Hungarian Vampires (the vampires in Cetaganda, well, hell, of course they were real; one's a pretty popular author) or chupacabras doesn't make them real. Now you're sounding like one of those, what are they, Day Paragons or whatever on Mars. The portion of her mind that finds these criticisms to be scientifically valid keeps its thoughts to itself, lest it face ejection from her mental parliament.

Still, she argued, what if reality is merely more obviously broken now than it was previously? This would certainly explain the slow death of mysticism and cryptofauna during the Age of Reason and their reemergence in cultures separated in mindset from the new scientific mentality. As reason fought against mythology, those manifest terrors which powered the mythology lost their powers and died, thus cementing the death of that mythos... and once reason gave way to fear again, new fears emerged. No longer dragons, but Bigfoot or Grey Aliens or unmarked black helicopters. Yes, even the New World Order of the truly out-there conspiracy theorists of the late XX and early XXI Century may have actually had some reality to it, based solely on the faith of its believers and the paranoia of those who didn't really believe in it but feared something in it anyway. Who says that cryptofauna 'monsters' need to be demonic or alien critters? The archetypical Men in Black could be the exact same thing in essence, merely a different manifestation of the same irrational fears realized differently by an entirely different population than the ones that dreamed up dragons and sphinxes.

She's jolted out of her smugly content remembrance of her eloquent defense of her ideas (and the subsequent ire of recalling the responses by those who refused to open their minds) when the car goes over a malignant pothole. Given the macadam road's quite advanced state of decay, it's something of a minor miracle she hasn't been shaken out of her reverie before this. Still, nearly hitting her head against the window forces her to look out it with narrow, calculating amber eyes (one truly so, yellowish with coppery specks; the other made to artificially match) that turn wide with nearly childlike curiosity at the scene. The scenery is straight out of the imaginings of a kid listening to a ghost story, dark and gothic, with a firm sense of realistic unreality that roboticists would term 'the Uncanny Valley' whenever it cropped up concerning their craft. It's like waking up into a bad dream setting itself up to be a proper nightmare. Everything is perfect. The sense of decay, nature encroaching and somehow corrupted in the process... or maybe even being corrupt itself...

And so, when the car pulls up and the thirty-two year old woman steps out, right now looking like the brightest, most alive thing in the area--even if her formal attire is cut somewhat severely and, while she certainly does enough physical work to stay healthy, she doesn't make any sort of lifestyle based on it and has a softer turn to her silhouette because of it--Doctor Tekla Kinyua smiles and her eyes glow with a child's amazement at being surrounded by the fantasy of the big wide world, even if it be of a gothic persuasion around these parts.

Another car drove up to the decrepid old manor house. A the back door opened and a man stepped out. He reached back into the car and removed a small suitcase, and small valise that looked like a medical kit. He walked over to the driver's window and handed the driver some money. Then the driver quickly drove off as if he was being chased by the very hounds of hell. Standing alone for a second, the man placed his luggage on the ground, and looked around at his surroundings. Physically he was tall, about 6'1", and weighed about 170 lbs. His black hair has a slight tint of silver running through it, perhaps hinting a premature greying. He appeared to be in his mid to late thirties. His face was rather unremarkable save for his blue steel eyes and a small, jagged light scar on his left cheek. He was wearing a black fedora, and black calf length duster. He was thinking about the last week, when the mysterious letter arrived at the bachelor townhouse he shared with consulting detective Mycroft Hammer. He'd been sharing the bacholor's house since leaving the Palentine Military. He operated his small private medical practice out of the house(being one of the few doctors who still made house calls), and assisted Mycroft on some cases where his friend might need a little back-up. At first he thought the letter was a mistake. Sure he had an interest in the occult, and had assisted Mycroft on some cases dealing with bizzare events, but he was far from an expert. Mycroft thought the letter to be intriguing, and told him,
"Temp, if you do not go, then you'll always wonder if you might be able to help. It sound great, and I'd go with you if I did not have to present evidence in a trial next week."
"So here I am.",thought Dr Templeton Callahan M.D.,previously of the Palentine's 8Th Armored Cavalry Regiment(the Blackhorse). "This place has seen better days...hell, better centuries."
A wolf's cry was heard coming from outside the estate. Almost by instinct, Temp reached into the inside of his jacket and touched the handle of his .38 Detective's Special. Then he shrugged to himself and picked up his siutcase and valise. He then noticed the lady standing nearby. He walked over to her, touched the brim of his hat and said,
"Good evening, ma'am. The name is Dr. Templeton Callahan. Pleased to meet you."

Royal Police Garrison
Ael Khalas, Altanar

"Vacation?" Arjan Kazireth said, in an irritated tone of voice. "You must be out of your mind...er...sir. I can't leave now, with what happened at the Prime Minister's inauguration and everything..."

"While I appreciate your...concern...for my mental well-being, Sergeant, this is not a request," Commissioner Jinera said wryly. "According to Human Resources, you have exactly 2,186 hours of unused vacation time. You're the only officer in the entire APF who has never taken a vacation! The Subministry of Worker Protection is threatening to file charges against the force if you don't take one. So, there you are."

"So I have no choice, then, sir?" Kazireth said, resigned.

"None whatsoever, Sergeant. Enjoy your month off. And don't show your face here again until your vacation is over. That's an order," Jinera said cheerily. "We'll hold the fort down until you get back."

Kazireth merely grumbled irritably and left the office.

---

Back at his apartment, Kazireth leafed through his mail, already bored out of his mind. I could be helping hunt down the terrorists who attacked the inauguration ceremony, or looking for Akamian insurgents, or even tracking down some bank robbers or something...instead, I'm doing this for the next month... he thought in frustration.

The last letter caught his eye. Karmicaria? Why would someone from there be sending me a letter? Kazireth quickly opened it, and read through the invitation. This is odd....I don't know who 'recommended' me for this, but what the hell....it'll be a better vacation than sitting at home watching yak polo....

---

Kazireth exited the vehicle that had delivered him to the house and looked around. Looks like some of the bad parts of Nalioka, if they were possessed by evil spirits that is, he thought wryly.

Kazireth was a lean man, tall for an Altanari at 6'2". His wiry, slim frame gave him an appearance of relative fragility that had deceived quite a few criminals in his time as an APF officer. The slightly thinning brown hair and a baby face contributed to that, but if someone bothered to look more closely, the flinty green eyes that greeted their gaze quickly disabused them of the notion that he was a weak man.

He walked up to the small group already waiting, a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "I guess you're the other 'specialists'?" he said.

Gerard had not taken any form of vacation away from work in the last 12 years. Since Bertha died. His job as a tome archivist was of very little interest to most people, and he had been intrigued by the notion that there was some task that required the urgent attention of a number of specialists that would include someone who spent their days in a sterile back room perusing ancient books. He had wanted to ask for more information somehow, but got the feeling from the tone of the missive that such would not be forthcoming unless he made the voyage to this ancentral home they referred to, so he had simply responded that he would make the voyage on the condition that his materials would be put in a quiet workspace; somewhere he could study in peace.

As he was being driven through the courtyard of his destination, his only impression that could be derived from the scene was one of purposeful neglect; that buildings and their grounds only reach this state when there was some reason to abandon them in the first place.

I wonder what made them leave it so. And what made them decide to return after it has already reached such a state? He thought quietly to himself. What could be in such a crumbling near ruin that would require the attention of a book-worm like me?

"Here we are, sir."

The sudden introduction of a human voice into this surreal scene of abandonment snapped Gerard out of his thoughts with a jolt.

"Ah yes, thank you."

Gerard got out of the car and took another look around as he stretched his legs, wondering if he might have been better off taking a vacation on a pleasure cruise instead of coming to this eerily decrepit castle.

Maybe it's not too late to turn back. I'm sure that they would understand that there has been some misunderstanding. Surely whatever ir wrong here would be more suited to someone more accustomed to exploration of unusual environs than someone like me. I wonder if I could catch one of those cruise ships I saw at the Karmicarian coast on the way in.

Gerard turned to ask the driver about it, but the car was already pulling away.

Damn

Feeling a somewhat familiar decade old sensation of being stranded in the world, Gerard grabbed his few things and headed up towards the front door to join the small group that had already assembled.

When Arianna D’Amato (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v213/Nathicana/NationStates/Characters/arianna_damato.jpg) chose to pursue a Masters in Folklore, her parents had been sorely disappointed. What sort of career could she possible gain from such a frivolous degree, they’d asked despairingly. She was, however, determined, and followed through with her intentions, eventually making a place for herself as a moderately popular fiction author. It had taken time, to be sure, but she had finally laid to rest her parent’s concerns in finding herself involved, quite by accident, in the debunking of a series of supposed hauntings of a large, historic estate, which turned out to be in fact, the work of a frightfully creative relative looking for a greater cut of the inheritance.

That was the turning point in her career, and her subsequent writings on the incident, and others that soon found their way to her door took her well past the meager success she’d enjoyed simply writing fiction. Her knowledge of the various monsters and odd happenings of lore an legend, paired with a healthy curiosity, lead her to the uncovering of fraud after fraud, all the more boosting her credibility, and offering more material for books.

Of course, with the fame and the money came a rather severe disillusionment. Part of why she’d been interested in folklore and fantasy to begin with was the admittedly girlish hope that somewhere perhaps, such things existed. Granted, the world had opened up quite a bit in recent years, and there had been things brought to light that she hadn’t thought possible before – new races, space travel, a surprising leap forward in technology – but it still wasn’t the same. The result was a rather cynical streak, and now, rather than the excitement of possibly discovering something real behind odd happenings, she found herself going forward with a more vengeful attitude for the charlatans who had so sorely disappointed her childhood desires for a taste of something real.

So when the letter arrived, she wasn’t terribly surprised, nor terribly excited. Still, it was an opportunity, and it had been a while since her last book. Money didn’t grow on trees, and her integrity prevented her from just making things up for the sake of income.

“Forest full of wolves? Oh I’ll just bet it is,” she said, sighing slightly. “At least they could come up with something more original. Besides, even if they are, the poor things are probably more scared of the people around there anyway. They’ve always been historically misunderstood creatures. A pity.”

At least all the travel arrangements would be taken care of, which saved her both time and effort. She sent her acceptance with a polite note of thanks, and prepared for her trip. One of her advantages she supposed, was being a woman. Many seemed to think she was more easily taken by fancy on account, or could be more easily fooled. Her unimposing middling height, coupled with her current lack of spousal attachments also lead some to believe that she was either more easily intimidated, or charmed, neither which was the case. After spending some time with her, those illusions were soon dashed.

Her dark penetrating eyes saw right through most of the fluff, and her sometimes acerbic manner put no few pretenders off their game. Though the occasional streaks of grey in her deep brown shoulder-length hair, and the lines in her olive complexion betrayed her age, she had taken no steps to hide them, feeling one ought to age as gracefully as possible, and that it added character rather than hid it behind superficial vanities. The fact that she was older in no way encumbered her ability to get around however. She had made it a point to keep in shape, although the vice of smoking was one she had yet to do away with. Her voice was still rich and vibrant, though her habit did give it a bit of an edge that it had lacked in her youth.

On her way there, she wondered idly just what sort of ‘similar specialists’ the group would encompass. She’d worked with various people over the years, some quite good at what they did, some absolute quacks. Arianna wasn’t too concerned about the lack of detail. Often there wasn’t much, all the more to prevent her from doing too much homework ahead of time, all the better to put her off-guard and attempt to throw her off. She was used to it by now.

The drive to the estate left rather a lot to be desired, and she made up her mind right there and then that this group had both money and influence to go to the lengths they had to create such a large area to ‘spookify’. The driver was absolutely no help at all, which irritated her slightly, but again, it came back to money. Everyone had a price, and his had obviously been paid quite well.

She shivered in spite of herself as she stepped out of the car, looking around with a critical eye. The place truly did have a dismal feel to it – no expense had been overlooked, right down to the misshapen trees. It was a master stroke to have them arrive at night, when the moon could assist in casting its bright light on all the various monstrous deformities while casting enough in shadow to give the entire place a horribly ominous feel.

“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant,” she murmured, shivering again. Whoever was behind this was most definitely an opponent to be reckoned with, and she looked forward to the upcoming competition.

They said she could see everything. She couldn't. Andrea could feel. She never saw the future but it was deep in her bones. She could feel a shocking blunt sadness, a rolling sadness building up slowly, a sadness that never left. Eventually she learned to attach these feelings to real hard facts. Rosalind would die soon, a series of accidents would lead Gregory to a breakdown, Desdemona's daemons would never leave her.

She couldn't feel everything. She couldn't get a read on Michelle. Michelle did her job well. She packed bags, she carried bags, she behaved herself. It never mattered that Michelle couldn't be read, it only mattered that Michelle couldn't read.

“What do you feel,” she asked tentatively.

“Just death.”

Nothing but death, decay everywhere, but you didn't need any skills. It could be seen. The car stopped and Michelle began to pull the bags out of the back. Andrea shook herself and walked out of the car.

“Hello,”she said to the house, making it very clear that she was not addressing anyone around her. She pulled out the cards and drew three.

Five of cups, King of Wands, The Emperor.

“Sorrow of the past. A bringer of light, self absorbed not seeing reality. Not seeing that we are all going to be controlled. This house is our puppet master.”

She sighed and gathered them all up. Michell handed her a small piece of fruit and made an eating motion.

“Of course,” Andrea replied.

Finëtirno nos Círdan did not arrive in the way expected. He sported a certain weary look, one that seemed to hang onto him like the battered leather and… velvet, it seemed… overcoat he wore hanging lightly from his shoulders as he walked with a slightly forwards leaning pace, not quite a hunch, but a definite stoop. He didn’t have the typical staff that came with most Menelmacari mages, neither the white version typically used by the military, or anything else similar. Instead, his effects contained a thick book of some sort, which appeared to be at once very old, and blank.

He’d actually arrived before the letters were sent, and been in the country for a few days. Despite that, he was after a fashion, working for the Menelmacari government, or at least, one of its senior officers, perhaps on a personal agenda, rather than a public one.

The simple answer for how he’d been there was that he’d been waiting for something to happen, and was one of a great deal of experts in any number of things; 'Just plain experts' might be the best way to describe such individuals. Another might be Loremasters.

Finëtirno was an expert in being right, one might say, but more importantly, rather than working as a consultant for unchallenging corporate agencies, he worked for the slightly comically named Menelmacari intelligence service known as MISSION. That was a deliberate James-Bond-ism of an acronym that had been conceived, some thought, at some kind of drunken party, and had generally supplanted the former, and still somewhat more official, name of ‘Handë,’ which, as humans tended to pronounce it very much like ‘handy,’ was also something of a joke name, though unintentionally so.

Which meant that he found himself following a vague prophecy of doom and the instructions of Celebrimbor, in mooching around Karmicaria, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible, while not actually looking too little like an elf. It was harder than it looked, even though he’d foregone the long hair that most elves sported, and adopted a more general ‘international’ fashion, including jeans and a blue Magnus Hesche and the Temple of Even More Doom T-shirt, under a more robust looking jacket of the same denim material as the trousers. The only thing that was really Menelmacari about his outfit were the shoes.

Loremasters, as a rule, had immense dignity and self-image. Finëtirno was no different, but he seemed to regard it in another manner, one that was willing to sideline the usual arrogance for a dressed-down approachability and foreign style.

He had a rucksack with the aforementioned book, and a whole bunch of other things, ranging from rolls of copper wire to small and elaborate looking scepters, bags of semiprecious stones, and the occasional electronic gizmo that seemed to serve no apparent purpose.

He leaned against the wall of the airport, smoking from a wooden pipe. The habit was somewhat irritating to many elves, but it wasn’t actually carcinogenic, and occasional drug use by such means wasn’t actually frowned upon, per se. Just, not done very much. Cleaning the lungs was slightly troublesome.

“Very good; drive on please,” he said, when picked up, oddly, with a distinct New York accent.

She watched the group from an upstairs window as they arrived, one by one. The thought of what was in store for them made a slight smile appear on her face. "Should we let them wait around a bit longer or let them in now?"

"It looks like there's a storm coming in, Ma'am. Perhaps we should let them in. Then again, a storm is nothing compared to what they will have to deal with once inside."

"Go down and greet our guests then. I'll be with you shortly."

"As you wish, m'lady." He quietly slinked out of the room and headed down the stairs. The same fear come over him: the fear that these people would meet an unfortunate fate. He paused for a moment before throwing open the large wooden doors. He looked out over the group of people that had assembled in the courtyard; clearing his throat to gain their attention, he intoned, "Welcome. Please come in and follow me," he motioned for them to enter, part of him hoping that they would decide against it and flee.

*************************

As you enter the Castle, you can see that the inside is just as bad, if not worse, than the outside. The walls in the main entrance are black with mold and decay, there are traces of what used to be paint and wallpaper, but those personal touches have long since fled or been consumed by whatever devoured the courtyard. The stairs leading up to the second floor look unsafe at best, nothing obvious, just more of the general feeling of dread. Looking down the long corridor, you see remnants of carpeting, doors off their hinges, and most of the windows have been boarded up. The man looks uneasy as he beckons you to follow him. He leads you into a room that looks like it once was host to grand balls, but the cobwebs have taken over, dust, and probably more mold, covers the remaining tables and chairs. There is an old piano in one corner of the room, but it looks more likely to produce bats than it is to summon music. In the middle of the room, what appears to be new furniture, has been carefully placed and arranged. There are two overstuffed sofas and a four overstuffed chairs. He asks you to take a seat. As you do, each of you are handed another letter; your instructions for your stay.
In this letter are the instructions for your stay. Please, follow them closely. To do otherwise may result in fatal consequences. The instructions are as follows:
1. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the castle grounds.
2. Once in your rooms for the night, do not leave. No matter what you hear or what happens.
3. Do not wander into the surrounding forest, day or night.
4. You accept that your stay may be dangerous, and will not hold your host responsible for anything unfortunate that might happen.

Sincerely,
Eliza Lauter

Finëtirno sat quietly, and tore the envelope open with an unceremonious rip of the end of the paper, tearing the envelope without tearing the letter. He let the letter fall out into his hand, and read it in almost a single glance, and decided that he wouldn’t be following those rules. For a start, it seemed very much like the host had little concern for their safety, and second, the emphasis, twice, on not leaving the castle’s grounds without specifying why aroused his curiosity.

Which might well have been the intention, of course.

Of course, as nothing had been said so far, it seemed that the host had no intention of providing information, but that hardly meant he shouldn’t question. For a start, there was still no inkling of what they were here for, aside from possibly some kind of publicity stunt or prank.

“So,” he said, at last, pulling his half-jacket half-frock coat off and slinging it over the back of the chair before sitting down with a slouchy look different from the usual ‘haughty’ posture of most elves, crossing his legs at the ankles, pushed out straight. “I’ve a question,” he said. When he spoke, it was a little different to the usual Menelmacari accent. “Why are we here? I mean, I’ve been told there’s ‘unusual circumstances’ here, but this doesn’t really explain anything more. So, are we going to have to find out what’s up for ourselves, or is someone gonna brief us?”

To say that the good doctor is suffering from a case of mixed feelings would be something of an understatement. Her first, most natural, reaction to the interior of the battered and disintegrating old house is one of repulsion. The Segments are quite intentionally far from being antiseptic and a little bit of dirt, even in blatantly artificial places like the Inbetweens in the Caves of Steel is accepted (as efficient life-support systems tend to move things around in interesting fashions, and besides, it gives the reason for the government to continue providing street and corridor cleanup as workfare rather than rely on robots to do it instead; crappy jobs are a motivator for moving forward in life) but outright decay is a different matter entirely. It's dangerously unhygienic rather than merely constructively so, with all the mold and inevitable airborne ick, plus 'Pendrans tend to be unusually touchy around mycotoxins ever since Cinder Airborne Neurodegenerative Mycotoxin became a flagship 'issue' for the Health Section. No matter how disgusted she is (or how much she starts wishing for a gelfilter), that disgust has to battle with her continued sense of girlish excitement at the wonder of such a thing, a haunted house done so well. It's spooky, and the adrenaline is sort of fun. Then there's a professional interest, which grows with the incongruence of the new furniture and the written instructions that obscure more than they tell.

"'Curiouser and curiouser,' cried Alice," she thinks to herself as she turns her attention from the instructions, gently opened and quietly read, towards the other members of the party. She's still a sociologist by trade and, well, here's a small group of people. Haunted-house sociology has been done to death--pun unintended--in her field; both on the 'legitimate' side of things concerning the reaction of small groups to environmental fears caused by an amalgamation of usually suppressed neuroses common to most civilized societies: necrophobia, claustrophobia in general as a metaphor for decreased freedom, nosophobia associated with decay, nyctophobia, agoraphobia, all sorts of fun stuff like that (including the ever popular panphobia); and on her preferred side of things, in that at least some cases hauntings could possibly be real based on a reasonable lack of common ground to build mass hysteria theories on, that perhaps different people deal with these situations in different ways due to extrasensory capabilities (something the hard-realists had to grudgingly admit as a possibility nowadays), her own pet theory that the 'real' sociological fears and pressures could easily add to the 'vibes' around a place and cement its haunting in the kind of reciprocal relationship she likes. It's a roundabout way of saying it, but intellectually she sees this as an outstanding opportunity to watch the people around her and how they act towards the situation. The elf, despite his avoidance (intentional or no) of stereotypical actions, still maintains a stereotypical air of control and nonchalance towards his unusual surroundings, a common defensive attitude. It would be interesting to see how everyone else reacts.

"My mother always said patience is a virtue. Obviously we can't do whatever it is we're here for with such little information, unless this is some psychologist's idea of an experiment." She doesn't bother repressing a shiver as she looks over the room; she's got nothing to prove and nothing to lose by admitting being creeped out on more than one level. "Anyway, I'm Tekla Kinyua, doctor of parasociology at the University of Stonozka. They don't like me advertising the 'para' bit, but that's why I'm here, I presume." She bows shortly before taking a seat with the same too-stiff this-is-important-but-I-don't-know-why air of someone sitting at a pew for their first Communion.

After reading the letter with the instructions, Kazireth snorted and placed it in his pocket. "Unless we're expected to sit here and twiddle our thumbs for the duration of our stay, which I doubt, these 'instructions' are rubbish. It seems like a classic case of CYA to me....someone wants us to figure out what's going on here, but wants to be able to say 'I warned them' if we get turned into deceased tourists instead of living ones. I doubt we're going to get much more information without digging it up for ourselves either, for the same reason."

Arianna gingerly covers her mouth and nose with a clean white handkerchief as she looks around the interior of the looming castle, wondering with increasing concern where on earth they plan on housing the group, and if the entire place is this decrepit.

Certainly not healthy. They really have put some time and effort into this one. That or found the place in horrific decay and added to the mix as suited their needs, though why someone would want to destroy such a potentially profitable location like this is beyond me. Then again, I suppose that’s part of what I’m here to find out. The why of it all.

She figures she’d feel uneasy letting outsiders in to see the shame of it all as well, so doesn’t take thee man’s demeanor – perhaps Butler? – too seriously, while not dismissing it entirely. Possibly part of the act, after all. A quiet sigh escapes her lips as she sees the new furniture, and gingerly accepts one of the four chairs as offered, reading over the letter with one brow arched curiously.

Fatal consequences, indeed. Do not leave the grounds, do not leave your rooms at night, do not visit the forest of dooooooom, and oh yes, in case we haven’t stressed this point enough, it’s dangerous here, and even though we’ve invited you, anything bad that happens is your own fault. Sweet merciful heavens, all the earmarks. Now to find out which of the mentioned areas actually houses unfortunate secrets, and which are red herrings. Who knows – the scope of this operation is large enough, they might all be hiding something of worth.

Timing would be important, granted. Were these the sorts that expected them to go right out to investigate, hence the obvious warnings not to, or were they more crafty, expecting their visitors to wait a bit more patiently? One way or the other, the show would start as their hosts had designed, and eventually, she would unravel what was behind all the spooky efforts. As had usually been the case, thus far, which was admittedly, somewhat of a disappointment. Just once perhaps, finding something concrete she could offer up as proof of something other than greed, or a need for attention, or revenge, or what not might be interesting if nothing else.

D’Amato sighs quietly, folding up the letter and stowing it safely within her jacket’s inner pocket, and looks over at the elf who speaks first, then at the Scolopendran, and finally the gentleman she was unfamiliar with.

“Perhaps it’s meant to ‘heighten’ the experience, and pique our interest,” she offers in response, with a slight shrug, then addresses the group as a whole. “Arianna D’Amato of the Dominion – folklorist, author, and debunker of fraudulent paranormal and other such happenings. A pleasure to meet you all. Perhaps, given the circumstances, introductions and a touch of background or areas of expertise might be helpful in best attempting to coordinate our efforts?”

It was late, much later than the other guests, when another guest arrived. Anachronistic, a dark carriage pulled by four equally dark horses pulled up the drive, and huddled figure driving them on. From the window, the white face of an elder man, perhaps in his early sixties, glanced out at the edifice before him.

Down from the back bench jumped two cloaked figures, their faces obscured, unloading two large trunks and setting them before the door. One, stepping to the carriage, deftly opened the door. From the dark interior a single foot, shod in a black leather riding boot, emerged, and with it followed the whole man. In black from head to toe, he wore old-fashioned clothes; even for someone of his age and nationality. A long black cloak obscured him, and under one arm he clenched a thick book.

The black servant-figure produce a white envelope from its robes, and proffered it to the man. Taking it in hand, he glanced over it, and visibly sighed.

Late, as usual...

With a snap of his finger the attendants jumped back onto the carriage, a bullwhip cracked, and the whole ensemble jumped away into the darkness- disappearing completely. Hoisting the two trunks with his bare hands, with seemingly minimal ease, he stepped to the door and was let in.

"Malach Ta'us, at the invitation of Ms. Lautner." he said, producing the invitation to the first steward of the house. "I am quite afraid the I missed the driver, but my transportation was adequate. I apologize for my late arrival."

To an observer, Malach Ta'us had a very regal bearing, with an aquiline nose, wavy grey hair, and well-tailored clothes. There was an air of knowledge and understanding about him, but there was also something... else, something that mad everyone around him a bit uneasy, something that disregarded even the most iron stomachs and stony hearts. The steward led him to the room whence all the other guests were gathered, reading there notes, and left him to introduce himself.

Looking around the room, and making what passed as a smile in certain company, he spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, excuse my lateness. Malach Ta'us, of Snefaldia, at your service." He removed his black cloak, revealing black pants, a black redingcote, and a deep ruby waistcoat, studded in cameo buttons. A jabot wrapped about his neck, grey lace that was a few shades darker than his hair.

"I hope that I haven't missed anything..." he said, looking down at a remaining envelope.

Gerard quietly takes a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. Opening the letter, he is struck by the fact that he has yet to hear the voice of anyone who either had anything to do with summoning them, or who resides here, though he seriously doubts that anyone does, given the condition of the interior. He is used to working in silence and with written instruction, but something about this situation seems a little . . . eerie. Maybe it's just the unusual surroundings, he tells himself, not used to being away from his home and office.

Gerard opens the envelope and quickly decides that it is not just from being away from home. Unsure if the repeated instructions to not go anywhere are there as honest warnings or just to frighten him, he errs on the side of caution and is frightened enough to listen to the warnings.

"Ummmm... So. Where would the rooms be? I've got to get my things set up. I can only assume there will be more instructions coming soon, or in our rooms?"

Gerard looks hopeful for some form of verbal response from someone, and at the same time it is obvious that he fears what the response may be. Are there further instructions? Do we have to find our own way around this place? Looking as though nobody had been through any of it for decades, are there even rooms set up for them? What the hell was he doing here anyways? What could they possibly need him here for that couldn't be dealt with from his office?

He stands expectantly, praying that someone will tell him there's been a mixup and a car is waiting to take him back to the pier to catch a cruise away from whatever caused them to warn against leaving their rooms at night or going into the forest ever.

"I'm quite curious about the rooms as well, seeing as we are not intended to leave them during the night. But my regards are less toward our accomodations and more on the subject of why, specifically, we are here."

Thirty years in the Archives, and they send me on some damn mystery work with people I don't know... Ta'us worked his fingers as he spoke, like some kind of nervous habit.

"Seeing as I have arrived in the middle of more formal introductions, I'll elaborate- Malach Ta'us, Senior Librarian, Occult wing, Grand Library at Serasarda. I am also a graded Arsathae of my faith, and as such you will rarely see this book out of my grasp." he petted the cover of the tome previously under his arm.

A certain wash fell over the elderly academic's mind as he tried to take in all the faces and dispositions of the others in the room. His common sense was trying to make sense of what his mystical motions were telling him... and for the moment, they magic of the medrahov were failing him. He frowned unconciously, confused that the sorcery he had always relied on was not telling him what he wanted to know.

There is more to this, perhaps, than they... no, we... understand.

Kazireth waited until a lull in the introductions, then levered himself off the wall he had been leaning against. "I may as well join the party....Arjan Kazireth, sergeant, Royal Police Force of Altanar. I don't have the supernatural credentials many of you seem to have, but investigation and personal defense are specialties of mine....maybe that's why I got invited here. I guess we'll find out, eh?" he finished, absentmindedly twirling an Altanari cigarette in his fingers. "I guess a smoke is out of the question...." his voice trailed off.

"I don't mind," the amber-eyed woman says with a shrug, her carriage suggesting she doesn't figure her opinion to carry all too much weight. "I'm not a mage or a caster or a psion or any of those things. I just study how paranormal phenomena affect societies. I'm something like a modern mythosociologist except, well," she glances towards D'Amato with a happy-go-lucky half-smile, "I tend to think modern mythologies may have some bit of truth to them."

She'd read a bit of Arianna's work, usually at the behest of her peers at the university, and generally thought of her as a credit to the paranormal investigation crowd, as much as that might annoy the Dominioner. Rather than put her off her parasociology (which was indubitably always her colleagues' intent), that there could be someone who could spot a fraud a mile off and yet not be able to touch paranormal phenomena that almost certainly have more validity except with the occasional stretch of logic and concomitant leap of faith indicates her own research to potentially hold merit. Real professionals, after all, don't believe in just any old daily tabloid tripe. Someone with the ability to nose out Scooby-Doo Old Man Petersens at the Abandoned Amusement Parks does a great service to the cause by finding what real investigators shouldn't bother with.

That it tends to dissuade the greater public from believing the possibly real things... well... it varies, and in Tekla's mind, that's arguably a good thing too, should her theory of fears being made manifest be true. They can't be very big monsters if no one believes in them.

Malach raised a bushy eyebrow.

"Just how many of us are sorcerors, psions, magicians, and the like? I certainly didn't expect anything magical, but if my years at the Library have taught me anything it's never to expect anything."

Arianna nods and smiles in acknowledgement to each person who introduces themselves, making mental notes of specifics, oddities (in her mind at least), and claims of power, magic, arcane studies and the like.

There were many in the Dominion who considered the simplest explanation for some of the incredible things some races were able to do as merely advanced technology and such. It was, she supposed, easier to go along with that line of reasoning. After all, before mankind understood how many scientific principles worked, it was labeled ‘sorcery’ and such. Time would tell. She didn’t want to maintain a closed mind to the possibilities of genuine arcane abilities, after all. It’s just that she herself had yet to witness such things that couldn’t be otherwise explained rationally.

As such, it would be rude to say the least, to cast aspersions on her current companions until such time they proved themselves to be legitimate, or frauds.

“An excellent suggestion, seeing as there are no objections,” she says in response to Kazireth’s query, taking out her own package of slim cigarettes, placing one gingerly between her lips, and offering one to any nearby who may wish to partake as well, while expertly lighting her own with a quick click of her simple silver lighter.

“I imagine,” she continues, tactfully exhaling away from the group in general, “that we will be given more details as our host desires. It might be thought of as poor manners not to allow them to present this …” Here she pauses, skipping quickly over the first word that comes to mind – charade – and going with a more acceptable term. “Ah, the ominous tale of this place in the manner they’ve chosen to do so, no? I’m certain there is a reason for all the mystery and unusual instructions.”

And by damn, I mean to find out just what – aside from whatever cock-and-bull fabrication our host intends to lay on us, once they appear. Not to mention rooting out the truth of some of my fellow guests. It wouldn't be the first time infiltrators were introduced as such to throw people off the scent.

Eliza listened outside the door as people introduced themselves and carried on with inane chatter. She sighed when she realized that they haven't been told where their rooms were or what it was that they were there for. After cursing softly, she opened the door and entered the room.

"Good evening. My name is Eliza. I'm sure that all of you have questions and they will be answered in time." she paused to smile at the group before continuing. "Now, I suppose you're all tired from the trip. You will find your rooms on the third floor. You names have been marked on the doors. Dinner will be served in an hour if anyone is hungry. If not, you may retire to your rooms. Does anyone have any questions?"

"Actually," the dark doctor peeks around from her overstuffed chair, "I have a couple." She sounds more like an excited schoolgirl on her first day of class than a well-read doctor of sociology from outer space; then again, she wouldn't be any good in the field if she weren't somewhat enthusiastic about it. "First, I was wondering what we're here for, although I sort of expect the answer on that one to be delayed."

She glances at the Dominioner. It would fit the idiom. "Beyond that, how long has the forest out there been like that, and this house here like this? What's the history we're walking into?"

“Buona notte, Signora,” Arianna replies, looking over the woman carefully. “And thank you for the information. I agree that further knowledge of why we have been asked here would be appreciated, if it could be managed sooner rather than later, however I am prepared to wait should patience be required.”

Nodding to the Scolopendran, she then looks back to Eliza with an air of expectation. “The good doctor here puts forward some interesting questions in the meantime - if that isn't too much bother.”

If not now, later. Perhaps over dinner, she thought, idly wondering how awkward a meal that would prove to be, and how each of her current companions would react.

Gerard was having a hard time escaping from his own thoughts, far too accustomed to being and working alone and in quiet with his books.

"P-p..uhhh pardon me, miss uhm... Eliza." he managed to stammer out barely audibly "but, uhhh...which way would we find where we would be eating? I can't sleep on an empty stomache. Bad for the memory."

He rather sheepishly ateps forward into the group for the first time, proffering a hand to whomever might take it

"Gerard Smythe, at your service. Cataloguer of books, and translator of texts. I have absolutley no idea what we're doing here or how I can help, but I'm happy to not be so confused alone."

Eliza smiled as the questions were asked. "I suppose I can't leave the question of why you are all here unanswered." She looked around for an empty seat. Spotting one, she walked over and sat down, making sure she was comfortable. Clearing her throat, she began to speak again. "As you all may have guessed, this place is very old and has been in disuse for many years now. The forest surrounding the castle wasn't always like that. It was once lush and full of life. Sadly, like everything else is the area, it began to die and it wasn't a slow death." she paused and watched her listeners. "Anyway, that's not what I'm here to tell you about. The reason you have all been called here is to make the attempt at helping us out. We've had reports of unusual activity happening here at all hours of the day. Given your backgrounds, you seemed to be the perfect individuals for the job. Well, I believe that's it for now."

"Not quite, ma'am. I believe you were asked about the history of this place and the surrounding area, and where dinner is going to be served."

"Ah, yes. If you're interested in the history of the castle, there is a library on the second floor. That should give you what you're looking for. Dinner will be served in the dinning room, which is down the hall, third door on the left. Now, if that is all, I will take my leave. Enjoy dinner and please remember to follow the guidelines that have been set out for your visit." she smiled and waved as she left the room before they could throw more questions at her.

Tekla glances back at the Dominioner. Indeterminate span of time in the past, but not 'practically forever?' Well, that is something of a suspicious mark. A library is a nice touch; if it's a proper spooky haunted house mansion, then that suggests loads of books, which would reduce the possibility of false documents. Still, people write book-sized false documents all the time; she could see an eccentric novelist practicing by writing up an entire diary full of notes of the absurd. If that's the case, then referring to a library could be most clever, as books take time to go over and wouldn't show inconsistencies as quickly as a story given by mouth. The downside to that strategy is that inconsistencies would be in writing and thus easily pointed out, rather than a verbal inconsistency that one could always just deny.

Either way, her curiosity happens to hold her attention a bit more than her hunger. As the host disappeared before more questions could be asked--another suspicious sign--Kinyua tries to attract Arianna's attention again with a glance of her amber eyes. "Well, that was remarkably unenlightening. My system's all thrown out of sorts by the travel and I don't think I could eat right now--lag, you see--so I think I'm going to nip on upstairs and look through that library, see if there's anything there which can shed light on things." She stands up. "Would anyone like to come with?" she asks, sounding far more enthusiastic than any reasonable person could be expected to.

Recieving the hostess and her story with a raised eyebrow, Malach had unconciously taken out a long pipe and begun to smoke as she talked. When the Scolopendran smoke he shook his head, and noticed for the first time that he was smoking. Pulling the pipe down, he smiled awkwardly and looked at the group.

"Very much, ma'amselle. I can't say I'm very hungry either."

The situation develops further, he thought. The fact that he had started smoking again was troubling, considering that he had quit almost three years ago, sold his pipe and sworn off tobacco. He wasn't even sure how it had gotten into his pocket, much less filled itself with his favorite cut.

But putting aside the oddities that seemed to be surrounding this entire affair, he perked upon thinking of the second floor library. Now there was something he could explain. The religion to which he belonged, not that anyone would know, kept the most detailed records and maintained libraries the size of small towns. Libraries were his element, and books, documents, parchment and anythign else were his blood.

His thoughts shifted to the other guests. Seemingly experts in their fields- paranormalists, academics, translators... Malach was not so put off about having been assigned here anymore. It seems he was among kindred spirits, and that his expertise (whatever that counted for) would be understood.

“You know, Miss Kinyua, I believe I would,” Arianna replies with a smile, taking out a small metal case, lined on the outside with a sturdy padded brocade and extinguishing her cigarette in it before getting to her feet.

“Thank you again, Miss Eliza – I think I will however, take you up on your gracious offer of dinner. In an hour, I believe you said? Ample time to take a look about, and get settled in at least.”

She makes no sign that she had noticed the signals of course, nor lets on to how curious she is at them, though at the first opportunity that the two of them are sufficiently away from the others, or three with the additional company of Malach, she whispers quietly.

“Did you have anything specific in mind?”

"'Doctor,'" is all Tekla has to say--albeit with a pleasant smile and cheerful voice--before she finds some room in the dilapidated hallway. It's not all too hard to get some personal space when the entire place seems to be a health risk. "It's pretty simple. If there is information in their library, it's either internally consistent and thus more likely to be true or else inconsistent and more likely to be false. Inconsistencies in the general story happens all the time, even for normal history, but things like dates, events, gruesome details... those only vary over a much smaller range, really.

"So I say we go upstairs and look for things hard to falsify and yet high in fact content," she says conspiratorially, "histories, journals, diaries, that sort of thing. Handwritten notes are extremely hard to fake, and the architecture suggests a Western society advanced enough to keep its dates straight, at the very least. If they're sloppy and this turns out to be a hoax, we'll have it in writing. If not..." She shrugs and grins behind closed lips. "Well, then, maybe we're here for a real reason."

Malach nodded.

"You are forgetting, though, that in a house of this type we are more likely to encounter general knowledge, or literary collections, in a library... hence it is a library. If you are intending to recover personal correspondences, journals and other things of that nature, I would suspect that such information would be kept in personal desks and studies."

Glancing around the archaic and ill-cared corridor, he smirked.

"And if stereotypes have any basis in truth, I would wager there are many hidden respositories of more... sensitive lore in this building. Of course, there is no harm in performing field work. To find the heart, one must first penetrate the flesh."

"And if the library just has old copies of National Geographic and Who's Who In Karmicaria, it would make no sense for either potential hoaxers or potential people needing aid to say there's more information there. Unless it happens to be some sort of 'cunning' trap." She smirks, then glances between the two speaking with her. "I don't know about you, but I've always found Christie novels way too overly contrived. My vote is still for hitting the library, dodging the 'dormant bear in the poisoned suit of medieval armor that shoots arrows that dislodge boulders from the ceiling' traps, seeing if there's anything of interest there, then start betting on the darker horses like secret passageways and portals to worlds on the border of sanity. Somewhere between those two points we can go raid a study, assuming it and the library aren't one and the same room."

She starts to turn to go. "At any rate, we aren't going to get any questions answered here..."

OOC: I apologize to everyone for taking so long to get a post up. I also apologize for the lack of quality to this post. If there are any questions, email me, telegram me or catch me on #nationstates on IRC.

At this point, I'm going to assume that those who are making their way to the library, are doing so. It's an uneventful walk. Nothing but old, decaying furniture and paintings to see. So, on to the library.

The Library

As you enter the library, you see that it is in a better state than the rest of the house. The furniture is in pristine condition and there is no sign of dust, cobwebs or decay that is present everywhere else. All four walls have bookcases that stand from floor to ceiling. The books that fill the cases are in various states. Some look new, others look as though they've been read over and over again. There are magazines, leather bound books of various sizes and one case that is filled with plain black books that have no title on the spine. They look like journals.

Looking around the room, you see that there are three desks set up, one of which is littered with papers, books and pens. The second one has what seems to be a rather new and expensive looking computer set up on it. Beside the computer is an ashtray, with what seems to be a cigarette that was put out recently. The computer is still on. The last desk has a few of books sitting on it, open. Set up on a table in a far corner is a table with a fax machine on it.

Hanging over the only window in the room is a painting. Upon further examination of the painting, you notice a plaque at the bottom of it that reads "The Bathory Family.". There are five people in the painting; two male, three female. No names have been listed.

Parton Enyo was keenly aware of his tardiness, partially because he prided himself on his consistent punctuality, and partially due to the fact that he had been delayed by yet another assassination attempt. It always irritated him when people tried to kill him. He knew that taking it personally was unwise given his constant need of objectivity in his judgments, but he never quite got the hang of being objective about the few folks who wanted him to stop breathing. Not that he actually breathed, being an android, but his detractors probably would not see that as an important detail. If they were willing to ignore his sapience, his unconventional energy supply wouldn't faze them in the slightest. At least not in any positive way. He was also keenly aware that his position as a Combustian priest in a clergy dominated almost completely by women made him a significant target, and that, on the whole, he was better off leaving HotRodia for a while.

As he strode toward the castle, he observed the area, making special note of the general lack of energy that was so overwhelmingly present in his home country. This place was clearly in a phase of decline, and that fact only grew more clear as he came near the castle. This feudal homestead was so inundated with darkness that he had no doubt that it would be prohibitively expensive to illuminate it fully. He had faith that The Engine That Drives The Universe could manage it with ease, of course, but also knew that Supercarious was capricious with his choices of when to intervene in human affairs. The ancient car god preferred to let humanity develop and grow on its own as it ended its teenage years.

Parton wondered if he had arrived too late, and paused, unsure as to how he should gain the attention of the person who made this their dwelling.

"See? No bears or poison darts." The dark-skinned woman is positively chipper, the bounce in her step approaching a skip as she enters the library. This is exactly what she was looking for. Now, it would be reasonable to assume that should there be some sort of oddity in the area, and it's documented, the documentation would be read as much as possible in order to glean some sort of understanding of the issues involved. With that in mind, she picks up a few of the most worn-looking journals, takes them over to the desk littered with papers, sets them out, and starts skimming to see what she's found between the paper notes and the journals. After a moment, she glances over her shoulder at the others.

"Well, uh, I'll let you guys know if I find anything."

So what's the first thing a spacer heads for in a room of mixed technologies? The oldest, mustiest journals she can find--the oldest, mustiest conventional book will be next, should the journals reference such a thing. She happily leaves the still-on and recently used computer, and perhaps the most reasonable source of immediately available information, for someone else to deal with. She's looking for something with a bit more history to it; it's doubtful this place sunk this low in just the span of a hard drive.