NationStates Jolt Archive

If there was any place that was devoid of light, the Moor would be the quintessence of lightlessness, the purified extract that flowed from a succession of distillations. The fog flowed about the twisted, dead trees, ghostly fingers of grey coursing like the grasping souls of the dead, lurching mindlessly through darkness and murk. The boggy, springy ground of the moor was covered in scrubby grasses, blackened, twisted vines, and open, gasping pools of greyish mud and stagnant water. And at the very centre of this vast exanse of emaciated, soggy marshland, was, like an obscene blemish on its flat, smoothness, a hill that stuck quite suddenly out of the black moor. Because of its relative height compared to the rest of the moor, the Hill commanded an excellent view of the surroundings - or rather - the few hundred metres of wafting fog that could be penetrated by a strong light. And upon this singular hill there stood a great black mansion, built there in the aftermath of the Ecollapse when the Moors first formed, and staying there, strong and imposing ever since.

Upon the Mansion was placed a great Light, powered by pulses of electricity, and it canted back and forth, ever casting its white beam across the Moor, illuminating the coursing fog and the ghostly workers that moved ghoulishly at its edge. The Light was ever bright, constantly lighting up the cold, dark fog, which stayed dark and muffling even as the world outside was bright and warm.

And within this mansion dwelt a man, and a girl. The man was her father, and he was very old. His name was Dr. Cornelius Mortensen, and the girl was named September...

http://img.villagephotos.com/p/2003-8/359341/september.jpg

[ okay, here's the deal: I'm trying to make my intro posts, but it requires someone walking around, being introduced to my nation. I don't know how else to put it, but if anyone would like to, please you're welcome to RP with me. ]

A few people around the world recieved letters one day in November. It was written in a thin, spidery sort of cursive, in black ink. The letters were written on fine paper, embroiderered and decorated with a complex twisting black ink pattern on the borders.

It read:

Deare Sir or Madame:

The wealthy Mr. Mortensen, to celebrate his eightieth birthday, is giving awaye large summes of his incalculable wealth to all who inquire at the mansion. You are invited to staye for three nights and three dayes at Mortensen Estate. At precisely the end of the third daye, you will be given your share.

With utmost regards,
The Staff of Mortensen Estate

Ashford Matric skimmed through his mail slowly, as the royal librarian he often recieved letters from seemingly random people, inquiring about various books. However one caught his eye, as it wasent directed to his office, and instead it was forworded from his home address. From behind his glasses, he narrowed his gaze on it with curiosity, slicing it open with his silver letteropener. Ashford had no idea whom Mr. Mortensen was, nor how he had aquired his address, but he wasent one to turn down an offer such as this. With a sly smile, he removed his cel phone from his pocket and randomly chose an assistant librarian via speed dial. Ashford packed quickly as soon as the preperations were made, he hoped that Zagoth wouldent be angry for this, but he was sure he would understand.

(OOC: Ashford's image (http://www.angelfire.com/d20/hakushaku/lib.jpg)
I cant draw at all, and I forgot to trim my image choice down, so be warned, the file is rather large.

*bumpalumph*

Curiouser and curiouser ...

Giovanna read over the letter, intrigued by the archaic writing style, spidery script, and the unexpected offer.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, she quietly packed her bags, and set off for the destination indicated in the missive.

Upon arrival, she felt a shiver run up her spine. The landscape was, for lack of a better word, dead. Cold. She'd never quite seen the like, and she found it ... unsettling. Seeing the hill looming up from the flat wasteland of the moor gave her no comfort, nor the great mansion built atop it.

Giovanna shivered again, and not just from the chill of the fog.

The light that shone down felt as cold as the rest of the place, casting odd shadows as it swayed. She thought she could see movement, here and there, at the edge of her vision, but always the fog seemed to roll in, obscuring the sight of whatever lurked there.

Filled with a nervous anxiety, she made her way quickly to the door, rapping the great knocker there with a delicate hand.

Oh please ... oh please answer soon. I feel so ... so ...

Afraid. She waited anxiously for the door to open, fingers twisting nervously around the handle of her luggage, the letter of invitation now crumpled in her tight grip.


http://home.mchsi.com/~ketri/wsb/links/giovanna_renaldi.jpg

RAPPP RAPP RAPP

The knock upon the heavy oaken door was hollow and echoing, and a great black bird alighted upon a branch and cawed, staring out at Giovanna from one great yellow eye. The mansion was built in great old Gothic style, with pointed arches and tall black iron bars and crosses. White curtains obscured a long row of dark windows on the tall, long roof. Running down either side were vast windows approximately fifteen metres tall and seven metres wide each.

The doors, quite unexpectedly, slid open inwards with no more sound than a faint, low squeak. Almost as if he had been waiting for her, a man stepped out of the dark shadows behind the door, a ghost of gloom still shadowing half of his face, obscuring Giovanna's vision.

His voice was low and rustling, nary more than a scarce whisper and he seemed to have excellently coiffed glossy black hair.

"Ah. Precisely on time. Come, enter. The Master awaits..."

*bump*

Ashford was totally calm as he exited the small rental plane, but on the inside he wanted nothing more than to smash the pilots head through the window. Not only had the ride been greatly uncomfortable, but the pilots tardiness and inexpierience had led to him being late. It was only by about thirty minutes, so he decided he wouldent ask Zagoth make up some charges to arrest the pilot on. As his shoes touched the mist wrapped soil, a chill washed over him unlike any he had felt before. It took a lot to emotionally effect him like that, but he quickly shook it from his head and walked toward the only building in sight. Like a fluid, the mist danced around his feet, obscuring the ground, Ashford's ability to see in the dark was far greater than most's, but even he had trouble with fog such as this. Within a few minutes he reached the front door, taking the knocker and hitting it to the door softly twice.

He was likewise greeted by the same pale, strange butler in fine black clothing.

"Come this way sir. The servants will take your things."

He was led into a long, wide hall, on either side of which stood a monumental portrait of some person in fine, aristocratic garb, and under each was a burnished bronze nameplate. The men were hung on the left side, whilst the women were on the right. It began with the earliest nameplates, and the oldest paintings: 35 - 100 A.Ec., 75 - 150 A.Ec., ...

The light was low, gloomy, and through the windows, filtered through as long blueish rays, pasing through the meandering ghosts of dust particles, dyeing all a dark shade of blue.

A few people around the world recieved letters one day in November. It was written in a thin, spidery sort of cursive, in black ink. The letters were written on fine paper, embroiderered and decorated with a complex twisting black ink pattern on the borders.

It read:

Deare Sir or Madame:

The wealthy Mr. Mortensen, to celebrate his eightieth birthday, is giving awaye large summes of his incalculable wealth to all who inquire at the mansion. You are invited to staye for three nights and three dayes at Mortensen Estate. At precisely the end of the third daye, you will be given your share.

With utmost regards,
The Staff of Mortensen Estate
Lord Maglor, Crown Prince of Menelmacar, got a letter.

"Hmm. Mother likes incalculable wealth. Maybe it would be a good birthday-present."

He responded:

Dr. Cornelius Mortensen:

I received your letter, and found it intriguing. Therefore, I accept your offer. I will arrive soon.

Sincerely,
Lord Maglor nos Fëanor

OOC: Needed an excuse to jump in. ^_^

Is Cornelius a descendent of Viggo? ;)

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

Sam's car pulled to a halt on the gravel driveway, fitting in amongst several other, rather more expensive cars. Although Sam had worked for one of the most secretive government funded rganizations in Slutbum Wallah, they still refused to give him a company car with a mileage below that of a 747 aircraft and colour scheme more stylish than "Rust Brown".

He got out, kicked the car a couple of times, and faced the house. It had been almost impossible to find for something so impressive. Even the peasants in the local village had denied it's existence. He shrugged, walked up to the door, and knocked three times.

Jamie Wittlebach wondered if the map was right. She wasn't quite sure this was right place. She returned to the map, and decided that she might as well ask.

It looked like uncle Alexanders place in the fog, well slighly. She parked the rover she had leased next to the other few cars and wandered up the walk to the mansion.

Her green eyes looked at the pile with a somewhat decerning eye. The red head might have been a spoiled brat, who spent more time dating the boys from the 'right' families of Boston than in the studio, but she had gotten her degree.

She noticed a figure at the doorway knocking...

OOC:

Menemacar: No. There's got to be plenty of folk with the last name 'Mortensen'.

IC:

The guests were ushered in in the same quiet, formal manner that the others were, and shown to their rooms, on the second floor. Atop the ornate, white marble staircase was a long, long corridor that stretched from one nether end of the mansion to the other. Like the others, it was lit by a strange, dim, moonish light that filtered in ghostily from many translucent white windows. Everything was a strange pallor of grey, as if the dust had not simply fallen there, but had grown and left to fester and accumulate over the centuries. There were a few stray, loose cobwebs running the length of some of the decorative vases, the spiders having long disappeared into oblivion. The corridor was lined with doors, each with brass numbers, from one to one hundred thirteen, each gilded in faded gold and ivory white.

Within every room was practically a single separate house of its own, complete with tables, chairs, bathrooms and an immense, cold bed, the sheets and thick comforters seemingly no protection against the gloomy coldness that wafted through the air. It seemed to grasp, like a dark claw reaching out from the shadows, and penetrate straight through to the marrow where it stayed, mouldering and freezing to the core. No matter where they went there was this peculiar darkness lurking, everpresent.

They were led by curious, bent men, with pallid, slightly wet brows and sunken eyes that gleamed dully, and saw many things, obviously quick and observant, but at another moment, were dark and cold and unseeing, like the eyes of a fish. Upon entering the rooms, the guests found their luggage lying quite neatly, as if having appeared there - as if part of the rooms themselves and not brought.

There was a note upon the little rosewood desks in each of the rooms.

It read:

Dinner will be served at 6:30 PM sharp. Please attend.

Giovanna started at the sound of the bird, her heart racing. She jumped again as the door swung open and the man appeared. She swallowed nervously, one hand coming up to brush back any stray hairs out of habit.

"Th-th-thank you," she manages, her eyes slightly wide as she grips her luggage with a white-knuckled grip. She follows him in, no small amount of trepidation filling her as she looks around. She tries to smile with genuine thanks to the servant that comes to take her bag, though her lips don't seem to be wanting to cooperate.

She distracts herself with studying the portraits as she, and the other newcomers are ushered along, though she doesn't yet dare speak to them.

When she reaches her room, she murmurs her thanks, then closes the door, sinking back against it in relief, rather unnerved by the place, the people who lived here, and the eerie feeling she just couldn't shake. The room, though luxurious, held the same feeling of darkness and gloom, and she shivered as she looked around.

Seeing the note on the desk, she picks it up and reads it, quickly checking her watch.

It seems I've some getting ready to do, regardless. Three days ... only three days. It will be worth it.

Giovanna freshened up, changing into an appropriate dress for the evening. She decided she'd arrive five minutes before the appointed time.

The President of Your Nickname, Victor Hesprings, was opening his mail. Reading the letters one by one, he was rather bored and uninterested. Then he came across a letter with a return address of The House on the Hill... He opened it carefully and read.

"I'm already rich beyond compare... But you can never have too much money..." He smirked, and prepared to leave for the destination said in the letter.

He actually had to drive HIMSELF to the manor, in which was in the middle of no where. He was appalled that there wasn't a Limo Renting service around here, and that he had never thought to bring a Motorcade...

He pulled up to the house, parking his rented black sedan among the other luxury cars. Walking to the door, he got such a chill. Something about the Manor took his calm composure away from him. He knocked 3 times...

A tall pale suited man opened the door, and stepped to one side to allow the president in. Once he was inside the president looked around the massive hall he now found himself in. The tall man slowly closed the door, turned to the president, and in a deep voice said "Come this way sir, the master has been expecting you" The president followed the man down a dingy corridor and into a drawing room. He offered the president a brandy, the President took the glass and sipped the brown liquid. "Have a chair" The man pointed at a large armchair infront of a blazing fire, the president obediently sat down and crossed his legs. "I'll go and fetch the master" The man said and left. The president stared around the room, lit only by the light of the fire, and two candles. Mounted on the far wall was a collection of rifles, and stuffed deer heads adorned the other. In hte centre of the room were three large armchairs. A chess table occupied on corner, and a large drinks cabinet the other. The president finnished his brandy, and approched the cabinet to help himself to another. Minutes later the doorhandle begain to twitch, and the tall butler opened the door, and stepped in "presenting the master

OOC: Hey! Norsie - this is my RP, remember? I give the descriptions and tell you what my characters do. ME! Not you! ME!

About fifteen minutes after each guest had been ushered into their respective rooms, there was a chime, and a low gonging sound, like the hollow moan of a great bronze bell, and for three times it sounded forth. Then it fell silent, and all was quiet once more, still as death. Then, faintly, just light whisperings upon their ears, came the music of a distant organ playing a melancholy tune somewhere far away in some unknown wing of the vast mansion.

After a time, as their noses became accustomed to the place, they noticed a faint smell in the air, the strange antiseptic odor of an operating theatre, commingling with the delicate aroma of embalming fluids...

Simultaneously, all around the mansion, there was a clatter and a ring and a bang and a crash and a gonging as the clocks struck five. Five rings, five gongs from every grandfather clock in the mansion, all going at once. GONG.... GONG... GONG... GONG... GONG. It drove back the clinging, clawing gloom and silence with the clanging and clatter, but as soon as the clocks were finished with their cries, the silent, muffling quietness rushed back, like water flowing to fill a vacuum.

Silence.

Too late to join, I think. However I'm very interested in joining, if that's possible...

Jamie Wittlebach looked at the room and thought...
Time to fire the house keeping staff... She had grown up in such buildings so the size and comforts didn't bother her as much as the fact that the room didn't seem to have a fire place...and that the chill was so bad. She was on edge, and prefered to take a quick shower and dress into a evening dinner dress. Then decided to put a large shawl over her to keep back the chill.

After that didn't work, she put on the dreaded school marm dress that looked more like something out of a costume ball than a woman would desire to wear, but it covered her arms and seemed to push back the chill...

Before dinner, she walked out into the hall looking for a servant or the butler. She hadn't found a call button or pull anywhere...

The sound was a bit off, and the smell reminded her of chemistry class. And Dent Michals...He was rich, a geek, but damn did he have a large... Her thouhts were brought abruptly to a halt by another thought...why would you build a structure that you can't look out of?

OOC: I thought you/norse were owned by the same player. But the post style is diffrent. Second, the delciate smelll of embalming fluid? Ah I'm not sure about that one.

Since he had a free hour until dinner, and he didnt feel much like looking around the house after that plane ride, Ashford decided to see if he could dig anything up on this house or its owner. After making sure his luggage was all in place, he removed a few books and set them on a nearby desk. He knew that it was only a bit after five, his headache from the loud chiming still lightly throbbed. Hoping that he had brought enough research materials, he began to flip through the first volume. He couldent help but be disturbed by this whole situation, seemingly random people invited to a strange house to recieve a large sum of money, it just didnt add up to his mind.

*tag*
Darnit! Finally a horror RP - and I am at work when it starts!

The Prince of Menelmacar arrived around 5:30... he'd had a heck of a time finding the place. The nearest landmark was a small village, where his ship had dropped him off, but Lord Maglor had come by gravcar from there. On the way he'd inquired with MISSION what they could find about the house or the Mortensen family. Nothing... no records... not even images on satellite, despite the fact that Elenpalantíri must certainly have passed over this place on hundreds of occasions over the past century or so.

He pulled up outside the House, parked somewhere out of the way of any possible traffic, and got out of the car... the sun was hidden behind roiling, angry clouds, and a cold wind whipped across the plains; Maglor's hair, cape, and robes billowed about him as he looked around. Rather drab and creepy place. Dark... intriguing.

Slowly, he climbed the steps to the front door, and knocked, three times... it seemed to echo within, and a shiver went down the Noldo's spine.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/sirithil/sirithilnosfeanor.gifLady Sirithil nos Fëanor
Elentári of the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar
Regent of Lavenrunz, Chancellor of CENNA
"We have known freedom's price. We have shown freedom's power. We will see freedom's victory."
~US President George W. Bush
We Love the Iraqi Information Minister (http://www.welovetheiraqiinformationminister.com)
Clicky-clicky!

OOC: Well, it looks like it's not too late anyway...

The young, little elven maiden walked through the garden of the creepy house, in her hand the invitation that was sent to her by the mysterious Mortensen. She was dressed in her traditional blue garments, adorned with delicate jewelry, her bare feets almost silent as she walks through the fallen leaves. Her features were beautiful, almost angelic, enmarked in the soft strands of silvery hair, the heritage of her Sindarin forefathers.

"This house looks haunted, almost alive, one could say", she says to herself, trembling a little. She wasn't afraid of the dead, anyway. Most elves didn't fear tthe spirits of the fallen mortals, but Wraiths, Banshees and alike were unnerving opponents.

The leaves reacted at her will, forming a whirlwind around her, as to comfort and protect her from any danger. Her breath formed a little cloud of steam in front of her mouth, "Thanks", she whispered to the flying leaves. It's cold out here, better get inside.

Sam considered the contents of him room. It appeared to well furnished but it seemed that whoever had designed the furiniture didn't really understand the purposes of their use. The desk sat against the wall appeared as solid and useful as any other desk, until you tried to use it. The drawers were simply raised panels of wood, the pens were all empty and the paper was attached to the wood. The sheets on the bed were stiff as cardboard and the mirror was just plain freaky. When you moved in front of it, it took several seconds before the mirror showed you're movement, promising to make shaving a real pain.

OOC: Okay! Too many people now - I'm only one person! Umm... RP entries are now CLOSED.

Jamie Wittlebach looked at the room and thought...
Time to fire the house keeping staff... She had grown up in such buildings so the size and comforts didn't bother her as much as the fact that the room didn't seem to have a fire place...and that the chill was so bad. She was on edge, and prefered to take a quick shower and dress into a evening dinner dress. Then decided to put a large shawl over her to keep back the chill.

After that didn't work, she put on the dreaded school marm dress that looked more like something out of a costume ball than a woman would desire to wear, but it covered her arms and seemed to push back the chill...

Before dinner, she walked out into the hall looking for a servant or the butler. She hadn't found a call button or pull anywhere...

The sound was a bit off, and the smell reminded her of chemistry class. And Dent Michals...He was rich, a geek, but damn did he have a large... Her thouhts were brought abruptly to a halt by another thought...why would you build a structure that you can't look out of?

OOC: I thought you/norse were owned by the same player. But the post style is diffrent. Second, the delciate smelll of embalming fluid? Ah I'm not sure about that one.

At first glance she found the hall entirely deserted, lifeless, devoid of movement. Then, as if he had been waiting for her the entire time, the strange pale serving-man approached from behind her and spoke in his disquieting, low whispery voice.

"Does madam require something?"

Since he had a free hour until dinner, and he didnt feel much like looking around the house after that plane ride, Ashford decided to see if he could dig anything up on this house or its owner. After making sure his luggage was all in place, he removed a few books and set them on a nearby desk. He knew that it was only a bit after five, his headache from the loud chiming still lightly throbbed. Hoping that he had brought enough research materials, he began to flip through the first volume. He couldent help but be disturbed by this whole situation, seemingly random people invited to a strange house to recieve a large sum of money, it just didnt add up to his mind.

Something caught his eye. There, upon the largely-empty bookcase, stood a large tome, bound in dark red leather and gold, lightly coated by a thin patina of greyish dust. It was bookmarked by the velvet strip of cloth in a certain place.

The Prince of Menelmacar arrived around 5:30... he'd had a heck of a time finding the place. The nearest landmark was a small village, where his ship had dropped him off, but Lord Maglor had come by gravcar from there. On the way he'd inquired with MISSION what they could find about the house or the Mortensen family. Nothing... no records... not even images on satellite, despite the fact that Elenpalantíri must certainly have passed over this place on hundreds of occasions over the past century or so.

He pulled up outside the House, parked somewhere out of the way of any possible traffic, and got out of the car... the sun was hidden behind roiling, angry clouds, and a cold wind whipped across the plains; Maglor's hair, cape, and robes billowed about him as he looked around. Rather drab and creepy place. Dark... intriguing.

Slowly, he climbed the steps to the front door, and knocked, three times... it seemed to echo within, and a shiver went down the Noldo's spine.

Boom. Boom. Boom.


There seemed to be a groan from deep within the house, and a small group of black birds or bats (it was difficult to tell in the obscuring fog) took flight and had soon disappeared into the ghostly greyness. The great searchlight passed back and forth, a thin, pale ray querulously dancing through the gloom, somehow accentuating it with the contrast. It, too, was absorbed by the muffling, silent grey wall, fading off to nothingness in the darkness.

Slowly, with nary a sound, the great oaken doors swung inwards and Maglor was greeted by a tall, thin, pale man with a curious bend in his back, wearing a fashionable suit of all black.

"Ahhh... Lord Maglor nos Fëanor. We have been expecting you. Come in."

The man began to lead the elfish lord through the long, gloomy hall, their long shadows dancing upon the dusty marble floor. The pale electric lamp, already lit, failed to bring much illumination, and feebly cast its glow, accentuating the dancing gloom between the old suits of armour and the slightly macabre procession of portraits of deceased family members.

The young, little elven maiden walked through the garden of the creepy house, in her hand the invitation that was sent to her by the mysterious Mortensen. She was dressed in her traditional blue garments, adorned with delicate jewelry, her bare feets almost silent as she walks through the fallen leaves. Her features were beautiful, almost angelic, enmarked in the soft strands of silvery hair, the heritage of her Sindarin forefathers.

"This house looks haunted, almost alive, one could say", she says to herself, trembling a little. She wasn't afraid of the dead, anyway. Most elves didn't fear the spirits of the fallen mortals, but Wraiths, Banshees and alike were unnerving opponents.

The leaves reacted at her will, forming a whirlwind around her, as to comfort and protect her from any danger. Her breath formed a little cloud of steam in front of her mouth, "Thanks", she whispered to the flying leaves. It's cold out here, better get inside.

She arrived just a few seconds after Lord Maglor, and the servant gave but little notice to her, save for a short dip of his head that served as a bow. The vast doors quietly slid shut behind them as they were led into the mansion.

At first glance she found the hall entirely deserted, lifeless, devoid of movement. Then, as if he had been waiting for her the entire time, the strange pale serving-man approached from behind her and spoke in his disquieting, low whispery voice.

"Does madam require something?"

Jamie almost jumped out of her skin. But her breeding took over, "Yes, I need either a room with a working fireplace or a bedwarmer before I retire. The rooms have gotten a very bad case of the damp. Also, is there a library or a perhaps a long gallery* in the manor? I would prefer to spend my time before dinner stretching my legs."

The tone was almost regal, as she peared down on the servant with her aquline nose. Her taned face at odds with the dark blue dress and high collar...Only her flowing red hair seemed to soften the look.

(*feature of 15-17th century english manor houses I don't know what model your using.)

Quite sure that he had read through each of these books at least twice in recent years, Ashford closed them and decided to check the scarce selection of the rooms furnished cases. Starting with the large red volume, he moved it to the desk, dropping it aside the others. After wiping the faint residue of dust from his palms, he began to flip through the pages slowly, stopping at the place of the bookmark.

OOC: My character is still waiting outside, as I'm disreguarding that post of Norse Lands, sence you yelled at him, and I don't think you're the same nation...

The girl was just standing in the lobby, looking at the servant "Good night, Sire. My name is Lúthien, or at least people call me so. I was invited by Monsieur Mortensen. I'm wondering if I can see him now", she says with a low, soft voice, her words sounding like the chant of a spell.

OOC: Your Nickname - you've been led inside along with the others. Sorry if I misled you.

Jamie almost jumped out of her skin. But her breeding took over, "Yes, I need either a room with a working fireplace or a bedwarmer before I retire. The rooms have gotten a very bad case of the damp. Also, is there a library or a perhaps a long gallery* in the manor? I would prefer to spend my time before dinner stretching my legs."

The tone was almost regal, as she peared down on the servant with her aquline nose. Her taned face at odds with the dark blue dress and high collar...Only her flowing red hair seemed to soften the look.


The servant nods.

"Madam, did you not see the electric heater?" he asks, gesturing at the door.

"There is a control panel built into the desk, which controls the heating apparatus of the room. Adjusting the thermostat will cause the room to heat up or cool down as Madam requires. In the East Wing there is a large library - the guest library - which has entrances on three different floors. In the South Wing, however, the Master's library is strictly prohibited. Madam will find a smart-map in the desk, which will help her around."

Taking another deep stare, seemingly lidless, cold eyes connecting hers, the servant whispers in an ominous tone.

"Master wishes me to tell the guests - that, while the mansion is mostly free to all guests, the Crypt under the basement of the West Wing is forbidden under all circumstances, as are Master and Mistress' quarters and their studies. There is also a laboratory which is also forbidden. Master expresses the greatest of regrets, but Master's family is extremely private, and Master wishes the guests would grant him the same respect as he does they. Master tells me to ask Madam to tell the others of this."

The servant bows and glides away.

Quite sure that he had read through each of these books at least twice in recent years, Ashford closed them and decided to check the scarce selection of the rooms furnished cases. Starting with the large red volume, he moved it to the desk, dropping it aside the others. After wiping the faint residue of dust from his palms, he began to flip through the pages slowly, stopping at the place of the bookmark.

The page was written on yellowed paper, brittle with age and yet still fine and smooth. It seemed to be an essay or article of sorts, on human anatomy. The former reader had apparently stopped on the page concerning the circulatory system, and there was a chillingly accurate sketch of the way the arteries and veins were laid out, with an especial care to a picture of the heart, illuminated in still-vibrant colours. On the other page were elaborate sketches of complex electronic machinery, blueprints and circuit diagrammes, and notes written in a strange cursive script.

The girl was just standing in the lobby, looking at the servant "Good night, Sire. My name is Lúthien, or at least people call me so. I was invited by Monsieur Mortensen. I'm wondering if I can see him now", she says with a low, soft voice, her words sounding like the chant of a spell.

He answers, dashing away the mellifluous chant of the Luthien girl with what seems to be a blast of cold air and lifelessness. A strange smile curls his thin, wet lips slightly.

"Young Mistress shall see the Master at the dinner, soon."

Jamie returns to her room and finds the control. She dials up the heat and smells the charring of dust on the electric coils to be repulsive.

Uhh...reminds me of Billy Thorton's place in Kenebunkport...the electric heaters inside and the smell of lobster bait outdoors...and he always got too excited in the sack...no staying power.

She found the 'smart map' and wandered down the hall to the main library as marked.

"And where I will wait for him?, Here?", says the girl, sitting on a couch. "This house looks...antique. I bet that it has many secret places, like hidden passages, damp cellars, and maybe a dungeon with a laboratory in cluded. Can I take a walk to know the House?".

!!I just want to act as an observer that does nothing but that, you don't need to respond to me, there are enough people in here!!

A dark man in a tattered cloak listens with eyes closed in a tree. NOrmally he is at home with darkness, and the fog brings him passion and strength. yet the cleanliness of even natures inevitable darkness avoided this place.

HIs heart silences as he recovers from the fear of being discovered by luthien, but his time has served to teach him how to avoid detection from even the most observant eyes.

Lightly as the last guest enters the house he leaps from the tree in order clamber up the roof to listen better, though only curiosity is his motivation. Too many times has interference in matters taken him from his true desires, being here only to satiate his curiosity, he lands noislessly from the tree and clambers up the house which feels hopelessly cold to even his neutral grasp.

Interesting ... Giovanna studied her room, having gotten herself ready, now merely passing the time. Upon nosing through the desk, she found the heating controls, and the map, which she looked over curiously as she turned up the heat.

The noise of the clocks made her nearly jump out of her skin, after all the quietness. She shivered and shook, letting out a brief squeak of fright at the first sound, backing up against the desk, her eyes darting about. Eventually, as the sounds faded, she calmed, though her pulse still raced.

She then took the time to glance about the rest of the room, carefully noting her surroundings, supressing a slight shudder at the continued eerie atmosphere of the place.

It's only my imagination getting the better of me. There's nothing wrong here ... nothing to be concerned over. Dinner is coming soon, and I'm certain everything will smooth out and be quite pleasant from there, she told herself, going on with other thoughts and arguments, assuring herself of their truth.

At six, she braced for the expeted clocks, forcing herself to remain calm in spite of her initial spookiness. She opened the door, peering out into the hall, the map in her hand.

The Library, I think ... just a peek before dinner. And with that, she quietly made her way there. Obviously, it must be permissible, or why else the map? she thought to herself, eyes once again darting back and forth, ever watchful.

Jamie returns to her room and finds the control. She dials up the heat and smells the charring of dust on the electric coils to be repulsive.

Uhh...reminds me of Billy Thorton's place in Kenebunkport...the electric heaters inside and the smell of lobster bait outdoors...and he always got too excited in the sack...no staying power.

She found the 'smart map' and wandered down the hall to the main library as marked.

She found that she was illuminated as "You are here", a small blue dot that moved along the translucent sheet of plastic. Other blue dots showed the other maps in different rooms. Another was moving, apparently in the same direction as Jamie was. Each of the rooms was carefully and clearly labeled in the same strange, spidery font as the letter had been written in.

When she arrived, walking alone and quiet through the halls, her shoes hollowly tip-tapping, echoing off of hard marble, she found the library to be a vast room behind a pair of polished rosewood doors. When she entered, she saw another woman, with black hair, that seemed to be trying to maintain an air of composure and calmness, enter from an identical pair of doors on the second level of the circular room.

It had three separate levels, with a spacious walkway running around the inside, alongside the many shelves of books. At the ground floor there stood a series of desks with green-shaded brass lamps placed conveniently upon them. The sole light came from the ornate skylight at the top of the library, throwing shadows about, for there seemed to be no other lights save for the lamps on the wood desks.

And the books! Vast, multitudinous masses of moldy old books. Tomes and volumes, carefully arranged, lined the walls. They hung thick there, as if having sprouted off of the bookshelves, like paper fruit, bound in skins of leather and cloth. Yet their titles were faded, and the golden filigree names and writings on the covers were like burnt bronze, and a thin patina of light greyish dust lay silent and undisturbed upon them.

Interesting ... Giovanna studied her room, having gotten herself ready, now merely passing the time. Upon nosing through the desk, she found the heating controls, and the map, which she looked over curiously as she turned up the heat.

The noise of the clocks made her nearly jump out of her skin, after all the quietness. She shivered and shook, letting out a brief squeak of fright at the first sound, backing up against the desk, her eyes darting about. Eventually, as the sounds faded, she calmed, though her pulse still raced.

She then took the time to glance about the rest of the room, carefully noting her surroundings, supressing a slight shudder at the continued eerie atmosphere of the place.

It's only my imagination getting the better of me. There's nothing wrong here ... nothing to be concerned over. Dinner is coming soon, and I'm certain everything will smooth out and be quite pleasant from there, she told herself, going on with other thoughts and arguments, assuring herself of their truth.

At six, she braced for the expeted clocks, forcing herself to remain calm in spite of her initial spookiness. She opened the door, peering out into the hall, the map in her hand.

The Library, I think ... just a peek before dinner. And with that, she quietly made her way there. Obviously, it must be permissible, or why else the map? she thought to herself, eyes once again darting back and forth, ever watchful.

As Giovanna entered on the second level, she found herself standing upon a circular walkway, and on either side of her ran immense shelves of books, the top shelves of which were so high up that they could only be reached by the ladders that lay conveniently next to them. Another woman entered from the bottom level, and as they moved, there came a flicker and all of a sudden - LIGHT!

Some sort of lamp from somewhere began to extrude a faint, ghostly pale white light, a light which radiated from no one source, but seemed to simply 'fill' - an ambience or glow that came from nowhere - gradually growing in intensity, until the entire room had slowly gained a certain measure of brightness.

"And where I will wait for him?, Here?", says the girl, sitting on a couch. "This house looks...antique. I bet that it has many secret places, like hidden passages, damp cellars, and maybe a dungeon with a laboratory in cluded. Can I take a walk to know the House?".

The servant turned to her, and gestured towards the marble steps that led up to the second floor.

"If Young Mistress would please to follow me, I shall lead her up to her chambres where she may freshen up and rest for a while."

"Oh, thank you". She started to walk behind the servants, surrounded by a strange aura of blue light. The dust of the room was blown away in front of her, as if a strong, cleaning wind was trying to clean the floor that her bare feet were going to step on.

Jamie, A bit startled by running into another person and the sudden increase in light seemed to pause. She was stading inbetween two of the tables and said out loud..."Did you do that? Or did I?" to the other woman in the room.

Her green eyes searching the room for either the light source or a motion detector.

edit: Shoot the typo bunnies

Giovana let out a brief, startled scream, her hand flying to her lips to stifle it, dropping her map.

"N-no, it wasn't me," she managed, blushing, then leaning to pick the map back up. "I ah ... I'm sorry, I just," she stammered. "It's a touch unsettling here. Giovanna Renaldi," she said in a lame sort of greeting, her eyes still darting around the room, searching. "Perhaps someone else is here?"

Her tone conveyed a hope that she truly didn't feel.

Jamie, a bit startled by running into another person and the sudden increase in light seemed to pause. She was standing inbetween two of the tables and said out loud..."Did you do that? Or did I?" to the other woman in the room.

Her green eyes searching the room for either the light source or a motion detector.


Giovana let out a brief, startled scream, her hand flying to her lips to stifle it, dropping her map.

"N-no, it wasn't me," she managed, blushing, then leaning to pick the map back up. "I ah ... I'm sorry, I just," she stammered. "It's a touch unsettling here. Giovanna Renaldi," she said in a lame sort of greeting, her eyes still darting around the room, searching. "Perhaps someone else is here?"

Her tone conveyed a hope that she truly didn't feel.

Naught but her own voice, and that of Jamie's, echoing around the vast room. The place probably had a motion detector somewhere, placed secretly and subtly. After all, the mansion was built just a hundred years after the Ecollapse in the 21st century, before most technology had regressed.

Jamie looked around the room again, ignoring the woman's scream and then said. "Must be automatic, I don't see anyone else...I'm Jamie Wittlebach, please to make your aquaintance Miss Renaldi, I assume you are a fellow guest..." She walks over to the far wall and removes a book. To a really out of stort person she looks as though she might actually fit with the decor, with the very prim dress she is wearing. She wipes of the dust and looks at the cover, opening the book and perusing it. "Really, the state of the staff around here is frightful haven't you found? They either need to be fired or buried."

Captivated by the detail of the drawings, Ashford lost track of time, reading over the notes again and again. It wasent the information on anatomy that interested him, he was already very well versed in it, but the sheer detail. Whomever wrote this book was an incredible artist. Quickly glancing back to the clock, he made sure that he still had a bit of time before dinner, he removed a pen and paper from his luggage, and began to copy down the notes and diagrams of the device.

The book that she found was titled: "Practical Cybernetics and Practice", and it was filled with intricate circuit drawings and peculiar little blueprints. On another page it was full of cut-away pictures of mechanical hands and legs and other parts.

Giovanna settled herself somewhat, eyes still a bit wide. "Yes, I am," she says, adjusting the tailored jacket of her flattering yet buisiness-like ensemble, then needlessly smoothing the long skirt. "As for the staff, well ... perhaps they are a bit on the ah ... stiff side, but then, this entire situation is a bit beyond my experience. Perhaps the nature of the people here? Perhaps they've simply been with the family for ages as well ..." she trails off, supressing a shiver, her eyes glancing over the titles of the books next to her, one finger trailing along their spines.

"You're here by invitation too, I gather?" she asks, studying the other woman from the corner of her eye.

And then came the gong, a deep booming, as if the house had been a sleeping giant, and now was waking up, and roaring. It was the sound of many deep-lunged organs going off at once, screaming with all the hell fire and strength of the nether world. It was the sound of the bells of doomsday, all ringing at once. The world seemed to tremble around them. Then all was still, silent as death once again, and the breath of the dinner gong was stolen away, shattered like a spectre of grey mist, and the gloom and darkness invaded, suffocating and black. The lights grew fainter, and if it were possible, murkier and darker, as if absorbing light. Then the night-lights came on, little pinpoints of flame from the candles mounted hither and thither on the wall sparking to life by themselves.

A dreamy, gloomy female voice whispered over some velvety smooth intercom system.

"Your attention, please. It is time for dinner. Please, follow the lights."

Lúthien trembled, the sound of the bells was really scary, and her powers were weak inside the house's walls. Nature was away from this place, the beauty of it long time forgotten in the mind of the owners and keepers of the house.

"Too dark, I could use a light...", she said as she left her room. Then she saw the candles, marking the way. "I will follow them, I hope this isn't a trap, something is rotten inside this place". Her bare feet moved along the hallway, not making any sound, she just whistling an old elven song, a song about the beauty of the light of the first trees in the blessed lands of Valinor.

Jamie replied..."Well besides the dust and the staff It doesn't seem that strange a place to me...of course I really don't like gothic all that much expecially this variation, but it has all the decadance and technology features of your over-built, English Victorian. And I would dare say that all of us came by invitation." She is speaking to the woman in a somewhat off hand way...looking over the digrams in the book...

At the sound of the dinner annoucement Jamie stops and looks around for the intercom...she doesn't see it and remarks dryly..."Someone must have spent way too much time on the haunted house ride...shall we attend our host in the dining room?"

She then starts off to find the dinning room, using the map and not the lights since she prefers not to be 'led'...

At the sound of the gongs, Giovanna visibly pales again, hands grasping her map tightly as she shrinks up against the bookshelf slightly. Not as bad as her first reaction, yet somehow, here in the library, more out in the open, it all seemed more ominous. She nodded to Jaime though, her jaw rather firmly kept shut for the moment.

The voice coming over the intercom gave her another shiver, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, her skin getting goosebumps. All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well ... she thought to herself, recalling a line from a book.

She waited for the other woman to pass, then followed along the lighted way, not bothering with her map. Despite the rather intimidating ambience, she was quite certain her host had not invited them here to simply do them in. Dinner would provide added company, allow her to meet the other guests, and hopefully at last, their enigmatic host. Straightening her jacket, not for the first time this night, she strengthened her resolve, and continued forward, her stance somewhat more confident than before.

The guests found themselves confronted by a pair of great oaken doors, closing a pointed, Gothic arch. On either side of the door were pedestals inset into the stone wall, and within them stood weeping angels of grey stone, holding stone skulls in their delicate hands. The doors swung inward with a slipping, hissing sort of squeak that seemed to deflate and die in the air, its spectral corpse a hanging dissonance that lingered and lingered though the sound had long disappeared.

The room was a vast hall, made of grey-black stone, with a floor of hard, cold marble, and a row of immense windows faced westward. On the eastern wall, at the centre of the room, was placed a roaring fire whose warmth and heat seemed lost in the simple hugeness of the room. A large chandelier hanging from the ceiling was lit feebly by many candles. At the far end, perched like a tiny withered gargoyle, was a frail old apparition of a man.

The fish-eyed servant gestured, whispering in a snake-smooth voice,

"May I present his Honour, the owner and master of this estate, Mr. Cornelius Ebenezer Mortensen, and her Honour, his daughter, Ms. September Chamberlain Mortensen."

A woman sat up from the seat at the long ebony black table, opposite of Mr. Mortensen at the far end, and made a tiny bow - more of a nod of the head. She was young, perhaps not older than twenty five, and had pale alabaster skin, and large, cold, dark eyes. She sported shockingly black, straight hair, tied back in a demure ponytail with a fishbone white clip. However, the most striking feature of her was her amazing slimness and paleness - the girl seemed to be wasting away before their eyes of some sort of fading sickness. She wore a knee-length black woolen skirt and a black sweater over a crisp, white blouse, buttoned up the neck.

When she spoke, it was a crystalline voice, like the tinkling of a tiny bell, in a mere whisper, and yet still shockingly, frighteningly audible, like the sound of a thin, well-oiled scalpel sliding gently over black glass. She raised her large, strange, piercing eyes and addressed them.

"Welcome, guests of the Mortensen Estate. Please, be seated. The dinner shall be brought out soon."

Giovanna couldn't help but appreciate the architecture. She'd always enjoyed the unique, and her home city of Devras was no stranger to Gothic architecture, though it was mixed with many others. Still, here it was much more pronouced; more dark, and cold. The way in which the very air seemed to eat up sound disturbed her. She was used to a much more lively, colorful, and unrestrained atmosphere, and the silent darkness here seemed unnatural.

Upon introduction, she made a practised courtsey, forcing herself not to stare at the decidedly chilling pair. The man was frightening enough - she had never been comfortable around the eldery at the best of times. His dessicated form, clawlike hands, and piercing eyes sent a shiver down her spine, her stomach clenching with more than a litlle anxiety.

The young woman's voice stirred her out of her reverie with a little jolt. What damnably disturbing people here. Gods, this entire place reeks of death and the dying. Given the state of the occupants here, she started to lose her once high hopes for dinner - it didn't seem they ever ate here.

Keeping her thoughts firmly to herself, she forced herself to proceed forward, taking a seat near the young woman, as directed. Musn't be rude, after all. Musn't upset our hosts. Must try and compose myself.

OOC: Dammit, slipped behind again. Ah hell, House, kill my character for a bit of atmosphere or something. I dunno what's going on anyway.

--Tag--

Lúthien nodded and bowed to the owner of the House, in the more traditional elven manner. She quietly sitted in her seat, looking at the rest of the guests. This is sinister. I doubt the girl at the extreme is alive. She looks like a corpse.

First comes the wine - white champagne in tall, fluted glasses. Mortensen sipped a little from his glass as he regarded the guests, looking strangely uncomfortable. He rose and began to speak. His voice was far deeper and more resonant than one would expect, to look at him.

"Welcome to the Mortensen Estate. I trust that you have all received the invitation we sent out. I hope that your stay here will be a pleasant one."

He pauses slightly.

"This house has been in the Mortensen family since the ecocidal collapse, six hundred and fifty two years ago. Through these troubled ages, we have watched and waited, observing the world outside. Now, at last, we have felt comfortable to ... ahh.. reintroduce ourselves to a select few.

But we have always been a private family, reluctant to expose ourselves, and even now, the Moor outside and the fog provides us with reassuring protection from the unwholesome auspices of the world outside. Our business is with mortuary science - I am a skilled mortician myself, and my beautiful daughter, September, is being taught the family profession - and this is naturally a sombre and lonesome sort of work. Nevertheless, we are interested in what has happened thus far in the world, and we hope that you, as ... ahh... delegates, can tell us a little of how other parts of the globe have fared and fare now."

Mortensen sits, and as he settles into his great chair at the end of the long onyx table, he flashed a glance at his young daughter, sitting at the opposite end. Lightning flashes outside the window, and a growl of thunder rolls slowly over the gloomy, fog-enshrouded landscape.

The dinner begins to be brought out by silent, pale-faced servants, beginning with an appetizer of thin clam chowder with sprigs of parsley in deep plates.

BUMP

BUMP

Hey! What's wrong? Is it my style - my posts? The setup? If so, I can try to improve.

OOC: No, everything is perfect, as a matter of fact I love your way of writing and the setting, but I'm waiting for the others to respond, maybe you should look for new characters... :D

Giovanna takes a small sip of the champagne, savoring the flavour. Whatever else may be said, he certainly knows his drink. Exquisite.

She listens quietly as the old man speaks, ears perking for any subtle hints, or tells from the man. Dominion born and bred, intrigue and watching for weaknesses came second nature to her - especially having worked her way up through the ranks in the government offices.


Morticians ... that does rather explain a lot. Still, a reputable enough profession, and a neccessary one, despite its rather grim reputation. Still, the unsettled feeling wouldn't leave, not improved with the rising storm outside.

Quietly thanking the servant who brings the chowder, she thinks for a moment, taking a spoonful, blowing on it first, then sampling. Mmm ... quite good.

Arriving at a decision, she speaks, her voice first coming out rather softly, but building in confidence as she goes on.

"I thank you for your gracious invitation, Signore Mortensen, and for your hospitality. It is truly a unique place you have here, and I for one am anxious to learn more of it as well." She paused, wetting her lips and throat again with a small sip of champagne.

"As for myself and my nation, there are many things that have been accomplished, though whether they interest you or not ..." She clears her throat quietly.

"We've always prided ourselves on our rich culture and heritage, our artwork, architecture, music, and fine wines. We've progressed immensely over the past while, surpassing our previous exploits and forging on to the realm of space. Our economy is booming, our ecology is flourishing, and our people are prosperous and content. I would say in the Dominion at least, things have gone quite well."

Mortensen and his daughter turn their silent eyes on Giovanna, quietly, intently observing the woman as she elucidated life outside the Moor. The air seemed to absorb the words, and digest them.

"I see that not all places were as affected by the Ecollapse as we were," said Mortensen.

September stared at her plate gloomily and took a tiny sip of her champagne. She blinked her large, luminescent, black eyes and a whispery, crystalline statement slithered forth from her small, dark-lipsticked mouth.

"Do you like our book collection? We have many interesting volumes, and if they do not answer your questions, feel perfectly free to ask us, or the staff."

"The Ecollapse, now I uunnderstand. We suffered it too", said the elven maiden, looking at nowhere, as to scare away painful memories resurfacing. "The day when the countryside burned, and black swamps replaced our beloved forests. Doriath destroyed, Ossiriand haunted by twisted creatures of the darl, mutants. The birds died, and the plants withered. The day when our race decided to move to the stars, because there was nothing left to admire in earth. The day we decided to build and live in an artificial environment, far away from the beauty of nature. The day we lost the little innocence that was left in us".

Mortensen gestured at the glowering, tormented land outside the vast panes of windows, the wrought iron frameworks of the glass panes like a looming matrix of black, behind which stretched the roiling, tumultuous storm lancing through the dark moors around them, igniting small flashes of swamp gas here and there. Every now and then there would be a small explosion as the marsh gas burst into flames and died, briefly lighting up the twisted, blackened trees around them. Ghostly white, electric will-o-wisps drifted like the lost souls of the dead wandering aimlessly in eternal torment.

"This land," he rasped, "was once densely-populated hillside. Down there, past the fog, used to be the city of San Francisco. They used to glow green with trees, like pillars on either side of the streets. Journey but two hours out of the Moors and you find yourself on a sea cliff, overlooking a roiling grey harbour where nothing lives anymore, save the twisted fishes of the Pacific. Oakland, Berkeley, Alameda, Emeryville, San Jose, Pacifica - countless other cities. Lost under the waves. And in their place, past where the waters swallowed the cities, these Moors grew."

Lightning crackled, and for a moment his outstretched hand seemed to be transformed into a pale apparition, a claw of gnarled sinew and bone.

He fell silent as the second course came out, plates of fillet of fish, delicately baked, with a very faint, ghostly herbal scent rising from the ethereal, grey curls of steam. The fillet was entirely white, baked to perfection, though strange and airy, and it seemed to evaporate on their tongues. That seemed to be the style of food in this mansion - not bland or tasteless - but delicate and phantasmal.

A maid approached, carrying a teapot that gave off only the smell of hot water, appearing to have materialised out of thin air, so quietly she came.

"Ah, thank you," said Mortensen. "Please, pour some tea for our guests."

He watched her as she poured a thin, clear tea with a very faint aroma, a strange, dancing light appearing in his wrinkled, heavy eyes for but a moment before fading away.

Giovanna was somewhat confused, but then, there was much about the world she hadn't been aware of before she'd started venturing outside Dominion borders. They'd been a closed system for a long time - news of the outside world that didn't pertain had often been repressed under previous leadership. This "ecollapse" was unfamiliar to her ... though the effects were frighteningly real, it would seem

She listened to Mr. Mortensen describe it all, barely able to supress a shudder, her eyes darting from him, to his wan daughter, to the dreary landscape outside the window, lit occasionally by the lightning heralding the building storm.

The food was indeed succulent, but never seemed to quite fill. She couldn't place the spices used. The experience overall, was in a word, odd.

At the look he cast his servant however, she did shiver, feeling slightly ill inside.

So that's how it is here? He looked at her as though he owned her ... as though she were his in a way far surpassing the master and servant bit, so help me.

She accepted her tea with a nod and quiet word of thanks, feeling cold and somehow sick inside.

"I'm afraid I have no experience of such things. We've been inordinately blessed it seems."

"That's very fortunate for you," said Mortensen.

After a pause, he ventured, gazing 'round the table, "I admit, that visiting this mansion for the very first time can be rather... unnerving. It is a very old house, with many subtleties. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, maybe I have one", said Lúthien looking at Mortensen's eyes. "You are alive, but...What about the rest of the people around here?, All of them died?, The Ecollapse killed all of them?"

"A good question," said Mortensen, sitting back slightly, arching his bony fingers.

"The Ecollapse hit the Bay Area more subtly than in places like China, or Sub-Saharan Africa. The area got worse and worse every year. At a time, it was crowded with refugees from southern California, or from back East, where they were being consumed by tornadoes, wildfires and super hurricanes. Now those refugees have gone elsewhere. The answer is simple - all of them left. Except a hardy few, who probably live in small villages at the edge of the Moors."

Giovanna arched a brow slightly at the explanation. Possibly? He doesn't know? And gods, how he deftly avoided a direct answer on some of that ... this isn't right. He's hiding things. Or at least, not telling us everything just yet.

"If you're uncertain," she said haltingly, "Where do you get your business from? Or is it, as is so much else, more a thing of the remembered past?"

"Now that is an interesting question, one which I myself have wondered about on many occasions. After all, we do get business - and plenty of it. However, the sources are very shifty - our customers seem to be overly reluctant to show themselves directly to us. Hence, our services are often done via a series of intermediaries. Know also that we do not only deal with the dressing of the dead for funereal services, but also engage in forensic analysis, embalming, preserving, and other aspects of mortuary science."

"You look wealthy, the money must come from some source. How do you make your living?", asked the elven girl, smiling at Giovanna. She's as perceptive as I am, something smells rotten here.

Nodding thoughtfully, Giovanna finished the last of her meal, dabbing delicately at her lips with her napkin.

"I can see how that could come in handy. A reputable contact for taking care of such matters, one who doesn't ask too many questions, and does an impeccable job ... excellent. Perhaps, you might be able to present me with a dossier detailing your services, prices, and such? I'm certain I have aquaintances who would be interested in taking advantage of such."

Certain parties within the government for one, La Famiglias for another ... most definitely.

She arches a brow at the girl, though she smiles back pleasantly enough. "I'm sorry, were you referring to me, or our gracious host?"

September nodded, her great almond-shaped, jewel-black eyes staring like strange night-diamonds from her ghostly pale, oval face.

"You will find it," she said in an etheral whisper, "on your desk when you retire for the night."

The dessert came out, a light white pudding served in tiny bowls. It was cold, and smelled of fragrant, delicate spices.

"Father," she intoned, turning to the withered figure in the clawed, oaken chair at the far end of the table. "Dinner with guests is usually followed by a reading of poetry - would you permit me?"

Mortensen nodded.

September gazed at the guests, twinkling, cold, liquid eyes seeming to gaze impassionately into their souls, as if examining corpses ready for dressing and embalming.

"And you, would you care to hear some poetry I've written?"

"I was referring to our host, however, you look wealthy enough too, if you ask me", said the elven girl, her face staring at the pudding.

When she heard about poetry her face gleamed with pleasure and joy again. "Oh, please. I love poetry, I'm sure your poems are delightful".

Giovanna chuckled softly at the girl's comment, tentatively tasting the pudding, nodding in satisfaction at the flavour.

"Indeed, mi'lady, I for one would be honored to hear your recitation," she replied to September, still quietly observing the two odd hosts when she could, her curiousity piqued, though she still hadn't shaken off the chill of the place.

September stood, reciting the poem from memory, and began a slow, low chant, like a religious mantra, and her voice pours out like black fog, low, slithering, icy and cold as death:

"REQUIEM TO DEATH:

The icy blackness of the world around,
The silent groaning of the sea,
Never ceases to impound,
Its looming darkness into me.

The silent wail of souls unseen,
The muffling veil of the night,
I am Death, the lightless queen,
Ruling all with cold respite.

Thudding hearts freeze and faces pall,
A creeping rictus spreading 'round,
Mankind, consumed by shadow one and all,
And no joy can be found.

Bringing down the Kingdoms tall,
With coming darkness Mountains die,
Crucified upon stone wall,
Hope expires without a cry.

Life is but a parody,
A passing cycle of boom to bust,
A single, flickering soliloquy,
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust."

The elven girl just stood there, petrified, scared by the content of pain, sorrow and darkness of the poem. However, it was beautiful, strangely beautiful, scary beautiful..."That was...amazing...wonderful and...awful at the same time", said Lúthien, trembling. "It makes me remember the songs of power made by Sauron the Maia".

OOC: Heheh. Sauron, eh?

Giovanna listened quietly to the words, watching September with a curious expression.

So odd, these people. So dark. So ... lifeless, and yet ...

The words were indeed haunting, and in this place, with the storm building, the lightning flashing across the barren landscape, it chilled her to the bone. The Dominion was no stranger to death, nor of dark dealings and thoughts, but it was for the most part, a place of vibrant life, of colors, and rich culture, of a people on the whole, caught up in living. Nothing like this place.

Giovanna shivered.

Casting an odd glance at the girl, she quirked a brow slightly. She knew little of the histories there, as they had never particularly interested her, but still, the statement and reaction seemed ... off.

Elves ... aieyah.

"Quite ah ... moving, September. A beautiful recitation, though the style I admit, is unfamiliar."

Aye, and disturbing. Still, manners ...

Jamie had been musing over dinner and listening to the conversation with little comment, after all...it was a virture to listen more than talk, or so her uncle would say...

"Very nice...might I ask who are some of your more favored authors?" She asked September in a light voice...

That girl needs new hobbies...

"I suppose you like that hum...poet, Allan Poe, Edgar Allan Poe, I guess", said Lúthien, smiling at September, trying to project some of her own soft and sweet spirit into the dark girl in front of her.

Like a despirited, glimmering wraith, September seemed to absorb the elvish maiden's light and prettiness, annihilating it with an ethereal coldness, like a shadow of the mind, a nightmare swallowing up the night. But there is no malice in her eyes, no hatred, only sorrow and gloom.

"I love Poe. Beautiful poet." she whispers.

September bows, and the dinner bell rings once more.

"My daughter and I will be retiring for the evening," says Mortensen, "We bid you good night."

The fire goes out abruptly, as if swallowed by shadows, and Mortensen is helped up by September, and they go into the door at the other end of the vast hall, and it closes, silently.

*BUMP*

For Aelosia, Alcona & Hubris, and all you OTHERS who are forgetting to post here...

Giovanna rises politely, nodding to the pair as they leave, and shivers once the doors close, sitting back down in her chair, and looking around expectantly to the others.

"Well I ... that was ... interesting, yes?" She toys idly with her fork for a moment, uncomfortable with the silence.

"I don't suppose anyone else is retiring so soon, or ... shall I take my leave as well?" Yes, and go back to check out the library, perhaps ... so many books there. And I'm sure those were just automatic lights ... has to be.

"Well, personally I'm getting a little...odd vibe from this place myself. What do we know about them? I'd like to compare notes, if nothing more than settle my own mind."

Jamie began to look over the room far more closely, getting up and walking with her hand out, almost touching the wall as she walked around the room...

OOC: Doubt if Siri will make a reapperance...

"We know little more than we've been told, unless any of you have some insight or knowledge the rest of us lack ..." Giovana looked outside at the gathering storm, and shivered again. Nothing like back home ... nothing at all.

"So tell me - how many of you did this for the money, hrm? Or was there a sense of curiousity? Other motivations?"

Oh, well let us see. "The staff appear to have spent way too much time around the embalming fluids...and I found a few intresting books on the subject of robots...which does seem a bit odd, and I'd say that both our host and hostess need some serious anti-depression drugs." She stops for a moment and starts across the next wall, looking for a draft.
"Money is no object to my family, however for me to get any I have to behave and wait for my father do give me an allowance. Some cash of my own would be nice...


OOC: Should I give her the middle name Paris?

A solemn and mournful funeral dirge comes wafting wraithlike through the corridors, around corners and bends, like some ethereal phantasm existing soley to bring about sadness; the physical incarnation of gloom and despair.

Like the music, September is seen through the open door in the corridor, sliding noiselessly on in black buckled shoes, her dark woolen skirt like a gliding shadow behind her. Ghostlike and pale, she walked past the two women, seeming not to notice, and disappeared into the West Wing of the house, leaving behind only an echo of silence, a muffling veil of darkness.

Minutes later a curious sound echoes down from the West Wing - the sound of ghosts - a low groan interspersed with tired, whimpering cries, like a tortured man who has no more energy to scream with pain. As soon as it comes, it goes again, the black curtain of silence descending once more.

The lights have been turned down, and the palely glimmering night-lamps throw a ghostly pall over the house.

Strangely, in the great windows of the dining hall, the clouds began to clear, and the full moon casts a silvery white glow onto the spectral tables and chairs, liquid moonlight flowing over the dying embers of the once-roaring fireplace like a cold river of darkness. The ethereal, fog-encrusted landscape around suddenly appears in stark reality, twisted shadow things stirring quietly in the light of the moon.

OOC: Oh, sorry for the delay. And I have no excuses. :oops:

IC:

Lúthen just looked at the two women "Money?. I don't care about the money. Money is not an issue to me, I don't need it,p eople usually give me whatever I need, and I don't need too much", she said in a neutral tone, still pounding about the reaction of their hosts.

As she felt the darkness crawling around the place, she trembled. "Something sinister is growing powerful in this place, I sense tormented souls, souls wandering in places where they not belong", she said, putting her arms across her chest and rubbing them with her hands, as trying to erase a sudden chill. "Elbereth Gilthoniel, nilma para míriel" she muttered in her native elvish, as a prayer.

Bump-ish interlude

Once upon a future time there was a hill in the midst of a dark and sullen moor. And thereupon was built a castle that continually dwelt in gloom and despair. And therein lived a princess and her father, the king.

The king was very old and tired, but he was a gentle and kind man, though his soul was black and empty. He loved his daughter, but it was his work that he loved the most. Long did he labour in his laboratory under the castle, and many times the princess was left to wander the great castle alone.

Though the servants and the king gave her everything she wanted, the princess was sad, for she had no friends. The castle, you see, was surrounded by the moor, and the moor was impassable to all. Many a brave young knight was swallowed in the foggy darkness and strange, winding paths.

And so the princess died of sadness, and she remained in the castle, with her father, lonely and friendless till the end of time...

"I think I'm going back to the Library..." Jamie states suddenly. "I don't really care for this place but books, well..." She takes her map and starts to return to the library...

Giovanna flinches as the music wafts through the house, making her skin prick with goosebumps, feeling like her hair is standing on end.

Upon seeing September, she shivers, opening her mouth to speak, and finding no words. At the resulting noises however, she puts a hand to her lips, paling.

I've worked in the government offices long enough to know that sound ... dear god, what are they doing to that man?

She creeps closer, walking quietly towards the west wing, freezing as the sounds fade, then forcing herself to continue on.

I have to know. What the hell is going on here? What is behind those doors?

Lúthien just stood there in the hall, trying to sing so the intense cold that was chilling her bones could go away. Her soft elven voice sang the ancient songs of hope and the beauty in the lands of Valinor. Although she was scared, she was scared of the darkness she was feeling in the living, and not in the souls of the dead...

As Giovanna approaches the smell of embalming fluids seems to heighten somewhat. She is confronted by a pair of massive, ornate oaken doors, solid and imposing, gilded with black wrought iron and with sullen brass doorknobs.

Just as she nears the doors, they creak open slightly and a sighing breath of cold air, laden with the bittersweet perfume of chemicals and reagents, escapes.

Quiet as a ghost, her beautiful almond eyes turned downwards, September glides out and shuts the door.

"The West Wing is forbidden, Ma'am," sigh the ethereal words smoothly flowing from her barely-parted lips.

**

Jamie found herself again in the Library. The lights, upon her entry, did not come on at all, save for the brass reading lamps at the tables. Like entering a haven of sleeping bats, the bookshelves seemed to be lying, as if in wait for some prey animal to cause them to sweep forth in a great swarm.

Jamie attempted to find a light switch or the dector from earlier. It seemed strange that the rooms light system didn't want to turn on...
I wonder...is...clear your mind girl...

She stopped for a moment, closed her eyes and began a small chant...
A warrior shall not let allow herself to be blind, or to give flight to fear...A warrior shall...

A few moments later she opened her eyes again, and returned to looking for the light switch.

"It's a marvelous library, isn't it, Miss?" rasped an old voice from behind her.

There appeared Mortensen, sitting hunched on a stainless-steel wheelchair in the doorway.

Lúthien looked for the entrance to the cellar, wandering through the dark and empty hallways of the house, almost running, still humming the ancient songs that helped her to regain her courage, and keep walking without screaming at the sight of the sinister shadows that she was seeing in all the hidden corners of the house.

And, as she went down the corridor, found herself confronted by the glassy, silent apparition of September Mortensen as she pushed a silver trolley...

"Oh, greetings, September. I was wondering...How do you find your inspiration to write your poetry?", said Lúthien, trying to find an empty conversation, to break the ice. "I...I saw things in the hall back there. This...cold....this....mist. Where does it come from?", she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Why hello Luthien," whispered September.

How do you find your inspiration to write your poetry?", said Lúthien, trying to find an empty conversation, to break the ice

"My inspirations? I find them everywhere I see. Death is the inevitable product of life, and unlike life, lasts forever. Death is infinite, whereas life is short and brief. It was a small effort to translate this to poetry."

"I...I saw things in the hall back there. This...cold....this....mist. Where does it come from?", she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You saw things? Perhaps it was the servants, or the helper robots that move about, sweeping the floor."

"It's a marvelous library, isn't it, Miss?" rasped an old voice from behind her.

There appeared Mortensen, sitting hunched on a stainless-steel wheelchair in the doorway.

"Quite nice....although, It would be nicer if I could figure out how the lights work in here. There do appear to be some unique texts in here. However, I would bet a griffen that most of the rarer works are in your private library."

She stated as she carefully turned, trying not to indicate has having been startled by the man.

"The lights, you say?" said Mortensen, "To conserve electricity, which is precious here, the auto lamp switches are designed to be off at night, but as you can see, the brass reading lamps are on. Also, the search computer at the desks will help you identify the book from the shelf...ahhh...."

Mortensen tapped at a small optic glass panel on the arm of his wheelchair and manipulated several pseudo-tridimensional icons.

"If I search for a book, say, Lord Byron's poems, like thus..."

He gestured with a feeble, grey claw of a hand as a withering beam of white-blue laser light came shining through the dust motes in the air, illuminating in a steely square, a series of volumes upon the shelf, glowing ghostily, as if ensconced in ectoplasm.

"My inspirations? I find them everywhere I see. Death is the inevitable product of life, and unlike life, lasts forever. Death is infinite, whereas life is short and brief. It was a small effort to translate this to poetry." September said.

Lúthien just looked to the girl in front of her "Well, you're right. Our poetry was inspired in lands were life was eternal, it's natural that you inspired yours in a place were death is eternal. Although life is not short and brief to us, we understand a loss. And I'm pretty sure it weren't servants what I heard, at least not normal and earthly servants".

"What do you mean? You can't seriously believe that this house is haunted can you?" hissed September, a slight edge of indignation creeping into her sibilant voice as she glided along.

"No, I don't believe in haunted houses. I just believe in haunted people and souls", said Lúthien, placing her hand over September's arm, trying to calm her down.

"Look September, I know that we're exactly the opposite of each other. Where I'm the light, you're the darkness. Where I'm the joy, you're the sadness. But that doesn't make us enemies, instead, maybe we could learn a lot from each other", as she spoke, she stared deep into September's eyes, trying to link her spirit with the soul of the Mortensen girl.

"Don't touch me," said September, her normal icy chill creeping back into her voice. "I have no quarrel with you. And those things you thought you saw back there are probably because you are not used to this house. It is late, and it is advisable that you go to bed now. I shall retire after I've finished."

As they walk it grows noticeably darker. They pass through several large doors, each groaning slightly as they opened automatically. Soon they are in a hall of black marble and onyx, whose high walls are decorated in dark gothic architecture, soaring buttresses and columns flying into the darkness and shadows. Leering gargoyles peer out from carved stone recesses. Rows of black pine pews extended to the ornate altar and before the altar was placed a bas relief of the Madonna, her eyes turned down, as if weeping silently in sorrow.

"Luthien, this is the cathedral. I am going into the crypt below, and that is a forbidden place. You can stay here and look, if you wish, but please do not follow me. You are a guest in this house, and have had a long journey. Try to get a little rest, please."

"The lights, you say?" said Mortensen, "To conserve electricity, which is precious here, the auto lamp switches are designed to be off at night, but as you can see, the brass reading lamps are on. Also, the search computer at the desks will help you identify the book from the shelf...ahhh...."

Mortensen tapped at a small optic glass panel on the arm of his wheelchair and manipulated several pseudo-tridimensional icons.

"If I search for a book, say, Lord Byron's poems, like thus..."

He gestured with a feeble, grey claw of a hand as a withering beam of white-blue laser light came shining through the dust motes in the air, illuminating in a steely square, a series of volumes upon the shelf, glowing ghostily, as if ensconced in ectoplasm.

"I prefer browsing myself. I hadn't realized that you had a electricity shortage...What is your current source..."

She realized that she had actually picked up something listening to Victoira argue with her father...

"I'll stay here", said Lúthien, her eyes looking at the floor. "I'll pass the night here too, don't worry, this cathedral is beautiful". The little elven maiden just approached the statue of the Madonna and put her hand on the stone cheek. "Go and rest, September, I'll respect your prohibitions, anyway, I'm not quite fond of crypts".

"We use geothermal power, maintained by our servants out to the west. The Hayward and Loma Prieta Fault lines are excellent spots for geothermal energy. In case something untoward happens to them, this mansion is equipped with a small thermonuclear power generator."

After a moment of thought, Mortensen spoke again, "What makes you want to stay up and about at this time of night?"

"A combination of jet lag and not usually going to bed before two in the morning. All the really intresting people don't show up at the clubs until 12 anyway...Of course, then I"m usually dragged out of bed to...well let us just say I'm finding my lifestyle and my obligations to my family at odds... Actually, what time is it? I though we had dinner at 8:00?"

"Nine," came the hollow monotone.

As if on signal, the music changed to a gloomy violin piece, which came drifting airily from somewhere in the house.

"You mention 'clubs'. Are these music clubs?"

After a pause and a sigh of air through a raspy voice, "Would you like to see our music hall? The great organ is there."

'Dance, party...everyone gives them a diffrent label. There are only a few in Thunderbay but Boston...Oh, now there was a town with a night life...." She twirls and leans up against the table in a somewhat 'provocitive' manner, although it would be far more effective if she was wearing a mini-skirt and not the full dress.

She stops for a moment and then looks at the man in the wheelchair. "Ah well...might as well. If you don't mind. What manufacture of Organ do you have?"

Mortenson does not reply. Rather, he engages the small electric motor on his wheelchair and rolls out of the library at a leisurely pace, motioning for her to follow.

Giovanna froze as September stepped out of the door, and spoke to her. Nodding quietly, she watched as the young woman made her way back down the hallway, feeling rather chilled from the experience.

Still ... the doorway beckoned to her.

And the secrets just waiting to be discovered beyond it, tempted her.

With a careful look around, she slipped quietly to the door, testing the handle, hoping to gently turn it, and sneak inside.

Oddly enough, the sound of clicking levers and gears can be heard and the door eases open, borne on the quiet hissing of hydraulic machinery and electric motors.

Like a yawning maw leading down into darkness, the doors opened and the corridor extended down a slight incline, lit dimly by overhead glow panels. A breath of cold air, laden with the heady perfume of embalming fluid and chemicals, blew out, whispering past her ears, sighing as the pressure equalised.

With a quick glance around, she slipped inside, checking to make sure the door was able to be opened from this side before closing it. (or pulling it almost closed as the case may be.)

She cautiously followed the corridor, eyes moving rapidly from side to side, scanning for any threats or objects of interest, her ears straining to hear any sounds of life or other activity.

The smell made her stomach clench, adding to the fear intoxicatingly mixed with adrenaline that was running through her, giving her energy to continue whilst sending shivers up her spine.

Why in the name of all that is holy am I doing this? I should go back ... back to my room, and just sleep this right off. But ... those noises. That moan ... what the hell are these odd people hiding out here?

Mortenson does not reply. Rather, he engages the small electric motor on his wheelchair and rolls out of the library at a leisurely pace, motioning for her to follow.

She follows him, keeping an eye on her 'map' to remember how to get back to her own room.

After a little walking Jamie and Mortensen arrived in a vast hall, decorated in a gothic style, with soaring buttresses and leering bas reliefs and gargoyles. The hall seemed to accentuate every sound made, and each step was like the hollow sound of skulls knocking together. At the other end of the hall was a raised dais and upon it the keys of a vast organ. Like the innards of a giant, the tubes and baffles and valves of the pipe organ completely dominated the back part of the music hall.

As if upon cue the keys of the organ began to play, the massive sighing tubes trilling out a gloomy funereal dirge, a testament to the utter despair evoked by the place. As if played by a poltergeist enslaved to the keyboard, the keys moved, gently and deliberately, though nobody was there to play them.

--

Giovanna found herself in a hall much resembling that of a hospital, bare, white, and reeking of antiseptic. From down the corridor came a squeaking and presently an automated cart came wheeling down, short bursts of flickering white light tracing its path.

She passed by a great many windowless white doors, all of which were unmarked by signs, save for those written in a formal, functional script.

Necrology...
Thanatology...
Cadaver Room...
Embalming Chambre...
Dressings...
Preparations...
Fluids...
Powders...

Curiouser and curiouser, came the unbidden thought as she padded quietly through the hall. No windows was a problem, and yet, she felt somehow comforted by the lack thereof. The idea of whatever was behind those doors being able to look out at her ...

Giovanna shivered.

The cart caught her by surprise, and she was forced to stifle a shrill shriek as it went past, still squeaking, and frightfully unattended. Leaning up against the wall, she fought back her fear, catching her breath, and decided she needed to look behind one of those doors.

The first one she chose was Preparations, soon to be followed by the Cadaver Room and Embalming Chambre. The others she would examine in turn.

Cautiously, she laid her hand on the doorknob, and quietly turned it, opening the door just enough to peer inside.

"And what may you be doing at this time of evening, ma'am?" came a queer voice from behind her, an unfamiliar voice, quiet, but not ghostly, like September's.

"Maria dolce!" she shrieked, turning around swiftly, putting her back up against the door, chest heaving and eyes wide. Her hands were up in a defensive stance, though she shook like a leaf, darting eyes seeking out the source of the voice.

Oh now you've done it, woman ... curiousity killed the cat, you know!

A woman stood before her, almost resembling a smaller, slimmer Mary Poppins in funereal wear. A lacy black dress reached down to her feet, and she wore prim, white gloves. These gloves grapsed the handle of an umbrella the shade of a shadow on a moonless night, and upon her onyx-black hair there lay, at an angle, a large black hat with a single dying rose placed therein, and the shadow it created seemed to conceal one half of her face in a veil of darkness. Large, dark eyes sparkled as she saw the strange contortions of Giovanna before her.

"If you're wondering where the bathrooms are, I'm afraid that you're quite off course," remarked the woman glibly.

"I ah ... I couldn't sleep, and well ... I heard noises, and got myself turned around and ... " She looked at the woman, her natural born curiousity once again getting the better of her as she tried to calm herself. "And who might you be?" she asked.

"My name is Gwendoline, but you may call me whatever you please. I am the head maid of this House, and you, ma'am, are in a place which the Master does not wish his guests entering without permission."

Gwendoline smiled, half a lip, a colour of the lightest blue, curling, whilst the other stayed, dark and inscrutable, wrapped in shadow. She touched the door with a prim gesture and shut it closed, a faint click of locking mechanisms just barely audible.

"Are you lost, ma'am? I believe you were supplied with a digi-map."

"Thank you, Gwendoline, yes ... but I'm afraid I must have misplaced it along the way," she lied, smiling pleasantly, her eyes tightening almost imperceptably at the closing of the door. How'd she lock that so easily? And how the hell did she sneak up on me without me noticing? I thought I was listening ... Giovanna went back over the events in her mind, a chill running up her back.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to set me back on the proper path to my room?" she asked the oddly dressed woman, still smiling pleasantly. Like death warmed over. All of them, come to think of it. An air of not so much living as some sort of ... limbo. Undeath?

"It would be my pleasure, ma'am," said Gwendoline with an air of the maidservant about her.

She began walking, delicately, gently, down the corridor towards where Giovanna had come, and made a motion, somehow, in the way she moved, for Giovanna to follow.

"You ought to be more careful," said Gwendoline, "when walking about this mansion at night. It is extensive. There are seven hundred rooms, precisely, aboveground alone. One might get lost."

She made an imperceptible smile with the side of her face enclosed in darkness, and yet managed to convey the sense of smiling despite.

Giovanna had no choice but to follow, not wanting to cause a scene, or look more suspicious than she already did. Certain that this incident would get back to the master of the house, she smiled as best she could, and followed.

"Indeed, I will endeavor to be more careful," she says, keeping the smile she didn't feel on her face. Lost, is it? If that wasn't a threat, I'm Cleopatra. What the hell is so important down here that we cannot see? Damn the timing!

"Of course, I'll not breathe a word of this to the Masters. They're both such fragile people, especially in constitution. I ... " a strange note entered her lilting British accent, " I'd regret to see them upset."

Eventually they reached the main hall and began walking in the direction of the great flight of marble steps leading up to the second floor.

"While you are here," said Gwendoline in a matronly, lecturing tone, "you should realise that you are indeed, guests of this house, and shall be treated as such. If you have... need of us, you need only call upon the servants, and we shall attend to your needs as best we can."

Giovanna's eyebrow goes up at the odd change in voice. Are they truly that frightening? Gads, for someone as ... well, odd and rather ... intimidating herself. Is it just the job they do here, or something more sinister? Those screams ...

She follows as expected, nodding and smiling as Gwendoline reiterates the 'guest' business. Still, she pauses.

"Actually, there is something I need, my good woman," she says quietly, glancing around. "I need to know just what is going on in this house that is such a terrible secret. I need to know what those screams were that I heard. And I need you to be honest with me about it."

Her back still to Giovanna, the woman seemed to sigh.

"I am but a servant, ma'am. It is not my duty to know of what you speak. The source of what you believe you heard lies in a place whose entrance only the Masters know, and is forbidden to all - even servants."

When they reached Giovanna's room Gwendoline stopped and turned the knob, and there was an audible click and the hiss of hydraulics, as if the door was always unlocked. She turned partway, half her face still veiled in darkness by her hat, revealing a prim nose and a strikingly blue iris.

"I believe that you are very tired from your journey here, and this night wears long. What you heard in the hall was a dream, a phantom, conjured by a restless imagination and weariness. I advise that you try to sleep."

With a prim, expedient gesture, two small white caplets suddenly appeared in Gwendoline's black gloved hands.

"If you have trouble sleeping, I suggest that you take these, with one glass of water."

Gwendoline bowed, a smart, elegant gesture involving a swish of the night-black umbrella and a smooth flourish of the dress, and disappeared silently down the hall and then the stairs.

Giovanna nods quietly. "Of course. My imagination, I'm sure. One does tend to conjure up all manner of odd images in these old houses, after all."

She accepts the caplets with a nod and a smile of thanks, wrapping her hand around them tightly.

"Thank you for your help and kindness, Gwendoline. It is much appreciated."

Watching the woman melt back into the shadows, she shivers involuntarily. Backing into her room, she shuts the door, looking for a lock of some sort for her own peace of mind.

Setting the pills on the bedside stand with another shiver, she slips out of her dress and into her loose pajamas, the chill refusing to leave her. Into the bed she nestles, pulling the covers up around herself tightly, and lays staring at the cieling for some time before starting to nod off.

What are they hiding? And what the hell are those pills? She seemed almost to speak of things, then withdrew again ... I must know.

The night wore on, and the ever watchful eye of the lighthouse atop the mansion searched the muffling, all-concealing fog, as if looking around for something elusive, some twisted ghost atop the mourning moors, that lay hidden, camouflaged in the blankets of grey. As time passed, there seemed to be a gentle pressure, like a spirit of a gentle child of Morpheus, the god of sleep, dressed all in black, was leading the guests into the dusty realm of dark sleep and the kingdom of dreams.

By measures every guest fell to sleep, some later than others, but each plunged into the wild dream-world, and the visions they saw therein were strange, not wild nor frightening, but strange and oddly romantic, and always with a looming dark atmosphere lurking beyond the corner of the mind's eye.

At seven o'clock in the morning, they awoke to the low, solemn moan of a single bell, crying, lonely and forgotten, across the dismal wastes of the Moor around...