[WFRP] The Lord of Lost Heart

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter's brow furrowed with worry as the shadows grew long; the initiate had certainly planned to spend the night in the wilderness. Better be quick, then. After respectfully giving the crow the sign of Ranald, he surveyed the scene in search of the hoofprints that disappeared into the forest.

[LCP]

Not Sigurd

The hoofprints that led into the forest had perhaps survived the best – they were deep, clearly made by an animal of considerable weight. If Pieter had had anything in the way of woodcraft, he might have been able to tell something from the breadth and shape of the hoof. As it was, having grown up on cobbled and cart-rutted streets, all he could tell was yes, this was a horse.

Beyond the treeline at the edge of the road, the tracks were harder to find in the leaf litter of the forest. Pieter could follow them a short way, but they quickly became separated, spaced far apart such that finding one was little help in finding the next, weaving between the trees as they did. Within perhaps forty feet of the forest edge, Pieter had lost the trail, the hoofprints seemingly heading deeper and deeper into the woods.

Backtracking to the last clusters of hoofprints he had found, Pieter tried to step between them – then, when he found he couldn’t, tried to jump. Looking up at the dense thickets of leafless branches overhead and the tree-trunks that closed in to every side, Pieter frowned – this horse had been going fast.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

LCP only:

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Before he knocks on the door Sigurd crouches down and tells Indigo:

"Let me know if you see the woman from last night."

Once shown inside, Sigurd notes the paintings with interest. He smiles and bows when Lord Verloren appears, making sure to seize his hat off his head as he does so.

"Indeed I have, Lord. And may I give you my truest thanks for inviting me. The chance to see an old castle like this--it's a rare opportunity for me, you know."

He frowns. "Ah! Lord, please forgive me, in my eagerness and haste I didn't even think to bring a present... How very rude..."

After the lord's answer to that, he will discuss history - asking about the legends and the barrows, the paintings and the duke's ancestors, and the building itself.

At some opportune moment, when he has the lord's attention and the servant is not about, he'll give the man a level look. "May I ask, Lord, what is it you want most in the world?"

He keeps his expression serious but not grave.

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Illiiya was in one of her quieter moods, looking about idly as the group moved as if paranoid or expecting something to be trailing them at any moment. On anyone else it might have been unusual behavior. For her, mostly par for the course. Her keen, elven eyes settled on something nearby and she moved to pluck something from the lower branches of a nearby tree.

This seems to not belong here... unless trees are growing cloth now.

She held her find up for all, revealing a a torn scrap of wool. It is dyed a dark green, but looks like the garment it belonged to is fairly aged and faded. She handed the thing to Pieter, as he seemed to be the one most intent on this little trek.

From the rider, perhaps?

[LCP]

Sigurd

"Indeed I have, Lord. And may I give you my truest thanks for inviting me. The chance to see an old castle like this--it's a rare opportunity for me, you know."

He frowns. "Ah! Lord, please forgive me, in my eagerness and haste I didn't even think to bring a present... How very rude..."

Lord Verloren waved Sigurd’s concern aside: he obviously didn’t consider it so. It was pleasant to have visitors, he said; that was a gift enough. In the mouth of a more eloquent man, the sentiment might have sounded charming, but Mils had a way about him that made even the most effusive expressions of friendliness seem distant and reserved. Despite that, Sigurd thought he saw a definite glimmer of appreciation in the aging man’s eyes at the way he doffed his hat.

Walking beneath the rows of high portraits, they spoke on Sigurd’s favourite topics, the merchant finding himself doing most of the talking. The lord of the manor had little to say on the barrows or the legends concerning them: he had heard the stories before, but showed little interest in them. By contrast, he could name each of the painted faces Sigurd pointed to, some without even looking. The distinguished heritage of the Verlorens was clearly a matter close to his heart.

“But it’s the history of the village you were looking into, Mr Waite? I imagine you’d be more interested in the chronicles of the manor than these old paintings. I can have them brought up for you, if you wish.”

Clearly making to oblige already, Mils cast about for someone to send. Seizing the opportune moment, Sigurd launched his question.

"May I ask, Lord, what is it you want most in the world?"

Lord Verloren looked surprised, caught off-balance by Sigurd’s sudden change in tack. Blinking, he retained his composure.

“What a peculiar question,” he said. He looked up into Sigurd’s face, furrowing his brow. “Why do you ask?”

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter narrowed his eyes at the bit of cloth.

"Hm. Not sure it'll lead us far, but that's something. Thanks, Illiiya."

He almost wished they had the merchant's dog with them.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd smiles. "You seem to love your family very much, Lord. It's a wonderful thing to see such dedication, and uncommon these days. I've rather become accustomed to men with baser ambitions: politics, renown. But that doesn't seem to be you. So I wonder what it is, of all things, you want most in the world."

He scratches Indigo's ears as he talks, hoping his idleness will disarm the man.

[LCP]

Sigurd

"A million of money would be nice, if you're granting wishes today," joked Lord Verloren, with a half-smile. "The finances of the estate aren't what they used to be."

He shook his head, assuming a more serious tone. "I don't want for much, Mr Waite. The Verlorens look out for the village, and the village looks up to us. We have a comfortable life here, as comfortable as anyone could reasonably ask." He looked down at his boots. "There's no sense in hope against things that can't be changed."

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd's smile fades when the man shares his troubles. "I'm sorry to hear that, Lord. About the finances, I mean."

He glances out the nearest window. "Tomorrow I'm heading out to see the barrows, you know. Some rumors say a very special sword is hidden out there. Should I find it, it will surely bring a great price on the antiquities market."

He looks back at Verloren. "I think it would only be fair to provide you with a commission in that case. You are the liege of this place, and your assistance has been invaluable."

He shakes his head. "Not that I want to sell you on false hope. Most likely it will turn out to be all faerie-tales. These things usually do."

His own sadness shows through for a moment.

He'll continue talking with the lord as long as he likes, and gladly accept the chronicles and a place to sit and read them in peace, but will also ask:

"I'd also greatly enjoy seeing everything for myself. Do you mind if I walk about when I'm done here? I won't be any trouble."

[Exeson]

Ithelus hunted the scene, looking across the other side of the road for any indication of some sort of ambush. He cursed as his coat caught on a branch. 'If this was a city I'd be far more use... hate the country, all these damn trees and mud.'

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search/perception roll if needed (1d100)[75]

[-Sentinel-]

Don't Elves worship trees or something?

"I'm afraid this was a waste of time," Pieter sighed. "If there were any other bodies, we'll have to ask those who removed them."

If only this had taken place but a few weeks earlier, there would still be snow, and tracking would be much easier. Pieter wondered what could possibly motivate a horseman to go at a full gallop through a forest; he knew little of riding, but suspected this was rather dangerous.

[LCP]

Sigurd

Lord Verloren frowned.

“A sword?” he repeated. He paused, turning to face Sigurd more fully. “Mr Waite, if you are planning on disturbing the mounds, I must discourage you in the strongest possible terms. A grave robber is a detestable man. The dead deserve their peace.”

What precious progress Sigurd thought he had made in penetrating the ageing man’s formal facade seemed to evaporate in an instant.

“I will have Mrs Lauf bring you the books. If you wish to see the house, you need only ask her to show you around.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gave a shallow nod. “I hope you find what you are looking for, Mr Waite.”

Footsteps echoing in the ancient hall, the lord of the manor loped away, soon to be replaced by the officious Mrs Lauf. She gave Sigurd a seat in a small, firelit room that smelt of musty antiquity: over the fireplace, a marble bust of some long-dead Verloren stared fiercely into the space about a foot above Sigurd’s head, aquiline features framed in an ornate helmet.

Bustling out of the room, the housekeeper returned with a stack of three dusty tomes, each the thickness of Sigurd’s shin and bound in dark green leather. The paper of the oldest was crinkled and yellow, so aged that Sigurd was afraid the pages might crumble to dust between his fingers. The newest was clearly still being written in, though it looked close to being full.

Mrs Lauf leaving him in peace, he turned the first page. There, written in a close hand in old, faded ink, were names, dates, events... the diary of the family and their whole estate, kept from beginning to end.

OOC:

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Reading through these books will take a long time (hours). Assuming I haven’t already skipped too far, I wanted to stop here both to make sure there wasn’t anything you wanted to do first, and to ask whether you were reading them front-to-back, or looking for any specific piece of information.

[hr]

Others

Ithelus could find nothing of interest that had not already been found. If it were not for the dark bloodstain against the tree where the men had fallen, one would not know that anything had happened here. The forest was already forgetting.

Somewhere beyond the treetops, crows croaked, their inhuman voices the only sound in the still air. Ithelus scanned the other side of the road with wary eyes, but no-one was watching there – the four of them were completely alone.

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter shivered. Gods, man, it's just crows, he scolded himself.

"Bit of a wasted day, wasn't it?" he commented, just to break the oppressive silence; but the trees seemed to absorb the sound of his voice. "You hungry? I know I'm starving. How about we turn back?"

He scoured the ground in search of a short, stout and more or less dry evergreen branch. If they needed a torch on the way back, better find one while there was still enough light.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

///Retro Time Splice///

When Verloren accuses him of graverobbing, Sigurd affects a hurt look.

"My lord! I never said anything about graverobbing. I was told the sword is stuck upright into a stone! Do you truly think I'm going to dig into a tomb?"

He frowns. "But then, I've also been told it's turned invisible by magic. Pardon my raising my voice, Lord. The truth is I don't know what will be out there." He sighs. "But I'm worried enough about the trip without going about disturbing the dead."

If this turn of the conversation has brought back a hint of Verloren's amiable demeanor, Sigurd will use it as a segue to ask about the professor who went out into the woods: what he was after, what he did wrong, and what it might have been that killed him.

"I don't want to find myself coming to the same fate, after all."

///Present Time Slice///

OOC:

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It seems like the others are quite a bit ahead of me time-wise, due to their walk to their destination.

Assuming I came to the manor around noon, it wouldn't quite be 1 o'clock yet. If that is correct, then yes, Sigurd will take the time to read the entire thing.

However, at some point (maybe an hour in) he will take a break to get up and start to walk about the premises. He won't seek out Mrs. Lauf, in fact, if if possible he'll wait till he hears her head off somewhere else.

He'll go about on his own, and if he runs into anyone apologize because he couldn't find Mrs. Lauf.

Of course, if the nosy Miss Verloren comes around, that might pre-empt all of this.

By the way, Indigo didn't have any reaction to Mrs. Lauf?

Sigurd sets in to read, and after a while, decides to take a tour...

[LCP]

Sigurd

"My lord! I never said anything about graverobbing. I was told the sword is stuck upright into a stone! Do you truly think I'm going to dig into a tomb?"

He frowns. "But then, I've also been told it's turned invisible by magic. Pardon my raising my voice, Lord. The truth is I don't know what will be out there." He sighs. "But I'm worried enough about the trip without going about disturbing the dead."

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Mils. He looked up at one of the oldest paintings. “The Verlorens have been the custodians of this land for over a thousand years. I’d like to think we respect it as it respects us.”

He paused.

“They say Theodoric Verloren used to have tomb robbers who trespassed in the barrows tied to a tree overnight. If they survived until the morning, they were allowed to go free.” Seeming to snap back to the here and now, he looked back to Sigurd. “Of course, we live in more civilised times now. Take care, Mr Waite. A scholarly man has been through here before, investigating the barrows. I wouldn’t like to see the same fate befall you as befell him.”

Jumping in as Lord Verloren turned to go, Sigurd stuck a wedge in the conversation, trying to wheedle out a little more information about that self-same man. Mils turned and raised his eyebrows.

“What killed him?” he asked. “You haven’t spent much time in the Drakwald?”

He turned and pointed at something high up on the stone wall beside the stairs. Squinting through the dusty gloom, Sigurd saw it was a mounted trophy – it looked like a ram’s skull, coated in brass to preserve it. At least, it did at first: looking closer, Sigurd felt a slight uneasiness as he noticed its size, and the predatory, wolf-like teeth that lined its jaws. There was a jagged gash running through the right eye-socket – a sword-wound?

“That one was killed by my ancestor Hadwin. They were growing bolder at that time.” He turned back to Sigurd. “Beastmen, Mr Waite. It’s always beastmen.”

~

The chronicles of Hohlesbruck had been filled in a very haphazard way: it seemed the Verloren lords had varied between meticulously recording every minute detail of village life and forgetting the chronicles completely. Gingerly turning the brittle pages, Sigurd began sifting through the age-old words, eyes skimming over the uninteresting records of purchases and arbitrations between villagers. This was going to take some time.

The History of Hohlesbruck

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OOC: This is not an IC document. This is a paraphrasing of all the interesting bits, sifted out from the chaff of the records of everyday life - things like weddings, holy days, purchases of the estate, the punishment of poachers and the occasional villager being lost in the woods.

1414: As part of the Drakwald settlement between the counties of Middenland and Nordland, the Verloren estate is founded in Hohlesbruck by one Guilbert Verloren, a knight who fought for the Middenlander forces. It’s unclear as to whether the village already existed, or was built around the first manor at this time.

1415: Guilbert and his retainers systematically hunt down the beastmen in the forest surrounding the village, driving the Children of Chaos into the deep woods.

1416: The men of the village refuse to assist their lord in pursuing the beastmen any further than the border of the northern barrows. Flying into a great rage, Guilbert rides out with his followers from the Nordland war. He returns with three men, and refuses ever to speak of it again.

1448: The Crusades against Araby. Guilbert’s son Theodoric joins the armies travelling south, fighting as a member of the company of knights who became the Knights Panther on their return. Plunder from the south swells the coffers of the family.

1547: Count Siegfried of Middenland proclaims himself Emperor, beginning the Age of the Three Emperors and beginning the line of so-called “Wolf Emperors”; the Verlorens commit themselves to the Count’s cause.

1552: Vanamonde Verloren is killed by a Talabecland longbowman at the siege of Talabheim, ending the direct involvement of the Verlorens in Emperor Siegfried’s campaign. During Vanamonde’s absence, beastmen raid the village, forcing the villagers to shelter in the manor.

1682: The Incidente of the Remarkable Danse. These words are all that are recorded about said incident.

1706: A levy is raised from the men of Hohlesbruck, to join the armies mustering to face the horde of Gorbad Ironclaw.

1712: After the Massacre of Grunberg, goblin outriders from the horde of Gorbad Ironclaw sack the village. The first manor is pillaged and burned to the ground, and Godric Verloren dies in its defence. His wife and infant son flee to Middenheim, where they are kept in safety and comfort by the Wolf Emperor’s court.

1724: Konrad Verloren comes of age, and returns to Hohlesbruck with his wife and ageing mother. The manor is rebuilt in a far more lavish, less practical style, digging deep into the saved riches of the Verlorens.

1728: Konrad Verloren duels with Dietrich von Fassberg. He wins, but is permanently lamed by a leg wound.

1730: Konrad Verloren divorces his wife.

1731: Konrad Verloren takes a new wife from Nuln. The Verlorens withdraw from village life, but receive a steady stream of noble guests. The family makes large acquisitions of land around Pritzstock, setting themselves up with an interest in the wine trade.

1733: Booming profits from their winemaking properties allow the Verlorens to expand their estate further, purchasing trading houses in Delberz and Marienburg. Konrad Verloren divorces his wife, and marries a nineteen-year old girl from the village.

1734: Having quarrelled with his wife, Konrad Verloren dies falling from his horse. An ambiguous will leaves his five legitimate children squabbling among themselves.

1735: Riding alone to Marienburg, the seventeen-year-old Hugo Verloren is set upon by beastmen on the western road and devoured. The rest of the family try to hunt down the pack of changelings responsible without success.

1740-1780: The Verloren estate continues to expand, landed incomes making them one of the richest families in the Drakwald.

1794: The gambler Jack Spatz passes through Hohlesbruck, and defrauds several of the villagers. Ludwig Verloren has him hung by his ankles from the tallest tree in the woods until he is sorry. When the villagers return to take him down the next morning, the shackles are empty. Opinion is divided as to whether he escaped or was eaten by beastmen.

1812: Siegfried Verloren takes a second house in Altdorf, and spends most of his time there.

1848: Siegfried Verloren dies following a quarrel over a game of cards, when a shallow wound becomes poisonous. Alfons Verloren returns to Hohlesbruck, having sold the trading houses and the family’s Altdorf home in order to pay his father’s gambling debts.

1855: Alfons Verloren is killed in a windmill-related accident. He is succeeded by his cousin Sigismund “The Rake”.

1860-1960: Sigismund’s descendants form a long line of decadent country nobles, entertaining frequent guests and spending beyond their means. Verloren Manor becomes a popular getaway for many big-city aristocratic cliques, and the Verloren estate is eroded almost to nothing to pay for their extravagances.

1969: Three successive droughts cause the worst famine in Hohlesbruck’s history. A farmer by the name of Holt insists the Skaven have been stealing his crop with “devil machines” that leave circular patterns in the fields. Three of the village children confess to having made the patterns as a prank using planks of wood, but Holt refuses to believe them, insisting he has seen the Skaven of nights. When he becomes violent in the defence of his madness, he has to be sent to a Shallyan asylum.

1973: Following a party, the second manor is gutted by a mysterious fire. Bartholomaus Verloren dies of the Shivering Ague in Delberz.

1984: Selling the last of the family’s holdings outside the village, Henrik Verloren rebuilds the manor in its present incarnation.

1988: Becoming an increasingly fervent adherent of the Sigmarite faith, Henrik Verloren decrees that the villagers should no longer hold their spring feasts, as their conduct at these events is “impious and debauched”. The villagers politely ignore him.

1990: In the lead-up to the millennium, beastman attacks in the surrounding woods become more frequent.

1999: Henrik Verloren travels to Mordheim to witness the prophesied return of Sigmar, and dies when the city is obliterated by the twin-tailed comet thought to herald the prophecy. His eldest son Jurgen ventures into the ruins to reclaim his father’s body, but is killed by treasure-hunters: the second son Frederick becomes head of the Verloren family and arranges for his brother’s body to be brought back for burial in Hohlesbruck.

2010: The Wars of the Vampire Counts drive the villagers of Hohlesbruck into a superstitious terror, although they are far removed from the battle-front. All the graves in Hohlesbruck are dug up and reburied with the coffins facing down.

2232: Karl-Reinhardt Verloren plans to expand the manor, but his plans to add another wing to the building are thwarted by the refusal of a loan by his Marienburg bankers. The only part of his plan that goes ahead is the construction of a larger stableyard.

2259: Rumours about the “Witch of Hohlesbruck” bring the Templars of Sigmar to the village. They find nothing.

2302: The Great War Against Chaos. Albrecht Verloren rides north with Magnus the Pious, and falls at the walls of Kislev, reversing the family’s slowly recovering fortunes once again. The beastmen return to the northern woods as a unified tribe.

2509: Rumours of the Children of Ulric are heard from the nearby village of Totden.

2513: Thelonius Waldemarr of Nuln and his two manservants take lodgings in the village, looking to study the barrows in the northern woods. They are eaten by beastmen.

2518: Soldiers from the south are billeted in Hohlesbruck prior to the Battle of Elsterweld.

2522: Archaon’s invasion. Hohlesbruck is fortified against beastman raids, but a battle between the beastmen and the Knights Panther sees the changelings driven out of the northern woods.

To a man of Sigurd’s interests, the chronicles were engrossing: hours had passed before he had even noticed. Looking up from his studies at last, he tried to get a bearing on the time. It was tricky, without the sun for reference – there was a clock in the room, but it had stopped long ago.

OOC:

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No, Indigo didn’t have any reaction. Is there a direction to Sigurd's explorations, or is he just wandering around the house?

[goblinpaladin]

Lothar peered at the scrap of cloth. "Makes sense. Anyone ridin' that fast's bound to get caught on summat. Problem is, I don't know anythin' about cloth- is it good stuff, like a nob would wear, or cheap, like a roadwarden?"

He scratched at his beard, and sighed. "Wish Raffy were here- he coulda followed these tracks, I reckon. He was a bounty hunter, and grew up in the country."

"Sod it. I'm hungry, an' there's nothin' here."

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Oh yes... NOW they miss me.

Illiiya fussed nervously with her skirt, looking up at the darkening sky. The forest was unsettling in it's emptiness... making the occasional animal's cry or raven's shriek stand out all the more. Or, perhaps it was her head again. So much of it seemed worse in her head.

They all miss you. She spoke softly to no one, glancing off into the woods.

Even you were angry at me before. You only miss me so much because I'm gone now.

I... I'm sorry... She muttered into thin air, slipping over to weave her hand through Lothar's.

We should go. She told him shakily, We should not be out here at night. Please... can we go?

You need to stop ignoring the truth. You can't do it forever...

But she was no longer listening.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd wishes he had brought a scribe with him. The books are of little immediate use, but copies would fetch a fair price from universities. Of course, a scribe would've had to be hired in a larger town, and paid for the whole journey... it would have exceeded his present budget.

Indigo has fallen fast asleep on the floor, but stirs when Sigurd rises. "Come on, Indi," he says. "Let's go look for secret rooms."

Leaving the books out, and his coat and hat with them, he takes his satchel and cane and begins to explore.

The Plan:

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+Explore the house in general
+Try especially to get to lower ground, seeking out the cellar (or maybe even dungeon?)
+Keep an eye out for changes in walls, grooves in the floor, and rugs & tapestries
+Poke said rugs & tapestries discreetly to test for concealed doors.
+Pay careful attention to Indigo's behaviour in case the dog senses anything Sigurd cannot

After exploring the lower levels I may have other plans, but that's my first destination.

[LCP]

Sigurd

Rising to leave the cosy study, Sigurd tried to get his bearings from the parts of the house he had already seen. There was the door he had come through, and the hallway outside – but there was another door over to his right. With Indigo trotting at his heels, he walked over and opened it.

On the other side was a broad, high-ceilinged room, strongly slanted beams of yellow sunlight piercing its dusty air from the tall windows in its northern wall. From the look of the place, it had once been a magnificent library: now, its shelves were all but empty.

Indigo began snuffling at the edges of the faded carpet, scuttling around the corners of the room with her head low to the ground. Walking over to the nearest shelf that still bore a book or two, Sigurd examined the titles worked into their cracked leather bindings. Vogel’s Peerage, volumes one through eight. A History of the Nordland Settlement, by Gustav von Boltz. Common Law of the Middle Counties, author unnamed. On the ceiling, the faded remnants of a painted fresco clung to the old stonework, the outlines of ornately-armoured figures standing against landscapes long since crumbled to dust.

Trotting back across the echoing room, Indigo returned to her master’s side, looking up to the Sigurd to see where he might lead her next. Seeing another oaken door around the corner of the ancient shelves, Sigurd forged onwards.

The western wing of the manor seemed to be a fusion of the old and the even older, perhaps some remnants of the 1724 manor persisting in its construction. There was a long, crooked gallery that opened into the library, the study, and a broad hall hung with green and yellow tapestries to either side of a gaping stone fireplace. Sigurd examined the tapestries carefully, but the walls behind them were as solid as you could wish.

Stepping back out into the winding corridor, he headed in the direction he had first come. There was a low little door set in a stone arch at the corner before the entrance hall. Indigo was sniffing enthusiastically at its base: turning the iron ring that served as its handle, Sigurd opened it a little way and poked his head slowly through the gap.

On the other side was a spiral staircase of stone, each step worn down by generations of footsteps so that it was significantly lower and smoother in the middle than at the sides. It was dark, but there was still light enough to see from an old arrow-slit somewhere in the levels above. The stairs wound both up and down – ascending to the upper floors, and descending to some sort of basement level. Closing the door behind him, Sigurd began to descend, Indigo loping warily behind him.

At the bottom of the staircase, it was so dark as to be almost pitch black. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Sigurd began to make out what was in front of him. It was another door, of the same general construction as the first. The stone archway around it was ancient and pitted, looking older even than the thick walls of the western hall. Carved into the lintel was a stone shield bearing a coat of arms, fine details softened away by the passage of the centuries: squinting through the shadows, Sigurd thought he could see the eroded design of an hourglass picked out in bas-relief on the shield’s surface.

There was an iron hoop for a handle, the same as before. Reaching down, Sigurd tried to turn it, but it refused to budge. The door was locked.

OOC:

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If you encounter Mrs Lauf or any other servants, I imagine Sigurd will have very little difficulty in talking his way past them, so I may as well just give you the whole map of the house and let you choose where to explore from here on. I hate trying to describe complicated buildings without visual aids, I’m always terrified I’ll contradict myself and end up describing some kind of impossible TARDIS of a house.

So, here is a map. Obviously if there were secret torture chambers etc., they wouldn’t be marked.










This post describes Sigurd moving from the Study through the Library, into the West Hall, out of the West Hall, and down the Tower Stair.

[hr]

Others

The return journey to Hohlesbruck was a little faster than their hike out to the site of the killings, being mostly downhill. Nevertheless, by the time the sails of the windmill came back into sight, the sun was dipping behind the western treeline. Somewhere out to the north, a colony of rooks were chattering fit to burst an eardrum, their black shapes flitting against the gathering dusk. Subconsciously, Lothar quickened his pace.

Nevertheless, they returned to the Heartless Man safe and sound. The shouting from inside the Faulebrand’s grand house had finally died away: when Pieter stepped across the threshold of the inn, the reason became clear. Aloysius’ son was sitting alone at one of the tables, staring intently into a deep mug of ale. By his far-away expression, it was not the first.

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

((Thank you very much for handling it this way; it makes it a lot easier.))

Retreating up the stairs, Sigurd continues his explorations with three goals in mind:

1. Run into Miss Verloren and any other servants in the house. He's certain that he can find the woman he's looking for.

2. Find the other ways down (looks like one more spiral staircase) and see if that is also locked at the bottom. Next time he descends he will be clever and bring a candle.

3. If the whole downstairs is locked, ask Mrs. Lauf if she could show him around down there. He tells her the foundations are the most interesting parts of an historic structure, as they say so much about the age in which it was built. He'll pontificate as long as needed to get her sick of him so she'll give in.

Of course, he continues to watch for signs of concealed openings.

((I understand things may not happen in this order.))

[LCP]

Sigurd

Stepping out of the stairwell, Sigurd closed the old oak door behind him and continued on his way. He was fairly sure he had scouted out the western wing as thoroughly as he could; with that in mind, he headed back through the great hall, towards the other side of the house. Faded portraits looked down their noses at him as his footsteps echoed against the stony floor, some of them so aged and discoloured that only the white contrasts of their eyes were clearly distinguishable in the gloom.

Pushing open a heavy door, he found himself in what he took to be a dining hall. An elongated table stretched the length of the chamber, big enough to seat a score of guests; by the number of mismatched chairs, however, it looked like at the moment Verloren Manor could only host half that number. More paintings hung at either end of the hall – a Verloren in armour, with stern eyes, bushy side-whiskers and a shaven scalp, and a dark-haired woman in grey and white furs. The face of the painting was beautiful, but there was something about its perfect symmetry and slender neck that made Sigurd suspect it didn’t bear much correspondence to a real person. Closer inspection showed that both paintings had been restored more than once, newer paint layered over the old; it didn’t, however, turn up any secret panels behind them, however hard Sigurd looked.

Tugging on the dull brass sconces on the walls didn’t open any secret doors either. Pulling on one, Sigurd felt a thrill of excitement as he felt something move – then realised with a sudden sense of guilt that it was just the torch-holder’s age-weakened fixtures starting to give. Giving the tarnished metal a gentle pat, he stepped gingerly away before it came completely free.

Where there was a dining hall, there had to be a kitchen, and Sigurd found it easily enough – the kitchen door was down a short, narrow corridor that led into the east wing of the house, two doors between the rooms where the food was prepared and where the food was eaten to shield the diners from unwanted noise. As he approached the second door, Sigurd could hear a hectoring voice, loud and shrill – by now, he could already recognise Mrs Lauf.

Pushing open the door, he found himself in an old stone kitchen. A scarred, unvarnished table stood before a fireplace big enough to roast a middle-sized oxen, its dry wooden surface dusted with patches of flour. Beside it, the short stout figure of the housekeeper was delivering a haranguing lecture to a pudgy man in a cook’s apron, his thinning hair and lined face putting him on the wrong side of middle age.

“...told her more than once, there’s others who’d jump at the chance, jump for her position here, and if she’s to go abandoning her work without so much as a by-your-leave...”

She trailed off as she noticed Sigurd.

“Mr Waite,” she said, seeming taken aback by his presence. “You lost?”

“Just exploring,” explained Sigurd, politely. “I have a love of old buildings. Lord Verloren gave me leave to have a look around the house.”

“Oh. Well, this is the servants’ part, Mr Waite. You’d be best lookin’ upstairs on in the western wing for that sort of thing.”

“Actually, it was downstairs that interested me.” Giving Mrs Lauf the speech he had been preparing on his interest in foundation stones, he mentioned the locked door at the bottom of the tower stair. “I was wondering if I could ask for the key...”

“That’s the family vault, down there,” said Mrs Lauf, disapprovingly. “The master might’ve given you leave to go lookin’ round the house, Mr Waite, but I’d ask him again before you go ogling his ancestor’s tombs.” She glanced at the browbeaten man on her left. “Gundred here can show you the wine cellar, though, if you want to see what the old place looks like from below.”

[-Sentinel-]

By the time they came back to the inn, Pieter was ravenous.

"I'll have a roasted griffon," he told the innkeeper matter-of-factly, collapsing on a stool at the bar. "Or maybe just a horse, if you're out of griffon. With a tankard of light ale large enough to fit half the Imperial fleet."

While waiting for his meal, he threw furtive glances at Faulebrand's son. The youth did not seem to be looking for company, but Pieter's curiosity grew. Once he got his meal, he walked near the young man, as if just passing by, and said in a voice of polite concern:

"Um... Leopold, is that it? Have you heard any news of your sister's condition?"

[BloodyAngel]

Illiiya Jaelrae

Illiiya was all too eager to be back in town, flopping down into a seat once they were inside the building. That trip had turned up nothing of real use, and it felt like it had taken forever. *rimshot*

She glanced over to the young human man's spot at his table, not entirely certain she should say anything to him. She had tried to warn them, she earnestly had... but pointing out as much seemed like the sort of things that upset people. She was not even entirely sure that was the reason for the man's brooding.

Instead, after several moments she forced herself up and made her way to the front to order for herself a modest meal, listening in on Pieter and the man as she went.

OOC: Good to be back!

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

Sigurd graciously accepts the offer of touring the wine cellar.

[LCP]

Not Sigurd

“She’s ill, and not to be seen,” said Leopold. Pieter could immediately tell that the young man was extremely drunk... and by the looks of things, aiming to be drunker. “She’s betrothed to be wed. She doesn’t need a brother when she has a husband.”

The young man looked up at Pieter’s face. He wasn’t as handsome as his sister was pretty – a little too narrow in the jaw, and with a generally unkempt air that was probably supposed to be roguish, but he certainly wasn’t ill-looking.

“I don’t suppose any of your friends are in the duelling business?” he asked, with a desolate attempt at humour. “I seem to find myself in need of a champion.”

[hr]

Sigurd

Following Mrs Lauf’s direction, Gundred led the way for Sigurd. Descending through a dusty trapdoor secluded in the butler’s trapdoor, the worn-looking servant raised a candle to illuminate a shallow, stone-ceiling cellar, thick columns of plain stone supporting the ceiling. Wooden racks supported barrels of wine... or rather, had once done so. Now, the cellar contained only three where it could clearly once have held three dozen.

As wine cellars went, it looked normal enough – sturdily built, to support the house above, and old. Sigurd would have been hard-pressed to put an age on it, seeing as how the stones down here had been sheltered from weather and use by their subterranean location, but the air was musty enough to be as ancient as a Khemrian tomb.

“This what you wanted to see, sir?” asked the cook.

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter chuckled. "I once knew someone who'd have jumped at the chance... but I, for one, avoid fair fights. I tend to lose them." Without asking, he sat down at Leopold's table with his meal. "Just between the two of us, I don't care much for that Ricard Talberg fellow," he confided in a low voice. "They say he was supposed to marry Lord Verloren's daughter but changed his mind when she came down with the green pox. Not the mark of a caring husband, let me tell you. I pray he won't treat your sister that way when she grows older."

If she gets the chance to grow older, he thought glumly.

"Oh, where are my manners? I'm Pieter Hagen, of Altdorf," he introduced himself.


OOC: How much is a big meal and a large tankard of ale?

[Another_Poet]

Master Sigurd Waite

"Mm-hmm," Sigurd replies absently. He begins poking around.

"Who was it that Mrs. Lauf was talking about?" Sigurd asks. "Sounds like she's not very happy with her."

Sigurd makes an honest effort to date the foundation based on its architectural style - the foundation may be older than the manor house, as fortresses are often built on their predecessors.

[LCP]

Not Sigurd

“You know my name already,” said Leopold, glumly. “As for Ricard Talberg... I may have... hit him.”

He looked down into his tankard, now empty, with an expression of deep despair.

“He might not be old Anhame, but he was a pistolier,” he groaned. “I’m dead. Dead man walking.” He slumped forward in his seat, then looked down at the hard wooden bench. “Sitting.”

OOC: Call it 15p.

[hr]

Sigurd

The cellar was bare of clues that Sigurd could have used to put a definite date on its construction. All he could tell with reasonable certainty was that it seemed older than the room above.

"Who was it that Mrs. Lauf was talking about?" Sigurd asks. "Sounds like she's not very happy with her."

“That were Rosa, the lady’s maid,” said Gundred, drearily. “Mistress Verloren’s very undemanding, like, so Rosa sometimes slopes off t’ the village when she thinks Mrs Lauf isn’t watching.” He shook his head as if he knew better. “Mrs Lauf is always watching.”

[-Sentinel-]

Pieter blinked. "You hit him?" He grinned fiercely. "Well done. I love when some arrogant noble is reminded he bleeds just as red as the rest of us. I wouldn't be too worried if I were you, though. Who's dispensing justice around here? Is it Lord Verloren? He mustn't be too fond of Talberg. As for Talberg himself, he didn't even fight in the war. Noble's sons like him are usually more bark than bite."

He began eating. "I'd offer you a drink just for hitting Talberg, but you really should keep your wits at hand, now more than ever. You never know when you're going to need them."

Then, almost as an afterthought: "Who's old Anhame?"

[LCP]

Not Sigurd

"Esther's other suitor. Reinhardt Anhame, joined the Graf's knights when she turned him down for Ricard."

Leopold examined the bottom of the tankard.

"I hit him, and he said he accepted my challenge. He's a Talberg. What's old Mils Verloren going to do, make it so it never happened?" He lowered his head into his hands. "He said he would lend me one of his pistols, tomorrow at dawn. I've never fired a pistol in my life."