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It was a dark, and stormy night… [M][PM to join!]

Started by nephero, March 21, 2018, 01:33:13 PM

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nephero

[It's murder mystery time! So warnings concerning blood and death and all the foul language you'd expect when faced with these kindsa things.]   

   

   The worst of the season was upon them. Even the forest of architectural wonder that was Reajh could do little to quell the sheer violence of nature that rattled shutters and whipped banners, the dull thud of rocking signs barely discernable over the cracking of thunder. Early into the evening though it was, most had taken to their homes or otherwise hunkered down in the nearest ale house, content to call the rest of the day a wash and keep where it was warm and dry.

   Of course, this didn't really mean much if you lived where you worked, and all your duties were indoors anyway. It just meant that you had to deal with entirely bored children at the same time, and for a young maid like Petra with absolutely zero maternal instincts to speak of, this was a punishment far worse than a few wet clothes.

   The bombardment of rain gave the air a kind of ethereal gloom, and coupled with the kind of cold, quiet politeness of an upperclass home, every room felt downright spooky. Like they were full of ghosts lingering in dark corners and waiting to strike. Not that Petra was afraid of ghosts— or at least, not here. The Wartenbergs were good, decent people, and while this home had been in the family for generations, Petra couldn't see any one of them doing something so... unsavory like haunting a house.

   Ghosts, after all, belonged to those without direction or purpose. And everyone in the Wartenberg manor had both in spades. A little bubble of pride welled in Petra's chest, and she set her candle down on the long bureau with the kind of finality that, if there were any ghosts (which of course there weren't), they would surely see in her body language that she simply did not have the time for nonsense, and if they were so keen on frightening someone they'd best take their ghostly business elsewhere.

   She had windows to clean, after all, and the Wartenberg manor was a very large home indeed. Petra shook out the curtains, thick and perfect for keeping out winter chills, brushed them free of dust and, somehow still, evidence of fluffy ginger cats that had not lived in the home since the days of Mr Wartenberg's great aunt. Petra and the other maids often complained that they'd each be old crones by the time they finally cleared the place of fur, and considering Mr Wartenberg's great aunt had at least ten of the spoiled creatures, that complaint seemed to be very realistic indeed.

   Tying the curtains back once more, Petra took up her rag and set to gently and methodically wiping each individual pane, pressing her thumb in just so as she ran it along the circular grooves in one. Streaks were not acceptable, and so she took her time,squinting against the constant storm of raindrops on the other side of the cold glass. It was always a little more difficult to tell if the glass was truly clean like this, but as this was one of many guest rooms that hadn't seen use in the past week or so, Petra was secure in the belief it would turn out spotless.

   A particularly noisy gust of wind blew up and rattled the panes, and somewhere down on the city road something toppled over with a splintering crack. It was loud enough that even Petra heard it on the second floor, and she squinted out the window to see if she could spy just what had taken a fall.

   It looked, at first, just like some poor bastard caught in the rain. But something didn't seem right. Too tall, too shadowy, and too keen on kicking a foot free of a wooden bucket, Petra squinted harder as the figure finally got loose and took off down the gloom of the street, movements hurried and quick and a bag clutched tight to their chest.

   Well, whatever that was about, it was none of Petra's business. She'd done enough daydreaming, and so ran her cloth along the bottom edge of the window to finish it off. Another gust of wind, and then, mercifully it seemed, it died down to a low lull. Those were always the strangest moments in the storm, when it got so quiet it almost felt too quiet, and Petra was struck again with the sensation of lingering ghosts. She looked out the window, watched the flicker of rain in the dim light, and settled on the manor across the way. It belonged to a new family, not the original owners by even a mile. Petra had heard the older servants gossiping about the brewing magnate and his young wife and their newborn child. Sudden, new wealth and an unknown lineage tended to bring about nastier rumors than usual, but that was usually just pointless vindictiveness from those who felt envy too close in their hearts.

   Still, reputations were reputations, and Petra had heard enough of those rumors to be very glad indeed that she worked for the Wartenbergs and not these... Brandts. And wherever their sudden influx of fortune came from. Petra certainly didn't know anyone who had gone to work in that house, either, but every now and again they could see shadows moving beyond the windowpanes, unknown servants going about unknown work for a relatively unknown man— which was just as unsettling as anything else. She squinted even further still, with some thought of maybe trying to catch sight of one of these shadowy housekeepers going about their potentially nefarious business.

   It was a far sight more likely than ghosts, after all.

   But the rain was still such that it was hard to see much of anything at all, and the dim candlelight from the Brandt estate's windows didn't do much to alleviate that problem. Petra was about to give up and go home, when a sudden peal of lightning struck high and loud in the sky, illuminating everything in a bright white-blue wash of elemental fury.

   It was in this brief moment that Petra saw it. Her eyes widened, her heartbeat drummed fast, and her breath caught in her throat. But no, it couldn't be, that wasn't—

   Another crack of lightning and boom of thunder, and this time when the light dimmed, it was to a long shriek of horror, Petra's finger pointing wildly out the window even as her screams drew every other member of the household to the guest bedroom. At first there was only confusion, peppered with annoyance at a young girl letting the weather and her imagination get the best of her.

   But the weather and her imagination weren't responsible for the violent vibrant splatter of red against the third upper window of the Brandts' home, thick and far too plentiful to mean anything good. Suddenly, everyone was moving, boots thudding against the hard wooden floors as Mr Wartenberg and his teenage son ran down and across the street in the rain: suddenly there was movement everywhere, even in the Brandt estate, as the doors opened to confused servants and shouted words were lost to the stormy winds.

   It was only after Petra had been pulled away from the window and down into the kitchens, and only after her third mug of hot tea that they got the news:

   Martin Brandt had been murdered.

   


VIGILANCE WALKING THE TOAST
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DragonSong

"Did you hear what happened to Martin Brandt?"

"Oh, terrible, just terrible!"

"When I think of the family..."

Yvaine Devereaux sipped at her tea and tried to block out the voices of the other women her moth had invited over for what she called "an extended social call", but was really more of a weekly gossip circle. Since she'd turned eighteen, Yvaine had been forced to sit through the tea, snacks, and conversation at her mother's side.

Of course she was intrigued by what had happened at the Brandt's estate, but she highly doubted that these particular socialites would have anything worth contributing to such a conversation: it was mostly idle gossip and speculation, shared for the titillation of the thing rather than any real desire to get to the bottom of the situation. Not exactly to Yvaine's taste- in fact it seemed callous and downright cruel.

"I believe I need to get some air," the young lady murmured, leaning in closer to her mother as she placed her teacup back on the small table. The Lady Amelia glanced sidelong at her and nodded.

"Hurry back, dearest. Wouldn't want our company to miss you."

She resisted the urge to sigh and nodded, getting to her feet with a soft smile and a nod for the gathered collection of socialites. As quickly as she could manage while maintaining an air of grace, she slipped out of the parlor and into the manor's courtyard, then out to her favorite bench, tucked back into a corner and sheltered by the branches of an old willow tree.

It was about the only nature she really got to see when her family stayed in Reahj- she actually couldn't remember the last time they'd been to the Deveraeux country estate. God, she missed getting out of the city.

With a soft sigh she sank onto her bench and tucked her legs up under herself, skirts rustling as she shifted. She folded her arms over the arm of the bench and let herself lean back against the slats of the bench's back, closing her eyes and letting out a long, exhausted breath.

"Poor Martin..." she murmured.

GoblinFae

Tyler sneered while taking in the neat little home the Brandt's had managed to build for themselves. It was disgusting and honestly if Tyler was being completely she was not at all surprised the patriarch had been disposed of. With riches and fame always came the fall. It was the new-bloods that always failed to realize that until it was too late.

She chuckled softly to herself as she lit a match and pulled strongly on her cigar for several moments. The bitter, earthy smoke filled her mouth and lungs before being exhaled in a thick cloud. Tyler flicked the match away, ignoring as it landed in a puddle on the side of the road.

Tukv had said that Mrs. Brand would pay handsomely for the capture of her husband's so-called murderer. Looking at the house, Tyler could see why. That of course did not mean that she for one second didn't suspect that it wasn't a jealous mistress or Mrs. Brandt herself who had done away with the sorry sod. That's how the story always went anyway. The was no reason to say that it would be any different this time.

At the end of the day though, Tyler simply did not care. She was there to do a job and when the job was done she would get paid, split the profits with her bookie, and go home. There was nothing fancy about the life of a bounty hunter but it sure as shit paid well for a woman that got to travel the world on the regular.

Chewing the end of her cigar between her molars, Tyler marched up to the residence's front door and banged aggressively on it. It was showtime and the master of ceremonies was not about to keep the crowd waiting. Tyler chuckled to herself at such a notion. The toe of one of her heavily-soled boots tapped impatiently while she waited. Puff after puff of smoke filled the air, the longer she was kept waiting too.

By the time the door opened, thick clouds of it had formed about her face so that for a moment the poor dear who had done so, feared he was seeing the reaper itself come to collect them all. Connor had just enough sense to choke down a cry of fright moments before Tyler leaned in through the smoke, the end of her cigar blazing red as her dark eyes seemed to glow beneath the hood of her cloak.

"Just gonna leave me standin out 'ere in th' fog, ain't ya, ya wee fucker," she boomed in his face as the man coughed and tried to bat the grey tendrils away.

Connor did not even have a chance to order her to leave before Tyler was slipping past him, muddy boots and all. "Name's Brice. Your Mrs. Brandt be expectin' me. So hop to. I ain't got all day t' be waitin' if it ain't on someone else's coin. Off you pop!" She demanded, giving him a nudge and a slap on the rear as he passed, still cackling at him all the while. He was only too eager to oblige if it meant leaving the crazy crone to herself.

It took some time and a great deal of back and forth whispers about the house but the recently widowed matriarch of the household finally made her appearance. "I was informed that Tyler Brice was a man. Would you-"

"Well you were informed wrong, now weren't ya," Tyler crudely interrupted as she blew smoke rings in the woman's direction. "You Widow Brandt?"

"I am," the woman replied, her lips trembling slightly at the reminder of her husband's recent demise. "Perhaps we could continue this in-"

"Listen 'ere dollface. I ain't 'ere for pleasantries and sundries, and whatever else 'dries ya gots. Tukv said ya gots a job for me and I'm 'ere t' do it. Terms be simple. Ya pay me 'alf now and 'alf afters. I find our man, or woman," she added with a pointed look over the end of her swindling cigar. "I bring 'em t' th' rights authorities and ya pays me. End of story. In th' mean time ya provides me with all I needs knowin' and we can get this over and done with, yeah? And I'll be havin' a glass of brandy while ya do."

Tyler grinned toothily, her arms crossed and stance wide-legged with all the confidence of a figure that expected to be obeyed. Across from her, Mrs Brandt looked like a wilting wallflower in comparison. The widow stared back for several heartbeats with watery eyes before raising her chin and squaring her shoulders. "Right this way, Miss Brice. Connor," she barked, waiting for the man to appear around the corner before continuing, "some brandy for the lady. In the," she paused again to look Tyler up and down before pointedly adding, "smoking room.

"Now where were we Miss Brice? Ah yes..."
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