Captain Broenbharsyn -- or Barry, as he was affectionately called -- hauled himself into a nice inn room for the night. Vesper bay sported only two of them available to the public. One shite-hole overnight, and another more luxurious accommodation. His stay at the well-equipped establishment had been paid for by his client; among other comforts. Food, drink, a small amount of gil to gamble away at the docks...everything but a good whore. The man who had bought his business seemed too proper to endorse that sort of indulgence, at any rate. All that shiny paladin plate and properly combed blond hair. He hadn't hesitated to give him a bottle of worn-labelled rotgut however -- a treasure in the eyes of any old sea hound.
Broenbharsyn wasn't much of a young man. Pushing forty-four summers the old sea-wolf had already begun to see salty greys in his wild black hair and beard, and his pale green skin wrinkled around bright blue eyes. Half-drunkenly he pushed himself into the room after having tried two other doors that wouldn't yield to his key. It was spacious, with a large bed -- for all the good that would do without a good missy -- and several other luxuries; a desk and chair, a dark armoire, even a few poncy decorations here and there -- a floor length mirror, too. A door led off to the privy and bath. He'd heard that there was hot water, and a bidet to wash his arse. Fancy, fancy. With a grunt he plodded over to the table and set the jet black bottle of booze down on it. While he had decided that he definitely preferred a feisty dancer girl as company, circumstances dictated that he'd be cradling the bottle for company before bed tonight.
He made his way to the bed and pressed a hand onto the mattress. Firm, with soft, silky sheets. Nice, nice, the high life was his tonight. No salt-stiffened board of a blanket to fight with for once. The nightstand contained several bottles and vials of things, probably perfumes, oils and whatever else rich folk dipped themselves in before bed. Against his better judgement, Barry opened the little drawers to check for any stray gil a previous patron may have left behind. Nothing.
Perhaps it was foolish guilt, but the good captain received a vague impression that someone was watching him from behind. The great sea-wolf turned, only to behold the door and the writing desk with the bottle on it. A deep, rattling chuckle left him, heavy with the fumes of alcohol. The booze didn't approve, it would seem. Speaking of booze, the sudden need of a mighty piss gripped him, and so he plodded over to the privy door. The inside of the place made him whistle -- a large tub, with a shower -- as well as the fanciest looking damn privy he'd ever seen. A flushable one, gods-damn! He noted the hot water toggle on the shower as well and -- there it was, the bidet! Unfortunately -that- implement didn't look Roegadyn sized. Oh well. At least there was a nice face basin with soap. Usually he'd leave the door open, but tonight, this luxury demanded the intimacy of a closed room.Â
The captain relieved himself in a timely fashion, forcing himself to be far neater than he usually was -- he even washed his hands this time, with soap, too. When it was time for him to open the door again, something stopped him short. Years of sailing had given him an uncanny sense of when someone was in an adjacent room -- it was a wonder, some of the things his shipmates got up to when they thought he was asleep. At that moment, with his hand on the door's handle, he felt a distinct presence in the room beyond. Someone pacing slowly, by the sense of it. Very quickly he ran through what he had done when he'd entered the room. Had he bolted the door shut? Likely, it was habit, but now he was unsure. A cautious hand went to a dagger on his hip, ready to brandish it in the face of the intruder. With all the hopes that it was just someone who stumbled into the wrong room, Barry wrenched open the door and held the dagger high. "Oi...! ...Ah?"
There was no one there. His only company for the evening, as had been when he entered the room, was that jet black bottle of booze on the desk. A quick glance at the door confirmed that he had bolted it shut, and what presence he had felt beyond the door had evaporated. A rasping snort left his nostrils as he tossed the dagger onto the desk; the captain discounted it as the effects of intoxication. That sorted, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed and removed his boots.Â
Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps it was luck -- when he leaned over to slip them off, something appeared in the corner of his eye. A distinct black shadow right at the edge of his peripheral vision. Barry grunted and turned his head in alarm...but there was nothing there. A steady unease grew in the pit of his stomach; three close occurrences of feeling someone was there, they could not be easily discarded on the excuse of being drunk. Was the room haunted? Perhaps -- which would be just his luck. Fancy fittings and a damned ghost. Still, ghost or no ghost, the sea wolf needed to get some sleep -- after a nip of the gift rotgut. Both boots were flung into a corner, and his shirt floated down upon them soon enough. Barry stood, stretched and took a moment to admire himself in the mirror for a moment. Softened belly notwithstanding, he knew he still had it; barrel chests were all the wenches needed to curl up on after a good romp. Too bad there were no wenches around. That alone drove him to turn and reach for the bottle on the desk.
This time, he saw it in the mirror, definitely saw it -- a silhouette, fleeting as it was; hyur sized, black as the darkest night. It had just -stood- there, and the moment he moved his eyes to properly gaze upon it, it was gone. It spooked the good captain in earnest, and made him seriously reconsider the offer of accommodation. He definitely wouldn't be staying here the night. Still, a sip or two of his free booze couldn't hurt before he dressed and departed.Â
Except that the bottle was gone. Barry had turned his back to the mirror to acquire it...and it wasn't there. Vanished. Did he move it? Was he that drunk already? No; he'd just seen it, hadn't he? Damn it all. The large fellow made an awkward rotation, searching oafishly for the one source of his comfort for the evening. When his eyes glanced at the mirror he snorted at himself. There it was, on the desk, blind fool that he was. A curse muttered from his lips as he turned to the desk to swipe it up...and met only air. There was no bottle on the desk.Â
Teeth of cold dread sank into the captain's neck; he had to force himself to look at the mirror, for every fiber of his body screamed at him not to. The black bottle sat neatly on the desk; a reflection of nothing.Â
Barry only allowed himself to be a fool for so long. With no regard for the damned boots or shirt, the sea wolf pelted toward the door and made to undo the bolt. Unfortunately, the metal did not budge, even with a grunting application of mighty roegadyn strength. Against his better judgement, he glanced back at the mirror to check the status of the haunted bottle.Â
Oh, how he wished it was the bottle that had been reflected.
The dark silhouette stood in the mirror, right next to him at the door with a firm grip on the bolt. From the way the head was turned, the thing was -staring- at him. With an unmanly yowl, Broenbharsyn released the door as if it had burned him and stumbled back to crash into the desk. Both his hands scrambled for his dagger -- for what good it would do -- but it was gone. On instinct, he looked into the mirror to see if it had eaten his trusty stabber too, but that was not there -- nor was the silhouette.Â
"Navigat'r save me." His moan of terror was almost childlike and primal. Yet, with the thing in the mirror gone, he was emboldened to make for another escape. If he couldn't get the bolt open, he'd ram the damned door down. To his full bulky height he stood, snorting again at the barrier between him and freedom. He took two steps back, tensed, then rushed forward! More than three hundred and fifty ponze of roegadyn might would surely render the door to matchsticks -- and bugger paying for any damage in a haunted inn!
Before Broenbharsyn reached the door, a deep piercing gash opened in his throat, spraying blood liberally onto the wooden walls and floor. The wretched, doomed captain stumbled backward with a surprised gurgle and toppled onto his back, dead before he hit the floor. He managed to get a final, upside-down glimpse of the mirror before he left the material world, however.
The dark silhouette stood guard at the reflection of the door, with his own trusty dagger held in hand...right at the level where a roegadyn's throat would be.
Broenbharsyn wasn't much of a young man. Pushing forty-four summers the old sea-wolf had already begun to see salty greys in his wild black hair and beard, and his pale green skin wrinkled around bright blue eyes. Half-drunkenly he pushed himself into the room after having tried two other doors that wouldn't yield to his key. It was spacious, with a large bed -- for all the good that would do without a good missy -- and several other luxuries; a desk and chair, a dark armoire, even a few poncy decorations here and there -- a floor length mirror, too. A door led off to the privy and bath. He'd heard that there was hot water, and a bidet to wash his arse. Fancy, fancy. With a grunt he plodded over to the table and set the jet black bottle of booze down on it. While he had decided that he definitely preferred a feisty dancer girl as company, circumstances dictated that he'd be cradling the bottle for company before bed tonight.
He made his way to the bed and pressed a hand onto the mattress. Firm, with soft, silky sheets. Nice, nice, the high life was his tonight. No salt-stiffened board of a blanket to fight with for once. The nightstand contained several bottles and vials of things, probably perfumes, oils and whatever else rich folk dipped themselves in before bed. Against his better judgement, Barry opened the little drawers to check for any stray gil a previous patron may have left behind. Nothing.
Perhaps it was foolish guilt, but the good captain received a vague impression that someone was watching him from behind. The great sea-wolf turned, only to behold the door and the writing desk with the bottle on it. A deep, rattling chuckle left him, heavy with the fumes of alcohol. The booze didn't approve, it would seem. Speaking of booze, the sudden need of a mighty piss gripped him, and so he plodded over to the privy door. The inside of the place made him whistle -- a large tub, with a shower -- as well as the fanciest looking damn privy he'd ever seen. A flushable one, gods-damn! He noted the hot water toggle on the shower as well and -- there it was, the bidet! Unfortunately -that- implement didn't look Roegadyn sized. Oh well. At least there was a nice face basin with soap. Usually he'd leave the door open, but tonight, this luxury demanded the intimacy of a closed room.Â
The captain relieved himself in a timely fashion, forcing himself to be far neater than he usually was -- he even washed his hands this time, with soap, too. When it was time for him to open the door again, something stopped him short. Years of sailing had given him an uncanny sense of when someone was in an adjacent room -- it was a wonder, some of the things his shipmates got up to when they thought he was asleep. At that moment, with his hand on the door's handle, he felt a distinct presence in the room beyond. Someone pacing slowly, by the sense of it. Very quickly he ran through what he had done when he'd entered the room. Had he bolted the door shut? Likely, it was habit, but now he was unsure. A cautious hand went to a dagger on his hip, ready to brandish it in the face of the intruder. With all the hopes that it was just someone who stumbled into the wrong room, Barry wrenched open the door and held the dagger high. "Oi...! ...Ah?"
There was no one there. His only company for the evening, as had been when he entered the room, was that jet black bottle of booze on the desk. A quick glance at the door confirmed that he had bolted it shut, and what presence he had felt beyond the door had evaporated. A rasping snort left his nostrils as he tossed the dagger onto the desk; the captain discounted it as the effects of intoxication. That sorted, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed and removed his boots.Â
Perhaps it was the booze, perhaps it was luck -- when he leaned over to slip them off, something appeared in the corner of his eye. A distinct black shadow right at the edge of his peripheral vision. Barry grunted and turned his head in alarm...but there was nothing there. A steady unease grew in the pit of his stomach; three close occurrences of feeling someone was there, they could not be easily discarded on the excuse of being drunk. Was the room haunted? Perhaps -- which would be just his luck. Fancy fittings and a damned ghost. Still, ghost or no ghost, the sea wolf needed to get some sleep -- after a nip of the gift rotgut. Both boots were flung into a corner, and his shirt floated down upon them soon enough. Barry stood, stretched and took a moment to admire himself in the mirror for a moment. Softened belly notwithstanding, he knew he still had it; barrel chests were all the wenches needed to curl up on after a good romp. Too bad there were no wenches around. That alone drove him to turn and reach for the bottle on the desk.
This time, he saw it in the mirror, definitely saw it -- a silhouette, fleeting as it was; hyur sized, black as the darkest night. It had just -stood- there, and the moment he moved his eyes to properly gaze upon it, it was gone. It spooked the good captain in earnest, and made him seriously reconsider the offer of accommodation. He definitely wouldn't be staying here the night. Still, a sip or two of his free booze couldn't hurt before he dressed and departed.Â
Except that the bottle was gone. Barry had turned his back to the mirror to acquire it...and it wasn't there. Vanished. Did he move it? Was he that drunk already? No; he'd just seen it, hadn't he? Damn it all. The large fellow made an awkward rotation, searching oafishly for the one source of his comfort for the evening. When his eyes glanced at the mirror he snorted at himself. There it was, on the desk, blind fool that he was. A curse muttered from his lips as he turned to the desk to swipe it up...and met only air. There was no bottle on the desk.Â
Teeth of cold dread sank into the captain's neck; he had to force himself to look at the mirror, for every fiber of his body screamed at him not to. The black bottle sat neatly on the desk; a reflection of nothing.Â
Barry only allowed himself to be a fool for so long. With no regard for the damned boots or shirt, the sea wolf pelted toward the door and made to undo the bolt. Unfortunately, the metal did not budge, even with a grunting application of mighty roegadyn strength. Against his better judgement, he glanced back at the mirror to check the status of the haunted bottle.Â
Oh, how he wished it was the bottle that had been reflected.
The dark silhouette stood in the mirror, right next to him at the door with a firm grip on the bolt. From the way the head was turned, the thing was -staring- at him. With an unmanly yowl, Broenbharsyn released the door as if it had burned him and stumbled back to crash into the desk. Both his hands scrambled for his dagger -- for what good it would do -- but it was gone. On instinct, he looked into the mirror to see if it had eaten his trusty stabber too, but that was not there -- nor was the silhouette.Â
"Navigat'r save me." His moan of terror was almost childlike and primal. Yet, with the thing in the mirror gone, he was emboldened to make for another escape. If he couldn't get the bolt open, he'd ram the damned door down. To his full bulky height he stood, snorting again at the barrier between him and freedom. He took two steps back, tensed, then rushed forward! More than three hundred and fifty ponze of roegadyn might would surely render the door to matchsticks -- and bugger paying for any damage in a haunted inn!
Before Broenbharsyn reached the door, a deep piercing gash opened in his throat, spraying blood liberally onto the wooden walls and floor. The wretched, doomed captain stumbled backward with a surprised gurgle and toppled onto his back, dead before he hit the floor. He managed to get a final, upside-down glimpse of the mirror before he left the material world, however.
The dark silhouette stood guard at the reflection of the door, with his own trusty dagger held in hand...right at the level where a roegadyn's throat would be.
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