Bump in the Night

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* Typhoon's Oceans 11 *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

          Eleven tiny oceans floating in space!

          Channel: TyChan
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-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
 Findrago        A young gypsy man with a neatly trimmed black beard.  52s  2m
 Stirling        Broad gray Arvak with dark eyes.                      5m   50m
 Typhoon                                                               0s   6h
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Out <O>                   
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There has been a house down in the Lower District that hasn't had the best of reputations. It's always been gloomy, mostly empty, only strange people live there, and it's always been like that, for as long as urban legends have been circling around the city. In recent months though, a family has moved in and tried to liven the place up. New paint, new curtains, airing it out to make it not so frightening to people. However, it seems the history of the house is coming back to bother the current residents.

"We don't know what is going on," the wife cries while in her sitting room. "I swear, I put something in one location, I come back a moment later and it's either across the room, on the floor, or in another part of the house completely. I am at my wit's ends." The husband is next to her, comforting her the best he can, but he looks a bit frazzled himself.

Findrago rubs his chin, pacing back and forth as he listens to the tale. "Do you have any children?" he asks, his voice making it clear he's being serious. "Some pranksters, perhaps? Have you run afoul of the church of Tarien? Any of these could be perfectly reasonable explanations for this." He stops, and smiles slightly. "Then, of course, there are the /unreasonable/ explanations..."

The broad Hobgoblin called Stirling chews the end of a cigar in contemplation "Sounds like an infestion of Dragonier anti-weasels." he comments quite seriously. "However I believe with research and care we may affect a purge."

"There is just our boy," the husband answers the question. "He's about eight, and he's currently upstairs playing. He's rather quiet like that. And pranksters would mean someone sneaking into our house!" He somewhat pales at the thought of that, or the church of Tarien. "And no, nothing about the church. I've seen things sir, things floating about that shouldn't be. I had a pillow thrown at the back of my head once. Next time it was a book, that I saw and managed to dodge."

Findrago whistles appreciatively. "Nice reflexes," he comments. "Has your son noticed any of this? Does it frighten the young man?"

Stirling hrms "Are there any signs of the previous owners by chance?" the broad Hob asks. "Perhaps this is a simple haunting."

Conjan has arrived.

"This is the--ahem, ahem." A khazad enters the house, checking a piece of paper as he does so. He's dressed in crisp, clean robes of an impractical sort. They're 1. White, and 2. Have been ironed. His beard is braided in a numeric set of flat plaits, with a series of decorative, flat discs set to them. "Did I--hem, hem. I am sorry I'm late," he says then.

"We don't know," the wife, "as my husband said, he is rather quiet. If he has seen anything, he hasn't told us. Oh... and there's the laughter, oh the laughter upstairs. It's like children playing, but... twisted, darker."

"The previous owners?" the husband asked. "No, this house was in the charge of the city when we bought it. No evidence of the owners that we found."

Findrago nods a greeting to Conjan, then arches an eyebrow at the wife's comments. "Laughter?" he asks, his interest definitely piqued, as he unconsciously makes a warding sign with his fingers. "That sounds... not that promising, I'll be honest."

Stirling nods, adjusts the seals on his gauntlets "Well why don't we go speak with the child first and examine the house."

The khazad reaches up to scratch his beard. He refers to his notes again for a moment. "You...yes. Yes, the notice said you'd heard..." Then their words strike, and he mumbles through his beard, "...children...I...and your son doesn't. Know anything. Or at least hasn't said." He looks over the paper again, then abruptly holds out his hand to Findrago, then Stirling. "Conjan. Of the...Serenity of Stone."

The father nods, "I will go get him for you. He's just upstairs in his room." He squeezes his wife shoulder and gets up, leaving to go fetch the boy.

Findrago shakes Conjan's hand. "Findrago Garibaldi, and it is a pleasure. Would that we met under better circumstances." He turns to the wife and pats her comfortingly on the shoulder. "Do not fret, my lady. We will do all we can to aid you and your family."

Stirling grunts a greeting but doesn't take the hand, considering his are clad in massive gauntlets. "Stirling Ironheal." he replies with a nod instead.

He returns a few moments later with said boy. He is small, still growing, gangly thing that looks like is father. "Hello," he gives as a quiet greeting to the three men that are there.

Abrupt nod, then an eyeing of Stirling's tusks. "A good name," the khazad says. He sounds as stiff as a wooden board. The way he then turns and nods to the young boy could elicit creaking sounds. "Hello, young sir."

Findrago sweeps into a bow. "Good day, good sir!" he says jovially. "Your parents were kind enough to invite us here to look into... something." He gets down on a knee, to better be at eye level with the child. "Have you noticed any strangeness around here, not of your own making of course?" he adds with a wink.

Stirling allows Findrago to do the talking, instead inspecting what parts of the house he can see. Not breaking anything but even so those massive steel and silver gauntlets illicit some worry.

The boy shakes his head, "No, not really. I just play in my room and in the attic with my friends."

"Honey? What friends?" his mother asks.

Verna has arrived.

Findrago smiles at the mother reassuringly, then looks back to the boy. "And do these friends live around here, young man?" he asks. "You know, you should ask your parents if you can have friends over. It's only polite." The gypsy waggles a finger at him mock-scoldingly.

"Show us." is all Stirling says in his deep rough voice, teeth clenched around the thick cigar. Conjan frowns, then clenches his hand in his beard. "I...yes," he says underneath his breath. He stands there then, stiffly, and in his ridiculous clothes.

"They live upstairs in the attic. They live here too, so I figured I didn't ask to have friends come over if they're already here..." He looks up at Findrago, eyes wide, looking rather scared.

Verna did not yet have any questions that were not asked. So she has remained quiet and simply observed. It is almost as if she was not present.

Conjan tugs at his beard again. "That's...logical," he says, attempting to assuage the boy's fears. Except he's terrible at it. His response sounds as emotional as a war golem's.

Findrago smiles gently at the boy. "Well, let's just go and meet your..." he starts, then stops suddenly as his eyes stray from the child. "LOOK OUT!" he yells, diving forward toward Stirling and trying to pull him to the ground.

Stirling busies himself checking out the furniture when he is leveled by Findrago's form. Its like combat training back in Char and his instincts kick in. "Point me at them!" he yells as he is taken down, assuming there are foes.

Verna was studying a minor flaw in the recent paint application. Suddenly, there is yelling and tackling. She blinks and quickly pans her hood towards the commotion. "Look out for what?" Some detail would make the warning more efficient.

"HUP!" Conjan's fists come up--except his eyes are squinting and he's staring at nothing. It's Stone Balanced On Mountain, Form Number 354, in perfect execution! ...and likely, completely useless, and likely just scaring the tarnation of parents and child.

The candlestick is still floating there, from where Findrago spotted it, and then it flung itself over to Verna, attempting to strike at her.

The woman screams and runs from the room, the husband after her. The boy shouts. "Don't hurt them!!!" He then ran for the stairs as more things start to float up and fly about the room.

Items continue to fly everywhere, some smacking into various ones. A candlestick hits Verna hard on the shin, a book smacks Findrago in the shoulder, and another gets Stirling in the head.

Stirling stands and lightning cracks from the coil on Stirling's back as plates deploy from his breastplate and gauntlets. A blue light surges down the cables connected to his gauntlets and his fists surge forth, books flying away from his chrome plated wrath.

Findrago stands up from tackling Stirling, only to be met by a book to the head. "What in the Nine Hells..." he breathes, then draws his rapier to defend himself from... whatever it is he's defending himself from. He deftly dodges another book, then spins and skewers the volume with his blade, pinning it to the wall.

The khazad ducks underneath the flying books. They beat him about the head and he tucks his head, thundering on. He runs, you know. Like a khazad. Which is to say he stumps. Somehow though, between the stumping and the swatting, he makes it into the kitchen. All the other room hears is a triumphant, "AHAA!" ...but that just means he found the flour.

"Ow!" Verna is not tall, but not so short that she can duck under an attack to her shin. When she now realizes that bric-a-brac and, worse, books are fluttering about, she focuses her attention and will upon noting the threads of magic in the area. Perhaps it is merely some enchantment or other effect.

As the items continue to fly about, one of the pictures come off and smacks Conjan in the hand, the one holding onto the flour, but not enough to make him lose grip of it.

Stirling sweeps a candlestick away with his right chrome plated paw and smashes at another with his left, catching nothing but air. Steam spews in surges from vents in his gauntlets as the power couplings surge with power. "Brass balls what is this thing causing this?!"

Findrago maintains his grip on his rapier, ensuring that the one book he stabbed isn't going anywhere. "Stop this madness!" he calls, looking around as if trying to spy whatever was, well, causing the madness. "You're frightening the residents of this fine house - if only you can stop long enough to..." His plea is cut off, however, as another (heavier) book whizzes past his head and slams into the wall.

"I have it! I--" the khazad stumbles into the room, a sack of flour underneath one arm. There's a heaving, then drawing in of air from the flour sack--and then the force of the stumble sends a cloud of it into the air. Where it lands on nothing particularly interesting. Embarrassed, the khazad stands there and clears his throat a few times.

Stirling hrmps to himself and tries a new approach, unslinging the riffle-like object he raises it to his shoulder like a rifle. However there are no bullets, instead tendrils of lightning arc from the end and across the empty space of the room.

Flying objects, missing everyone though. There was one thing that appeared, it was skeletal, it looked like a ghost, as a human. It then disappeared a matter of moments after it appeared.

Findrago glances over just in time to see a spectral figure vanish from sight. "Over there!" he yells, then lunges toward the space where the thing just was. Alas, the book is still firmly lodged on the point of his sword, and it just *thuds* uselessly into the wall.

Conjan follows Findrago's gesture. He tosses flour into the air, but nothing shows. Except a lot of white. "..." He looks frustrated, then. "I think," he says, wiping some of it from his face. "That this house is haunted."

All his attacks have been useless against this threat, what can he do against such a threat? Fear grips Stirling and he makes for the door, getting as far away as possible.

Findrago kicks the book off his sword with his boot, then brings the blade up again in an upward slash. His concentration is broken, however, by Stirling suddenly making a break for the exits, and his sword once again finds nothing but air. "Come back!" he calls. "Wait! Come back! We've got them right where they want us!"

The khazad flings the flour across the floor. And then again. He moves methodically from place to place, dusting the floor (and the poor woman's furniture). "Come out, come out...young sir! We seem to have a problem down here! I'm--oh, damnation!" He'd nearly tripped over the chair. And there's probably going to be another book flying at his face. Soon.

Verna frowns as her initial assumption proves false. Now that one is partially visible, she studies it for a moment. "I do not believe it is a spirit." To that end, she pulls a crossbow from her cloak. A bolt is loosed at it, but only embeds itself in a book on the book case. She sighs. More abuse of recorded knowledge.

Stirling stops in the doorway, deathray still held in his hands. "No... I will not be afraid!" he tells himself and turns with the ray at his shoulder, lightning arcs across the space to his the creature.

Findrago is flailing near-blindly now, taking mighty swipes at anything that looks like a vague flour outline. "Someone, get the boy!" he yells, coughing up flour dust. "They seem to like him!"

"Excuse me. Excuse--" and then the khazad moves in for the arm lock. He grasps--well, he grasps something. Flour flies at him as he grabs hold of whatever-it-is and locks it down. But you may as well try to move a mountain as move a khazad.

Stirling really wants to punch these things, to fight them toe to toe instead of just shooting them. He steps up to help his fellow Arvek with his opponent. However his gauntleted hand simply passes through where an enemy should have been standing.

Findrago ducks another flying book, and bolts for the door. "I'll be back!" he calls to his comrades as he dashes through the house to where the parent are. "You must think," he says, gasping for air and covered in flour, possibly somewhat resembling a madman. "Anything about this house. Anything that happened here. You said the city had this house before you moved in... why? You /must/ think, for your child's playmates are indeed malevolent. THINK!"

When it vanishes from his grip, he... Conjan staggers back. Even stone can be shocked. He stares at where-it-had-been for the barest moment, then turns and jogs up the stairwell. "Boy? Boy! Are you okay?"

Verna remains unconvinced that they are malevolent spirits, but yet they are unseen, and there was no sign of magic. Something must be done, and preferably something more constructive than running off into the night. As there are no risks, she performs a simple test of cause and effect in attempt to confirm or deny their nature. Calling upon her knowledge of the negative plane and undead, she releases a burst of carefully-tuned quasi-negative energy.

Stirling looks at his empty hands and shrugs, time to stick to what works. He raises his ray to his shoulder and fires again, lightning traveling across the empty space to strike another phantasm.

The parents are huddled in the corner of another room in the house, the husband holding his wife, her screaming into his shoulder. He shook his head. "There wasn't much. Old house, old family. Died out, house sold to various people, but some never seemed to stay long. Would sell it to the city who would sell it in turn. There isn't much else."

Findrago spins away for the parents, frustrated. His arm lashes out, two fingers pointing toward the spectral sort-of-shapes as a few arcane syllables escape his lips. "Time to leave," he hisses under his breath. "You've done your damage here, time to move on. There's a lovely abandoned mansion up on the hill, just screaming for new residents. It's /perfect/ for you."

His deathray seems to be effective so Stirling keeps on shooting. Lightning continues to arc across the room to his targets.

As Findrago's messages reaches the two poltergiests, most of the items stop flying around. The other take another moment or so before they stop as well. There is no action for a bit, the items just hovering there in midair for a moment or two. The only evidence of change is that all the items drop from where they are. There are suddenly three tracks that went past Stirling, which he felt a gust of wind as it seems the three spirits seem to take Findrago's offer as they leave the premises.

Stirling slings the deathray back over his shoulder and looks back at the others "Did... that just happen?" he says rather puzzled. "It seems... they left?"

Findrago blinks. Twice. Really hard. After a moment, though, he regains his composure. "But of course they did," he said, puffing out his chest slightly. "As my dear Uncle Pietro once told me - gods take his worthy soul - there's always a better deal. With all due respect to the wonderful owners of this house, I just informed them that they've earned an upgrade."