[closed] They say to never look a gift horse in the mouth...
Who: Hill House [ilovefamily] and an NPC or half a dozen
What: Murder at the House.
When: Mid-month.
Where: Residential, within Hill House.
Warnings: There will be murder? This is a set-up to explain things later, and written up for the fun of it all.
Kabblitz the VIII sipped at his cup of cold coffee and wondered when his life had taken this turn for the stale. His beard, the one little tuft any of his species had, was starting to silver. He could count a new strand every week or so, counting down to the inevitable final strand marking him as ancient relative to the generation his son was a part of. Not that his son spoke to him anymore. No; not since sending him to the High Academy and granting him license to stay on Academy grounds had Kabblitz had more than a five minute conversation with his son. He hadn't known how empty that would make him feel until it had happened.
The lack of youthful vitality in his home was as stifling as his own age, and the grey in his hair-tuft. It was inevitable, he supposed, as inevitable as shedding his horn at the end of every five-year growth cycle.
Kabblitz shook his head, letting his mane fan out and settle again. He might as well call it a night.
Pushing back from the desk, he stood, stretching much like a feline. Midway through hearing the vertebrae in his neck snap into alignment, the phone on his desk rang.
That was odd. Lifting his head, he eyed the caller identification system, puzzled when it read "Private." He paid a lot of money to make sure numbers came through to him without that setting. Whoever this call was from theoretically had to pay a lot more to override the system he had set up.
Sighing inwardly, Kabblitz activated the phone. "Kibblitz Antiques, how can I help you?"
"Mr. Kibblitz?" The voice on the other end was familiar, of a middle-aged humanoid who had called twice earlier in the month. Kibblitz closed his eyes, calculating. "The final paperwork was just signed, and I'm really overdue to get back out where I want to be. This whole thing has been a drag. I know it's late, but if you came down to the house and signed the final papers, this could be out of my hair, and all yours right now."
The offer was tempting, at a fair price, and for goods he could at least get double, triple what he paid for. The fact this man's grandfather had left an entire mansion made up of antiques from a destroyed planet was astounding enough -- that the grandson wasn't interested in anything more than money, entirely predictable. The question became one of time.
"This isn't how I'm inclined to conduct business, Mr. Anderson."
"I know, and normally I wouldn't be so insistent, but with how the market is right now, I need to get out and jumping where it's hot before it's too late. This house is just holding me back, and while I'm sure it's really something, it's nothing to me."
The sentiment that Kabblitz enjoyed hearing. He flicked the ear not pressed to the receiver backward, thinking. "As I said, Mr. Anderson, this isn't how I'm inclined to conduct business -- however," he continued, cutting off the other man, "I can understand your particular circumstances. As it is, I'm available right now. I can meet you at the house in a half hour. Will that be good for you?"
Anderson's voice took on a new, relieved tone. "Yes," he said, coming across as more of a man in his twenties than his forties. "I'll be there."
After their goodbyes, Kabblitz disconnected, and stared up at the ceiling. Financial images floated through his mind, pricing furniture, cataloging what was junk, what could be sold as salvage, and what would bring in the buyers across the universes. This had been a good move on his part, he decided.
He held to that decision as he walked up to Hill House's massive wooden doors, decorated by large metal mermaids done in a fashion he didn't particularly appreciate. He glanced at the time, and frowned. If Anderson wasn't going to be late -- "Mr. Anderson?"
A muffled shout from within the house came in response. "Mr. Kabblitz?"
He recognized Anderson's voice, but this was all off-putting. Kabblitz didn't enjoy games, especially not at this juncture.
He tried the doors, and found they swung in easily. "Mr. Anderson, I must tell you I object to these sorts of games."
"I'm in the great hall!" His answer was no answer at all, leaving Kabblitz to shake his head in irritation. Ridiculous, but the kind which would be short lived. He moved through the entrance way, feet clicking against the floor.
"As I informed you, Mr. Anderson, I greatly object--"
Kabblitz paused, looking about the room. A soft fire clicked and snapped and crackled in the impressive hearth, a gesture and affectation Kabblitz wasn't prepared to appreciate. Something moved in the chair; Anderson, presumably. Kabblitz shook off the eerie feeling, pushing forward. For what little heat he could detect coming from the hearth, he felt inexplicably cold.
"I greatly object to being led around when it's very unnecessary. Now, if you could hand over the papers, I'm prepared to complete our transaction." Approaching the chair, he paused again, looking up at the statuary adorning the mantle. Lions. Some cultures had mythologies built around the kind of contentions supposed to be found between those creatures and those of Kabblitz's kind. He shook his head, then more fiercely repeated the action, causing his mane to fly up and then settle again on the left side of his neck.
"Mr. Anderson, if we could get on with this business -- Mr. Anderson?"
Looking around the side of the armchair, Kabblitz was greeted with empty space. He started, backing up a few steps, tail lashing in a moment's confusion. "Mr. Anderson! If this is some kind of joke for you, I tell you now I find it anything but amusing! Be done with this, and let us do what we came here to do!"
"I'd love to, Mr. Kabblitz." Anderson's voice echoed out from above, which was ridiculous. There was a vaulted ceiling, certainly, but no open space to be perched on, and Anderson was the wrong species to do perching in the first place. "Which is why I'm going to have to insist you stay."
Something moved. Kabblitz jerked his head back, feeling his heart start to pound before he knew the reason for it. His eyes were drawn toward the mantle top, and then widened. One of the lions, the gaping, stone behemoths, was looking back at him -- and blinking.
Before he could so much as react, the same lion was leaping down to the floor, making impact with a deafening thunderous thud. "It was so nice of you to stop by, but as I said, I have things I need to work for. There's nothing else for you to sign, it turns out. After you signed the permission to appraise forms, I had everything I needed from you. Except for time."
The lion stalked closer, and Kabblitz tried moving toward the exit. "Mr. Anderson, I ask that you cease this nonsense at once! I have no idea what it is you hope to accomplish, but you're not frightening me --"
"Killing you."
"What?"
"My objective, Mr. Kabblitz, is to kill you."
His eyes widened, and Kabblitz chose to abandon dignity in a mad rush for the door. His hooves slid on the slick surface, but desperation lent him strength.
The lion, however, was faster. With no preamble, no predatory roar, it launched itself through the air, heavy stone torso colliding with Kablitz and knocking him to the ground. Even as he struggled, lashing out with his hooves, feeling some stone chip under his attacks, stone jaws were crushing his throat, suffocating him much as lions were supposed to do. Only this lion didn't have to worry about lethal blows.
And when it stood up, letting go of Kablitz's throat, most of the blood decorating the floor had come from Kabblitz's own actions. The still form of the unicorn was an eerie white mirage, out of place and impossible. Maybe that had been why it was him Hill House had contacted, had taken this dialog from. People of all sorts had expectations.
Crane wasn't below using those expectations against others, when it served him to.
---
"The paperwork's been finalized, ma'am." Kabblitz's wife, Nefini, took a deep breath.
"You're not listening to me. Something's wrong. My husband wouldn't act like this."
"Ma'am, he's on a business trip, nothing more, nothing less. We have the footage showing he left on that shuttle, and that he paid for his ticket on the spot in cashed credits. He called the station after calling you at home. There's no evidence to support your claims of foul play."
She stomped her hoof, not accepting this answer, but not able to show how it wasn't what could possibly be the truth, either. "If I find the proof, what then?"
"Then maybe, maybe we open up the case file again. The chances of that happening are pretty slim, though, and you should know there are better things to spend your time thinking about. Like what you're going to do when your husband gets back from his trip." The officer leaned in. "I suggest a good garden salad, but that might just be me."
She stiffened, but said nothing, staring the officer down until he retreated, and finally left.
"They don't know what they're talking about." No one was around to hear her words, but she had to speak anyway. "I'll find out what really happened."
She stared at the walls of her husband's study, the books on books of antiques, thinking to herself. Caught up in memories as she was, the sudden mechanical ring of the phone startled her. She looked at the call waiting, finding PRIVATE flashing instead of the expected number.
"Hello?"
She didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line. "Mrs. Kabblitz. I have information regarding your husband's where-abouts. My name is Mr. Anderson. Do you have time to talk?" Yet after hearing a statement like that, she knew she would remember it forever.
However long "forever" would be, in her case.
What: Murder at the House.
When: Mid-month.
Where: Residential, within Hill House.
Warnings: There will be murder? This is a set-up to explain things later, and written up for the fun of it all.
Kabblitz the VIII sipped at his cup of cold coffee and wondered when his life had taken this turn for the stale. His beard, the one little tuft any of his species had, was starting to silver. He could count a new strand every week or so, counting down to the inevitable final strand marking him as ancient relative to the generation his son was a part of. Not that his son spoke to him anymore. No; not since sending him to the High Academy and granting him license to stay on Academy grounds had Kabblitz had more than a five minute conversation with his son. He hadn't known how empty that would make him feel until it had happened.
The lack of youthful vitality in his home was as stifling as his own age, and the grey in his hair-tuft. It was inevitable, he supposed, as inevitable as shedding his horn at the end of every five-year growth cycle.
Kabblitz shook his head, letting his mane fan out and settle again. He might as well call it a night.
Pushing back from the desk, he stood, stretching much like a feline. Midway through hearing the vertebrae in his neck snap into alignment, the phone on his desk rang.
That was odd. Lifting his head, he eyed the caller identification system, puzzled when it read "Private." He paid a lot of money to make sure numbers came through to him without that setting. Whoever this call was from theoretically had to pay a lot more to override the system he had set up.
Sighing inwardly, Kabblitz activated the phone. "Kibblitz Antiques, how can I help you?"
"Mr. Kibblitz?" The voice on the other end was familiar, of a middle-aged humanoid who had called twice earlier in the month. Kibblitz closed his eyes, calculating. "The final paperwork was just signed, and I'm really overdue to get back out where I want to be. This whole thing has been a drag. I know it's late, but if you came down to the house and signed the final papers, this could be out of my hair, and all yours right now."
The offer was tempting, at a fair price, and for goods he could at least get double, triple what he paid for. The fact this man's grandfather had left an entire mansion made up of antiques from a destroyed planet was astounding enough -- that the grandson wasn't interested in anything more than money, entirely predictable. The question became one of time.
"This isn't how I'm inclined to conduct business, Mr. Anderson."
"I know, and normally I wouldn't be so insistent, but with how the market is right now, I need to get out and jumping where it's hot before it's too late. This house is just holding me back, and while I'm sure it's really something, it's nothing to me."
The sentiment that Kabblitz enjoyed hearing. He flicked the ear not pressed to the receiver backward, thinking. "As I said, Mr. Anderson, this isn't how I'm inclined to conduct business -- however," he continued, cutting off the other man, "I can understand your particular circumstances. As it is, I'm available right now. I can meet you at the house in a half hour. Will that be good for you?"
Anderson's voice took on a new, relieved tone. "Yes," he said, coming across as more of a man in his twenties than his forties. "I'll be there."
After their goodbyes, Kabblitz disconnected, and stared up at the ceiling. Financial images floated through his mind, pricing furniture, cataloging what was junk, what could be sold as salvage, and what would bring in the buyers across the universes. This had been a good move on his part, he decided.
He held to that decision as he walked up to Hill House's massive wooden doors, decorated by large metal mermaids done in a fashion he didn't particularly appreciate. He glanced at the time, and frowned. If Anderson wasn't going to be late -- "Mr. Anderson?"
A muffled shout from within the house came in response. "Mr. Kabblitz?"
He recognized Anderson's voice, but this was all off-putting. Kabblitz didn't enjoy games, especially not at this juncture.
He tried the doors, and found they swung in easily. "Mr. Anderson, I must tell you I object to these sorts of games."
"I'm in the great hall!" His answer was no answer at all, leaving Kabblitz to shake his head in irritation. Ridiculous, but the kind which would be short lived. He moved through the entrance way, feet clicking against the floor.
"As I informed you, Mr. Anderson, I greatly object--"
Kabblitz paused, looking about the room. A soft fire clicked and snapped and crackled in the impressive hearth, a gesture and affectation Kabblitz wasn't prepared to appreciate. Something moved in the chair; Anderson, presumably. Kabblitz shook off the eerie feeling, pushing forward. For what little heat he could detect coming from the hearth, he felt inexplicably cold.
"I greatly object to being led around when it's very unnecessary. Now, if you could hand over the papers, I'm prepared to complete our transaction." Approaching the chair, he paused again, looking up at the statuary adorning the mantle. Lions. Some cultures had mythologies built around the kind of contentions supposed to be found between those creatures and those of Kabblitz's kind. He shook his head, then more fiercely repeated the action, causing his mane to fly up and then settle again on the left side of his neck.
"Mr. Anderson, if we could get on with this business -- Mr. Anderson?"
Looking around the side of the armchair, Kabblitz was greeted with empty space. He started, backing up a few steps, tail lashing in a moment's confusion. "Mr. Anderson! If this is some kind of joke for you, I tell you now I find it anything but amusing! Be done with this, and let us do what we came here to do!"
"I'd love to, Mr. Kabblitz." Anderson's voice echoed out from above, which was ridiculous. There was a vaulted ceiling, certainly, but no open space to be perched on, and Anderson was the wrong species to do perching in the first place. "Which is why I'm going to have to insist you stay."
Something moved. Kabblitz jerked his head back, feeling his heart start to pound before he knew the reason for it. His eyes were drawn toward the mantle top, and then widened. One of the lions, the gaping, stone behemoths, was looking back at him -- and blinking.
Before he could so much as react, the same lion was leaping down to the floor, making impact with a deafening thunderous thud. "It was so nice of you to stop by, but as I said, I have things I need to work for. There's nothing else for you to sign, it turns out. After you signed the permission to appraise forms, I had everything I needed from you. Except for time."
The lion stalked closer, and Kabblitz tried moving toward the exit. "Mr. Anderson, I ask that you cease this nonsense at once! I have no idea what it is you hope to accomplish, but you're not frightening me --"
"Killing you."
"What?"
"My objective, Mr. Kabblitz, is to kill you."
His eyes widened, and Kabblitz chose to abandon dignity in a mad rush for the door. His hooves slid on the slick surface, but desperation lent him strength.
The lion, however, was faster. With no preamble, no predatory roar, it launched itself through the air, heavy stone torso colliding with Kablitz and knocking him to the ground. Even as he struggled, lashing out with his hooves, feeling some stone chip under his attacks, stone jaws were crushing his throat, suffocating him much as lions were supposed to do. Only this lion didn't have to worry about lethal blows.
And when it stood up, letting go of Kablitz's throat, most of the blood decorating the floor had come from Kabblitz's own actions. The still form of the unicorn was an eerie white mirage, out of place and impossible. Maybe that had been why it was him Hill House had contacted, had taken this dialog from. People of all sorts had expectations.
Crane wasn't below using those expectations against others, when it served him to.
---
"The paperwork's been finalized, ma'am." Kabblitz's wife, Nefini, took a deep breath.
"You're not listening to me. Something's wrong. My husband wouldn't act like this."
"Ma'am, he's on a business trip, nothing more, nothing less. We have the footage showing he left on that shuttle, and that he paid for his ticket on the spot in cashed credits. He called the station after calling you at home. There's no evidence to support your claims of foul play."
She stomped her hoof, not accepting this answer, but not able to show how it wasn't what could possibly be the truth, either. "If I find the proof, what then?"
"Then maybe, maybe we open up the case file again. The chances of that happening are pretty slim, though, and you should know there are better things to spend your time thinking about. Like what you're going to do when your husband gets back from his trip." The officer leaned in. "I suggest a good garden salad, but that might just be me."
She stiffened, but said nothing, staring the officer down until he retreated, and finally left.
"They don't know what they're talking about." No one was around to hear her words, but she had to speak anyway. "I'll find out what really happened."
She stared at the walls of her husband's study, the books on books of antiques, thinking to herself. Caught up in memories as she was, the sudden mechanical ring of the phone startled her. She looked at the call waiting, finding PRIVATE flashing instead of the expected number.
"Hello?"
She didn't recognize the voice on the other end of the line. "Mrs. Kabblitz. I have information regarding your husband's where-abouts. My name is Mr. Anderson. Do you have time to talk?" Yet after hearing a statement like that, she knew she would remember it forever.
However long "forever" would be, in her case.