[Introduction]

[ourraisondetre]

Comments

[hourglasspriest]

The sun is up, and Saetan has no pressing business to keep him up, but he stops on the porch to catch some air and is stopped by a very distinct smell. Blood. Old blood--a few hours old anyway, but he can still smell it. And quite a lot.

He calls in a cloak, not needed for the heat, but if he has to go out, he'll be grateful for it. But before he sets out, he sees the source of the smell. A young landen, very young, and wearing a shirt that was a peculiar dark red.

So he keeps the cloak folded over his arm to hide the black Jeweled ring her wears on that hand and vanishes his pendant. He waits for the new comer to get closer before he says, his voice deep and carrying rather easily, "Do you need a healer?"

[ourraisondetre]

It doesn't take Franz long to reach the mansion, and he stops near the foot of the porch. He eyes the man who had spoken to him briefly. Though the scars remain, the wounds have healed.

He then shakes his head, bowing politely--as this could be the master of the house for all he knows--even if he looks a tad ridiculous in his current state while doing so. "No, but thank you," he says, keeping his voice as polite and formal as he can manage, "Though perhaps you could tell me where I am."

[hourglasspriest]

"You were wounded," Saetan says flatly. He won't move to step into the sunlight. "Recently. Unless that isn't your blood." Up close, he doesn't look different enough to be thought an alien. His skin is within the normal range of brown human skin, as is his black hair with white temples. But his golden eyes may be a little disconcerting.

"I can answer your question, though, as well as any. We call this the Mansion. It doesn't seem to have any other name, nor any location related to the rest of the world."

[ourraisondetre]

"Was," he said, before tacking on "sir" in hindsight. He doesn't really intend to go into it, and would much rather keep it to himself. He's confused enough as it is. He doesn't even know how his wounds even healed in the first place, or how he survived if this wasn't some sort of life-after-death. "Everything's healed since."

Raising an eyebrow at the man's phrasing, he hesitates. "'Related to the rest of the world'?"

at least he's a Francophone

[sweariwontdie]

Later in the day, if Franz is up to looking back on the lawn, he can find a man wearing a battered straw hat, weeding a flower bed of marigolds and zinnias. He may be easily mistaken for a gardener, but he has a quiet dignity that may offset that impression.

His clothes are good quality, and his long black hair is braided down his back. He straightens from the flower bed and looks around as if he's heard someone nearby.

oui monsiour

[ourraisondetre]

Though he spends some time inside the mansion, exploring its multitude of rooms and hallways, he eventually wanders outside, stepping out into the sunlight. He notices the man at work among the flowers, stepping across the lawn to take in the surroundings. If he's one of the servants here, he's officially the first Franz has seen--odd, in his opinion, for a mansion so large. But there must a good deal more, considering everything seems so well cared for.

When he notices the individual in question turn around, he stops, jerking his head over to the flowerbed. "You the gardener here?"

[sweariwontdie]

Armand covers his mouth, trying not to laugh. It isn't fair to be amused at new people. "Not exactly. It's a hobby of mine. Others tend to other parts of the grounds. Are you a new arrival then? There's not staff here at all. What the Mansion doesn't do for us itself, we do on our own." There's still amusement, too quiet perhaps, in his blue-gray eyes.

[ourraisondetre]

No servants here? Franz can hardly fathom the idea. If a place like this was lived in without a servant to its name back home, it would have been the talk and gossip of the aristocracy.

The man seems friendly enough, however, and Franz finds himself cracking a small smile despite himself. "I guess I am rather obvious. You're one of the Mansion's 'guests' then?"

[cute_shinigami]

If he ventures into the kitchen, he might find a tall, slim man with tousled brown hair and violet eyes, perched on the windowsill with a cup of tea and a slice of red velvet cake. He's contentedly tucking into the cake, but there's something pensive in his eyes and in his posture.

[ourraisondetre]

And Franz does, eventually, looking a great deal more presentable now that he's found a decent shirt to wear, though he's still not sure what to make of the mansion and its mountain of peculiarities.

He doesn't bother the other man all ready inside the kitchen when he comes in, though he glances at him briefly and takes note of his far away look. Franz doesn't see a reason to bother him, beginning to rummage through the cupboards as quietly as possible for anything that might be readily edible, considering he doesn't really know how to cook anything decent for himself beyond the barest of necessities. The servants had always done it for him.

[cute_shinigami]

Tsuzuki hears the movement and looks up. "Oh, hey there, looking for something to eat? There's plenty there in the cupboards, and if you want a meal, I'd be happy to cook something," he says. Never mind that he's a death god with dead tastebuds. "I'm Asato Tsuzuki."

[ourraisondetre]

He eyes Tsuzuki with a dubious expression, pulling a packet of tea out of the cupboard. Tea was simple enough to make, wasn't it? "You're one of the cooks here?"

[hismothersson]

As usual, Albert can found in the kitchen at another time (edited to make this work). He's often scrounging around for someone to eat. This time he's sitting on the counter drinking juice. For once, he's determined not to be mistaken for the kitchen boy yet again. He's not paying attention to who enters though.

[ourraisondetre]

Franz doesn't know quite what compels him wander back towards the kitchen, too lost in thought to bother correcting his errant footsteps, content to go wherever they lead him. And they lead him to the kitchen's entrance way. He peers inside, and his heart promptly stops.

He stares at the teenager in front of him with wide, disbelieving eyes, frozen dead in his tracks. He'd recognize Albert anywhere. But it can't be him. It just can't. It doesn't make sense, but it is. And he's (almost) sure his eyes aren't lying to him. For once, Franz is at a complete loss for what to say. What can he say? What can he possibly-

All he knows is that Albert shouldn't be here. He should be back on Earth. Not here. He's dead. Albert is not-or should not-be. He better not be, because as far as Franz is concerned, that's how he got here, by dying. And if Albert is here, too, then

[hismothersson]

Albert freezes when he hears Franz's voice, the glass halfway to his mouth. He doesn't look right away but sets the glass down while his thoughts race too fast then freeze into sludge as certain facts weigh them down. It can't be Franz. Franz isn't here, but he has to turn his head to convince himself. And it is Franz. Plain as day.

Feeling incredibly stupid, Albert scrambles off the counter so fast it's almost a fall. He catches his balance with a hand on the edge and turns to face his friend, his very dead friend. He can hardly breathe.

It has to be Franz. He's already mad at him. Albert blinks, his mind still too sluggish. He can't be mad back. Not after nearly a year. He can't be.

"Franz, what did I do? Why are you here?"

[ourraisondetre]

Franz ignores the bewildered look on his best friend's face, clearing the distance between he and Albert in seconds, fighting the urge to put his hands on Albert's shoulders and just shake him once for good measure.

"What am I..." He shakes his head. "No, what are you doing here? You're not- the Count, he didn't-" His voice quiets, and whatever anger he had in him evaporates as quickly as it had came. "He didn't kill you, did he?"

[silvereyedphage]

And late in the evening, if Franz should enter the library, he'll find a pale gentleman clad in white, sitting behind a table near the fireplace, poring over one of several thick volumes, bound in ancient-looking leather, some with tarnished silver clasps. A stick of dragon's blood incense is burning in a small pot of sand at one end of the table, and there is a deck of cards half-shuffled on a silk pouch beside it. He's wrapped up in jotting notes, but if Franz approaches, he looks up. "Looking for something to read? You've come to a very well-stocked place," he says, smiling quietly, his cultured voice calm and mellow.

[ourraisondetre]

Though his attention had been focused on the bookshelves, scanning the titles for anything that might catch his eye, his gaze is quickly drawn away from the books, wandering over to the gentleman who had spoken. He keeps his tone polite, if formal. "Seems like it," he says, noticing the thick books that the man seems to be studying. "You familiar with the place?"

[silvereyedphage]

"It's the kind of place that tends to offer so many surprises that one can never really become familiar it," he says, taking off his glasses and looking across the expanse of the library, then looking up at Franz. "But I have dwelt here for several months and it's become a second home to me." he adds.

[ourraisondetre]

Franz doesn't doubt it, though his inherent skepticism makes it difficult to make an immediate believer out of him; he refuses to follow things on blind faith. Always has. However, he has seen too many things in his short time here-himself being one of them-that he can't just brush aside and ignore, no matter how much they operate contrary to his own logic and sense of reality.

"So how much of what I hear about this place should I actually believe to be true?"