Haunted Houses (closed to Lightfoot)

[EgoFinitum]

The sword and its spectre had been quiet for days now. Corone lay far behind them. The seas had been stormier than the skies when they finally landed in Berevar and Jasker met with his contact. Now the Halfling had put out the candle in his room, waiting for the new day to become a very rich man. The moonlight overhead reflected off the freshly fallen snowbanks and the world outside the window seemed to glow. The bed piled with blankets against the bitter cold of the night, he was nothing more than a tangle of brown hair peeking out from the edge of a quilt and a chorus of soft snores.

His clothes for the morning were laid out on the chair, and beside the washbasin the effects of his morning shave were tidily lined up. The razor rested in a bowl with the sliver that was left of lathering soap. The room was silent, but he wasn’t alone. From where his weapons had been cleaned and laid gently against the wall, the moonlight that bathed the room in a dim silver shimmered along the blade. A far-off sigh breathed into the room, an echo of a former life.

The noblegirl sat on the edge of the bed. The covers didn’t cave or fold against her weight, and though she glowed as brightly as the snow upon the window shutters, the pattern of the quilt was quite visible through her eerily dark-stained dress. Leaning over, she looked as if she were trying to see some peek of the Halflings face beyond the covers.

“Jasker,” she whispered. A muffled reply came from beneath the cotton layers but he didn’t move. “Jasker Lightfoot,” she hissed again. Finally a sleepy, slightly exasperated groan answered back and the man jerked down the covers enough to stare at the girl. She pouted, sighing again.

“What’s wrong?” the thief muttered, one hand rubbing at his eyes.

“I just…” she started, then sniffled. “I don’t like it here. I just want to go home. I want to see my mother.”

[Lightfoot]

Of all the times and in all of the ways Jasker had been woken from his sleep, subjection to the emotional mood swings of a teenage ghost most definitely ranked among his least favorite. The halfling let out a sigh, and propped himself up on an elbow, letting the thick quilt slide down his bare chest.

"Charlotte..." he started slowly, delicately. He found the girl to be quite sensitive in the short time they traveled together. "I need -- we need this job. I'm being paid exorbitantly well for such a simple task. All we need to do is be patient" -- he said with emphasis while looking at her -- "and financial troubles will be a thing of the past, and we can focus on solving your... situation."

The ghost of a girl frowned. She seemed to glow with the moon's bright sheen, and looked every bit an angel. A very... bloody angel. That was the single hardest part to deal with for Jasker. It wasn't the fact that she was a ghost, or the fact that she could creepily disappear and reappear whenever, and wherever she wanted. It was the blood. Always soaked through her dress, always seemingly retaining its moisture, glistening dark red. The sight never failed to send shivers down his spine.

"But it's been weeks already!" she exclaimed. "My parents could be anywhere..." She rose from the bed, started pacing. "They must be worried sick! I have to see them!" She was becoming more excitable, and Jasker could see the shortsword, Dirge, shudder in its sheath in recognition.

A chill wind howled through the night just outside the door. He sat up straight. The halfling's already damaged calm was beginning to unravel. "And we will! But I can't just drop everything at a moment's notice. There are things I need; sleep, for example. Food, companionship, a warm bed, a warm hearth." To which the halfling noticed was dark.

The door yielded to Berevar's savage wind and swung open, filling the room with a bitter cold. Jasker cursed and jumped from the bed, rushing to close the door and struggling against the wind. After a few long moments, the thief wrestled the door closed and secured the latch.

"Damnit!" he cursed again, half-naked and shivering. He looked at Charlotte, who seemed unaffected. She looked at him innocently and his patience was gone. The halfling stormed over to the hearth and threw in more wood while trying to get a fire going.

Charlotte crept closer, silently. "You could always use the shortsw--"

"I don't need your help!" Jasker snapped. "You'd think that if you were skulking about at all hours of the night, you could at least keep an eye on the damn fire!"

The room grew silent.

"You think that just because I'm dead, that I have nothing better to do than be your hound?" Charlotte's voice was barely a whisper, but the hurt and anger carried through.

"Charlotte, I...," the thief stuttered. "... that's not..."

"Shame on you, Jasker Lightfoot!" she exclaimed. By the time the halfling had turned around to apologize, she was gone. A deep sigh came from his lips in a steamy cloud.

"I am never having children," he mumbled to himself, and moved to retrieve the enchanted shortsword to start the fire.