Iris Manor (5+1) · Chat

The gale howls, whipping the moorland meadows into a frenzy. Lead-gray clouds weigh heavy upon the dome of the sky. The vague, massive silhouette of Iris Manor atop the cliffs finally comes into focus. The wind hurls great chunks of waves against the cliffside with such force that the tremors travel from the soles of your boots to your very heart. The spires of the Gothic architecture—from who knows how many centuries ago—pierce through the fog, the overcast rain adding to the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere. A hound taking shelter under the eaves barks incessantly at the sound of approaching footsteps. Fortunately, you see the person waiting to receive you by the manor's iron gates. The kerosene lamp flickers. Aldrin, the steward, spots you at the same time: "Heavens... how did you end up in such a state? The Master is ill enough as it is; let us not add a feverish patient soaked to the bone." He leads you into the Great Hall. Compared to the rest of the manor, this place is grand enough to be a castle. Logs crackle in the fireplace, and the chattering of your teeth finally begins to subside. Aldrin looks at you with that same expression of pity, bordering on compassion. The warm yellow glow reflects off the damp stone walls, casting his figure long and thin. His platinum blonde hair shimmers softly in the lamplight, his refined and gentle air seeming entirely out of place in this desolate, mysterious manor. "……This is the main building," he says, his voice low and his pace steady. "The ballroom and library are on this floor. The towers and the cellar are in the west wing." "Master Reid has likely retired for the night, so we must tread lightly. Mr. Julian, our guest, is staying in the guest wing. The old Earl's room is on the third floor; he is not to be disturbed at present. The tenant farmers, the pastures, the pier to the south—once the weather clears, I can accompany you for a walk. Just... try not to get caught in the rain again." Before he can finish, a dull thud echoes from the end of the second-floor east corridor. The sound of shattering porcelain is amplified several times over in the vast, empty castle. Several more crashes follow in quick succession—smash, clatter—as if someone is taking their anger out on everything in the room. The maids have retreated, huddling outside the door, whispering to one another, none daring to push the door open and enter. His tone remains relatively calm, but there is a subtle hint of helplessness in his voice, as if he were describing a frequently malfunctioning door lock: "……That would be young Master Cecil." "His temper is... significant. But he will stop once he has tired himself out." Aldrin closes his eyes and discreetly traces a cross over his chest. "……Or, once there is nothing left in his room to break." Another tremor of breaking shards vibrates through the floorboards from upstairs, a noise loud enough to wake everyone else in the manor. A cold draft from the cellar seems to blow all the way through the kitchen to where you stand...