Cannibal Count's Mount-Manse

The stone gatehouse juts out from the building. The double doors stand open, a pair of lanterns held by a pair of Watchmen, haggard and cold. They are keen to escort visitors in—a brief respite from standing.

Age and faded opulence impress themselves from this room. The clerk tucked in a corner assesses visitors—either towards 3 if one seems unrefined, or 4 for those with some measure of 'class.' Portraiture behind black velvet curtains fill the walls. Each is blank, an empty scene.

Claustrophobic. The thick, heavy desk fills almost the entire width—it is easier to clamber over it. A gift from a superior, the clerk explains sheepishly. They will ask a party's business here—to be recorded in the ledger. No matter the answer, they provide small permits—allowing movement on the Ground Floor. Reading the ledger, one realises the clerk is illiterate.

Tastefully stained wood panelling and display-plinths with marble busts. They are worth nothing—they do not depict anyone who ever existed. A clerk in a bright red uniform and a standing lectern ask whom a party is visiting. If the answer is not delivered convincingly, he will ask them to leave. Otherwise, he ushers them into 7 to deposit their weapons, armour, and coats before shuttling them to 8, promising to return once he has notified their host. He will never return.

Hundreds of stacked ledgers—none for the past 30 years contain words.

A jumble of furniture, stacked in dangerous configurations. Can very easily be used as a trap.

Ranks of gleaming, empty coat pegs. A few chests for weapons and armour—the ancient clerk laboriously writes receipts for anything deposited in a spidery hand.

Uncomfortable chairs cling to the walls, leaving a red-gold rug with a wide border. None of the staff willingly walk on the rug, always moving around it counter-clockwise. A group of kitchen staff scowl at visitors, loitering at the door to 14. They try to intimidate anyone trying to get past, but do not commit violence.

A tiny space, unlit. A ragged mattress, a book of slightly inappropriate woodcuts, and a packed p

Tool benches filled with what, at first, look like tools. Closer inspection reveals none are practic for any purpose—as if by design.

A heavy table ringed with chairs. Thewallsare a wood-panelled. Thegrease fromcandle-smoke thick enough to run fingers through.

s, Amongst the brooms and mops, a clerk attempts to hide, then flees when addressed—otherwise they say nothing.

The stairs leading down are filled with ipe. greasy black smoke and the smell of roasting meat.

al Allows access up, the stairs following the square walls of the tower.

ll Allows access up, the stairs following is the square walls of the tower.

Absolutely spotless lounge—sofas, padded chair and a rich-oak drinks cabinet. The contents are worth 8dw—a mixture of spirits and wines.

Wide and marred with flecks of blood.

Five huge ovens with a gang of twelve chefs working to stoke them—they are down to furniture for fuel. All of them are cooking meat—human, naturally. The line chefs are too busy for questions—the head chef is broadly suspicious. Theywill not hesitate to summon Watchmen if overly concerned about visitors.

A much colder room than the others, the floor seemingly hollow without any entrance. Upon butcher hooks are human corpses—stripped and marked up for cuts. A few float in giant pickling jars.

A tiny, thin desk barely supports the massive book atop it. Within are diagrams detailing the exacting specifications of the Count for all the possible cuts of the human body. A hammock is strung up.

Bottles of wine glint in the darkness. All have turned to vinegar.

Bottles of expensive wine glint in the darkness. All have turned to vinegar, but hold their value—25dw of wine could be stolen, but would fill 4 characters' inventories, clanking whenthey walked.

Empty bar coal-dust and splinters of wood.

The steps curl down and away. A crude wooden sculpture glowers at those reaching the top of the stairs, subject indistinct.

Racks upon racks of entomological displays, a millennium of insects pinned to boards with delicate needles, limbs teased outwards. Beneath the nameplate, in tiny print, the name of the one to donate the specimen. A badly-taxidermied Slatehead Termite is the room's centrepiece.

A tangle of military cots filled with Watchmen, sleeping or attempting to relax. Amongst the tangle, a tiny desk with a wisp of a person behind it. Speaks in a half-whisper—attempts to handle all business and queries themselves— only escalates to the next clerk if utterly frustrated.

A near-duplicate of 3, although the desk is slightly larger and the clerk smaller. Their voice rumbles like distant thunder. They are only too eager to pass the chase up the chain, delighting in troubling the Chief Inspector.

Behind a desk, topped with the head of a Slatehead Termite, slumbers an immense man, clearly wearing a huge false moustache. Beneath this is a smaller, real moustache. Any major noise causes him to wake with a start, but he otherwise slumbers on. On his belt is a set of keys to every door in the Manse. When woken, pretends to have not been asleep and assumes the PCs are here for a meeting he has forgotten.

Claw marks, fur, and dogshit are everywhere. Asa group enters, yells and whoops echo from the opposite end as a trio of greyhounds tear up the corridor towards you, a gaggle of red-faced clerks holding slips of paper cheering. Test Agility DR10 to avoid being bowled over by a dog. If this is done, some of the Clerks begin yelling foul play as they move to collect their dogs.

Atop a chaise-lounge, someone lies, utterly bored—eager to jump on strangers to add some variety and spice to their lives. They either demand to be whisked away or for aid finding their spouse but are not overly bothered by which. Whisking them away turns the entire Manse hostile as they are marked as kidnappers.

A jumble of furniture, half-broken, being used as fuel for the ovens below. Beneath a table, the other spouse lurks. They've been using thishiding spot for weeks.

A book-case is positioned to stop the door fully opening—one must squeeze between it and the wall togain entry. If they instead push the bookcase over, the Assistant to the Head of Assistance summons the guards immediately. The main body of the room is bare—the bookshelf is the only furniture. Thebooksinthe bookshelf list all current and former Manse staff. There is no sign of an occupant.

Stairs leading down to the ground floor. A boar head is mounted on thewall. It looks unhappy.

Unused bunks fill the length of the room. The dust is thick.

Filled with dictionaries and thesauruses. A small clerk looks up hopelessly, eyes red with strain. They have been trying to understand their job title for years. Any offered description has already tried and been found false—and they can't ask at this point, decades into their employment!

A wide-open chamber, each wall covered in notes. The central desk is spotless, but the figure behind it is clearly in disarray—they sleep fitfully, hair dishevelled and clothes beyond wrinkled. The papers on the walls detail recipes for human flesh, and contain a score out of 5 in a different handwriting. The clerk will not allow any to enter the office of the Head of Assistance without authorisation from the Second Floor.

Twelve dogs run rampant, a clerk in thick leathers attempting to move them back into theirpadded crates. They beg for help. Thedogsare wily and cunning. Once they are finally corralled, the clerk collapses, exhausted—too tired to ask questions.

The walls are filled with mathematical tables for the calculation of odds. The huge figure behind the desk offers a wager for anything—once they calculate the odds. Whilst crunching the numbers, they are unaware of their surroundings.

A large dog sits behind a desk—not a greyhound, but a large guard dog. It is supremely well-trained, barking and vocalising in response to questions. Despite this, it is still just a dog—these responses do not mean anything.

From behind the desk, a muffled voice implores PCs to come in quickly and shut the door behind them. The Primary Dog-Clerk is wearing a crude, full-face filtration mask. They are deathly allergic to dogs—but still, to serve is a privilege! They always delegate anyrequests downwards.

Stairs leading upwards, red carpet starting about half-way up.

Stairs leading upwards, red carpet starting about half-way up. Thecarpet is very dirty and worn.

Stairs terminate in a narrow room, filled with empty metal containers, seemingly purposeless.

The clerk within vibrates with concern. Theyjump at every sound, and stand up to pace every 10 seconds. They're waiting for the Count tocall them in for their induction meeting. They've been waiting decades.

A dusty office. No one has been in here for decades. All furnishings are expensive—there's around 50dw of moveable wealth, and another 100dw in furniture. Using the stamp in the desk, one could forge orders directly from the Count.

The clerk seems pulled upwards somehow—like they are continuously falling. Closer inspection reveals a fishing line moving up to the ceiling, hooks dug into their flesh. The clerk's expression is one of hopelessness, but begs, in whispers, for the lines to be left alone. Official business is yelled as loud as possible—'so the Head can hear, you see' they whisper.

Another clerk, also hooked. They are asleep, the lines moving their limbs in a parody of work.

Yet another clerk, flesh torn and sore —they try and move independently and scream, over and over—if too many come loose, the Head summons the guards, they explain, rehooking themselves.

Hooked in the same manner, they try to accentuate the movements of the wires —needing only the barest suggestion of movement to move and perform tasks eagerly. They seem genuinely happy about the situation.

The proliferation of threads entirely masks the figure at the centre. Every twitch, shiver, causes flurries of activities in the others. They are rendered more immobile than the others.

The sound of pained moans and barked shouts are audible from the corridor. Within, a clerk has worked themselves into a frenzy, hair pulled out. They immediately scream and launch ink-pots, pens, and balls of paper at visitors.

A clerk smiles dreamily amidst the chaos of papers and documents. They have realised that they are achieving nothing, and are utterly at peace. They'll happily sign any document provided, and hand over their keys.

Is peering through a tiny whole in the wall, tittering at the Assistant of Manners. InvitesPCsin for a drink—won't discuss anything related to the Manse or the Count.

The walls are covered in drawings of vaguely defined animals, each a variation of the last. The clerk within will enthuse about DOGS! and HOUNDS!—but seems vague on the details. Enough questions will reveal that they have, in fact, never seen a dog. They would never admit this, andrefuse any offers to be shown one.

A ruddy-faced clerk asks if PCs have seen 'the deliveries'—regardless of answer, they nod and look wistful.

There is no furniture in this office —just a clerk and empty wine bottles. They are sleeping off a hangover.

No function is listed on the door—utterly empty. It could be used as a base for one seeking to meld with the bureaucracy.

A tacky, over-decorated meeting room, filled withportraiture and wood panelling. It shows nosign of use.

A tiny cramped space—an accident of architecture, filled with chains and uncomfortable furniture. Shows signs of frequent use and infrequent cleaning.

A set of three simple wooden doors—each leading to a latrine, the only such affordances in the Manse. There is a 30% chance of a queue, organised by rank. How outsiders work into this is a subject of impatient debate.