The caretaker extended a hand, offering a magical contract parchment to Dave. Its text shimmered with an ethereal glow, reminiscent of the magic-enforced contract that Cedez and Dave had employed to sell Bakelite armor. Dave's eyes darted over the words.
"It says here, I will be billed for any damages that occur during my stay in the Estate," he observed. "Doesn't this mean if the poltergeist breaks something, I will be billed for it?"
"Yes," the caretaker confirmed. "If something valuable is hurled at you and you fail to catch it, you will be held responsible for the cost of replacing it."
Dave's expression darkened, as he considered signing such an underhanded agreement.
"You're welcome to leave," the caretaker said. "I'm afraid that the current owner is quite resolute about requiring this contract if you choose to take on the job. We will be reviewing your performance through a seer’s orb, so I must advise against any attempt to deceive us by denying responsibility for any broken items."
Dave frowned at the mention of being observed. It reminded him of a time when his irksome boss at Serv0tec incessantly monitored the programmers through an array of trackers, ensuring they weren't merely idling away or squandering precious time on social media.
"Say, how long has this mansion been haunted?" he asked.
"Twenty-nine years,” the man replied.
"And how many adventurers failed to find the ghost?"
"Far too many," the caretaker lamented. "The owner placed this quest on several floors of the Guild, as he was not certain what level adventurer could solve this issue."
“I really don’t like this point about paying for damaging things,” Dave crossed his arms. “What if your ghost chucks a vase at my back that costs ten thousand silver?”
“The mansion is empty of furniture and accessories,” the caretaker shook his head. “The new owner has long auctioned such items off to pay property taxes.”
“So then what kind of a valuable thing could get thrown at me?” Dave demanded.
“It is mostly a legal point made to deter adventurers from breaking doors, light fixtures and windows. It was added because mages were using spells quite carelessly while trying to bring the poltergeist down. A few people happened to jump through the windows,” the caretaker pointed at a few boarded up windows on the top floor.
"Why not simply tear the entire place down and build something new?" Dave prodded, wondering why the new owner hadn't considered a more drastic approach.
"The new owner simply lacks the funds to undertake such a monumental task," the caretaker explained. "The Estate wards that envelop the building prevent any form of major demolition directed at it."
"So you do not control the wards?" Dave asked.
"Unfortunately, the control runekey vanished along with the late Lord Rim," the caretaker sighed. "Its absence has left us powerless to modify the arcane ward."
"Is there a reward for locating the missing runekey then?"
"The reward for finding the key is an additional hundred silver," the caretaker affirmed.
Dave surveyed the mansion, taking note of its decrepit state. "Is the current owner still looking to repair this place?" he asked.
"The owner has all but given up on the repairs due to the relentless attacks of the poltergeist," the caretaker admitted. "The property now lies forlorn, awaiting a buyer. Alas, few are willing to consider such a purchase, given the absence of the ward-key and the barrage of flying objects."
Dave pondered the issue.
"What do you think, Sherlock?" he asked mentally, seeking the counsel of his clandestine companion. "What are the chances that this is some kind of ruse to shake money out of unsuspecting adventurers?"
"From what I can discern, this gentleman appears devoid of any duplicitous intent," Dave's invisible ally mused. "However, I recommend verifying his statements with the Guild and securing your own insurance before you delve any deeper into this spectral endeavor."
Dave mentally sent Sherlock a nod of agreement.
"I’ll be back," he informed the caretaker. “I’ll need to prepare… some things for this ghostbusting business.”
"Very well," the caretaker acquiesced.
Dave took his leave, retracing his steps toward the Guild with purposeful strides.
In a matter of twenty minutes, punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of his Bakelite-reinforced boots against cobblestones, Dave found himself standing once more before the secretary of the Adventurers Guild.
"Did you already give up on your quest?" she asked.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
"I've returned to ask more questions about it," Dave explained.
The jellyfish woman nodded.
"Is this quest some kind of an elaborate scam?" Dave demanded.
"Impossible," the secretary assured him. “This quest was up for nearly three decades on the board. Numerous skilled adventurers attempted to best it and failed. The client is from a noble family."
"Has the Guild not attempted to locate a dungeon core in the place?"
"We did," the secretary confirmed. "Several adventurers, driven to exasperation by repeated failures, summoned a review representative from the Guild. Yet, despite the reviewer's most diligent efforts, no dungeon core was discovered. The core-detecting wand failed to locate anything. If there is a dungeon core in that mansion, it must be exceptionally well hidden somewhere behind powerful wards."
"What happens if I find a dungeon core?" Dave asked.
"Report its location to us," the secretary said. "Our local dungeon Administrator, Lady Gustaviia Enitii, will be sent in to confirm it and to seize the property from its current owner."
"Do I get something for discovering a dungeon?" Dave asked.
"Fame and glory," the secretary said. "Plus, you get naming rights! Discovering a dungeon would elevate your status and allow you to get better-paying jobs."
"That seems a bit unfair to the current property owner," Dave pointed out, weighting 200 silver versus fame and glory and more dangerous jobs offered by the Guild.
"The law of Shandria regarding such matters is absolute," the secretary replied. "We do not permit private dungeons, as such could be used for nefarious means."
"What if someone finds a dungeon core in their basement and destroys it?" Dave queried. "Does that violate some law?"
"No. Such occurrences are not unheard of," the secretary conceded gracefully. "If the core is a mere few generations old, it is often vulnerable and lacking in defenses. Cores of greater age and power can seize control of any being that meets its demise within their sphere of influence, creating a sentinel."
"In that case," Dave quipped, "if I were to perish within the confines of the dungeon, would I not then become the property of the Adventurers Guild?"
"Yes," the secretary acknowledged. "Sentinels are bound to the core, which, upon discovery, falls under the protection and ownership of our esteemed Guild."
"Has there ever been a case," Dave ventured, "of someone stumbling upon a friendly dungeon?"
"No," the secretary said. "Dungeons are, by their very nature, inimical to all forms of life."
"But what if," Dave pressed, undeterred by her response, "I were to find a benevolent dungeon?"
The secretary considered this for a moment, her eyes narrowing in thought. "As ludicrous as such a notion may be," she acquiesced, "if you were to discover an intelligent dungeon that displays a willingness to cooperate, you would find yourself handsomely rewarded by our Guild."
"Gotcha," Dave replied.
As the next phase of his plan, Dave walked to the marketplace. He procured a broadcasting seer's orb for a hundred silver and a generous assortment of voicecast rings that allowed long-distance communication between adventurers. Within the span of another thirty minutes, he found himself standing before the charming Cambria Snail Cafe, the aroma of freshly brewed beverages and culinary delights wafting through the air.
"Ah, Dave!" Cedez called to him from the window. "What brings you to my humble abode?"
Dave handed her a voicecast ring.
"You certainly don't waste any time, do you?" she teased. "Securing my contact already?"
"You're familiar with the functions of the voicecast and seer's orb?" Dave asked.
"Yeppers," Cedez nodded.
"Excellent! In about thirty minutes," he informed her, sliding the heavy orb across the table, "I will be fighting a potentially fraudulent poltergeist, and will require witnesses to observe the encounter. Could you activate the seer's orb and broadcast the event within the cafe for me?"
The vixen pursed her lips, tilting her head in contemplation. "I could manage that… for a silver."
Dave promptly handed over the requested coin, which seemed to vanish into thin air with a flick of Cedez's wrist.
"Thank you," he grinned.
"Anytime, handsome," the foxgirl replied, her smile radiant. With a graceful flourish, she whisked the orb into the hidden recesses of the cafe, ready to unleash it and bear witness to the upcoming spectacle.
. . .
In due course, Dave found himself standing before the old caretaker once more.
"I'm ready," he took a deep breath and signed his name on the contract.
As the caretaker made a hasty exit with the contract, Dave was left standing alone in the eerie, dust-filled entryway.
"Sherlock, do you think I could detect ghosts by their scent like a necromancer?" Dave pondered.
"Perhaps, if your skill grows in such a direction. For now, we can only visually perceive the telltale tendrils of unlife," Sherlock's violin resonated in reply. "Let us scrutinize this place as thoroughly as possible. Best armor up!"
Dave pulled his Bakelite helmet on and called Cedez to start the show.
From there, Dave and Sherlock traversed the labyrinthine corridors of the large old estate, their search seemingly fruitless. Cobwebs adorned the shadowy corners, and the creaking floorboards echoed like ghostly whispers in the eerie silence.
Just as Dave was beginning to lose hope, a sudden, sharp movement caught his attention. A rusted nail, propelled by an unseen force, hurtled through the air and struck his helmet.
Dave stumbled, nearly losing his balance as he stared in shock at the rusty nail embedded in his helmet, mere inches from his eye. He couldn't help but shudder at the thought of how close he had come to becoming a pirate or being afflicted with tetanus.
Before he could fully gather his wits, another trio of nails whistled through the gloomy air, embedding themselves in his Bakelite armor with a series of sharp cracks.
Adrenaline coursed through Dave's veins, his heart pounding in his chest as he spun around, attempting to pinpoint the source of the sudden onslaught.
More nails flew through the air from various directions, as if launched by an invisible multitude of assailants. The shadowy hallway echoed with the sound of metal striking plastic, and Dave found himself caught in the midst of a seemingly endless barrage.
Dave peered through the gloom, his eyes scanning the shadowy corners of the hall for any telltale signs of the ghost.
"Lord Alaster Rim!" He yelled. "I would appreciate it if you would cease hammering me with nails and simply talk to me!"
As his words echoed through the vast chamber, a massive chandelier above him began to tremble, its crystal pendants chiming together like an ominous discordant symphony.
Dave looked up.
With a sudden snap, the chandelier plummeted from the ceiling.