Number Six, Weston Lane

The Taxman arrived. A quiet, hovering sort of presence, he was sparse of words and would accept a few different things.

Everyone had to present to him some form of documentation if the occupants of the home had changed since his last rounds. All persons supported by any one address had to be accounted for.

Everyone also had to pay taxes. Coin could be paid in person or by chest, or a bank note could be left instead, providing access to deduct taxes from a bank account.

He'd arrive at the gate.

Fundor had been intending to visit the estate he had been required to purchase for tax purposes within Goraia for a while. He had intended to rent it to some fool so he wouldn't have to spend any gold paying the taxes for it, and perhaps he would turn a profit from it as well. However, there had been no interest so he came to find out why. He would begin with chewing out the man he had hired to maintain the place, as it seemed no one found it appealing enough. Stupid mortals couldn't be trusted to do anything correctly after all.

However, as he rounded the corner, appearing as an eleven man with red hair, he found there to be someone at his door. Perhaps someone was interested after all. Fundor would open the gate behind the woman, and stroll into the yard behind her. He would call out, getting her attention before she knocked on the door.

"You looking to rent this house?" he asked, straight to the point. 

Fundor would smile confidently at her words, "Do not worry, I contracted someone to make sure the residence would please any prospective residence, and he has much to lose should he fail in that task..." the red dragon's gaze seemed to darken towards the end of that sentence as he glanced towards one of the windows where the old man who tended to the house was standing. The man quickly retreated from the window upon catching Fundor's gaze. 

Soon however, Fundor's gaze would lighten again, "I am Fundor, and yes I am the owner of this residence," he would smile lightly at her joke, but that was the only reaction she would get, "I can give you a tour of the house if you'd like."

The Taxman arrived. A quiet, hovering sort of presence, he was sparse of words and would accept a few different things.

Everyone had to present to him some form of documentation if the occupants of the home had changed since his last rounds. All persons supported by any one address had to be accounted for.

Everyone also had to pay taxes. Coin could be paid in person or by chest, or a bank note could be left instead, providing access to deduct taxes from a bank account.

He'd arrive at the gate.

She stepped into the home and was mildly surprised to see that it wasn't even decorated inside. Still, it was clean, and she supposed that it just made it easier for her to decorate herself. Her curious dark gaze swept over the tiles, looking up towards the ceilings to see what kind of molding might have been put around the rooms.

She smirked a little at his arrogance, but said nothing more as they came to the door in which would lead to the cellar. This she looked at specifically, measuring with her arms the distance of the open door on how wide it was. She went down the steps and she turned her head when the fire was started on the torch, as if it was too bright.

She came down to the bottom floor as he did and looked around. "Can you put that out, please?" she asked, the heels of her boots echoing quietly as she moved forward. Her eyes gleamed in the dark, suggesting that she was more than able to see the cellar and its expanse. She walked into the darknesss until it swallowed her up and she felt its protective embrace.

"I've heard of Vervada, too," she said, then.

But she could see in the darkness. And not just the darkness of the shadows, but the true darkness of nightmares, of hell, and the damned. In the deep, inky darkness that not even a dragon's eyes could see through, he'd be able to see her -- or more accurately, see the green-white glow of her eyes, like a wolf in the night.

"There are always whispers in the darkness," Lady Zaiyandorel said to him. "You can hear them if you listen." The tap of the heels of her boots could be heard as she neared, finally coming into the peripheral of his own darksight, though if a normal human had been down there in the basement with them, they still wouldn't have been able to see anything without the aide of a torch. "Listen..."

If Fundor did indeed listen, it would be quiet for long moments, long moments... stretching into minutes until, faintly... yes. yes, he could hear it. The faint whispers, like ghosts of his memories, brushing there. The sound of someone familiar. But who? Who was it? It was someone, someone from Fundor's past and they were speaking so softly he'd only be able to hear the timbre of the voice, not the words exactly, as if they were speaking from beyond walls and walls, muting their voices. It rang a bell at the back of his mind, this voice. It was on the tip of his tongue to name who it was that the voice belonged to, but not quite.

Not quite.

Zaiyandorel walked towards him. "I'll take it," she said to him. "That is, if you're still allowing me to rent it."