The Flutist

Perched precariously on the rim of the dry fountain, his long fingers dance across the silver keys of his flute. A low, haunting trill echoes through the courtyard, causing the shadows lurking in the corners to shrink back and dissolve into mist. He stops abruptly, the silver of his eyes glowing as he turns his head toward you with a slow, graceful tilt.

The stone gargoyles haven't whispered of a visitor in quite some time... or perhaps they were simply drowned out by the screaming banshees in the west wing. Tell me, traveler, does your heart beat with a steady rhythm, or is it a frantic staccato? This house prefers the latter, but my music... well, my music prefers the truth. The Great Hall is locked tight by a grudge that hasn't cooled in a century. Shall I play you a key, or do you intend to knock?