The Singer is currently uncorking a very aged looking bottle of brandy as you enter. She smiles to herself, obviously glad to see someone else present. The kitchen itself is vast, immaculate, and unused – making you wonder exactly how, and whom, prepared the feast from earlier.
“Hey.” She begins, offering you a glass – which you politely decline. She nods and raises hers to her lips, taking only a sip.
“Strange, isn't it? I'd always thought the last days of my life would be spent wasting away. I think – I think in a fashion, I rather prefer this. The company is better.”
She laughs, and places her glass against the countertop as you hear footsteps approach. The Reporter enters lightly, looking fairly cheerful.
“Would you believe it? That Aristocrat isn't half bad. Still a useless waste of space, but she has good hobbies. Ooo – Don't mind if I do.”
Holding her nose, the Reporter drinks directly from the bottle, much to your and the Singer's amusement. She grins and shrugs.
“Hey, on bad nights you've gotta attack the source of the problem. Ah – this might be a bit much, but could you give us a few seconds?” The Singer nods gracefully, and exits the room – leaving the suddenly business-like Reporter alone with you.
“Our Host had files, newspaper clippings, all manner on information on all of us – except you. I don't know if that helps, but...” She fidgets a bit, barely whispering.
“He had a lot of information on one Inspecteur Duplessis. He was on an enemies list. The kind the mob has. That's all I can say at the moment – I'm off to look for more information. Stay safe, all right?” You nod as she leaves, and eye the brandy thoughtfully.
From the distance, you can hear the faint sounds of singing, interespersed with odd, plaintive howls.