Blackmask blocked the suddenly intense sun with a gloved hand. The shine, contrasting with the relative darkness of Afterparty, was too much-- for the most part, the pirate was used to either mist, smog, or the interior of an airship, and the blast of yellow was a tad painful at first. Upon acclimating and noting the position of the large field relative to the manor, two conflicting thoughts immediately took over Ripper's thought processes. These, naturally, consisted roughly of "Where is the core" and "Mansion mansion mansion treasure."
Upon considering the situation, Ripper eventually arrived at a conclusion. Going to need to contact the ghost. Disturbing the dead is a bad idea. The mansion might have a way to contact the dead without disturbing them. Sufficiently convinced, the pirate immediately headed for the entrance of the mansion. It was, naturally, incredibly ostentatious-- a marble doorframe with intricate engravings. Blackmask briefly considered opening the door, decided this would be boring, and instead kicked it off of its hinges before wandering into the house, only momentarily distracted by the brief crashing of glass audible from a couple rooms over. A massive staircase directly in front, and at least seven doors to each side. Ripper briefly considered what was necessary to contact a ghost. Need something to get her attention... something to prove I'm not planning to hurt her, peace offering maybe... something to trade for the core... and, if it comes down to it, something to kill her. Lessee, then... I can probably boil that down to six or so pieces of booty... some sorta instrument, grog, maybe some grub, maybe some jewelry, some... iron and salt and stuff?-- Ripper, despite being superstitious, was not very good at it-- Bible o' course, and a new sword.
Thinking further, the pirate began narrowing down which rooms might contain said. Food, salt and drink's going to be either in the cellar or the kitchen... jewelry'd be in a bedroom, Good Book and instrument either there or in the study... hell if I know where I'll find me some iron. Ah, well. Time to weigh anchor. Ripper began opening doors on either side, looking for the kitchen. Upon finding and entering it after several incorrect guesses, Ripper immediately stuffed the candelabra and salt shaker away, then got to raiding the cupboards, giving a brief glance to the bizarre icebox in the corner. Let's see... flour, crackers, ooh, jerky... here we go, a pastry o' some kind. Blackmask pulled out the jerky and pastry, staring at the packaging somewhat confused. A furious rip managed to liberate the contents, which were gingerly placed away so as not to harm them. Whipping open the refrigerator, figuring that iceboxes were iceboxes, Ripper winced at the blast of musty air that emanated from it, having long since stopped receiving its supply of power. Uh, right then. I'll belay the wine for now, then... The pirate headed out of the room straight into another, far worse disappointment: around twenty grains of sparkling sand were visible at the foot of the staircase.
Begad. This is... a problem. Best be avoidin' the upstairs, then... The pirate began checking more doors. Bathroom... closet... wait, what’s this? Behind the door was what appeared to be a study. Blackmask’s eyes briefly drifted to the small spatter of blood and bile on the carpeting before latching onto the bookcase in a corner. The pirate quickly began rooting through it, looking for a Bible or guide to exorcisms or something along those lines, but was disappointed on almost every front. However, despite none of the books available being suitable for communing with a ghost, one managed to stand out among all the rest: a thick green book entitled Scourge of the Stratosphere: An Annotated History of High-Flying Piracy. Ripper, overcome with egotism, quickly grabbed the book and flipped to the index.
Blackmask: Ripper, 182. Slasher, 184.
The indignant raider began unwittingly thinking out loud. “Slasher Blackmask? What variety of rudder-rot is that supposed to be...” A quick flip to page 182 led to the pirate being struck dumb, but only for a brief moment. “Impossible... no...” A quick flip to page 184 revealed an only slightly less unwelcome line of text:
“Slasher took control of the Hellium Razor in April of 1848, with no one outside its crew the wiser, after Ripper’s ‘mysterious disappearance’. Taking on the old captain’s mask and name, Slasher did his best to maintain the Blackmask legacy. He did an astoundingly good job—in fact, not until he was on his deathbed in 1878 did he reveal that he was not the real Ripper—rather, the real Ripper was”
Blackmask furiously tore out pages 181-184 and ripped them to shreds. “THAT... LOUSY... LUBBER! I TOLD HIM THAT IN THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE, AND TOLD HIM THAT HE MUST NEVER LET ANYONE KNOW HE WASN’T THE REAL ME!” The pirate furiously punched the bookcase repeatedly, reducing two of its shelves to mere splinters, before finally calming down and doubling over. Too late to do anything about it. Doesn’t matter anymore, does it? Doubt I’ll ever make it back home anyway... Blackmask sighed and left the room, back into the hallway, to begin trying more and more doors in order to tie the plan together.