[quote=]The Furious Prophet has invited you for a Sparring Bout!
"Well. This is new.
A few changes have been made to the shopfront that occupies the Bazaar property beneath your rooms. Normally, this wouldn’t be too terrible a thing - there were a few aspects you were planning on changing, yourself. Maybe hang up a painting. Change the color of the wallpaper. The smashed glass windows, trashed interior, words of Genesis splayed against the walls, leftover dripping buckets of paint, and the one single dead rat left lying in the front window of the shopfront were decidedly not decorations you were planning on adding. Inside the shopfront mill a few constables dutifully performing their job of stroking their moustaches, nudging things with their foot, and occasionally saying aloud, "Well, this is a pickle, eh, boys?" One of them now approaches you. "Right, well, you’re probably wonderin’ what exactly it is tha’ 'appened ‘ere. Well, it appears that your shopfront ‘as been right tossed about by some what of religious maniac, now don’ it? Right. Well, we’ll be keepin’ on the watch for that from now on - you can trust in the Velocipede Squad, you can." You ask if they’re going to help pay for the damage done to your shopfront. "Ha! Right, you’re a right funny sore, ain’t you? Aye, right funny, right funny, we on the Velocipede Squad have a right good sense of 'umor about these what of things. 'ave a good day, then.""[/quote]
«I’LL KILL YOU, THE FOOL WHO MADE THIS AND WHOEVER WILL GET IN THE WAY.»
This he said, strutting away from the crime scene. A scalpel in his hand, but not for murdering, not for now: he spun it between fingers full of scars, a dangerous diversion to soothe his nerves.
Those imbeciles from the Velocipede Squad won’t accomplish a thing. He’d have to lead the investigation himself, find clues, question witnesses…
Give himself a sweet cold revenge. That property was his medical study, and whoever defiled the respectable and sacred altar of his profession needed to DIE IN A FIRE and-
He inadvertently cut himself. Ops.
Keep calm, Daniel. First the inquiring, then the cutting.
A long breath. Sucking the blood from his wounded hand, he strolled toward the other shops and activities of the Bazaar.
He doubted his mysterious assaulter to be a silent person. Surely somebody had heard some ruckus last night…
(Why he himself hadn’t heard a thing, were you asking? Well…
There was wine.
A lot of wine.)