A Whiff of Evening Murder

[Walter]

((Officially closed to .Anke., Schizoid, Teutonic Knight and BlueMoon. Editted to conform to Scara Brae standards.))



Night Terror Strikes Again!

At sunrise yesterday, three citizens of the residential district were discovered dead in their homes. Each victim was found with a torn throat, as in previously reported incidents. This brings the death toll to seven, as the murder chain continues unabated to the chagrin of local Night Watch. There can be no doubt that the perpetrator of these crimes remains the same creature - as before, the only possible witnesses to the crime have been rendered "mentally incapable" of testifying to the events which occurred. In addition to the deaths, several respectable women have fallen into fits which may take days or weeks to recover from.

Duke Zalinhar expressed regret for the deceased, and has vowed to increase the presence of the Watch during the night hours when all of the attacks seem to have occurred. Readers are again warned not to answer their doors after dark.

The slums were littered with these publication pieces. Wet and grimy, they served no purpose other than to clog sewers and warm the homeless. Hiking a shortcut from the opposite end of town, Jon Walter was surrounded by the news, though he couldn't be bothered to read it. He ignored the papers, and the ramshackle huts of corrugated tin and rotted wood, and the beggars. His eyes were on the road.

It was a path cutting straight through the city, from the soupmaker's hut that he had just swiped a meal out of to a series of low-class flats. Jon had recently jacked the keys to an empty flat, and intended to make the most of it before he was discovered. The streets were beginning to clear of their usual traffic as the sun vanished and the sky darkened. Jon stayed on the borderline between wealth and poverty until it was nearly too dark to see, and then he started for his place.

Was word spreading on the streets about the murderer? Certainly. Though nobody had been able to report a thing, nearly everyone had a suggestion. Superstition ended up warping rumors everytime they were told, and so what the killer might be had everything to do with who was talking about it. Jon had heard the rumors, but paid them as little mind as he had the papers. Words didn't feed him or keep the rain out.

Sneaking into his temporary villa, Jon fondled the darkness until he found the couch and threw himself on it. The cushions sank wonderfully beneath him. He was ready for a dreamless sleep when a knock on the door jerked his attention away from rest. Just 'gnore em, they'll go 'way he thought, before the cultured voice of a gentleman called from behind the doorway.
"Excuse me, is anyone home?" After a pause, there was another knock and the voice asked again. And then silence. Just as Jon was beginning to nestle into a relieved sleep, he heard a weird tittering sound. The soft noise sounded partly like a quiet man's laughter, and partly the ringing of a bell. Unnerved, Jon lay stiffly on his couch while the noise subsided.

Even though he was straining his ear, he did not hear the slinking sound made as something slipped through his window. He did not see the darkness encompass a darker shadow as it loomed near to him. What he did see, as a figure grabbed him roughly in the empty flat, was a pair of two burning red eyes like LED dots with pupils. And though he had died many times before, Jon Walter felt the panic of mortal danger set in, fused to his mind by a pair of bright red lights.

The figure tittered again, in its strange man-bell voice, before it grabbed Jon's throat and tore the delicate instruments from their display case. At this point, the victim was supposed to squawk and die in a puddle of its own blood. Jon did this, of course, but not before his adrenalin-fueled body flailed in the dark and smacked the retreating figure in the backside. It recoiled in surprise (not in pain), but by the time it turned around, Jon had already collapsed. Apparently satisified, the thing politely let itself out through the front door and vanished in the night.

[Schizoid]

The hooded figure hadn't moved for at least a good five or six hours. He had walked into the downstairs of the inn which also served as a tavern at around five or six hours past noon, and it was currently within an hour of midnight. When he had walked in the place wasn't very full yet although there were a few people in for an early dinner. None of them had even turned there heads, the boy, as usual, doing his best to not attract attention to himself for his hate of all situations social. He had taken a seat in a far dark corner of the room, slipping into the background of the chaos that would soon break out as the alcohol began to pour. He had been dressed in a white tunic and brown pants, although they were covered for the most part by the hooded cloak of darker brown shade which he wore, hood over his head of course. For the last few hours he had sat completely still after asking and paying for a room. If anyone could see the shadow that his face became with the hood on they would see a boy much too young to be hanging around a tavern, with long, messy black hair falling down to his shoulders and a face of a light shade of brown.

In the meantime the rest of the room was full of life. Alcohol poured and poured much to the disgust of the boy as scantily clad women of flesh and bone and grossly overweight men intermingled into the night. The noise was probably disturbingly loud to the people trying to sleep upstairs as men screamed and women shrieked as gambling, drunkardness, and flirting danced all around the room...which had been tidy before the party had been swept in from the scum of the streets. The polished floors of some fine looking wood was covered in the little debris of the crowd, as well as large amounts of paper from random publications which the boy found himself uninterested in. The whole place might be seem as charming, with the warm artwork and comfortable cushioned chairs if it were not for all the disgusting activity going on. The air wasn’t quite stuffy, and yet the occupants could feel an odd haze of some sort hanging in the air, an aroma unpleasant to the boy, although rather normal to the others it would seem.

Why would he leave me all alone… It had been a passive thought, coming only because he had run out of thoughts. He had run out of anger to feed in his mind with thoughts about the putrid sin permeating his surroundings, and he had planned his next days journey over and over again, and so he could do little to not think of the long lost old druid. He had been staring at the table as he thought, but took a moment to scan the room quickly. Nothing. Nothing of any significance, only drunk fools and girls of no beauty to him. He listened. Again nothing…at least until his ears came upon the sound of “…seven dead!?...getting crazy…murderer on the loose…rapes the female victims…no…very chivalrous…only attacks those of poor virtue…disgusting…he’s scum either way…seven dead…” He was suddenly actually a little interested in what they were saying. A murderer. The most disgusting form of disrespect for life…the disrespect of the life of someone of the same species. If you can’t even respect the life of another human what are your virtues… The disgust overcame him.

At a few minutes before midnight a shadow was seen moving in “Xavier’s” tavern and inn. It had walked in in the early evening, sat, idle in the corner for several hours, became nauseated, and then had abruptly and exceedingly quickly but quietly rushed upstairs to a room. The shadow was Matt.

[.Anke.]

Night and forbearance.

A lengthy figure skirted the lamps, pausing every now and then to catch the air with nostrils flared suspiciously. Its antics cast an incongruent assonance, ill-fitting with the solitude and soft murmurs of after-dinner conversation.

Nathaniel H. Nym couldn't possess swifter legs. Xavier’s Tavern and Inn suggested safety from whatever horrid existence danced the dance of death in Scara Brae, and his eyes were attracted to a certain placard. Someone's noisy explosion from a doorway momentarily startled him, causing a hiss to part from splayed lips. A near-aurulent gaze widened, then narrowed. A cage-like structure comprised of bone 'neath muscle, sinew and other flesh collapsed as breath was drawn in preparation for...what? A mental smack. "Pull yourself together," he muttered aloud, continuing on. Flaming wells once again focused on Xavier's swaying display through their glass veils; flickered toward the teetering silhouette of whatever drunken imbecile had just stumbled from his hearth.

It happened without warning, as these things do. Thick darkness consumed his vision in place of the inebriated soul, accompanied by a wet scream cut short. Nathaniel blanched in mid-step, unable to allow himself an iota's movement, hearing scuffling and a small, pleasant voice. The darkness shifted, dragging its prey across the street; actions grew violent. Screaming again, a strangled, helpless note, a desperate plea, and the Deinonychus was compelled into action. Rushed did he from his hiding place among the shadows, fear forgotten, determined to intervene. He didn't even notice how his false limb rattled threateningly, as an axal might on a carriage run countless miles, and was thus unable to prevent the ground from slamming into his face when it seized; the rock into his temple when he fell. Warmth trickling, Nym forced himself to his feet. The darkness was closer than before.

"Well now, let me help you up..."

Sickly-sweet male murmur like a bell. That damn pleasantry. With an unearthly shriek, he stumbled clumsily in the opposite direction, letting his tail flail wildly behind him in hopes of striking solidity. Xavier's Inn. He had to get there, somehow, had to evade the smooth rumble of laughter chasing after him, setting his imagination on fire. Surprisingly enough, his path to the beckoning gape in the wall remained unhindered; he practically fell into the establishment upon reaching it, slamming the door and sagging to the floor on the other side, the heavy crowd for the most part paying him little heed. Nym sidled over to a stool adjoining an unoccupied table and rested his elbows on the pock-marked, wax-stained plane, the undulating candle twisting a relieved expression into something sinister.

[BlueMoon]

Elam casually sauntered into the slums with staff in hand. It made an almost hollow clinking sound as it hit the ground. A frown formed on the ragged shaman’s lips as he recalled the events that brought him here away from his forest home in the first place.

“And just what makes you think I’ll do that?”
It is as I have said. I spared your life and now in you must serve me in gratitude. The twin headed snake’s voice echos in his head as if it is some distant entity hollering into his mind. Elam smiles stubbornly and stares the creature in the face, or at least one of the faces. “I would have gotten it out myself soon enough. I didn’t need you and I sure don’t want to serve no body”

Well since I am a patron god of growth I shall also grant you power of being able to talk to plants. With this ability you can make them grow with amazing speed through persuasion.

“And just how would I benefit from this? I mean, what kind of lame power is that? Ooooo, fear me! I can make daisies as long as you leg! Plus I’m sure they can’t be the greatest conversationalists.”

For now, yes, it does seem quite useless. You will in time learn to speak to larger flora such as trees one day.

“Oh joy. I can’t wait,” he replied dryly, “As exciting as that sounds I’ll pass.”
Both heads frown in unison, obviously frustrated. They then take on a look of regret while one head looks out the window. I did not wish it to come to this but since you have denied my generous offer I shall have to destroy the very forest you called home, every living creature and the plants that make it.

This catches Elam’s attention. Watching intently the deity now half staring at the window and half holding it gaze towards him Elam cries, “NO! Fine, fine, I’ll help you as long as you allow me to return to my forest to rest once in awhile.”

He had grown to love his woods. He had felt more at peace in his forest home than any other place he had set foot. This city stunk too much of civilization, too much of people, too much of death. The rare traveler trudging down the path paid him no heed until they got closer. The aromas of nature followed where he trod. It was a strong sour stench that caused even the obviously drunk to gag and hobble quickly away from its source. Their reactions went ignored. It would deter anyone from slowing down his passage through here. Fool! These may be potential followers that you repulse with your stink! Besides, I told you that you would make a stop here so that we might plan on how to go about gaining respect for my godhood. Make your way to an inn to make yourself more presentable.

“We hardly just got together and you’re already tryin’ to change me,” Elam retorted.

I told you before! I am able to hear your thoughts through a mental link created when I accepted you as my shaman. No one else can hear me! You sound a crazed moron when you speak to me aloud! Think to me from now on.

Ignoring Ongaku in his head he bent over to pick up one of many flyers littering the streets. The flyer mentioned a murderer mucking about tearing its victim’s throat. Feeling a cold shiver run up and down his spine he looked around the area he stood in. Maybe a nice lit inn with a warm bath wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

Hmmm, I have an idea. You must find this killer and thwart him. You’ll have much more credibility when people see you as a hero. You can tell them about my part in the capture.

[Walter]

Walter woke up a few minutes later in a cold puddle of blood. He reached for his throat, thinking everything's there, good, when the headache set in. It happened whenever he ripped death off and was a result of his brain dying and then getting blood again. It was also the worst freakin' part of being immortal, and so revival always left Jon feeling pissed. That's what prompted the man, who wiped the blood off on his raggedy looking tunic (gunna grab 'nuther while I'm at it that thing's DEAD), to leave the flat he had stolen for the evening in such a hurry.

The streets were quiet and cold in Scara Brae; the only light came from the lamps that were always too far apart to afford good vision. Jon ended up running from one lamp to another, small buildings seeming to loom overhead in the flickering lantern light. As he took in the night air, his headache began to diminish. So did his temper. By the time Jon found himself across the road from Xavier's Tavern and Inn he had half-decided to go back to the flat and forget the entire incident.

Unfortunately, that's when he heard a rustling sound. On the road behind him, going between the smaller houses in the area. Gunna get th'drop on that bastard lessee how 'e likes it the man thought vengefully as he crept down the narrow road, confident he wasn't making a damn sound. It was dark, but Jon made his eyes inspect every shadow. The sound was definitely close, he decided.

Leaning against a wall, spattered with blood, it was a dead man whose body was still shivering off the rest of its energy. Aww SHIT Jon thought, as he saw the man's head was dangling on the bit of neck that hadn't been torn out. He spun around the way he came, and then the other way. He didn't see the creature, but the kill was fresh, even he could see it. Jon just hadn't thought of looking up.

WHUMPF, something jumped and landed on Jon, knocking him to the ground. He started thrashing, panic setting in again, oh shit its on me its on me as claws raked at his arms. It was by sheer chance that Jon managed to tuck himself onto his hands and knees and buck the damned thing off. It caught its balance quickly though and spun around, and Jon caught a glimpse of its evil eyes (but still couldn't see what the thing was, though it wasn't blindingly dark). They were intensely bright, glaring at him like candles. This was the fucker he'd been looking for, all right.

The thing rushed for him. The man only grinned maliciously, takin' you down one way or 'nother bastard before screaming "MURDER!" at the top of his lungs, shattering the night's silence. And then the thing was on him. It was strong, a lot stronger than Jon, but Jon thrashed and flailed, trying his damndest to keep the thing away from his neck. It gashed his face, his arms and chest, leaving deep wounds and a lot of blood.

"HEY!" a man shouted, bursting out of his house with a shovel. Jon was sure he was dead by this point, and the creature leveled its gaze at the stranger as if to say you're next. The man didn't waver though. "MURDERER! EVERYONE OUT HERE BEFORE HE GETS AWAY!" he shouted. His wife ducked out with a stew pot, and then more people from other nearby homes appeared in the shadows of the alley. The creature considered them for only a moment before dropping Jon to the ground and bounding toward the Tavern. The townsfolk gave pursuit, led by the first man, and they filed into the road proper where the creature seemed unsure of itself.

The shouting began to draw crowds out from the Tavern. Just as a former hermit-turned-shaman was arriving on the scene, people started to surround the murderer, saying "Call the Watch" and "Don't give it any breathing room". After a moment of consideration, the thing began to seem amused. Letting all hear its eerie tittering, the thing spun on one heel, leveled its knees with its toes, and leapt to the roof of the Tavern, leaving its would-be pursuers speechless.

[Schizoid]

Matt sat upon the moss covered floor of a lively forest, the sounds of the birds and other wildlife permeating the entire place. It was a warm day. The sun shone brightly enough to comfort one's mind yet humbly enough so as not to scorch anyone's skin or instill thirst in anyone's throat. There was also a slight breeze, the pleasent kind, which kept your face from baking too much in the rays, and which wasn't brutish enough to throw dirt and dust into your face when you least expected it. The aroma of life was about. All around there were large oaks, cyprus, and huge amounts of bush and herb with names Matt had never been taught. In the sky there were birds and insects taking flight, on the ground there were squirrels and larger animals, foxes, deers, the like, and even beneath him Matt felt the presence of Mother's children in the wiggle of the bugs and critters that dwelled in the soil below him. There was movement, but peaceful, harmonius movement made in tune with every other creatures life, the way nature intended, rather than the conflicting forces of men--

"Now, this one here is a blue jay. I'm sure you can see why it got it's name as--"

"MURDER!"

"--it's feathers--"

"Wait."

The old druid laughed deeply. Matt always had an interruption. Always was curious about more details which the old man could never possibly feed to him all in one sentence. He wanted to know. To understand. He hungered for so much all at once and the druid could not spoon the feast of wisdom to him at the speed he demanded. Matt resembled the old man in his early years more than anyone he had ever met. And that somehow was enough to bind these two together as if father and son they truly were. And the thought never even crossed the druid's mind that he was soon to be much too worn out and drained to keep dosing Matt in everything he wanted to know. He never even thought that one day Matt would have to be alone, and that one day he would be fending for himself, another nomad moving from town to town, spending one night in this inn and the next in another, living amongst drunkards and lustful fools...and he definately never thought that Matt would one day get caught up in the schemes of a mass murderer. None of that could be even remotely possible. None of it.

"No Baba! Not another question--"

"HEY!"

"--then what?"

"That!

"MURDERER! EVERYONE OUT HERE BEFORE HE GETS AWAY!"

"Wha--"

"There! Again! Don't you hear that?"

Suddenly there was a roaring sound that ripped its way through the entire forest, shaking every tree, oveturning every rock with its force. It was so load that Matt thought the sky was coming down upon the place, and that this was the end, that he would never see his father, that he would never know completed enlightment, that he would never see anymore of the world, that he was to never understand magic, that he was to never become anything more than what he already amounted to, which was almost nothing, and that he was to die. He was to die here and now and he would never go on to anything. And then the sound took him--

"WHAT'S HAPPENING!"

A scream. It escape the confines of Matt's mouth just in time to mke it out into the night air and make itself known. The loud noises were still there, but they weren't earth shattering--just enough to signal the exodus of the entire inn. Feet against wood, metal against metal, voices against voices, shouts, screams, the sound of a crowd. It was dark. He was under some kind of weight. It was warm, comfortable even, but now it made puzzled him. He was rested on his back and yet had managed to force such a scream from his lips. He was in a room. There was a light on his right. A dim light. And another on his left, at the floor, just a bar, and even more dim. Suddenly this bar grew slightly brighter. A door swung open.

"Some brute out in the street! C'mon!"

The man left. Matt added two and two and realized that he was in his room at "Xavier's" still. He was lying on a bed built for one person in a very small room. On his right was a window, letting the light of the moon break into Matt's privacy. On his left the door had been left open by his informant about the scene on the street. He scanned the room around him. Wooden floor, stone walls, a roof of hay, all smelling of ale. Yes, this was the place he had been in last night. He flew out of bed and grabbed his cloack all in one motion. He wasn't much of a fighter, but if they were going to keep him up all night, he might as well watch the show. He felt for his sword, it was there, crouched and poised under his cloak. He took a peak outside the door, and saw that the hallway was empty. He had been left behind. He ran to see what the hell was happening...

[.Anke.]

"MURDER!"

Those sitting closest to the small smoked panels which served as the Tavern part's windows had been craning their necks for some time in as an inconspicuous as way as possible, curious as to the source of the commotion going on outside, for even through the pulsing furore of a public gathering place exceeding full capacity, it was clear that the streets outside were no longer abandoned. When first the cry came, several patrons rose from their seats with a clatter, and someone slammed their mug down so hard the echo of jangling silverware could be heard clear from the opposite side of the room. Nathaniel was unamused. Fear still lingered, but he felt a certain degree of safety here among so many bodies, and was disinclined to move. Despite the fact that the scaly guy was a strict vegetarian, abstaining from putting anything in his mouth which had once known a mother (in the popular sense of the word), his very bones were, indeed, derived from a viscous individual hailing from a blood-thirsty and, thankfully, now extinct race, and images of gore seldom phased him. He had bore witness to a murder, sure...and there was nothing that he, a roving piratical reptile with an interest in the preternatural, in the anagogic, could do about it.

Besides, there was nothing anagogic about this...

Was there?

God, what was he thinking! This was a bloody --

"MURDERER! EVERYONE OUT HERE BEFORE HE GETS AWAY!"

People began spilling from the bar like ants from split, rotted wood, the metallic SHWING of drawn blades and the crackling of various undoubtedly loaded firearms cocking reverberating around the quickly-emptying area. Nate feigned interest in his sputtering candle flame, guessing that whatever it was that had attacked the drunkard before going after him had been caught in the act. Good. I hope it hangs. One silvery talon absently traced the designs of old table wood as hidden ears secretly listened. Lately, everything in his despondent life revolved around some sort of sadistic barbarity and cruelty, and he was beginning to get a mite irritated at the whole business. A paradox, I guess, he mulled, jumping as the door banged. Here I am, regretting the same things which make my calling worth while. If the world was truly peaceful, then there'd be nothing to study...A bizarre concept. It suddenly occurred to him that he was alone -- hell, even the barkeep had gone outside to scope out the action. With a heavy sigh Nym rose and headed for the open door frame, arms folded, where a crisp breeze coupled with the dreary sight of several bystanders who were clumped around a body. Great. Bastard did it again. Killing for food, he could understand. But this? This was madness.

The muffled clunking of running footsteps on the floor above him caught his attention, and he tilted his head quizzically.

[BlueMoon]

Elam wasn’t quite sure what he had just witnessed. He had heard the calls for murder only a short time before he arrived to see a crowd of people. What are so many people doing outside at this hour? he puzzled to himself and as if to answer his question a dark shadow bounded from one of the groups. As his heart pounded he stared for a spell at the rooftop that the creature had landed and fled from. It took him a few seconds after that to regain his bearings. He noticed another group that hadn’t dispersed and showed no signs of doing so anytime soon.

He stepped up to the crowd to peer through the minuscule gap they had left between them. In the center of the crowd lay a man all torn and bleeding on the ground. It seemed no one had yet been able to do anything to help as of yet so he pushed his way through. Pulling out some excess rags and kneeling next to the victim, Elam went about bandaging the wounds the best he could. He had not herb, but he knew nothing of those anyways, and he was in no way a healer. He even left the smaller wounds like those in the face alone. The bandages should, however, hold back the blood enough that someone with that experience could help him later.

“He did a good number on you,” Elam whispered to his patient. Then he looked up at the people around him. Why did they have to stand there and stare like that? “Don’t you people have any common sense? You! Go and get a healer of some sort! This man needed attention right now!” he demanded, pointing at some random man he’d picked out. A frown was the response and the man said, “Aren’t you a healer? I thought...”
“Doesn’t matter what you thought right now! Go! Do it!” The man jumped and ran through the crowd as fast as he could. Elam had to hold in a chuckle at the thought that the man may have been more afraid of him than he had the attacker. Of course this was no time to laugh. It was a very serious matter and he wanted everyone else see him acting accordingly.
A wise move, my shaman. You may have some potential yet. For the sake of spite he almost let a crescendo of cackling, but held back with every ounce of will he had. He turned his head towards the roof. Could it be staring down at him at this moment, watching him try to save what had been it’s prey? The very thought caused Elam to shudder uncontrolably.

[Walter]

Falling down after being thrashed and torn into is never fun. Neither is being surrounded by a pack of morons who have nothing better to do. Jon Walter decided this while he was laying on his back in the middle of the road, blood pooling from deep gashes in his arms and chest, face all scratched up and unable to talk with the bloody mouth he'd managed to get somehow. Oh Jon was once again pissed, but that was quickly taking a backseat to his less-than-lethal wounds.

Trying to protect himself had let Jon survive with serious wounds, but ones that wouldn't kill him. Most would consider these the best sort of wounds, but Jon hated it. Bleeding profusely across the road, the man knew he couldn't do anything but lay still or the wounds would gradually get worse, until he was helpless to do anything but wait for death with a useless body. Freakin shit-eater couldn't just figger n'other way t'kill me, huh? Jus' HAD to go for th' throat, huh?!

He had no idea what'd happened to the creature after the crowd erupted. Consumed by his thoughts, the wounded man barely knew that it had managed to escape. The next thing he did know was there was someone kneeling near him (someone fine'ly doin' somethin' bout the bleedin' guy, hmm?) and patching up the worst of the wounds. Half-opening his eyes, Jon saw it was a man who looked a little like himself; dark eyes, dark and scruffy hair.

“He did a good number on you," the man whispered to Jon, who was too busy swallowing blood to say "No shit." But then the bandage-man went and yelled at the idiots who were just standing around, and that felt pretty good. He'd taken a bite out of the jerks on Jon's behalf, he decided. The "healer" continued the bandaging while the other schmuck ran off, though it turns out he ran a little too late. The clatter of horse hooves broke the evening clamor. An official was already on his way over.

In a moment or two, a scrawny boy on a galloping horse reached the scene. He bore the crest of the Watch and raised it as he spoke. "Duke Zalinhar is on his way here!" the messenger boy called out. "A scribe will be with him, so anyone able to bear testament to what happened here is asked to kindly do so." The Night Watch was on its way, and Jon hoped the Duke was bringing a healer with him.

The messenger, task complete, set off again into the darkness. It was an unspoken law that citizens remain in their place to receive the Duke when he arrived. It would certainly be a pity when Zalinhar brought his scribe forward, however. Despite having surrounded the murderer in front of a well-lit tavern, no man or woman involved could claim to have gotten even a good look at him. The only detail that would be sure to catch the next publication would be those terrifying eyes of fire.

[.Anke.]

In the dusty posterior of fleeing hooves, the man who had previously been yelled at made his triumphant return, a portly albeit sanitary-looking fellow following closely behind, protectively clutching a handbag of sorts. Nate, when he realized the mangled, crumpled body was still among the living, had wandered over and was present by the wounded person's side when the duo returned. His knowledge of the medicinal arts was mediocre at best, limited to common sense and basic first aide, though, unlike the rest of these blank-eyed imbeciles (excluding he who had enough sense in the first place to ask for a healer), the raptor wasn't going to stand around without lending a helping hand. With some reservations, he procured a daffodil-yellow handkerchief from a pocket and applied it to another bleeder the first had missed, just as the round man burst through, huffing -- "Stand back, th'lot of ye. I'm a 'ealer!"

Nathan glanced up as the healer knelt, hand flickering out to take a pulse deftly located. "Wot 'appened 'ere? 'E's a mess! 'Eard a commotion earlier, thought 'twas but a bar brawl or sommat. 'Fraid me 'earin's not wot it used t'be. You! Bring that torch closer, will ye?" The mutant shuffled back, out of the way as he was silently bid with a dismissive gesture, eyes catching light made into flame. "He was attacked," Nym supplied quietly, his genteel, pleasantly-accented baritone revealing nothing of his thoughts. "As was I." Expressions are a difficult read on any reptile to begin with, and for the strangers surrounding him Nym's current state of mind would be hard-guessed, his unintentionally predatory gaze sweeping the crowd, the rooftops...torch florescence glittering, scintillating off the well-kept metals, gears, and polished wood of his untrue limb, the thin glass of his specs. "Attacked? Attacked by wot?" queried the oblivious healer, still messing about in his bag. There was a sound of horses fast-approaching in the distance.

[BlueMoon]

Elam tried leaving the scene. He hated crowds and the healer had already come. However, as he made his way away from the gathering a man on a horse rode up right in front of him: “Where do you think you’re going?” He glared up at the official staring directly into his condescending eyes.
“My purpose is finished here,”
No it is not! You have yet to profess your god to the mass!
“No it is not! You have yet to answer my questions about the murder!”
Elam stuck his finger in his ear and thought, Geez I’m hearing echoes now! Finding that nothing had impeded his hearing in any way he began to walk once more.
“Are you deaf?! Guards stop him!”
Two armored men on top of horses cut Elam off. Not wanting to make trouble, or at least not much, he stopped and turned back to face the official again. The official dismounted and approached. “Now, you can either cooperate, or you can spend the night in a cell,” he said pointing at the shaman’s chest. That wouldn’t look so good, unless you could portray it as your god being the only one you follow...
As the official bared down Elam understood the necessity of this. If they wanted to catch the criminal so that no one else would die they needed to know what happened. He told the story as he beheld it, leaving out of course the great god of irritation.

[Walter]

Although it would be unpleasant to call it such, the "interrogation" process went smoothly. The scribe, a well-dressed fellow, quickly scrawled line after line of witness record on his thick tome of parchment. Even the hermit, who had been so keen to leave, gave his account with no trouble. All the while the healer set to work on the only man who had managed to survive the murderer's wrath. Duke Zalinhar was a compassionate man, and made certain that the wounded streetgoer was the last to be questioned.

"I was walking down the alley and found a dead body," the scribe wrote, translating the victim's drawl into legible (and polite) Common. "[The] throat was completely torn out. And then the thing landed on my back, I don't know if it jumped or not. I wrestled with it, keeping one arm against my throat." At this point, men were sent down the road to find the corpse of the other unfortunate man. Testimonies of the other citizens seemed consistent, the victim cried out "Murder!", thereby alerting the neighborhood to the murderer's presence, and forcing him onto the main road where he escaped by leaping to the roof of Xavier's Tavern.

The Duke of the Watch considered this information for a short time. When his fellow Watchmen returned, having confirmed the dead man, he arrived at a decision.
"In the common interest of the city's safety," Duke Zalinhar began, "the Watch will hereby double its patrol during the evening. No citizen should be on the streets past sunset, and will be offered an escort home if they are found walking about past curfew."

It was a difficult announcement to make, it really was. Double-patrol meant more work, and it was only to be sure that people weren't walking the streets alone at night. If this fire-eyed murderer were really able to leap to the rooftops in a single bound, what were the chances of the Watch being able to catch it? Zalinhar considered calling in the Knights of Scara Brae for a moment, but was this really a matter of national security yet? Warriors were needed now, and Scara Brae was full of ready-made fighters... given the right motivation.

"Also!" Zalinhar declared. His thoughts had taken only a second or two, plenty of time to create an addendum. "The Night Watch hereby offers a reward to any man or men capable of capturing this night stalker!" The hypocrisy could have been grasped, it was so solid. Why offer to protect the citizens, and then give them a reason to be out at night anyway? But Zalinhar refused to call in the Knights just yet.

And so he added further, "Any man planning to take this task must speak with me personally." The Duke could already see men hatching this into a get-cash-easy scheme. But what drew his attention was the victim; the healer had done his duty admirably, and the man was patched like a doll made of rags. This patch-man sat up, looking Zalinhar straight in the eyes. In the light provided by the nearby torches, the Duke couldn't help but think the man's eyes were completely black.

"Dead 'r alive, Duke?" the man asked. And of course the man who could kill the murderer would be rewarded just as well as the man who could capture him.

"Err... dead or alive." the Duke confirmed, nodding. The man, who went by the name of Jon Walter, started grinning.
"Good," Jon said, "Cuz that fucker's dead." He picked himself up from the street, brushing himself off. He turned to the hermit, to the raptor and to the healer in-turn, who'd all helped to patch him up, muttered a quick "thanks," and headed for the bar. He needed a good drink after such a crappy night.