The historian stalks the fresh snow, enjoying the crunch, crunch sound his boots make against the crisp precipitate. He stops, stares angrily into the middle-distance, and takes a long, considered drag from his cigarette, or whatever passes for a cigarette in this fantasy world of wonder. All who see him pass by stop what they are doing, and gaze at the man as if hypnotised, and as one, a thought enters their heads: this man is desperate to look cool. A few stifle giggles as he strikes a thoughtful pose.
I stand with a thousand years of darkness behind me, he said, talking in italics for dramatic effect, and terrors that would drive a lesser man insane. But this threat, why, this dwarfs them all...
Look at that ellipsis! Everyone is surely in awe at the air of mystery surrounding this achingly cool man. He turns and strides towards the scene of the murder, only pausing to slip on a particularly icy bit of ground and then act like he meant it.
So it seems that someone's story doesn't add up, here. The simple pieman speaks of conversion and evil, while the quaint little meat-seller tells a sob-story about a heart of pure gold, a sheep in wolf's clothing, if you will.
He looks around to see if any of the women are impressed with his charismatic joke-telling skills, but they are all too busy looking at less important things, like the dead body of the mayor. He lets a frown briefly play over his smoulderingly good-looking features, then corrects himself and moves on.
And it falls to us, but particularly me, because I have a degree, to untangle this web of lies. It has been said, by a particularly bohemian wit that you will not have heard of, that history is written by the victors. Well, villagers, I shall write your history this time. Because I have a degree.
So it seems that we must wait for the testimonies of Winston Hughes and Frozen In Ice regarding the butcher's little tales. A shame, really, because I had so much more to say, and I'm sure you all wanted to hear it. But there are not enough votes on our lycanthropic little lady here to make her truly nervous, I think... allow me to add another. Sepuku, do you sweat now, even amongst this frozen landscape? I fear that you do...
He turns, swishes his cape in a very cool way, and goes off in the direction of the baker, in search of croissants.
