2021-01-14 - Seven Little Murder Victims

Lawn gnomes that appear on the porch of the old Victorian residence of one Hyacinth Addington should not expect a long and rewarding career. These seven little concrete horrors -- including the one that was posed to flip you off -- ended up in the trunk of Ravn Abildgaard who bravely turned up to face the horrors of the night; horrors that turned out to be, indeed, concrete painted in garish colours. The last resort of untalented gardeners and grandmothers everywhere, complete with little wheelbarrows and flower pots, and in one case, a fishing rod with which to hook unsuspecting, imaginary goldfish from some flowerbed: Lawn gnomes.

They're pretty ugly. And they're going to die symbolic deaths in the woods, immortalised on camera.

Hyacinth Addington fears lawn gnomes. Ravn Abildgaard isn't entirely sure why. He did ask but the answer was rather confusing; apparently, the lawn gnomes of Gray Harbor think her brother is their fertility god and she's worried about being dragged into highly questionable reproductive practises? Ravn can't quite work out how that's all supposed to work but when push comes to shove -- he really wouldn't care to bang a concrete lawn gnome either, so maybe that fear is not as irrational as it sounds.

The little buggers lived in his trunk for a week and at least they showed the common decency of not moving or doing anything else that you wouldn't normally expect inanimate lawn ornaments to do. He takes them out of the car one by one and sets them on the forest floor, to await their execution when Hyacinth turns up. Then he goes looking for a suitable forked branch. He's already got a rubber band and a small bag of suitable rocks.

(TXT to Hyacinth) Ravn : I'm just off the road in the woods. With your lawn gnomes. Come murder them?

(TXT to Ravn) Hyacinth : Awww you really do know how to show a woman a good time. I've informed my car we will be en route shortly. You do coffee flavoured coffee, correct?

There is no roar from the electric engine of Hya's white Tesla. The tires on gravel really make more of a noise than anything with an alert text to indicate her arrival. The door opens and there is one winter boot (mostly unscuffed) and then another. Someone's taking this 'woods thing' seriously. There's an outfit for it! There's an overcoat, belted down coat, earmuffs, goggles. (goggles?) Safety first apparently.

"Ravn, you really do enjoy tradition don't you? Middle of the woods, weapons at noon. I btught shovels." There's a small quirk of her lips as she nudges the door to close it walking over. Her eyes flinch narrower at the 'captives' in the trunk.

"I think tradition calls for weapons at high noon on Main Street," Ravn murmurs, blithely referencing a classic western. The goggles do warrant a quirked eyebrow but no comment; concrete does splinter. "I brought rope, though, as well as a tiny blackboard so we can take incriminating pictures before smashing them. Write "I lurk on porches" and make them hold it up for a mug shot first, maybe. If we're murdering lawn gnomes, we might as well do it the fun way."

He reaches into the trunk to fish out specimen number one -- a sitting gnome with a fishing rod. "This bloke is the most likeable of the lot, so we'll do him the favour of not making him watch all his friends die before we get to him. But before we get started on the humiliation and the destruction, we do have two questions to resolve. One being, did you want to try to read these little buggers to find out who was behind this 'joke' in the first place? Then we need to do that before we break things. And the second being, do you actually have a firearm? I was making in a slingshot in case you don't, because I don't have a license myself."

Hyacinth wrinkles her nose, "That's a high traffic area and also unless there's a parade isn't standing in traffic a little, eeeeh... maybe if I had a proper hat?" There's the attempt not to smile but the amusement is there. She can play to her brand as well as the next. Walking over her arms cross looking down at her 'assailants' there's a pause and her nose wrinkles and while it's all 'play' decorum counts a wee bit, as do answers. "I suppose we should interrogate them first. You're right and... no I don't actually own a firearm. I think my brother may but wisely I learned the hard way not to go through his things when I was a teenager. I certainly am not now." There's a smirk as she shakes her head and she walked over.

Is she afraid? Actually a little legit concerned. Her flight response would be to kick it anyways. She takes her glove off, lets her hand hover and lays a hand on the gnome flinching lightly with a head turn as data and memory are dumped into her with a deluge. Her eyes fly open and she's... not mad but, annoyed? "You have got to be shitting me... Christine St. Claire. Seriously?" Looking upt o Ravn she gestures broadly palm up at the lot, "She brought them to my porch knowing I wanted them gone. DID NOT READ THE MEMO that says contact my- assistant who is still on PTO ooooh fluffernutter." Deep sigh. Do not chuck the gnome while crouching. You'll pull your back, woman.

"Are you saying someone gnomed your house in the middle of the night to do you a favour?" Ravn's expression is priceless. At first disbelieving; then, laughing. He just can't not laugh. Somehow he manages to squeeze out between laughs, "I'm sorry, just -- picturing the yelling you're going to give that unfortunate woman -- oh lord -- and in the middle of the night, as a nice surprise -- christ -- she's lucky you do in fact not have a shotgun in the kitchen cabinet."

He manages to get a hold of himself eventually and heads for the trunk of his rented car, shoulders still shaking with quiet laughter. Dipping into a bag he takes out a small blackboard and a packet of coloured chalks. Carefully he writes I FISHED ON THE WRONG PORCH on the blackboard in bright purple and attaches a bit of string to it. That in turn goes around the fishing gnome's neck so that it looks as if the gnome is holding it -- if you squint a bit.

Out comes the bright pink cellphone and ta da! Pictures are taken. "Let the gnome shaming commence," he declares, still chuckling.

Hyacinth shifts her weight to the back leg. oooOOooohhh someone's getting a swift talking to is going to happen... but yet... she's on board with Gnomegeddeon... hrmmmm. There's a lot to process there. Hazel green eyes sliiiiiiide to Raven in a squint as he is just enjoying the shit out of himself. Fine. that's... warranted. The effort to have a blackboard of attrition at least drops the tension from her shoulders examining the handy work. Bluntly she reasons, "Let's be entirely honest. I have no idea what's actually in my kitchen cabinets. All I know is when the world starts coming apart Vyv comes over and makes it do...things beyond coffee." Really no she does not cook at all. There's a pause as disgraced fishing gnome gets his photo taken. "Posting this to Friendzone? I'm fairly certain this is against a miniaturized Geneva Convention somewhere."

"Then let them file a formal complaint with the Hague," Ravn grins back and absolutely puts the picture up on Friendzone. He captions it "Ask Hyacinth" too for the fun of it, but maybe that's one thing he doesn't need to mention right now.

Picking up a rather generously sized forked branch previously collected from the undergrowth he attaches the required rubber band before offering it and a good-sized rock pellet to Hyacinth. "And now -- the execution. Will your aim strike true, or will he suffer through the indignities of multiple fractures before you are done?"

"I mean... it'd be wrong to leave our lawyers unemployed." Hya, always thinking about other working persons. Clearly. She takes the slingshot and blinks at it. "A slingshot? You're serious?" Still she takes it and holds one arm out and the other arm pulling rock and rubberband back. "How do you... aim with this? She squints one eye and lets it lose and somewhere 20' off a clump of leaves fluff up with the indignity of being bothered at high speeds! "Okay I have no idea what I'm doing." She squints at him holding otu her hand for another. "Tell. No one.... rock me please." Her hand with the gimme gimme fingers.

Ravn cheerfully supplies another missile. He may have realised that this could be an issue because he's certainly brought a good-sized bag of suitable rocks from the beach. "What you do is basically point it at the target and -- shoot. Hey, I would have brought a gun if I had one, but it's pretty fun this way too, isn't it?"

He's grinning. Maybe it's the look of Gray Harbor's most feared business woman, in her perfect winter attire -- shooting rocks with a slingshot like an eight year old (only most eight year olds would probably have better aim). "I used to do this a lot as a kid. At our greenhouse at first. Then, when I decided I was a bit tired of getting punished, I'd just shoot cans off a fence. It's not difficult once you get the knack of it -- very Huckleberry Finn, too. Maybe for our next trick we can steal a river raft and disappear on the Mississippi for a while."

Hyacinth squints at the gnome and says matter-of-factly, "I think he moved." Clearly not her doing! Okay it's a lot her doing. "You hunted a poor greenhouse?" There's a scoff! She's more worried about lining up the shot than the antics of a long time ago, or at least not taking offense on behalf of buildings everywhere. "You know there's something very cathartic about breaking glass. And it's Hyacinth Finn. You can't just...change my plant!" There's a pause and she tries this again and gets, eh, closer? "My mother's family has a history of naming women after plants. My sister's name is Holly. My mother's given name was Marigold but she hated it and has always gone by her middle name. So why she does this to us I don't know." There's a pause and a slow grin,. "By raft you mean your boat? I'm not logging anything I have people that do that part. I don't want to be smooshed by a tree."

"I'll be Ravn Sawyer, then." Ravn walks over and carefully reaches up -- making certain that Hyacinth sees his every movement coming and can indeed draw away, should she choose to do so -- to adjust her aim. His touch is light and gloved, and it's obvious that he's not really accustomed to being in anyone's bubble without a good reason to be there. One might argue that not ending up randomly shot by rock pellet is a good reason. "Try to think of it as an extension of your arm. You're throwing that pebble, just with a bit more strength."

The logging comment makes him chuckle, though. "Pretty sure that the logs on the Mississippi are the kind that yawn and show entirely too many teeth. They do that in the novel -- steal away on a raft. Goodness, it's been, what, twenty years since I read Tom Sawyer."

Hyacinth grins wryly, "Ravn Sawyer? That's S-a-w-y-r 'Sawyer' for syntactic consistency right?" She's going to pick on him just a little for that. He steps over to adjust her arm, and she lets him move her elbow without breaking concentration on the task at hand: gettum! She looses the rock and lo! It snaps off the tree behind the gnome. Too high, but at least in a gnomular area!! "ooooh better!" She pauses and says to Ravn in passing, "He ducked that time. Our enemies refuse to perish easily." One has to play the part and she's willing to commit to it.

The rest? Hmmmm she'll have to consider this, "Well if we need raw lumber I can get you wood like no other gal on this planet, I promise." Yes, literally, but innuendo is not without comedy. "Speaking of the adventures of Finn and Sawyr, if you are bored and looking for a project and are up to painting fences or at least some walls let me know. And it was one of people's first adventures. Twain not... making walls not heartbreakingly beige. There's some merit to setting adrift and seeing where the river wanders off to." A pause later she adds dryly, "That's also how people get lost in the Veil so...be warned."

"I'll keep that in mind -- next time somebody asks if we're dating I'll tell them you got plenty wood of your own." Ravn smirks slightly; the innuendo did not go over his head. He reaches up again to adjust Hyacinth's aim ever so slightly, then takes a step back, out of her personal bubble. Maybe he's worried that a random or careless movement will compromise his. "You'll get the little bastard, keep trying. Surely he'll tire of running around in circles like that eventually, and that's when you pellet his gnomey little backside."

The copper blond sticks his hands in his pockets, watching. At some point the man really should get around to replacing that leather jacket with its slashed sleeve and various holes from flying kitchenware. Considering that he presumably can afford to replace it there must be a sentimental reason he's still wearing it -- or maybe he just didn't get around to going shopping yet. Ravn is an odd one when it comes to sartorial choices; his clothes are inevitably well fitted and good quality, and at the same time, very low key. It's hard to tell whether he's trying for the Seattle art director look or the penniless drifter look. Maybe both.

Something in Hyacinth's last statement causes him to look up at the trees with a small, wry smile. "I've been adrift and seeing where the river meandered to for a few years. Turns out the river meandered to here. I've no doubt that some day, I'm going to stray too far into a dream, pursuing some myth or other, and never find my way back out. But maybe that's not the worst way to go? I'm leaving no family behind that I care about, and I have few other obligations or ambitions tying me to the world outside Gray Harbor."

Hyacinth watches the gnome sit perfectly still (waiting to dodge)and reloads the slingshot Again. "Oooohhh there is a song in there. We can get you a harmonica and what not. Be very authentic. If you let me break the harmonica so you have to play the violin instead? Bonus points." She takes the words to heart and squints. That's TOTALLY going to help right? Squinting makes for deadly precision.

The Gnome decides that the safest place for it is directly in the lane of fire (also because it is inanimate). And the rock snaps wide and catches the side of her ear on the pullback. That's... an earring going flying into the leaves and a lot of nuisanced swearing coming from the lumber baroness. There's silence and a high pitched sound. It might be anger, or agony, but there's definitely a mood that is happening.

"That pint sized repurposed patio piece just did this!" by existing. Sure in a totally existential sense that might...be arguable? Today is not about facts, it's about turning a slingshot into a blamethrower. There's a deep breath but she assures at least, still holding her ear. "It stings. I'll live. Keep telling me about your dreams of sail barging down the river and I might be able to remember where there's some veil moss that August classified you might damn well get a kick out of..." There's a wince and she presses on determined to find focus through a very dry humor, "there. Really though. I don't remember if it killed anyone but the water was purple and shiny. One of the...very few redeemable things about the Veil. It's often scenic and you won't usually find that in other cities sooooo it's good you're staying. See? Well done you." A shorter pause and he gives him a sympathetic look, lips pressed flat contemplating how to phrase what she is following that up with but instead lets him speak as he will of being with his own rudder. "Mixed blessing isn't it?"

I been gone, seein' where our river it wants to go
Came up around the bend, put my boat to shore
Meanderin' far and wide, driftin' with the flow
Girl, gonna stick around until I can't stay no more

Ravn doesn't have much of a singing voice. Nor does he really have a tune in mind, but Hyacinth is absolutely right -- he managed to sound like a half-baked bluegrass hobo anthem there, and he acknowledges it with a laugh and a poor imitation of John Fogerty, making words and tune alike up on the spot. The man is musician enough to have some basic idea of how bluegrass rythms go, it seems -- even if he's not enough of a musician (or not confident enough) to play within earshot of other people (not counting, apparently, Itzhak Rosencrantz).

You'd think someone who claims to be a mover -- even if he's hardly a talented one such -- would have the spatial awareness to tell where that earring went. Ravn doesn't lose his phone or car keys often -- knowing where things are is just natural for him, a kind of subtle use of his power that he doesn't even consciously register. Earrings, unfortunately, are not on the list of things his subconscious mind considers itself responsible for tracking the whereabouts of, and when the unlucky piece of jewellery goes flying, he doesn't immediately know from where to retrieve it.

It's a big forest. Finding an earring in a big forest is like -- well, trying to find an earring in a big forest. The snow and the dead leaves of yesteryear do not make any attempts at earring retrieval more likely. This loss will have to be added to the long list of grievances one Hyacinth Addington already holds against gnomekind.

"It's very often scenic." Ravn stops trying to make up bluegrass tunes on the spot and smiles lightly at the idea of purple water and otherworldly landscapes. "I've come through a lot of places and seen a lot of cities and landscapes that one might deem scenic. But Gray Harbor is certainly the only place where I have seen hummingspiders, or pods of humpback whales singing to me at the beach. There are dark and evil things in the Veil, no argument about it -- but most of it is just very alien and we don't understand how it works. I joke about getting lost for good in there some day but odds are that I will. And I'm kind of -- all right with that idea. Maybe because I feel it means I'll have found out where I really belong, even if that might be with some tribe of insect people wandering the plains of some other world, or whatever parallel universe I wander into. Or maybe I never will, and I'll just fall from one universe to another indefinitely, and on some level that's not a bad thing either."

Hyacinth stands there holding her ear because having jewelry ripped out of your head hurts but there is every effort to 'adult up' and get with coping and not dying like some poorly constructed plant. The frown fades as Ravn starts making up bluegrass on the spot replacing it with a curious interest and genuine amusement.

"You know, you and ITzhak make me feel like I should learn to play the piano or something but I think I'm far more likely to just want to build one. Also? Yooooou and Vyvvy need to go do karaoke. Don't worry when Vyv goes no one else does."

She looks off where the earring flung and blinks. For a moment she's torn and there's the slow exhale not...wanting to... yeah she's marching her tailored behind over there to hunt it down. "Come on. I think it went this way." Her jet ponytail swings behind her like an annoyed metronome mad at itself. "Retiring to the Veil makes you complacent to become a slave to the machine. I haven't seen teh machine directly and for that? I am grateful. But it's there and drives and consumes all things so I am told. I have a theory it or the saw mill act as a sort of soul meat grinder for the Dark Men. Things born of this world will lose their free will. Look at what happened to the Exorcist, hmm? If all that adds up? I'd say retire to the Caribbean. It's just easier. Seriously though? Savannah's pretty wonderful."

"I don't do karaoke." Ravn's face doesn't quite manage to conceal the fact that he's mentally kicking himself for even that brief display of musical aptitude. "I don't do people, in general. Put four other people in a room with me, I will be looking for the exit -- definitely not getting on a stage to draw everyone's attention."

He falls into stride as Hyacinth goes earring-hunting, trusting the so far quite unnarmed lawn gnome fisherman to not run off in their absence; not that painted concrete usually runs anywhere but this is Gray Harbor and one should never be entirely certain. "What happened to the Exorcist, beyond her need to wear remarkably hideous pink sweaters with shoulder pads?"

"Weeeeell that's why it would be you and Vyv. That's two and film it for me. See? Solved." The woman of solutions is looking without touching anything for her escapee jewelry in all the foliage. It's dirty. Eew. What happened to the exorcist though? In a total misuse of glimmer she extends her will to flick the leaves and make them move. Hrmm

"She... as far as we can sort, was a person named Dolores and died over there and now/ Works for other city hall which, admittedly, has some appeal but the creatures there? Lack free will and you're looking at an eternity of clerical work best I can tell. I don't think it's quite where the wild things are. They also say the more you are over there the harder it is to come back. It's..." her voice trails off and there's a thoughtful disappointment, "It's why I worry about people like August Roen. Sometimes you find honey and too late you learn it's a fly trap. Those plants that drug you, ya know if you're a bug, but they get you high on tea and cakes and you don't realize it's really just digesting you. It's not a gift, it's a damn trap. But in a way that death isn't the end because there may be no end. So... take careful considerations on your retirement plan or you might end up working harder than you ever did." A longer pause she tacks on, "In case that's unclear and omnious isn't your bag? It's hella bad and super bogue."

"I think you might find it as difficult to convince Vydal as you will find it to convince me," Ravn replies, visibly amused, and watching Hyacinth frivolously use her shine to hunt down a missing earring in the rotting leaves under the snow.

The folklorist listens to the story of Dolores of the unfortunate afterlife retirement plan with interest. "I'm not convinced that Røn is in any great danger of just up and disappearing into the Veil, to be honest. If anything, he strikes me as the sort of person who will be warning others -- and not making the stupid mistakes. He understands the danger well enough to not get cocky or indifferent. And unlike me, he's not quite so easy to lure in with the promise of a good story."

He kneels down to look under a bush for something that gleamed, only to find it to be an old bottle cap. "I do have some plans, though. Do you remember when you told me that I should be doing whatever I want to be doing ten years from now? I've got some ideas that I'm fleshing out with another bloke -- some kind of community centre, help people help themselves, that sort of thing. I'm a teacher, after all. And, more quietly, I can probably provide a fair bit of funding where necessary."

An eyebrow arches and a glance amused, "That all it takes? I'll keep that in mind." Oh she's hilarious when she wants to be. Looking to the bottle cap she considers, "Save that. We can recycle it." Hey, the dirty part of the Harbor is still her harbor. There's a pause from making the leaves march out of the way. She'd love to have one pause and pirouette there but her control of the physical world is pretty limited to 'you, go over there' and 'stay put'.

Attention swiveling her head tilts, "Well I do remember saying that without yelling it. Yes." She lets him talk and her eyes widen slightly. This could go either way there from it not being 'profitable' to 'here's help'. "There's a woman in the office that handles property assessment and such. You need help answering zoning questions... I'll help. It can be weird with tourism industry and such but... I can see this suiting you." There's a small grin to the funding issue. "Funds are rarely the issue, aren't they? Putting them someplace useful is usually the tricky part but, that's really great to hear. Most take my input and try to avoid me after."

"Well, I'm not someone to put in charge of anything. But I can throw money at things as long as my name is kept out of it, and I can certainly see myself tutoring people who need a hand up ten years from now. Better than I see myself cleaning restrooms, at least." Ravn nods and pockets the bottle cap; he'll toss that in a trash can or recycling bin later. "De Santos is the unofficial project manager. He's got a name here -- both as a writer for the Gazette and because of the bloody Revisionist. I think he's going to talk to a bloke about a bookshop. If he does and we end up needing permissions to remodel or expand, maybe knowing a certain Addington in town hall might come in handy."

Qualms about taking advantages of contacts for a pet project? Definitely not. Just because Ravn himself is no businessman doesn't mean he doesn't know how things work in the real world.

"It's not a charity," he reiterates. "Reckon charity galas and park beautification is Thorne's thing around here -- certainly not mine. We want to make it a working business. You can throw money at problems, but unless you help people help themselves out of the gutter, they'll just end up back in there. Gray Harbor has a disturbing amount of homeless and mentally unbalanced people who are essentially Veil fuel. My idea, at least, is to try to solve one problem by solving the other -- take away the easy prey, we also take away some of the Them's power supply."

"Park beautification should be everyone's thing around here!" Hya has feelings on park renovations here! There's a nose wrinkle at 'the Them' part. "The Them... one? I hate everything about that grammatically. Two?" the finger is pointing now, all are warned, though there's a pause, "I don't hate the idea at all. Three? I keep feeling by obliquely referencing things we give Voldemort power. A cool name is not going to help deconstruct fear though." There's a pause, "Steve? We can call them Steve...I guess? Then it's also going to be hard to warn people of the actual danger of Steves." Fooooood for thought. Looking up there's further consideration with a nod. "You seem happy on this. Good. Do it. And to NOT let Steve stop you." she's really gonna try hard to test that one.

"You're not wrong." The folklorist gives the corporate conquistadora a serious glance as she inadvertently touches in on something that sits well within his area of expertise -- and maybe he's kicking himself a bit mentally for not thinking of that himself. "Names have power. J. K. Rowling played with that in Harry Potter but she certainly didn't invent it -- it's a cultural trope as old as humanity, probably. If you know the name of an evil spirit you have power over it. We should name these things -- force them to give us that power."

"But Steve is too common a name -- there are plenty actual Steves about, to dilute the effect of the deconstruction. We need to come up with something simple and self-explanatory. Maybe I should go on calling them Cthulhu, even if Seth Monaghan laughs at me when I do." Ravn tosses over a wry smile. "I'm starting to think I sound as crazy as any of the boardwalk homeless guys by now, talking about shine and Cthulhu and things that go bump in the dark."

He straightens up. "Any sign of that bloody earring? Need to make sure our gnomes don't escape while we're searching."

Hyacinth eaves a hand finding no personal offense or social merit otherwise lost. "Of course she didn't. It was totally done before in Neverending Story to revive the child-like Empress." Almost perfect, but not quite. There is a slight grin when it's revealed that Seth also snickers at Cthulhu. "How about something easier to spell at the very least?" There's a pause and be it some manner of imperial connection to her things or otherwise there's a notion and she points to just under Ravn's elbow. "That it?" Thankfully it is. It flew it didn't try to escape, though who could blame it? "Hmmm I'm thinking lunch fter this. Poetic justice demands reprisal. And the people on the waterfront are only crazy by the standards of those that don't want to listen. I'd be leery about dismissing that. You do run lobster combat."

"Sounding crazy doesn't mean that you are crazy," Ravn points out. "People call Clayton crazy, and he's probably one of the people around town who has the best understanding of how this place works. But I do understand now why people talked very carefully to me when I was new in town -- as if they had some big and dark secret that they weren't quite sure I was ready for. They did, and I probably wasn't. Does talking about Cthulhu and running a lobster fighting league make me sound crazy? Abso-bloody-lutely, definite yes."

He heads back towards the gnomes -- none of which have actually been harmed so far, one of which is still wearing his little blackboard of shame. "So, do we want to take a mallet to these boys mobster style instead and go to lunch, or do you want another shot at the little git? I swear, I just saw him give you the finger while your back was turned."

Hyacinth squints her eyes and she's too polite to say it but there's that "Hmmmmm" sound of not being entirely convinced. Jury is still out, but not denouncing him either. "We want to protect people from biting into things that are too big to consume in one sitting I think. But at the same time there's no good way to tell someone: brace yourself. Some try to scare people away and that has never worked and scares the tourists. It's super rude." There's a thoughtful pause assessing, "Even growing up with it? One's never going to be entirely prepared. Not even Margaret and I think that's what she was trying to clue me in on...but she also tries to do everything her way and one person cannot think up all of the things or clearly I would have by now."

She does grab her earring but for now holds into it sliding it into her pocket rather than put a dirty thing back in her head. For a carpenter dirt is still not something that should be worn unlike 'carpentry glitter' when she's taking things apart with a miter saw. "Hmmm, I'm thinking it's time to queue up the Sister Sledge and make an impact." There's a wry, too amused grin that is pure delight.

"I grew up with it too, and I certainly am not prepared for the things the Veil tosses my way." Ravn smiles lightly as the two head back towards the unfortunate fishing gnome. "But this is something I can do -- even if I'll get it wrong a lot, and a lot of people don't want to be helped. Save a few, it all counts in the end. Should I get the other six little freaks for you to rage all out on at once?"

"Ready to murder? One by one, or pretty gnomes all in a row?" If they were alive, six gnomes would be cowering in the trunk of Ravn's rented car by now. He dips into that trunk for a metal baseball bat, no doubt picked up from a sports goods store somewhere. "Just remember to let me take pictures. You need to document this so that when and if any living gnomes turn up on your doorstep you can scare the living daylights out of them by showing them your camera roll."