Tue Jul 31, 2007 5:57 am
Last night, the night of the thirtieth, Aloisius Horatio Treadwell was out on a frantic, panicked mission. Having just been assaulted in his own toy shop by one Coran D'zir over Treadwell's poor treatment of D'zir's pregnant wife, Treadwell had fled his toy shop with about an inch of his beard singed and burnt. He'd gone scurrying-running out the back door of the shop, calling for guards, constables, and help, something he'd not quit calling for 'til he was either out of breath (not terribly long, that) or finding such help!
Either way, the tired, frightened, flustered old man in the loose fitting red robe and not-so-loose fitting toymaking tool belt found his way to somewhere to spend the night. Come this morning, he did his best to find the nearest gathering of constables to give a full report: name, appearance, method of assault (bellowing at poor Treadwell and stuffing a burning, flaming teddy bear in his beard!), and time and place of the incident.
The report, however it's been taken, is ended not with thanks or a request, but a demand.
"I want to see his blasted head in the stocks on the Deck by supper time!"