A Gift of Blood.

[Vanidor]

It was an act done in the bright light (or grey light, considering the cloud cover and threat of snow) of day. A wagon, heavily laden, that was drawn up to the front of the toy shop run by one Aloisius Treadwell, there in the midst of Myrkentown (not too far from the gallows, as it happened). A dark thing, the wagon was, with horses that seemed to be skittish at the very sound of their cargo. Once stopped the driver, a figure in an all encompassing cloak, would leap down and use a knife to free the two horses from their confinement. Without even a slap of a hand the two took note of their freedom and cleared away, something that the driver would do shortly after as well. He made sure that the wagon was sitting directly in front of the Councilor's front entrance, before turning and heading away down the side streets and alleys like one born to such things.

And here, the wagon. It was stained darkly along the wooden planks that ran the length of it. A fresh staining it looked like, and whomever would first come across it to check would find the lacquer sticky yet, and more crimson than black. The step that lead into the rear of the wagon was pockmarked with dirt and what looked like grease. A single, dirty rope was stretched across the rear of the thing, hooked at the edge closest to the step itself. The smell coming from it was sickly-sweet, the smell of decay and death. As for the contents underneath the damp cloth that covered the whole thing. Well. That would be a surprise for whomever was unlucky enough to pull that rope aside.

[Treadwell]

The wagon has to sit right there, hopefully being undisturbed, until a pink-robed Treadwell toddles up some time after supper.

The smell, of course, is enough to leave the ruddy Aloisius pale and queasy. Soon enough, after taking the time to round up a pair of Myrken Wood constables, Treadwell shakily reaches up his cane to flick the rope aside, tottering back as it goes fluttering down and revealing. . . what?

[Vanidor]

With the top cover removed, several barrels are exposed. They are uncovered, as it happened, and several sloshed with the motion. One even topples over, spilling its contents and filling the bottom of the wagon with a slop of limbs, organs and viscera. The thickness of it oozed and burbled. A half consumed head rolled free of the fallen barrel, this sliding its way towards the rear of the wagon, stopped only by the upraised rim. The head of a child, this, and it looked like it had been attached to something else for there was a stick poking through where the neck was.

Indeed, if one took the time to inspect the other barrels, they would find each similarly contained shorn and broken body parts. The heads, not all of them of children, each had a similar stake placed within the neck. Were one even more interested in perusing the parts, some of the limbs also had stakes in place. And again, were someone to look at the barrels, there were slots inserted into the wood to create a sort of macabre doll. If one was interested in counting, there were eight barrels in all.

[Treadwell]

A tremendous shriek shakes the elderly tub as he sees the collection of body parts, some of which flop and roll about at the motion of his opening the wagon! Backwards he stumbles, losing his footing and landing rump-first with a grunt into the dust of the street. As one constable moves to help Treadwell back to his feet, the other is hoarsely commanded to "Go get the blasted coroner already! Go! Shoo!"

That's when poor Aloisius wobbles back to his feet, circles the toy store, and shakily shuffles into the back door, making his way for his bedroom. That's where he'll be for now, shivering and shuddering and fighting off the urge to walk back outside and lose his supper, as far as he can be from the bloody mess out front.

[Katalin]

She would, as usual, move for the toy shop after the sun had fallen but the smell that awaited her allowed the winged woman to slow in her steps. She had nearly made it to the door but the scent that lingered in the snow from the overturned barrel, paled her features considerably. It wasn't long after that she would move to settle on the toyshop roof rather then within the cozy shop, her emerald eyes watching the darkness.

It wasn't until morning that her eyes found the spots of crimson that had stained the snow and the trail left by the wagons contents. Katalin didn't move from her perch above Treadwells door, at least for most of the following day, draped in that thick cloak to both blend in and stay warm.

[cyanotype]

Before that awaited morning crept in, from her rooftop perch the winged woman would witness the town Coroner making his way towards the scene, fetched by a pallid and panicked Constable. The smell hits the Doctor first, although even before that, frantic descriptions from the Constable had filled his head with vile imagery. Nothing, though, nothing could steel him for the image that awaited him outside the Councillor's toy shop.

He dropped his leather Doctor's bag at his feet, his mouth agape, punctuated by that trusty pipe. Only the way the shock had momentarily ceased his intaking of breath stopped him from openly retching. From where one barrel had toppled, crimson, viscous blood trickled from the wagon, surrounding it in a halo of death that marred the snow. In the steadily failing night, the blood grew black, looking tar-like as it dangled in strings from the wood.

"..Gods wept, we've got a right wrong'un on our hands, 'ere."

He fixed a dog-eared notebook out of his bag, and began to scribble, while the Constable struggled to contain his dinner.

The level of creativity, the precision in the way it obviously followed some preformed idea, tableau.. It must be the same killer. It must be. There couldn't be two doing things such as this, could there? He scanned for the rune, somehow expecting to find it somewhere, strewn in vermillion.

With a rub of his peppered beard, he gingerly edged closer to the wagon, careful not to disrupt the art the blood had splayed before his feet. The child's head stared at him from the edge of the wagon, agog and twisted, that wooden stake rammed where the spine once was.

His eyes flickered over the barrels - 1, 2.. 8. Eight victims? That wouldn't be reliable. Only sorting the dismembered parts would give an accurate answer to that, a piecing together of the jigsaws, matching limb to limb. He gulped heavily, mopping his perspiring brow, not looking forward to the task.

He glanced to the Constable, "Eh, lad. Bring me some o' yer less squicky recruits. Gonna need some more hands for this job."