Justice
"Would be easier if someone was willing to form sentences," he rumbled to Suerte, eyeing the door that closed behind them for a moment. "But we'll figure it out."
It was a scene of intentional, supernatural carnage. He's seen a million of them in his lifetime, but the ones he remembered were all unique, and so was this one. The rider crouched by the wet, suspect floor, then by the corpses, by the crater in the wall, surveying the scars of murderous intent around them and every way things could flow in and out of the room. His senses were sharpened by experience and millennia-old knowledge of weaponry and destruction - not in another thousand years would he fail to identify the way in which a body had been thrashed so long as long as something resembling conventional tools had been used.
But while he ran over these thing more by instinct than intent, his thoughts turned to the oddities of the crime. It was a message, or a declaration, for there was no way such a flagrant scene could remain so perfectly whole even now. Someone had really gone out of their way to make art out of what might have been a simple hit.
He appreciated poetic retribution, but the aesthetic that seeed to be used here was lost on him. Justice instead looked to Suerte and the glint that seemed either like confusion or recognition in her eye.
"What do you make of these two?"
