Cayrin

We sat at the round table, decanting the Tokaji. Elkins gave me a quizzical look. Podjad stared at the label on the bottle. Elkins wiggled her nose at me. It was then that I knew I was going to lose.

The Scourge of Scranton made his entrance, striding just so to maximize his projection of gravitas. His long, purple velvet cape trailed behind him as his knee-high leather boots clacked on the parlor floor.

Podjad studied a word etched on the carafe. Elkins smirked. The Scourge of Scranton stood before the table as beads of sweat collected on his widow's peak.

He looked at us. We looked at him. He strode out whence he came.