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[h2][color=#63B8FF]Vera[/color][/h2][/center]

[hr][center][h3]~8AM | MT ARAPILES | Punks Wall[/h3][/center][hr]

"You catch, I bat," Vera said, in what passed for a modestly accented English as she nodded at Aron. She had been practicing. In between drinking at the F Club, conveniently resurrected in Decibitus and haunted by dead rockers. Punk and Goth. Goth and Punk. Vera didn't really need much else when it came to music. One day she would figure out what the F stood for, but she had some ideas.

Looking ahead at the oncoming train wreck, Vera felt a smile tugging at her lips. She didn't mind a brawl. She minded boredom. If the wisp wanted to fight, all the better. No wasted time. No pointless running. Dry cleaning was an obvious business expense. She wasn't worried.

"Dream of the gallows," Vera hissed, as her sword appeared in her hand in a rush of midnight. Kicking a squarish rock the size of a bowling straight at the furry creature, the orange orangutan monster, Vera moved to close the distance at a brisk jog. 

Cut. Stab. Chains. [i]Chains. Stab. Cut.[/i] It was all the same to her. Dead was dead. Or at least it was supposed to be. 

Head in the bag, that's what the boss wanted. 

Remains for the kiln.

No trouble.