(no subject)
As I arose from my subterranian tomb for my nightly hunting I was accosted by a group of Moors on a raucous constitutional. They were casting some sort of somatic spells with their hands in between flashing their pistols and barking like dogs at me. Something about their hood, but I noticed narry a one actually had a cowl. At first glance I took these to be merely idle threats and displays of overconfidence to be defense mechanisms because surely the group of rapscallions were aware of my immense presence and inherint majesty as being the apex predator of this territory.
With a jovial guffaw I simply turned my chin up to them and continued my constitutional, passing by, despite the fact that these ruffians would not part as I continued. For some reason they will put up with a lot of things, but something as ridiculous as stepping on their sneakers is appearantly right out. As I moved through the crowd I seemed to have insulted them greatly by accitdentally brushing the tip of my boot across their shoes. This of course is when the mob's idle threats became very real, as they actually began to open fire towards my person without a formal and gentlemany challenge or indication we were to have a duel. This withstading I verily dispatched one of their boistrous ilk with my swordcane. They were frightened off after this display of swordsmanship as they came to realize between their vulgar display of poor marksmanship (who holds a pistol sideways? What an amusing action!) that I could not be harmed by the shots they actually had managed to hit me with.
I continued my nightly business and after a fine sup of fat transient that was to slow to evade my fangs and smelling of cheap yet strong liquor, I began to feel a little lightheaded as it were. Needless to say, the cabal of ne'redowells had regrouped, with a hearty entourage of benighted escalades, out of which their appearant patriarchs emerged. One was a sly slender gentlemanly fellow, clad in a suit of emeral sequens and a hat rivaling the grace of my own. His second in command was a one eyed halfling, brandishing a hunting shotgun comparable to his own size. Unfortunately I was blinded by the moonlight's glint off of their ludicrous amounts of jewelery and blindsided by the ornry cyclopean oddity who I presumed was a token rather than a hardened warrior.
After this unfair and ungentlemanly retaliatory assault, I found myself coming to being cradled in the massive arms of a transvestie rake. All I know at the coming of the dawn is that my crushed velvet shirt was stolen. Whether the prostitute or the gang's patriarch took it, I am not sure. Needless to say, if you stroll about the Westhiemer Montrose area and find a well dressed moor (that's not the limber leprechaun who speaks in dactyllic hexameter), I attest to to formally challenge him on behalf of my honor, as that shirt is clearly not his.