An awkward silence fell. The father rubbed his face with his palms, the grandfather grinned cynically. The younger daughter rolled her eyes.
“Can you be more specific?” the mother tried with patience.
“Where are those amulets?”
“You tell me,” the gravedigger made a grimace.
“I can turn your cemetery upside down,” the man growled.
“No, you cannot,” the Undertaker replied without even looking at him. “You’d draw the
… the gravedigger replied. “A bloody peasant revolt in the whole province, return of the black death, burning of the old Mokvas castle…”
“And the best whisky for another two hundred years,” the host added in amusement.
“It’s nice to see you too, uglysome,” the female noted with a dose of sarcasm. “Do you regularly stumble upon a damsel in distress by accident? Or you just need something, as per usual?”
Powerless, he gazed at his leather bag lying on the ground below. He had to get it. He had to retrieve the small casket and its contents. Now more precious than ever. And all before the satyr returned.
Loktibrada first knocked and hammered against the locked door to give his victim the illusion of a relative safety behind the house walls. Then he easily crashed in, pulling the frightened girl from behind the stove.