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Following the cane, enters a rather short, bald man. He isn't wearing a uniform or a mask. There is a limp in his step. He is wearing unassuming black robes. But none of that matters. The only thing you can look at is tattoos. Dozens of tatoos. Every visible part of his body has been turned into a canvas. You see symbols, drawings, lines, geometric figures, writings - in multiple scripts, it seems, though none that you recognise. The tattoos are deformed in places by the sagging skin, and some tattoos are older than others, because their ink has faded more. His skin is much whiter than you are used to seeing, like that of a powdered baby.
This man has no eyebrows. His eyes are an almost impossible shade of blue. They are enough to make one's blood curdle. He is constantly shifting them left and right, like some sort of wary reptile. He slowly limps, using his clacking cane, across the room, until he is a few yards away from Alejandro.
He waves towards the dead cellist.
"This was... unfortunate. There is so little... art in the world left."
His voice is old, but commanding. The words are tortured, as if he is trying to remember them.
"Murder, sir - that is what it was." Alejandro's voice rings throughout the lounge loud and clear.
"You are Alejandro Ortega."
"I am, sir. Forgive me, but I do not usually throw parties for murderers and blackguards."
The bald man looks at him humorlessly.
"Let's save us all... trouble. Where ... is it?"
"I have no idea what 'it' is you are referring to."
The bald man's left hand, which is currently holding the cane, starts trembling more than before. His entire body starts shaking. It is not quite as if he is shivering with cold - these movements are more jerky, less rhythmical, more... wasteful somehow. Through this, his head and eyes remain fixed on Alejandro.
The man's right hand leaves the confines of the black robe, producing a small syringe filled with some liquid. He immediately unceremoniously stabs himself in his right thigh, even through the clothing. The trembling immediately subsides. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as if meditating.
His eyes open, slowly, calmly. He points to Aaliyah without even looking at her. He says, briefly: "Töte diesen."
You barely have time to realise that this was spoken in Mittelsprache, your native tongue. Tragically, nobody else, Aaliyah included, has any idea what it means. A single ear-shattering CRACK is heard from the soldier nearest to the bald man, similar to a rifle shot. You will never forget the look of ignorant confusion Aaliyah's beautiful face bears in this moment - right before it explodes in a red burst, a stream of blood splattering from the back of her head, and simultaneously, the wall several feet behind her erupting in splinters.
A crater is left where her nose and eyes once were, as her lifeless body starts falling to the floor.
> try not to scream (roll 1d6)
