Remiel awoke with a start to find he'd fallen asleep in his chair again, his nose mashed between the pages of Maleficarum: Ars Lycanthropos . With the painted woodcut of a particularly gruesome encounter between a werewolf and its victim smudged in mirror-image on his cheek, he blinked, yawned, and stretched.
Then his eyes went wide, and he panicked. His hands went to his throat, while he looked wildly around for his cavalry pistol. When he found his jugular intact, and his gaze fell upon the pistol next to a half-eaten muffin, he sighed a huge sigh of relief.
Of course, the fact that he lived through the night meant that someone else was not so lucky. When the news got around that Ryven had fallen victim to the monsters, he accepted it with a grim expression. "Ze monsterz muzt be stopped!" he vowed.
Then he heard Unholy Potato mumbling deprecations and casting accusatory glances his way. "I know I seem suzpiciouz," he said, "but truzt me, I am not ein verevolf. Sink about siz: Vun -- I voted for neizzer Ryven nor Mayerling, boze uf whom vere proven innocent. Obviouzly, zis doez not prove my innocence, but I vould just like to point out zat I could have eazily jumped on zer bandvagon for vun or zer ozzer. Two, I haff ein funny feeling zat at leazt one uf our verevolves iz zomevun who iz keepink very quiet. Zomevun like, perhapz, Ezoterik Myobi, Albedo, or Luciuz Corneliuz. Oddz are at leazt vun of zose tree (und maybe two) are our killerz."