Whispers in the Grass

Akodo's eyes were closed, the faint breeze of the hillside bringing snatches of noise and odors from the port city below. The sounds of ships putting into port mixed with the loud exclamations of shop keepers hawking their wares, the scent of spoiled fish mixing with that of cooking oil and the scent of the sea itself. He immersed himself in the bustle of the city, his mind floating free upon imagined avenues, carefully reconstructing streets and the myriad connecting bridges of the city. He breathed out slowly, allowing his arm holding Oathkeeper to make a slow arc before arcing back, tip up, into another of the seven forms.

The Grass had whispered regarding this city, that some individual had been hunting citizens. Their messenger pigeons had called him from Gaoling, where the last of the Asukasa loyalists had made her stand. A talented Firebender, his flesh still bore the marks of fresh burns, only now beginning to fully heal with the help of an herbal poultice one of the dockwives had made up for the 'weary traveler'. Sighing, he shifted his arm lower, lightly spun Oathkeeper into his other hand, shifted his hips, and leaned into a low thrusting stance.

Very few details were available, an irregularity for The Grass. All that was known is that the murders were becoming more frequent, and that their was a high degree of suspicion the perpetrator was a bender of some form. Normally it would be enough for the local authorities to handle, until authority figures started turning up slain in the same manner as the original victims. Thus, a discreet word from a certain dignitary in the Earth Kingdom to notable ears in the Fire Nation had seen to his deployment. He stood, sheathing Oathkeeper and spending a moment rolling his shoulders before retrieving his hat and making his way back to his little room on the quay.

His first task was to identify the culprit and, that done, to ensure that they were quietly dispatched. He made a note to stock up on reagents with his supply of coin.

The Tailor went up to the woman, her smell was sweet and drenched in fear. Her claws flexing with the anticipation of the kill, the act of tearing off her flesh. It got her so excited. She reached forward and pushed a needle claw into her cheek. Blood gushing from the wound, The Tailor expertly dug out and in, ripping the skin from her facial muscles. When she was done, the woman's face was off and in her hands. Next would be the rest of the body. The woman was still screaming as she ripped the skin off. When she gathered all that she required, she killed her. And then she went along her way into the swamps.