The Grand Hall was previously a disorganised graveyard. Bodies were strewn everywhere without meaning, instances of death coming without warning. Bodies were crushed under the weight of the chandeliers or hurled into the wall of paintings. Hearts crushed, a form-armed body standing till death. Now, the bodies were laid with purpose. Knife marks created after the matter and electricution. Someone had arranged them too obviously.
Perfect.
Over twenty Whispers jogged about, adjusting everything as Daughter saw fit. She sat on the floor, yawning, her back to Dasha. Not having glanced at him, she beckoned him over.
"What do you think, Ripper? Are these bodies placed well enough?"
"I am impressed," Dasha replied. "Roland Blackwood will know someone had changed them."
Wounds were mismatched. Those that were killed by his fists were seemingly killed by the electric arrows of an archer.
