"Rainar, is it?" Larissa asked the man before her as she sat down.
The middle-aged man was not even 50 yet, but had a face that had seen a lot of things. A scar ran down the side of his face, up to his neck, a wound that looked more like a burn than anything.
"So, can you tell me why I'm here, pretty face?" the man asked. "Or will I have to wait for that too?"
Larissa glared at him. "Call me a pretty face again and I'll make sure your face is symmetrical."
"Oh! Feisty," the man said. "But I don't hate that."
"Where were you between the hours of 2 and 4?" she asked.
"Asleep, in my apartment," the man said.
"Yes, and anyone who can vouch for you?"
"You know I already told you there's no one," the man said. "Why do you keep asking the same question?"
"Just in case you've changed your words since then," Larissa said. "What do you know about the attack on Grimhide Chak?"
"Grim… who?" the man asked.
"Grimhide Chak. Or as you might know him by, Mudmill," she asked.
