A striking elven scoundrel lurked at the hinges of the street, looking, waiting, appraising, scheming, with a pallid verdant gaze teaming with distrust and avarice.  Ah, there he saw another, and another, walk down, to the proposed locale--where did the sun lay in the sky?  Nevermind.  Darren grabbed a long thin cigarra and went to the whorehouse, took care of his business (twice, it was messy), and returned.  He approached the female at the door and snidely nodded towards her.<br/><br/>"Good afternoon," he muttered.   "The day is not quite right, is it?"<br/><br/><br/>