Roufas Ernst scratched his chin impatiently. He sat in a rear booth within the The Vanguard, an old-fashioned bar in the slums of Enmetropolis, the designated location of the next Belmarcian Tournament. It was dirty, with far too many bright lights and loud, artificial music. The Vanguard was blaring some strange noise right now which Bruce had once referred to as techno. Roufas considered it to be a frivolity created by lazy fools who lacked the talent to compose true music.
The Rabbit absently fingered the violin that leaned against his waist in the booth. Running thin, calloused fingers up the neck, he caressed the familiar strings. D'Ambrosio. He received it as a present for his sixth birthday when he entered primary school, over 60 long, bloodstained years ago, after he had shown a d
