Case of the Gingerbread Village

Ruins. All of that hard work was in ruins. Pale and horror-stricken, Norway stood in the midst of the rubble that scattered in front of him. What used to be a beautiful village is now nothing but crumbs for the crows to feast upon. It was disasterous, a catastrophy beyond comprehension. Who in the right mind would vandalize and destroy his gingerbread village? All those people who worked together to build and make this artwork... His heart sank - it was truly terrible. He silently mourned for it until he finally realized that there was no more time to weep.

The bastard of a perpatrator must still be on the loose and it was his duty to seize that person and most likely rip him up to shreds (literally, if he must). This made his blood boil to the point Hell's temperature soared. His complexion, usually dull and expressionless, was brushed with a hue of soft pink. His eyebrows were knitted and his frown was grave. Lo and behold, the face of the murderous viking from ages ago had just resurfaced. By all means, he will use every method to figure out who had done this vile deed. Perhaps he must use a variety of torture tactics for that criminal to compensate for the misdoings.

He retracted his gaze elsewhere, his eyes cooling down into hard ice. With his lips pursed, he turned away from the rubble and then decided to figure out this case at home. Norway planned to work solo, for the most part, that is. Perhaps he'll request the aid of faeries and gnomes to track this case down. He walked out in the snow as those little immaculate specks of powder peppered on his head. Norway paid no attention.

Back at his house, he sat in his armchair in front of a cozy fireplace. His eyes were lividly scanning the newspaper, searching for any leads the police might have gotten. He bit on a piece of a gingerbreadman rather angrily as he began to fume in silence.

Damn. This person is going to die.

Cite:
Gingerbread town vandals
And what do we have here?

Iceland was texting insults to Denmark and snacking on crisps at his computer when Norway burst in the door, so upset that his hair clip was nearly falling out of his fringe.

Or was it like that normally? Iceland chewed slowly, staring for a while, and finally wiped his hands on his trousers and put his phone in his pocket. Denmark hadn't come up with any good replies anyway, and he should probably help out his best friend with whatever was the matter as soon as possible - it was only common courtesy.

So he got out of his chair and grabbed the bottle of Brennivín from his fridge, knowing that whatever Norway had to do for the rest of the day could be managed with at least ten percent efficiency while drunk. As he brought in two cups from the kitchen cupboard he made sure to take the Moomin one for himself, despite the fact that mugs weren't proper for this sort of thing, and ambled back into the computer room where Norway was standing.

"....Something happen?" He asked, opening the bottle and pouring their drinks. It wasn't like he had a job to go to tomorrow anyway, and when was the last time they'd done this together? Glancing at Norway again, he noticed crumbs had collected in the folds of his jacket, but didn't say anything. Whose business of his was it if Norway decided not to wash his clothes?

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OOC: Hope I didn't god-mod there but I thought that's what was going to happen

Upon seeing Iceland, Norway's expression softenedd greatly. It was reduced back to his placid and silent demeanor, yet he could not help but feel very uneasy and angry on the inside. His trump card is his poker face, after all. "Yes." he said as he folded the newspaper together and then placed it on top of the counter. He rose up, his voice carrying on with a stronger force than usual, "My gingerbread village was vandalized." he announced with candid eyes, his lips seething in silence. He had no shame in saying this - it was part of his culture, after all.

He sighed once, turned away and then walked towards a window with his hands behind his back. The vista was breathless - a snowy white portrait painted by beautiful hands. It was still snowing and it probably had covered the tracks of the perpatrator already. How annoying. "I am trying to figure out who did it. I have no leads as of the moment." That was what he had a hard time admitting. The clues, he thought, must still be hiding under all of that snow.

"Your... gingerbread village?" Iceland tried to gasp but he ended up coughing instead, which caused him to spill his drink on his jacket. He took it off awkwardly, folding it and setting it aside, and pretended it never happened.

Who could do such a thing? Who could destroy such an important part of Norway's year, the only... the only thing that ever truly made Norway take in the sight of candy, frosting, and cookie working together? Iceland had no idea how much work and pride went into that gingerbread village, but he knew it could probably feed at least one small child by itself! What terrible people would have had the nerve to destroy it?

This matter was a personal attack against Norway, and if Norway was attacked then Iceland also felt attacked. He emptied his drink and a shadow was cast over his face as he leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"Denmark's been acting suspicious." Iceland paused for emphasis, and stroked his chin contemplatively. He watched to see if Norway would turn around. "He was talking about how many sweets he's been eating."
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Source.

"Yes." Norway replied nonchalantly as he continued to stare out mutely. Sure, this may seem petty to be overworked over something such as this, but it was his goddamn Gingerbread village. Whoever touches his property, he pledged, will get their can kicked. Well, he was not able to get Germany back but Norway was slowly learning how to forgive.

To that, he quickly turned around. His expression was livid, yet in a very icy like manner. Of course, he did not mean it to be oppressed to Iceland - it was that Dane. He sighed and then ran his fingers through his hair, "He's going to die then." Hopefully he has a death wish. Once he cleared his head a bit, he walked over to Iceland and gave him a short nod of gratitude. "Well, let's go to him and see what we can squeeze out of his throat."

The nation walked over to the rack and took his coat. Once he slid it on, he opened the door for the frigid snow to escape inside.

He meant words. Nothing violent.

Iceland rushed to follow Norway, leaping into klæðaskápurinn the closet and unhooking his coat from its hanger with the power of a thousand sleepless nights. Putting it on, he had a few moments of panic where he tried to decide what to do with his drink, and then he artfully slid the bottle into a suspiciously gigantic pocket inside his coat. It would prove a useful tool in plying the Dane's memory.

"One of us can check his house for milk," Iceland suggested as he laced up his boots and locked the front door. He wasn't opposed to Denmark dying at the hands of his best friend, in fact it was the preferred outcome, but he doubted Norway would commit the deed. If so he'd have to take care of Faroe and Greenland, and who wanted to watch over countries whose only common language was a throat disease?

Iceland mentally willed Norway to pick the cheapest transportation method, and languidly adjusted his gloves.

xxx
OOC: Does language-fagging work with this posting style? Here's a test.