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by Marten on Tue May 01, 2007 5:02 pm
The raucous laughter of drunkards and trollops resonated throughout the desolate streets and alleyways of London's East End, dulled by sullen windows and rotten wood. The only form of life seemed to be an animate amassment of fog that, in the stead of the mindless masses, roamed freely. The moon was at its zenith when the vapor began to retract its diaphanous tendrils, which had covered the wharfs and engulfed the dilapidated district, and began to condense within an alley that had no outlet.
As the miasma continued to densen, its formerly iridescent intangibility became encrimsoned, a tumultuous roar rising from within it to match the shriek that had escaped an abhorrent creature's throat. The peculiarity of the sight continued when a shaft of twilight shone through a cloud, penetrating the haze and casting the silhouette of a tall, gaunt figure against the grimy cobblestones. The light faded as quickly as it had fallen, leaving nothing visible but a radiance that was swallowed by the umbra of the unlit alley.
As the shape of a cloud raced past the moon in an abnormally expedient pace, the amalgamation of mist had become nothing more than wisps that were wrapped about a man's form. His arm rose from his side, the palm turned towards the heavens as the last remnants of fog congealed into the thin, metallic frame of a pair of spectacles, its glass stained the crimson of its previous state.
The motion of his arm as it bent and placed the spectacles atop the bridge of his nose was languid yet underscored with efficiency only attainable by the machinations of a finely crafted and calibrated engine. The man's delineation shimmered softly in the pale moonlight, clothing materializing to veil his finely sculpted and pallid physique. A dress shirt of sable samite, woven with fine strands of silver that mirrored that of the moonlight, covered his torso yet ended abruptly at the middle of his forearms. The collar was turned up while a loose tie of immaculate white silk hung from around his neck. Over the shirt appeared a redingote of heavily dyed linen that flared at the hem, the atramentous material seemingly suspended in mid-air by an unseen force. Finely tailored trousers that were fitted against his long limbs billowed intermittently while the rest of his attire remained motionless.
The man stepped forward, the heel of his leather boots producing a nearly inaudible thud as he surveyed his surroundings. His countenance was akin to that of the timeless Greek statues and would cause countless countesses and courtesans to succumb to the slightest glance of his brilliantly black eyes, jetty lashes of great length hanging over them. The breadth of his nose was minuscule, while the slight curvature of his nostrils gave a masculine touch to his effeminate features. The subtle turn of his upper lip, accompanied by the voluptuous suppleness of the under, was flushed with the vitality the rest of his face lacked. His chin, caught between the width of masculinity and the elegant tip of femininity was veiled with a perfectly kept tuft of hair that protruded from the fair flesh, curving ever so slightly until it ended in a fine point. Naturally curling tresses of a luxuriantly ebon coloration fell about his face, furthering the contrast between his bombazine clothing and his wan complexion. The only flaw in the entirety of his person were his wrists, which had been slit eons ago, the flesh held together by the stitching of polished strands of silver that were strung together through metallic eyelets that had been embedded in the skin of his arm. The wound was always visible and continuously flowed, causing rivulets of blood to run down the length of his fingers and pool at his side as his arms hung at his sides.
The words that he spoke were completely devoid of inflection as his shoulders fell in mock exasperation. "Not England again."
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