D
Draugvan
Guest
Original poster
@Moogle-Girl @Lady Turquoise Heart @Vaykalin Bloodbane
A moist thud and a shuffle can be heard on one particularly still moment the eve of Sunday night. The air is still enough here that one could make out soft shifting of tides on the River Thames to the west, and the creaking of merchant boats thereon. North of this boulevard coils a tight alley between shops that leads to a four-way intersection of small, unnamed streets. Curious, you follow the direction of the noise north.
It is here in this intersection that you find the source of the thud. There is sprawled on the perimeter stones a lowly woman in ill-fitting, and sickeningly grubby clothes - like would a pauper. Her dress is smeared with detritus around the hem, smudges from labour and lack of hygine, and missing thread from disrepair, but not all. Pooling blood begins to soak in at the shoulder where it drips from a fissure on the head and creep along the cobble. Murder.
As if made of the night itself a figure divorces from the shadows where it had been lurched over its prey unnoticed. The figure erects to standing slowly, fully twice the size of the poor pauper woman. It is cloaked in a dark cape enshrouding the shoulders, formless. The figure calmly slides an into its cloak with a ghostly rasp of glass on leather as the woman's breathing slows then falters then stops.
The figure jerks up, looking south down the coiling alley as though its name was called. And there it spies Faulkner, Schneider, and Lardium all looking on with a stillness that befitted the night. The cloaked figure has killed this woman! And now that it was spotted the figure made to quit the scene hastily, dashing quickly north out of the intersection through a jaunty alley.
The figure is out of sight momentarily as Faulkner, Schneider, and Lardium race to follow north. The alley births into another east-west boulevard. To the east comes the sound of whipping sails and uneven jangle, and to the west a carriage kicks to life and begins westwards. The chase is on.
A moist thud and a shuffle can be heard on one particularly still moment the eve of Sunday night. The air is still enough here that one could make out soft shifting of tides on the River Thames to the west, and the creaking of merchant boats thereon. North of this boulevard coils a tight alley between shops that leads to a four-way intersection of small, unnamed streets. Curious, you follow the direction of the noise north.
It is here in this intersection that you find the source of the thud. There is sprawled on the perimeter stones a lowly woman in ill-fitting, and sickeningly grubby clothes - like would a pauper. Her dress is smeared with detritus around the hem, smudges from labour and lack of hygine, and missing thread from disrepair, but not all. Pooling blood begins to soak in at the shoulder where it drips from a fissure on the head and creep along the cobble. Murder.
As if made of the night itself a figure divorces from the shadows where it had been lurched over its prey unnoticed. The figure erects to standing slowly, fully twice the size of the poor pauper woman. It is cloaked in a dark cape enshrouding the shoulders, formless. The figure calmly slides an into its cloak with a ghostly rasp of glass on leather as the woman's breathing slows then falters then stops.
The figure jerks up, looking south down the coiling alley as though its name was called. And there it spies Faulkner, Schneider, and Lardium all looking on with a stillness that befitted the night. The cloaked figure has killed this woman! And now that it was spotted the figure made to quit the scene hastily, dashing quickly north out of the intersection through a jaunty alley.
The figure is out of sight momentarily as Faulkner, Schneider, and Lardium race to follow north. The alley births into another east-west boulevard. To the east comes the sound of whipping sails and uneven jangle, and to the west a carriage kicks to life and begins westwards. The chase is on.
