She thirsted for more. The act which had taken but moments to yield the ruination of many hadn't quelled her urges. Hellinka's whispering footsteps took her somewhere new this time, far away from the areas she usually operated. It awoke a strange sensation in her, the grandiose building at Whitehall Place. So this was where Jorge toiled sacrificed his freedom each day in the form of employment. She chuckled some, plucking from her pouch a single clove cigarette, an item retrieved from the homophile she visited her destruction upon earlier that night. Nervous fingers lifted it to her lips, and rummaged about the medium sized, leather bag for something in which to light it. Suddenly, she felt drippage upon her face, and her gaze shifted from the cavernous opening of the purse toward the skies, which were not yet conquered by gargantuan, misshapen storm clouds. Still, she felt as though the heavens had begun to weep upon her. Soon her fingertips became entangled in luxurious curls dampened by the ghostly raindrops, and her alabaster visage freckled of crimson hued pigmentations. Soon the ebony atmosphere would loosen a viscous volley onto her unshielded form, and Hellinka looked to herself, recoiling in horror. It was as if her dagger delved into the bosom of the void, to slay the heart of the universe. She would then view this phenomenon with new logic, and no longer feel tormented by the gore that fell upon her in torrents. Instead her face was upturned, as if each drop caressed her facial contours like a lover's touch, and her hips swayed softly, arms outstretched as if to summon it into an embrace. Peals of thunder shook her from her deluded reverie, and Hellinka turned away from the Police Station. She hoped to venture further toward the edifice, but decided against it, for it seemed as though the heavens were under siege by monstrous clouds, heavily pregnant with rain. Could she have suffered a rather gruesome premonition of this, her cognizance so impaired by psychosis that she simply interpreted it as a downpour of blood? She moved with urgency, wishing to spare her coiffure from becoming wet a second time since her bath. Despite her attempts at promptitude in seeking shelter, the cannonade above conjured forth precipitation, water and wind whisked the curl from her hair.
Hellinka pulled open the heavy door with strength lent of unspent fury, a scowl birthed upon her face as she made her way down the aisle. Opting for a middle pew, she slid onto the oaken seat, folding her arms over her ample bosom. When the Priest asked what troubled her, she merely regarded him in silence, her eyes in pursuit of him as he made his way toward the confessional. In her lifetime, she was unpracticed of religious beliefs, although she did acknowledge the presence of the benevolent deities and their counterparts, solely because if not such an afterlife existed, her purposes for murder would be for naught, her goals unrealized. She would have nothing to gain or lose. Every life she took was a separate act of rebellion against the divinities, in turn, she would champion the cause of demons. Disobeying the laws of Good, she considered herself in full compliance with the tenets of Evil. Hellinka heard the door of the confessional closing, a spark of mischief would briefly transhape her sour demeanor, reflecting upon her face an impish smile. She would play the role of a sinner in need of his absolution, filling his eager ear with a load of falsified transgressions. She would listen to his judgment with gritted teeth, and return to the pew as if in feigning contrition, and inact her penance. Hellinka would observe this man all the while, her blade poised in the folds of her voluminous skirts like a serpent in wait to strike its prey. When the Priest busied himself at the altar, she rose, approaching him slowly so that he wouldn't startle. She was certain that a struggle would ensue, and that he would easily overpower her in normal circumstances, so she would level the playing field by driving the tip of her blade into his lower back, as if she sought to sever his spine. She heard the sickly sound of brittle vertbrae cracking, her aim for the cord off only by centimeters. The man emitted an agonized groan, he began to plead to her, simultaneously clutching his wooden beads adorned with a small, golden idol. "Your Gods have turned but a deaf ear to you, man of the cloth. They do not think you worthy of the vestments you don, and thus you are a mockery unto them. They have abandoned you, fool. They do not reside within you, or within these walls." She turned slowly, her body poised upon tiptoe, broadening her reach toward either side of her body. "Don't you see that your church is but a house of empty promises? That evil could pass its threshold freely?"
Her hands clasped about the hilt of her dagger in a gesture mimicking that of prayer. "I shall show you that your worship does nothing to benefit you, that you and your flock are misguided fools!" He was at her mercy, his brown eyes widening with fear. As his fingertips neared his forehead in an act of anointing himself with blessed oil, the blade was drawn upward in an arc, and phalanges went flying. Blood spurted from the stumps that remained. Hellinka Darknau, the Baneful Blonde of Black Street, wouldn't show anyone mercy tonight. Instead, she would drag his partially paralyzed body to the holy water basin, and procede to force his face to break the tranquil surface of pool of liquid. As he struggled for breath, she would finally show him leniency, wishing not to end him in the form of drowning. Instead, the blade descended as if to insanguinate him, the blood of a mortal mixing with the collected tears of the Gods. She watched his body succumb to spasms, his head downward in the basin, the digits that were still attached to his hands clawing at the sides of it. Moments later he became still, having breathed his last into the very water he purified that evening. She laughed, figuring that for extra measure she would extract his tongue, and cram the prayer beads down his esophagus that was lubricated with his own blood.
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The one called 'Tanner.' She felt as though the name was penned into her memory with a flaming quill. Jorge supplied her with enough information in prior discussions of his job that she felt confident in tracking him down. For now, she would simply adjourn to the tavern, solely to establish an alibi. She realized that most whom saw her wouldn't be creditable as witnesses, but surely the Bartender would speak with validity if questioned. Her blade, shealthed of coagluating blood was housed in her boot, she whistled a rather haunting tune which was borrowed of the street Minstrels she passed.
