The Crimson Echo (uninterred)

[Daniella_Belli]

She could hear the sounds of breath from just beyond the somber shroud, the stasis of the atramentous ambience augmenting her paranoia. Aluande inhaled sharply, eyes darting about, as if her vision would somehow prove useful in the darkness. "Don't look at me!" She exclaimed all too authoritatively, hands extending before her, she manuveured about the remnants of wooden frame.

The boy gasped, his skeleton nearly separating from flesh as he had not expected such a commanding tone. He instantly whirled about, cherub-like fingers covering his eyes. He felt a presence at his back, hairs prickling at the nape of his neck. His spine stiffening as he imagined a myriad of morphed men and women, a carnival of cursed creatures with cravings to devour the more wholesome of God's creations. Instead he heard footsteps softly retreating, and the woman's murmurs. Soon his hands fell back to his sides, and he turned in her direction, perplexed to find her pacing to and fro. Suddenly her face upturned to meet his gaze, he thought that instantaneous exchanging of glances would somehow render him into stone.

Aluande was caught off guard, her visage vulnerable for his viewing. A gasp dithered up her slender throat, her body tensing. Jaroke's brow quirked. He spied nothing particularly offensive about her appearance, just a superficial laceration to her cheek. Why was she reacting as if she were an aesthetic abomination? "I'm a monster..." She choked out the words between sobs. As if crying was contagious, he too had begun to weep. "I have no Mummy, no home..."
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Bloodshot blue eyes opened to behold the world she lived in, Hellinka rose as if a wicked spirit was being evulsed from her body. She ran then, her movements likened to an automaton which was corrupted by mechanical error, she ran down toward the stretch of cobblestone, her left sole momentarily melding with the gluey grave of the poisoned pest.

The harsh glare of the sun struck her sleep sensitive eyes as she opened them. Opalia winced, inky irises lazily shifting toward the face of the Grandfather clock. Soon, the downstairs entrance would be exercised as people poured in for tea and biscuits. She groaned. Why did she have to sublet with a public tea room? Faint traces of idle chatter and the clinking of cups connecting with their saucers had been enough to drive her to madness! The sounds of boots scuffing the floorboards and the shuffling of skirts emphasized by crinolines...her mind was wracked by such constant cacophony!

She thought of the patrons as if they were nothing more than the disease-riddled rodents that plagued the streets of London. The blonde...the woman of which she idolized for her heroic display, however misplaced her worship had been, left her wanting. Had Opalia yet to win her love? Perhaps Hellinka was accustomed to grand soirees, and her own party was deathly deficient in volume of persons. As the clock chimed the new hour, her scowl shifted into a smirk. "Tea time, at last!" She moved toward the stairs, slightly stirring the feather-fall that cluttered her room per her exit. Each step her feet solemnly struck sounded like the dull drumbeat of a dirge.

Peals of laughter resonated in the alley as his grasp further constricted about the matted,blood-soaked clump of hair. He had to find Hellinka. Nothing would thwart him this time, neither the agents of Heaven or Hell, nor mortal that walked the earth would intervene. His spirits rejuvenated by his convictions, he ventured toward Black Street. The Whitechapel Butcher, Leather Apron, The Ripper. Would the people see what truth belied, what stirred beneath his facade? The air of London was thick with perpetual gloom. Its residents did not smile, nor did their voices eject in exultation. Mankind seemed but a mass of empty exteriors, their very existence trifling. Killing them would only win him a hollow victory.

Insignificant, the lot of them! Jaqueline glowered as she only now seemed susceptible to the Sun's warmth. She despised daylight, as its sole purpose seemed to shed light upon a burg battered by bankruptcy and blight. She started down the lane, spying a familiar face in the distance. Chester the Cheater, hustling his harem of harlots. A girlish giggle danced across her tongue. She had grown quite fond of him, as he was the only father-figure she had ever known. He'd taught her the tricks of his trade, the creativity and cunning of his cons. He'd given her a memento of the times they shared, his first set of loaded dice. Jaqueline kept them as close to her heart as she could, the plain black pouch had found its permanent home in the hidden pocket of her bustle coat. A subtle current of air stroked her cheek, relaxing the roughness of her features. "'ello." She spoke a swift salutation, then after a moment of dawdling she would depart from him.

Olfactory senses denoting the faint scent of Bohea that wafted in the air, fragments of floral decorated china scattered upon the floor and tabletop. Those which remained unbroken lay in disarray, only the rare one had found placement back upon its saucer. Opalia's piceous orbs scanned the room, which was absent of sound or movement from all but her. She peered into a random tea cup, a fine white crystallization upon the bottom of its recesses. the tops of biscuits were dusted with the same substance, resembling to the untrained eye confectioner's sugar. She was overzealous in her operation, having applied liberal amounts of Arsenic to all the consumables. When they protested against its palatableness, she dismissed such objection with lectures of London's sufferings. Now, the pseudo-refined women spoke not a disdainful declaration, nor were their postures rigid as to emulate regality, but instead rigor mortis.

She began to style the defunct as if they were dolls, utilizing techniques available to one of her aptitude as to debar decomposition, if even such precautions themselves were perishable. Soon, those Opalia had sent to an early grave were glamorized, pallor pigmented with a rosy rouge to their cheeks, hair primped and perfumed with peppermint. They were positioned to her liking, as all had to possess perfection for Hellinka's perusal.

With some apprehension, as circumstances were rallying against him, Jaroke fell into her guardianship and thus, her tutelege. They would sojourn to the recesses under London's poor infrastructure. The two would become like a clog in the arteries of its architecture, coursing through its circuitous channels. He knew that their newfound life would have to suffice, as he felt an accretion of his affinity toward Aluande. The woman was fragile in many ways, she needed someone to care for her.
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The Barber, Ansom Oris, began giving men with cleanly cropped beards, those whom were his frequent customers, a vicious variation of what was comfortably considered an extra close shave. The sharp-edged razor stripping away much skin along with its stubble. He would then work his weapon on the whiskerless ones, leaving a batch of blood and bruise blemished bodies in his wake.

As Hellinka turned the corner, the bouquet of blood made her body buckle. At first, she thought she was suffering the beginning of yet another one of her heavy hematic hallucinations, sniffing a spectral sanguineous substance which would spark stimulus to her other senses, but this time it was real. As she had been disposed for quite a while, she endured a drought of delivering death. It was disparaging, but now she saw people dispatching it upon one another in similar manners to her own style. She became a thorn in the threshold of the throng, the timbre and tempo of the tumultuous tenor triggering a tryst of temptation and thrill. As she continued to be receptive to its rhapsodical rapture, it reanimated her, Hellinka retrieved the blade she had once retired to its respite.
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As present affairs would cause Martin to act in best interest of his welfare, it obligated an alliance to form between hostage and captor. Critical analysis of the area would determine that the perpetrator dismounted a horse-drawn coach, which judging by the gait of the geldings, was driven from the direction of Whitechapel. Investigation of the impressions of the disturbed dirt on cobblestone, would convey the correct cadence the cane struck its surface.

Diagnosis of the door would devise the deduction that a human finger was used as the primary writing implement, the width of the alphabet ruled out other natural or manufactured objects. The letter linear, suggesting that the individual possessed proper lighting. Steady pressure was exerted throughout the bulk of it, however became more heavy handed the more aggressive its articulations. It appeared as though something foreign also occupied his grasp, manipulating the fluidity of his motions. The florid fluid was reminiscent of old blood which contained the pronounced pungence of ginger beer.
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Gordomm savored the spoils of his sinister sermon, shifting his sizable stature in such a way as to ensure his extinction, his arms outstretched as if in gratitude of the bullets grazing him. His statuesque structure beckoned the Baneful Blonde, whom cruised through the congested crowd. The musics of manslaughter a majestic masterpiece, she was carried away by the Candlemaker's cachinnations, the conflagration crisping and consuming flesh. The blistering heat boiled the blood, and the smoke had stolen away their sight, yet did not deter the destruction of one another. The percussion of pistols colliding with craniums, the crooked coppers subduing the seething, swearing lot.

 

[Desaecula]

Jorge offered his services to martin as best he could, makeing his deductions and adding tot he pool to aid the final verdicts rendition.

"I think it best if these things don't find their way to the public eye... the Ripper is retired, Remember?" he said, glanceing Martin's way. His pistol hidden away. the two together had found the whole of the 'crime' and it's information by their lonesomes. Not a far stretch for the detectives mind of Jorge, and the journalistic scrutiny of Martin Maymeather.

Jorge puffed on his pipe with a long sigh. "So the bastard knows I'm onto him, aye?.. very well. Martin, i have a very important question for you now." he added, leaning his hip on one of the kitchen's many counter tops. a breadboard with rye, cheese, and marmalade sitting between them as they unceremoniously went about their evening tea.

"If i said i was going off the record... absent the permissions of The Yard, to apprehend the Ripper and deliver justice my damned self.... would you cast away your career for just a moment and let me without interference?"


He was almost sure he knew the answer. If Martin said no, He'd have to be delt with most quickly. By his calculations and the rucuss on black-street starting today... well... he had until dusk to Find Hellinka, The Ripper, and execute his plans.

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The dusty hat Chester wore had a grimmy old peacock feather in it's side held with a pin to the ageing once-lluxurious clothe. littered with scrutiny, he made sure allt eh girls he housed where unharmed and locked inside his little hide-out all safe-like as possible.

"Ello, Back owd friend." he said, winking at her. that was all the flirt they had in them these days.

 

[Daniella_Belli]

"...Then the blackness loomed close up against my skin, snuffing out the evil whining hiss of those damning lips! Driving all sensibility into retreat, in a mad rush in the center of the soul into Hades..." He looked to the spot as if it had been struck by lightning before his very eyes. Against his own volition, he viewed his vice, the vendible violator in her villainous vetanda vivified. The bothersome bane boasting his blushing betrothed with bloated, bared breasts that left him betwixt himself and bleary eyed, as she was surely a benefactor bestowing a boon upon her beau.

The moonlight. It supplied the woman with a soft seraphic splendor, as it cast her in its pearly phosphorescence. A woman of ethereal elegance, Jovette was. Even the darkness had changed its conduct upon this comely creature, garbing her in gossamer gasses, as it cast every other in the pomaded portmanteau of smog, which would bedew besmirchment of the fard of filth they wore. An ambrosial aria flowed from her luscious lips, his surroundings sheathed his presence. Surely London would lament the absence of this alluring angel in its alleys and areas, a dearth of one of its desirable, demure daughters as the seasons shifted and brought the brunt of its sultriness or snows.

Her svelte shape, a silhouette of slack, sable spirals upon a creamy countenance. Her name, Jovette Townsley. It expressed joy, it was the embodiment of joviality. How euphoric it was to strike the ear. It intoxicated his imagination, as well as stifled his senses. It was a song to soothe the savage breast. Was it by fluke or Fortune's favor that bade his feet to frolic as he chanced upon her one delightful day? Courtship was composed of a harmonizing of hearts....or was it?

In reality it seemed to be a gamble against the Gods of Fate with the wager of winning the woman's warmth. He would not discover her dishonesty for quite some time, as he was distracted by her disguise, and the dream of her devotion, no matter how darkened and dissolving such a dream was. Jovette had many wooers, whom she won with the witchery of her wanton wiles.

The moonlight which had once bathed her beauty in its blessed brilliance, now illuminating her indiscretions. It was a braggart, broadening his horizons to her betrayal and the brigade of blokes about the block. Jack became wise to what she really was....a whore! As he was disillusioned by her deceit, he saw her as a perfect pome that would taint by one's touch. She was but fermented fruit, rotted remnants of sweet seduction that made slaves out of scapegraces.

The carriage wheels hurried to a halt against the cobblestone, flimsy wood shaking and splintering as the spooked stallions reared back, a stampede of shod hooves spoiling the silence of the stealthy shadows. Jack attempted to disembark from the coach, but fury made his falsely placed foothold falter, and he plummeted painfully to the street. Such an erroneous event would irreparably injure him, his lameness lasting his lifespan. A grand glitch in his giddy-up, he hobbled her way to slangwhang the strumpet for her sins. "Saddled me with strife, you sow-bellied slattern! Spoiling my superior seed with his sickly sediment? It would suffice if his spoor spawns a successor of the slithering sort, and the stain of your sinfulness scorches its soul!" Black Street seemed to have an effect on one's speech even then.

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Opalia awoke in the center of the congregation of cadavers, the entirety of her ensemble eroding as each article was but an ornament of special occasion, and was not meant for practical purpose. Her dress looked as though it donned a dormant defect in design, now displayed much deterioration of its anatomy. Her shawl sported snarls and sparsities, the plumes and fur of her headpiece appeared as if she had plucked them from a bulimic bird, and gaunt game. It was difficult to discern Opalia from the deceased in her dilapidated duds. She looked upon the maggot-riddled mess, feeling as if she would soon faint. However terse it was, rationality was tangible. Lucidity found a loophole, causing a loose lapse of her lunacy. She grimaced as the odor offended her, a whiff of watery peppermint which had been all but overwhelmed by necrosis.

She made a break for the door which would lead outside, opting to inhale the impurities that she alone did not produce with purchasing their perishment. Ferocious and fuming, the female footslogged forth, forgetful of the fluttering folk around her.

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The press wove a read of the wreckage wrought the week prior, and Jaroke presented the plundered periodical along with other miscellaneous mulcted merchandise to Aluande. A few half-wicked candles as to shed light upon their squalid surroundings. Aliments which after having partaken of caused most people assorted ails. Finery which had lost most of its fineness. He played the part as both supplicant and swindler, begging and beguiling benefactors. Sometimes his panhandling prematurely precipitated profit, other times he had to bully them with blackmail. The child shadowed graveyard ghouls, gaining insight to their ghastly gimmicks. Inspecting inventory which was once interred, he guessed them to be gardeners of ghosts, reapers of riches which rot in the ground.

Jaroke and the other down-trodden delinquents levied loot from the Chadwick Drolle scare, which left people suspicious of tapers and votives, as many believed them to be tampered and volatile. Secretly he was a sadistic man, inserting incendiary ingredients into his waxen works, as they seemed to be gluttons for gunpowder and grease.

The article aired London's dirty laundry, bribing bibliophiles away from bound, bulky books. Thompson Harris possessed not the piety he persuaded people to believe, as he used parts of poisonous plants to pad his pinched products. Fraudulence for financial fertilization. Much of the masses managed multiple means of manipulation under the same motives.
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The wordsmith placed a fresh publication of the paper on Jorge's desk. "Acclaimed Author in Asylum After Abetting Atrocity." The story of his sibling struck him hard, especially since he scribed it, even though doubt had detonated into discord and Martin descried Gordomm as a dissolute and demonized depiction of what had once been deemed a decent individual. The execrable evangelist elicited the enacting and echoing of his elocutions, it ran rampant through London like an epidemic.

Martin was the only one of the offspring not offed or ostracised. He knew that the others would become obsolete, that the pages of their lives would become overwritten with time. History itself stoked the egos of those worth its engrossment, but most became lost within the fissures of its folly. Martin would soar whilst they were smudged by scandal, before their existences were all but suppressed from the minds of the people. "I'm going to sift through the shambles that carnage created." He spoke with a curt nod to Jorge, and with a grab for his overcoat he was out the door. Really he wished to clear his conscience of clutter, as cogitation lately seemed a celebration of cobwebs with many casualties cocooned in its cilia.

His soles clobbering cobblestone, Martin meandered through the menagerie of men and women at Maidenhead Court. Catching the consideration of a dusky-haired female, his eyes had not informed him of the inconspicuous instrument which was guarded by the folds of her skirts. An acclivity altered the corners of her pout, her appearance adopting an artificial look of amity.

Jaqueline's blue eyes engaged his brown. He was entranced by the subtleties of her skin, the combination of cream and rose of its complexion. The gentle flare of her nostrils as she took in breath, causing the soft swell of her ample assets. She captured him with her come-hither stare, and he plod nearer her porcelain profile. A flirty flick of her tongue, and the smooth sway of her hips hypnotic, it seemed as if he'd follow them forevermore.

"'e's Martin Mayweather, 'e is!" A scrabble of words began their assault upon his auditory faculties, which thwarted the woman's sensual spell. When he finally overcame the obstruction of people in his path, she was gone.
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Jaqueline was the tempest of tantrums! Waves of wrath would overwhelm the serene sea of her inner self. "I 'ad the bloody bloke!" She received sass from the straight razor as it scraped stone and shrieked across iron. She continued to wickedly wield the weapon, attacking the air around her, until such actions would effete her energy. Panting and perspiring, she propped herself against the door to the tea room. A sign barely clung to its hinges, its letters worn with age. "Tea Tyme." She could recall when it was called "The Tittering Teapot" where delectables were served with a dollop of delightful drollery, but the change in its name brought tasteless tea and humor to the table.

She had to find Chester. Jaqueline was aware of a few of his haunts, as he was an Alley's Acquaintance with his army of aloofs. The band of brigands included Bit Fakers and Broadsmen, Crows, Crooked Crossers and Duffers. There was only one place which would close an eye and swear silence to their crimes, Black Street.
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She saw Martin enter the edacious edifice of inebriates, and tailed him inside. Opalia became a chameleon of his behavior, ordering Scotch and sitting at the bar beside him with the notion that being in such close range of the man would increase the likelihood of linguistic leeching. Nowadays, rumor seemed the only reliable source of information, and she was certain that he possessed a plethora of it. So much so that his tongue would tax from all of the talking of trivia.

Who was this grim goddess she glorified? Surely the word-slinger was savvy to her status, perhaps even her whereabouts. Opalia would have much to say to her since the blonde spurned her sentiments.
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Jaqueline bode her time until his business was bagged, and then she promenaded the path. "Chester..."A simmering simper slowly spread across her lips. "'ow's tricks these days?" A bit of work-related whimsy. Playfulness was a prelude to petting in most people, which would progress to procreation. For her, it would initiate in a different manner. Her reigns on refinement repressed, and she drove him back against the wall, her hot, greedy mouth rough upon his. She was both languor and the lashing, lace and leather...

 

[Desaecula]

"and Godspeed be with you. angels at your back in these dark times, Mr. Mayweather." he nodded, mostly honest. mostly glad the man woudl be out of his hair for awhile. he had his own long-coat to pull on.

"Jorge... you can't mean to take war tot eh streets of london can you? this is madness, you're no hero, your a detective! and you've stayed alive this long by sleuthing, not slaying! for gods SAKE man!"

The shadow of Oliver tanner in the room was comforting. it was his mind speaking to Jorge. nothing but an illusion, he was sure of it. but then again, when Tanenr appeared int eh room with him, it was when nobody was around, and also when Jorge wa at odds with himself.

"You're wrong, My old friend." he nodded, pulling on an old ratty black cloak. double caplets made his shoulders seem heavier than they where. a gorget below that to cover most of his neck and upper chest-stolen from a suite of armor-hidden beneath layers of clothe. next came a tri-corn cap. an old marinersgarment from not-so-long-ago.

"there was a time in swanzee... bitter north where the shore is white with sand and rough with gravel... men wove through the roads and by-ways at night and not a soul could lift a finger to stop them." he smirked, a devilish smile beneath the outfit, a saber strapped to his waist, and a pistol on both hips.

"The Highwaymen of the roads where my ancestors Tanner. A family made rich as pirates of land and see. Darknau hides other secrets, but my rich life was assured by godlessness and glory... and so it shall be tonight. A highwayman steps out intot he streets of london.. to do the devils work."


Jorge pulled the hat down, and a black band over his eyes with rough holes cut ages ago and burned round.

"To send a thing that came from hell BACK where it belongs...."

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Chester let himself be pushed back, only a moments suprise. his hand twitching, ready to pull the knife free from it's clockwork houseing in his sleeve. then he un-tensed. a smirk crossed his face as he looked intot eh devilish eyes of the lovely miss infront of him.

"aye, The tricks a' good. but not My pot a tea, ya see.... I prefer my ladies a bit more.. frisky." he hissed, a hand grabbing the back of her hair, the other her rump with a rough, teasign manner.

"Us vampires like a good plump-bossomed girl ya know." he joke,d pullign her head to the side and ravageng her neck with kises as he dragged his teeth across ehr flesh. The vamprie bit was an old joke between him and the girls. he liked to use his teeth, that was for sure. but he had a rather loathesome reputation for soiling even the toughest womens sheets with splatters of blood from a bed-breaking night of ecxtasy... either that, or it was all rumors, hard to tell with chester the cheater. most of his stories of past explots where extravagent exaggerations.

Even so, the black-street denizen danced his charms physically over Jacquelines frame, with such a tight grip, she wasn't gettign away.

"Mnngh But i gots ta say lovely... It's been too long since someone gave me those eyes." he said, grinning ear to ear. his gaze meetign hers as he licked his lips. "one might think.. you missed me, Jackie."

 

[Daniella_Belli]

His lips waived the right to words. A stomach full of Scotch had encumbered his enunciations, Martin's posture pitched forward, fingertips pressed into temples tortured by turbulent toilings. Aught the author appeared as if he was almost fit for funeral fodder. One pawn's passing and the one prisoned by his psychosis was paramount for him to procure prestige, and even though it seemed a simple enough sacrifice, somehow he felt as if he were a few steps shy of selling his soul.

Was stardom worth signing away something of such spiritual significance? Would it assuage the agonies he would endure in the afterlife, or would it only fuel the fiery furnace? Martin surmised that the furnishings of fame merited it as marketable, as fair finance. And he knew where would broker the best bargain for it....Black Street.

Each sip of Scotch soured her expression ever a sliver more, it seemed instead that she was drinking the dregs of disgruntlement. Impatience etched in her eyes, Opalia watched the the weary wane, starting their sauced saunter home. Soon, only a handful of barflies remained to bluster the brilliance their boozing brought. Martin ambled outside for air, which presented her with an opportunity which would not be hampered by any hesitation she could harbor.

Martin heard the sonata of sleep resonating within him. Just before he was to slip under its spell, the lethiferous linen lunged from the darkness it lie, and caressed the contours of his countenance. Upon the fold of fabric, he divinated his demise.
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Bristling against the chill over her bland brew, she discerned a duplicate of her dissatisfaction drowning in it. Her dark eyes dimming dismally. Granules of Arsenic in the grooves of her fingertips, the presence of putrefaction permeating the air. The dead made for dull, dreary discourse. They only spied her in silence, sallow skin slowly sloughing, baring their teeth in gruesome grins. She consumed crumpets with cranberry sauce and communed with cadavers, as crows crowned the rooftop.
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Ansom Oris was not only a blight to bad hair, but a butcher of those whom stood beneath shaggy scalps. The handkerchief wrought its wonders upon his weaknesses, to assimilate the assassin to its aspirations. "The Coiffure Clipper" he was apply named, in many aspects. "Slayer of Unruly Strands, Succumbs to Suicide." Aluande read aloud, after turning the page which had published his story. "He was quite a disturbed man, his psychosis provoking him to mutilate men and women he perceived to maintain monstrous mane. It played a rebellious role, as he saw in himself laxity of his locks. The "Manicured Murderer" as he was known to some, Ansom Oris found in pool of blood after attempting to tame his tresses in a temper, to no avail."
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As Jorge would challenge conflict as to champion his cause, Hellinka had warfare of her own to wage. A battle bolstered of bloodshed, she had begun the march of madness. London, already battered and brought to the brink of ruin, her name will become memorialized in the age of mayhem. Darknau was a surname synonymous with the ancient devils of land and sea.

"What did you do?" Cried a voice as vague as the vestiges of a dream. She saw herself as a girl, champagne colored curls cascading down her back. She was hunched over on the floor, beside a lanky lad. The odor of blood as common in her home these days as the aroma of ambergris aftershave, her mother had not been summoned by its scent, but instead his screams. The walls and floor of the room smattered by crimson, it coated the petite palms of the child. The front of her dress drenched by it. "I only wanted to play with him, Mummy. How he enjoyed our funny little games..."

The woman approached with much trepidation, the recesses of Hellinka's memory aged her face into all but extinction. A runt of a boy lie lifelessly before her, his chest caved in and but a hollowed cavity. He lived down the lane. "I was playing Doctor, Mummy. 'Tis too late for Daddy, I fear. All the knowledge for naught..." Hellinka stated coldly, without a pittance of penitence for her actions. "What did you do with his heart?" Her mother sought for it frantically, but the girl giggled. "We're playing hide and seek, Mummy."
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"Oh, but I did, Chester. You were the only man to ever 'old a place in my 'eart, afterall. Much like you're 'olding something else now.."Her eyes closing, head falling back as he placed passionate pecks upon her neck. She knew he had a feral hunger for blood, as much as he had for the bed. She was equally as famished, and it flowed with finesse, as they engaged in the forbidden tango two would dance in tangled sheets.

She would stay with him for as long would a Judy, with her John. It wasn't because he was lacking as a lover, but she had schemes of her own to sow as Night's shroud descended upon London, as she was certain with Chester.
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The man convulsed with coughing, a crimson mist expelled from his mouth. She smelled the scent of curdled cruor. The girl's gait brought her to his bedside. She peered down upon him, deep creases scoring his face. A syrupy sanguine sputum seeped forth from his airways, a sickly sweat polished his frail form.

A somber spirit seized the room with silence, the boy and her mother sat in shadows so solidified that only the whites of their eyes would betray them as they were embraced to its baleful bosom. And then he was raptured by Death's rattle, she was romanced of its resonance for the first time as her father was released from the mortal coil.

She heard a rampageous rapping in her head, the throbbing tempo of the tattling ticker from her youth. Each of its brutal beats battered her brain, its dessicated juices divvied up from the depths of the dead. Hellinka watched in horror as the husk of the hideous heart haunted her hand, sinewy strands snaking over mottled muscle matter. Wrathful, worm-like whips wreathed the wretched, withered thing. It was embittered, envenomed with evil!

"What did you do with his heart?" The boy asked apprehensively, all exploration exhausted. Hellinka simply shrugged, a smirk upon her lips.

Who was the boy bound to her visions? His countenance conveniently camouflaged from the concern of her conscience, she felt as though the truth would be lost forevermore.

She had to quiet the quarrelsome quivering of its veins once and for all. Of ALL veins of those vitalized with voice vibrating throughout the ventricles!

 

[Desaecula]

Scouring all of London for a single man with blood on his record wasn't an easy task. Add to that the squall blowing in from the west and that damnable London fog and Jorge Anthony D. Was in for one rough night. As he stepped out the alleyway door of his ancestral home he caught his collar up around his cheeks and let an experimental breathe out to test the air.

"foggy. Cold. Damp. A star barren sky for my Justice to hide behind. How quaint, Lady London… how posh, how quaint." He said to himself. His revolver tight against his shirt beneath eh cloak he had covered himself in.



Chester awoke to the wanton woes of a jilted lover. Having hoped his jolly romp the night before might stay there a while. But as he felt her smooth rump leave the covers, watched the swell and curve of her gorgeous body leave the bed, he feigned sleep so as not to have to say goodbye.

'there's always a next time, lovey… hope to see you again.. REAL soon.' He thought to himself silently. A reverie of sorts. An epitaph to the night that was. A song of experience for the days that would come.





The nights air was chill. Enough to batter away at Jorges lungs as he made his way to black street. There was something close to there that resonated with the echoes in his head. Stuck between the beastly need to murder this fiend and his duty to the Yard, He had but one choice. Make an example of the butcher… turn Jack the ripper into the last victim of his own crimes. A devilish thought entered his mind just then.

Indeed what if he turned the butcher inside out. Layed him to dry all blood and gore on the cobblestones or strugn up in a web between lamp-posts by the dock made of his own intestines? Then he would be the first and last male victim of the Ripper crimes. History would remember only the few, but the yard and justice would know whoever the sod was as a victim.



'And That, Mr. Jorge…' Came Tanners voice in his head. Pounding away at his skull. 'is why you're the devil incarnate.'



"perhaps I Am Oliver…." He chuckled out loud. "But I AM a darknau." He spoke,.







The laughter of madness echoed throught he streets.





Pouring his evening tea, a Certain Chester the cheater felt a shiver run down his spine as he looked out the broken, murky glass window down to black street. "w-who the feck?" he said, eyes wide. Something.. something about it was wrong… so wrong that it hurt.. the sound HURT his soul to hear.



"OLIVIA!!!" he yelled intot he hallway. Several girls's heads popped out of their respective doors.



"Oye, what you want!?!" She yelled from the end of the hall at the sewing table. She had been repairing a garment torn by her last trick.



"Nobody goes out tonight… get all the girls of the next street down.. NOW!" he yelled.



One hand on his teasup, the other on the teaplate chattering against each other as his hands trembled.

"w-what inhuman devilry is t-this.. I'im gonna shit me-self if'n I don't calm down." He breathed slowly.

 

[Daniella_Belli]

Jaroke jeered the jolly of the jostler of jewels. "A jackanape, he is. Doesn't have to be so conceited about it. All of our collective cunning, cogs in the clockwork." The one known as "Caw" nodded, then succumbed to a series of sneezes, to dislodge the dirt that tickled his nostrils. "Rook" rummaged for his siphoned swill, sneering at the boy and his buddy before passing the flask around. "I never gave in to all that rot. Twas tempting tryst to be certain, but I'd fear 'twould wring out my wedding tackle, and ravage it with wilt." A raucous roar rang out into the night that was riddled with rain. "Twas already weathered by the whores, I'd imagine." Gnarles' retort failed to rouse anything in Ryles except for rowdy laughter, as the man rolled about in it.

"So, the bloody blower sought to poison me, eh?" Martin Mayweather reveled in his revelation, his grasp secured about the handkerchief. It was a helpful harbinger, a fogle of fortunetelling. Sage-like were its sanguine streaks, portraying portents of perils. With the soothsayer silk in hand, he felt as if he had the world by the bollocks. But such a fruitful find was fleet of flight indeed, and upon a most unsettling updraft, it took wing.

Beaks were used as battering rams upon wood, as the birds enthusiastically entreated entry. Wings waving wickedly, and feet fluttering about with ferocity. Such riotous ruckus raided her recognition, causing Opalia to cast a scornful stare at the sound. So, the pestilential pilots wanted pass? A promenade of feet placed her nearer the door, and she threw it open to the treacherous trespassers.

The linen lead chase as it was whisked away from him, and Martin scurried to steal it back from the sly squall, but it ever eluded his custody. As it lured him down the lane toward Opalia's tea room, suddenly slashes of lightning lit up the sky, the calamity of Heaven's condemnation a crackling clamor corralled the crows indoors. The window could not withstand the wrath of the winged wretches, as they sought to obliterate any obstacle in their way. She cackled as if she caught the maddened mirth! Black, beady eyes seemed ignited by the electrical interference of the firmament, the frenzied fiends flew in their faces. "What are you doing?" He cried against the commotion, a finger making a temporary stitch for his flayed flesh. "Preparing yourself to be pecked to pieces?"

The whitecapped waves that washed over her slowly ebbed away, and Opalia ogled the scene, seized by shock. Her tea room totally in tatters! Her surroundings screaming with sinister squawking! She had to keep the bloody birds at bay! Flame would frighten them, would steer them into the shadows! She would use the candles, Chadwick's chamomile infused creations!

The dampened earth made for shirking duty, shovels propped in drifts of dirt. "Death is my business and business is good!" Ryles lazed with his loot, head lolling toward Jaroke. "Liquidating the assets of those lain to rest seems to be a lucrative endeavor..." The boy agreed. "Aye, tis purely profitable! Whom would have figured that fortune ferments in a pine box? That the lifeless live in the lap of luxury? The propriety of possessions are not the only things which pocket pences, but there are also bodily boons to bulk up budgets. Selling grave wax to soap makers, fillets of fresh flesh to Folger's Market...you'd be surprised at what the starving would stomach! I've capitalized on counterfeited cosmetic aids! Age and Vanity are the con artist's most cherished cohorts in bilking those bereft of beauty."

"Grave...wax?" Asked the child, confusedly. "Aye, personally prefer the term Mortuary Mold, meself. Tis to match the morbidity of it all. In its formation, putrefaction is replaced by a permanent firm cast of fatty tissues, internal organs and the face. Tis what I learned from lifted literature, anyway." Jaroke contemplated the complexities of making masks with the application of adipocere.

The moonlight. An eburnean entity ensconced from the eyes by the ebeneous enigmas ensuing eventide. Occularly obvious or not, it emblazoned enchantment in the hearts of hopelessly hooked heroes and heroines, and was a liaison to the love and lusts of London. A lunar lilly, bore upon the buxom bust of the heavens, upon its pearlesque petals the dewdrops of passion bud. The recital of romantic rhyme oft roused of riffraff Romeos under its resplendence, but Jack looked upon it in revulsion. A vicious vicegrip about the swatch of stramineous strands, a malicious mockery of a smile marring his face.

The man looked upon the decrepitude of his deli. Financial failings made for its fiscal foundation to fracture, cash flow through its corpulent veins had been long bled barren. He was hapless through its handicap, as it hemorrhaged before his eyes. Through the horoscopic horrors of the handkerchief, he saw how he could build his business of better blood.

Conspiring with his crooked consort, his scandalous sidekick. The shameful secret he kept from the public eye. Two plump phalanges in contact with her carotid, the weighty woman in the clutches of confiscated Chloroform. Her carcass then cruelly carried to the carriage, the clomping of hectic hooves upon sodden streets.

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"Bloody bitch!" Exclaimed Martin, thinking of Opalia with a tender touch to his stinging skin that was but a landscape of lacerations. "...Batty fanged and burgled by the billowing breeze!" He watched his hat hoist from his head, and hover haphazardly. He realized that imitation was the best form of flattery, but what was the real reason that the zestful zephyr inspired to impersonate him? Was it again to lure him through the labyrinth of London to his liability?

Her mentality manacled by the malign mirage, the insidious insurgence induced by the ignition of insanity. The Baneful Blonde bent upon the body, her blade belligerent for bloodshed. Hellinka's erythropsia had long eradicated the true tinctures of her environment, as everything she saw was but of a sanguine saturation. As she masticated mutilated arterial material, the caroling of coursing cruor was heard instead of the storm.

Jaqueline felt an inexplicable emnity for the moon. Its nuances within the night sky was but a nuisance to her. She wished the inky integument would eclipse it evermore! She could feel the execrable eye enrich her with its evil effects! It burnished the benign being buried within her, acting as a beacon to bring her forth. Such timing was terrible! She couldn't afford a revolt of her body, her brain! She would shy away from it, step back into the seclusion of shade where its illumination would be imperceivable.

"Tea Tyme" became Hell's hearth, the monstrous manifestation of her misdeeds manipulated into smoldering soot. Opalia's body ousted to the outdoors, her occupational obligations obliterated. Her attire avidly ablaze, she thrashed about as to snuff out the scorching of her skin.

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"Scour the streets for more shattered souls!" Byrne Baxle barked to his brother, Brax. "The grinders growl for gore!" The man made a crippled clamor to the door, with much coercion of his congenitally contorted legs. With a look back to the Butcher, he licked his lips as if in foretasting the feast to come. "Here, mustn't let slip from your memory, your mate in murder." With a flick of his wrist, the handkerchief was flung in his direction. "Cover it in Chloroform so that nary a complication confronts and confounds you."

"Dastardly, defected dolt!" He cursed, slapping a palm to his face in disgust as the man had nodded with vigor and turned about into the door. But even the witless had their worth. Brax's arms had a herculean heft.

More. She needed MORE. Hellinka tread in tow to "Baxle's Beefy Bones," stopping short as the aria of agony arose from the alley. The malevolent maestro with the melodies of his malefic machines, the sounds of a satanic serinette seduced her senses. She heeded the hirrient hurdy-gurdy, whilst chaos commenced below Black Street.

 

[Desaecula]

Jorge had a supernatural sense about the sentencing of life detaching from the leftover lewd sack of luxury that was flesh. Indeed the dead spoke volumes more to the oft' times delinquent detective than the living ever dared could try. It was a damp dark dismal and disgustingly drab night tonight as Jorge Anthony D. Set off through the back-alleys to make his claim on The Rippers life. His teeth gritted together with a fervor that made his anger evermore powerful. what fearsome visage once was pale was now vibrant with the flush of physical exertion.

'i had trained myself in that dungeon of a basement for years.'

He spoke to himself. not with words, but in his mind regurgitating what information he knew was self-evident. a self-sustaining smattering of his ego.

'i am preparded for war like no other before me. THe ripper will die. and the next sod that kills in my streets will hang in loxely square for it'

his breathe hitched in his chest as three thugs came out of the shadows swingign bats and board at him. he dove tot he ground, sliding with his oiled leather boots on teh rain-slicked surface of the cobblestones. avoiding every attack aimed his way before drawing his cutlass from beneath the waftign cape. the jingle of metal rings on it's fore-base rang out before the first arc of blood blistered across the alleyway.

A twitching limb lay in the middle of the alley, it's previous owner too shocked to scream, staring at the nub that was his forearm, just above the elbow twas cut clean off, bone protruding, cracked and splintered, but flesh cleaved sharp away as a butchers block in the morning.

" Jaysus god, Jorge, what in hell ARE you!?" Came the words of Oliver Tanner in his mind.

"I come.. FROM HELL aswell." he growled.

Twas less than a minute later that he walked out of the alley. the severed heads of five men, lashed together with their own llong-raggedy hair and he let their agape mouths watch.

"Tonight... The Echoes guide me." he said, holding the heads up as each one of them air-lessly mumbled and mouthed the way.


Their unheard chatter. the clap of their jaws and clamp of their teeth whispered to him.

"the Ripper haunts Black Streets."

And so he was off. down on BLACK STREET.


-------------------------------

 

[Daniella_Belli]

Heels hammering to make headway, Hellinka's hastened steps hot upon the haze that coasted from the crevasses of Black Street. Her form swallowed by smoke, as she saw herself infiltrating the infusion of viscous, vermillion vapor. She envisioned the ember eidolons of the engulfing element as the slick splatters of singed scarlet, the barrage of the blaze as a spurting, sanguine serenade. She made her way through the melted matter to face Opalia's fried, frazzled frame.

Her dagger drawn, its point poised before the female's tremulous teat. Audible was the articulation of a thousand atriums, but only the symphony of silence stirred in Opalia's spirit. The drumming of her blood was detrimental in dealing her demise! Perhaps she already paid her debts to Death, as it would delay only for so long. Hellinka's dallying denied her desires. How disparaging it was! Did Death itself deign her unworthy of being its delegate? How dare it mock her deftness in doling it! Did it work to her defamation? Death was a devious deity, distracting her with this decoy. She looked upon it dully, divested of interest.

Her eyes spasmed beneath tightly shut lids. Shallow, shaky breaths as she struggled to open them. Dark eyes dilating in the dusk. Opalia saw her angelic assassin, the goddess whom governs over death. Hellinka's locks were gorgon-like in the gale, serpentine spirals suffused with sentience. The fingers of her right hand twitched, tips tapping the carbonized cobblestone. Something in them itched for interaction with her icon! Just as she prepared to pay homage with her hand, her attempts went awry!

Hellinka deducted herself from the dismal display, plucking herself off of the parboiled poppet. Fatalities factored of the felonious fang fettered by fastened fingers, she figured it fancied to be fed flesh once again.

The flickering florescence from inside drew her to the window clouded with condensation. The darkness dissipating enough to disclose the debatable domestics of the dirty domicile, Hellinka detected the despicable dough-puncher, Mrs. Betta Buttersworth. She and her crusty consumables under the critical eye of columnist Martin Mayweather, as the Housewife Held on Hunch of Homicide. Her husband's infidelities implicated the woman of ill intentions, and her pastries proved to pack potentially fatal fillings like Plaster of Paris. But, why was she safe from subjugation at Scotland Yard?

As the tick-tock of time tolled, she would discover that she was destined to die by Hellinka's hand.

In a twisted game of tug-o-war for his temporal topper, the more he advanced upon it, the further it migrated from the man. He couldn't afford to forfeit his headpiece to the wayward wind! The drafty doppleganger donning his duds? Daft! He thought, with much derision. As miscellaneous malefactors left their mark, Martin was engrossed in a match of wits against the agile air current.

The moon. She had claimed the celestial compass for her own, the halogen halo of the skies. Aluande saw herself within its superficial sheen, naught a vex visible upon her visage. It showed her supple skin, her soft smile. Arrested by the object of her admiration emulated in the eminent orb, her pleasure plagued by paroxsyms of pain as she saw fissures forming on the fulgent fixture and likened upon her looks. She succumbed to shrieking, the sounds stimulating her from slumber. Jaroke! Sapphire eyes slick with tears, she couldn't locate the lad! She heard the wrath of the wind, saw the wreckage wrought of the weather. Henna hued hair flogging her face, she bumbled blindly in the blowing breeze.

Jaroke moiled at making a makeshift mask for the motherly maiden. He was motivated to mold it to her magnificence. He didn't want the morbid model to minimize the makeup of the muscles which would lie beneath it, but he lacked the proficiency to produce something pleasing to the eye, especially out of the matter gathered. He shaped and stitched hardened hide, designing it for her disesteemed demeanor. The veneer varnished with various waxes to preserve and petrify its pattern, he perused his finished product. It was a graveolent, grafted guise, reeking of rot. The child frowned. Its abominable appearance would be an affront to Aluande! Its sickly smell would singe the cilia of her sinuses, and suffocate her!

"Hateable Habiliment!" He hocked at his hat, haggard from the hunt. Martin couldn't allow for the breeze to best him. Fatigued feet following the flow of it, halting his steps as he saw a figure approach from the distance.

"Jaroooooke!" The dregs of the downpour and her dolor distorting the call. Her cloak almost a living limb, each furtive footstep fertile of an eerie echo. "Jaroooooke!" Aluande cried, her vocalizations venting vehemence for her visage, and a weary worry for the whelp she had come to care for.

Martin's eyes widened as the grotesque geist seemed to glide toward him. Its amorphous anatomical aspects, its mangy mane. Its screams would shatter the soul! Was it some sort of oracular omen of his oncoming obliteration? Did it overpass the threshold of oblivion to drag him down to the desolate depths of Hades? A hybridized human and hellion humed in a hellish haze, and it seemed to have a hankering for his hat!

For seventeen years I have denied your true origins...Your father is alive and resides somewhere in London! He and I bred madness into the world! The monster your father truly is...His name is Jack! Wrenching of her lips into a wide smile, Jaqueline was heartened by hatred. Prejudice for her perished parent pumped through her veins, indifference for her indigent brother would induratize her to the world. Was he really her relation at all, or was it all a ruse? She wished not to take the little whoreson under her wing. The fanatical female had to find her father. It was a priority. He was the most pivotal piece to the puzzle!

She rose with an abrupt assessment of her injuries. Some scarring would occur where fabric fused with flesh, and Opalia suffered steep slashes from the raven related ruckus. She steadied herself against a wall, resting her eyes on the trinket in her hand. The gem seemed to glow to her touch. She closed her palm about it, perceiving power within the prism ...an energy which didn't exist.
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Hellinka withdrew a hand from the windowpane, contact with the condensation had created an impression of it upon the glistening glass. It was an incarnadine imprint built upon beads of blood! The Baneful Blonde stumbled back, staring at her slimy fingers as she was struck with a scare. The tempo of throbbing tissue entombed within one's exterior, the collective chambers of channels congested and clear chanted condemnation! Concussive chords of contempt!

Gushing a guttural grievance for the gory sight, Hellinka displayed a dominion over the door, furiously footing the floorboards. She saw Buttersworth at the counter, in a rumble with the rolling pin. The woman drubbing dough into docility. There were clumps and clots of it awaiting the fiery furnace, misshapen masses to be massaged by mannish hands.

It was surreal! The color of her countenance painted pale with panic. She was standing inside of a shoppe of hemic horrors! The optical obscuration of her derangement disguising the dough as the organs which offended her, furrows in the flour flushed with fluid! Flustered, Hellinka's feet failing to find a forward flow.

"...The 'ell is this?" In a temper over the trespass, squeezing the shape out of the kneaded knot she was holding. "We don't fix up freeloaders 'ere! Find yourself another fool to filch from!"

As if it were a baton in the clutches of a conductor crazed, she brandished her blade and charged at the Baker. The tip tearing through fabric and flesh, it bore into her breast. She must silence the sanguine sonata! She must be set free from her sin!