User blog:Alva the Cliff Jumper/The Crimson Hour Chapter 1: Graywall, the City of Commerce

Welcome back, pretties! Due to the huge support from the previous chapter, I decided to show the next one off. This one is subsequently longer, being 8711 words and 16 pages. It was made on January 25th because that was a question for the last one.

As always, I hope you enjoy, and feel free to give any criticism you may have at the bottom, though do realize I may not take it. Thank you for your support, and enjoy.

Chapter 1: Graywall, the City of Commerce
Beneath the gaze of the setting sun, the city known as Graywall continued to run like a never-ending machine, tireless in function and occupation. Smokestacks rose into the orange sky, blasting their dreaded fumes into the air with limitless scorn, perfectly personified in the black smoke. Below, the working class—attending to their machines like ants—worked at a breakneck pace to keep up with the cities’ limitless deadlines. Boats rocked through the river Belclaire, containing important cargo from other city-states, with carriages rolling overhead on metal bridges with the official banner of the Iscariot Church fluttering in the breeze. This was Graywall, known by a few names, such as ‘The City of Firsts’ in relation to its many accomplishments, ‘The City of Commerce’ for its expertise in trade, and ‘The City of Limitless Dawn’, acting as a direct contrast to its ugly sister to the north: Belton, the ‘City of Eternal Night’ due to the overpowering smog that hung in the sky like the shadow of death itself.

The Graywall workers lugged through the streets, corn cob pipes jutting out from beneath their rugged mustaches and beards as they hauled lumber to the docking ports or buckets of coal and molten iron to the forges, preparing another creation for the toolkit of industrial design Graywall was renowned to be. Their straining bodies—slick with sweat and covered in soot—flexed with raw strength as they continued to labor themselves like the poor dogs they had become in the name of progress, tired and starving, but still forced to work with little pay and barely any recognition coming from their masters. As for the city folk that were not leashed to the forges, they took time to appear handsome and uptight, wearing choice designer suits with matching top hats and canes, while the ladies wore sparkling dresses that reflected the rays of the waning orb in the sky. They waded through the bustling streets just like everyone else though, rarely stopping in fear of getting their pockets nipped or finding a brazen gang of revolutionaries hanging about, sticking up propaganda on the brick walls and chuckling as they made the city a nightmare to patrol during the evening hours.

But for one little building in the Third Quarter—where the industrialists and workers lived—these men of status could find solace in a tiny shop with the name ‘Amsers & Briggs Antiques’ labeled on the overhead sign, inviting guests to take refuge inside the humble establishment, recognizing days long gone for those who appreciated the past more so than the uncertain present and future.

The antique store wasn't anything too impressive upon first inspection. There were two large plate-glass windows at the front of the shop, unwanted propaganda posted all over them in support of the infamous ‘Children of the Church’, the revolutionary movement that took qualms with the Iscariot organization, their extremist members being equally ruthless as the Iscariot’s priests were pretentious. Inside, the shop was quaint, with a shelf of collectibles scattered across the right wall and a flight of stairs close by that led up to the shop owner’s abode. To the other side, a singular shelf stood alone in the center of the room. Beyond that was the exchange counter, tacky puppets and other oddities hanging from the ceiling around the register, wearing creeping grins and forced pouts to ‘amuse’ those who spied their painted facades.

Behind the register—right elbow planted on the counter with her cheek in hand—a young woman attended the station as the clerk, apron tied over her suit with appropriate pockets for her glove and other items. On a glance, one would think the sixteen-year-old girl was a boy, her hair receding into a casual pixie cut, thrown over the left side of her face and hiding the matching oculus to her seaweed green eye that watched the door with minimal interest, a sigh passing through her thin lips. However, no one could miss the rolled up sleeve replacing her left arm, showing in painstaking detail one of the two things she lacked, the other becoming apparent when she brushed some hair out of her right eye, revealing the padded cloth that lay over its blinded twin.

Amy—the name of the young Saint Victorian lass—skimmed through her spiral-bound notebook as she waited for night to finally settle, allowing her to close up shop when it did. Placing a cigarette in her mouth and sparking it with a blue lighter from her apron, the girl sat down in the sole available chair and picked up her fountain pen, drumming it across the table with flecks of ink flying out every once and awhile from her fiddling.

All over the pages of the notebook were small doodles she had made, a few falling into the sillier category, while a few others had real effort put into them. Most of the serious images were of scruffier sorts of people who had visited the shop and had their interests piqued in her craft, but her sole passion as of late was to illustrate a character that had popped up in her mind while dreaming. While the image remained hazy, the girl nevertheless tried her best to capture the visage of the mysterious charmer that had entered her dreams, unaware of the newcomer that had come through the front door and began to scan through the antiques, acting more like a chicken than an actual customer with his head poking out every once and awhile.

First to come out of the inky image was the suit, reminding Amy of ringmaster images she had seen in her storybooks when she was much younger. Next was the cane—also fitting with the entire ‘ringmaster’ motif—with a spectacular head that resembled a curled dragon, a foreign image to most besides those who were set in the ancient cultures of the South, a concept carefully taught to the girl by her father. After that was the legs and shoes, the ink perfectly capturing their color with a few choice spots of white to represent the shine. Finally, Amy began on the neck, determined to establish the face of her new figurehead as the finale. But, when the time came, the image in her mind lost its grandeur, leaving her with everything she wanted to establish besides the most important part.

“Dammit!” She spat, stabbing the pen into the notepad and piercing through a few pages before stopping. The girl continued to pant as she glared down at her most recent failure out of many, teeth grit together and eye showing how truly lost she had become due to one simple mistake. Tearing the pen out with streaks of ink following suit, Amy inspected the notepad, finding that it had pierced through the top few pages and had spewed ink all over the other drawings inside her beloved journal. Her snarl widened as she slammed her curled hand into the table and bolted up, kicking the chair over with a loud clatter.

“Why can’t I do anything right?” Amy hissed, flinging the journal away and watching as it ricocheted off the wall with a thump. The woman rubbed her forehead, feeling a small wetness in her eye as she spiraled into her own world, still ignorant of the concerned individual now in front of the counter, looking at the notebook and fuming girl in confusion.

“Uh. . .” The man stuttered, looking to Amy once more. “M-mistress Shaw—”

“What?” Amy spat, glaring up towards the startled messenger. The man raised his gloved hands and took a few steps back, clumsily hitting the shelf and knocking over a few antique lanterns off the rack, smashing down onto the ground with a clatter.

“Oops—”

“What do you want, Chauncey?” The clerk furrowed her brow, frustrated more with herself than the timid carriage driver, who was observing the twisted metal and glass laying all over the ground in mute shock.

“Um. . .W-well. . .” The man continued to mumble as he lowered to his shaking knees, brushing all of the shattered pieces into a pile. Amy stared down at the man, noting that he was still dressed in his simple trench coat with a vest, brown bowtie, and white dress shirt. His face was hidden behind a driving bandana and a pair of round, tinted glasses that reflected the radiant light of the bulbs hanging above their heads perfectly. Chauncey’s hair ran down to the nape of his neck and a little bit past his ears unevenly, greasy and demanding to be cut and cleaned in the same sitting—and soon.

As the servant continued to brush up the shattered antiques with his jittering left hand and his calmer right, Amy sighed, placing her hand on her hip and minding her disposition. Biting her lip, the girl straightened herself as she tried to correct her emotional state until it was presentable for public perception, but dark thoughts still remained behind the floodgates, fermenting there once more in preparation for another moment of despair to break the reinforcements.

“I’m. . .sorry, Chauncey,” Amy admitted after a few more seconds of tedious brushing and shuffling of the broken glass and metal framework. “There’s been a lot on my mind, as of late, and I. . .I’m just distracted. Yeah, that’s it,” the girl tried to convince herself, finally looking at the man. “So I’m sorry if I snapped at you. You. . .want any help with that? Seems you got your hands full there, Mr. Pine.”

“N-no. . .” Chauncey insisted, still failing to make any real progress besides sweeping up everything he could find that needed to be swept up, and at the rate at which he was going, soon the entire floor would be clear of all excess waste. “I. . .Insist—”

“Bollocks,” Amy waved her hand at the thought. Picking up a broom and dustpan, the young clerk moved out from behind the table and handed it over to the timid man. “Here. You take the dust pan, I take the broom. That simple, really. Do you understand?”

“I. . .I’m n-not a child, madame,” Chauncey scoffed, or the closest thing to one with his weak voice. “But if you insist. . .L-lead the way.”

Amy nodded as Chauncey set the pan down and waited for her, looking up to young girl patiently, a common trait of the driver. The servant had worked for her father as long as she cared to remember, and out of all his virtues, his patience and loyalty always impressed the young Shaw. Nevertheless, she felt pity for his weak nature and his stuttering pronunciation of everything under the sun, never having the backbone to do anything besides serve complacently. Besides that, he was a tame individual—much more so than her father in every respect—and had a timid disposition towards everything, only deciding to impress his Master and his Master’s daughter as his duty entailed. But yet here he was, as obedient and careful as ever, calming the girl down with his dull simplicity.

As the pair worked, creaks from the opposite side of the room interrupted them, a tall man descending the stairs while fumbling with his white dress shirt with his meaty fingers, covered in calluses. The man stood at the rough height of 6’4”, dirty blond hair tied back into a ponytail with the added complement of a mutton chop mustache he possessed, running down his sideburns and cheeks and looping up to connect right beneath his slightly pudgy nose. His build was fair and well-toned for someone who looked to be in their mid 40s, and from what one could see of his body beneath the shirt, his torso, abs and broad chest were covered in scars from countless fights with holy tattoos covering his hairy arms.

“Amy,” Alexander began, still looking at his shirt with his storm-gray eyes, accent thick with cockney and foreign origins. “First off: what the ‘ell was all the ruckus? Secondly: Can ya help me with this shirt? Bloody thing refuses to comply, and it's really beginnin’ to piss me the ‘ell off.”

“Yes, father,” Amy sighed, leaning the broom against the counter and walking over the last scraps of glass, to which Chauncey quickly brushed into the pan before throwing them away in the provided bin. The young girl stood before her father—the man standing a head taller than his 5’10” daughter—and began to fix them with her sole hand, the other provided by the stable arms of her father.

“So what happened again?” Alexander reminded her, knocking the girl out of her focus with a small curse and the response of gritted teeth as she tried again.

“I knocked over a few lanterns, and since Mr. Pine suddenly came about, he offered to help me,” Amy lied as she continued to focus on the buttons. “Silly me, I know, but shop’s closing up anyway, and who the Hell would miss a few dinged up lanterns?”

“You'd be surprised,” her father snorted as she finished up with the last few buttons, but not before her hand got swatted when she tried to adjust the top one. “That'll be enough, lass. Thank you for yer help.

“Aye, sir,” Amy nodded as she took a step back, her father responding by patting her head.

“Wait,” Alexander turned to Chauncey, rolling his tongue inside his rectangular jaw. “What the ‘ell are you doin’ ‘ere, mate? I told ya to go off fer the night, didn't I?”

“I. . .I'm s-sorry, sir,” Chauncey bowed, legs quivering a little at random intervals.

“Never said it was a bad thing,” Alexander pointed out with a bushy brow raised.

“F-fair enough, s-sir,” Chauncey nodded, drawing a hand inside his coat and bringing out an embroidered letter. The material was fine and made with careful hands, that much was apparent. The golden embroidery shone in Alexander’s eyes dully, barely registering. In contrast, Amy stared at the red wax seal closing it—emblazoned with the royal crucifix of the Iscariot Church—in utter disgust.

“What's that look for?” Alexander asked when he took the letter, showing off the brazen cross of wax. Amy looked away, gritting her teeth.

“I'm. . .I'm just remembering the last time we got any mail. Don't need me to repeat, do ya?”

“Can't particularly remember, so yes please.”

“Bloody thing was filled with pepper.” Amy reminded the man, pushing the letter out of her face like it was disgusting nuisance. “Please keep that thing away from me. Gives me bad memories.”

Alexander nodded solemnly and looked to the wax seal, top lines set like that of an equal sign in reference to equality, then the narrow infinity sign as a way to mark the Churches’ immortality, and finally the thin vertical lines that ran through both, acting as parallel lines till they made a rhombus together at a bottom, forming a sword; the Crucifix, and therefore wrath and blessing, of Iscariot. Some folk still carried them as signs of protection and good luck—even better if they were made out of sacred iron—much to the Churches’ joy.

“Amelia, yer knife please,” Alexander muttered absentmindedly, bringing out a hand as he looked at the front of the letter, his name written in cursive. “As fer you, Chauncey; Where’d ya get this? You didn't go to the office,did you? I find it a kind gesture of you did, but unnecessary—”

“N-no, s-sir,” Chauncey adjusted his top hat. “S-some poor b-bloke ran up to me and asked if I knew the way to A-Amsers and Briggs Antique shop. I-I told him I actually w-worked there, so he shoved the letter o-over to me in a h-hurry and demanded that I-I handed this o-off to you. Didn't say why, and h-he took off before I a-asked. F-for all h-he knew, I could’ve been lying. . .”

Alexander snorted as he gave the man a skeptical look, a similar one coming from his daughter when she flicked open her switchblade and handed it off to her old man. The shopkeeper gratefully took the knife and slipped it under the wax, slicing through with ease and handing the knife back to the capable hand of his daughter.

“Thank you, lass,” Alexander nodded, but not before noticing the sketch book on the ground, a small trail of ink staining the wall and ground from its flight. His once jovial eyes turned dull, and his small grin turned into a scowl. “What the ‘ell happened there?” He muttered, looking to his startled girl for an answer. “Lass, care to explain?”

“What? What are you looking at me for?” Amy accused dramatically, placing a hand on her chest in mock surprise.

Alexander rolled his eyes and prayed to the Lord inside his head for longevity and a new pair of ear drums by the end of the newfound quarrel. “That's your notebook, that's your pen, and that's my wall,” Alexander listed sourly. “So fix it please before I get half the mind to lower yer pay grade. Won't look serviceable with a trail of ink runnin’ down my wall. No sir, no sir.”

Amy glared at her father, snarling. “Why should I?”

Alexander raised his eyebrow once more, surprised to find so much pushback for a simple request, or a simple one in his mind. “Do I really need to explain my entire masterplan to you, lass, or do you just like makin’ things difficult for both me and you?”

Amy threw her hands into the air and stalked over to the counter, grabbing a rag and trying to clean the stains. Her father snorted—a common response he took—reminding the middleman of the situation—Chauncey—of an irritated horse after a heavy day of labor. The Captain drew out the letter from the confines of the envelope with a smaller invitation inside and set the torn paper stronghold onto the table next to him, eyes beginning to scan over the—

“It's not working!” Amy interrupted his train of thought, making the man throw his hands to the heavens with the searing question of ‘Why now?!’ thrown into his head as he glared daggers at his daughter.

“Then that's your problem,” Alexander waved off coolly.

“Could you at least help me?” Amy cursed from her position on the ground, glaring back at the man she called father.

“Wet the damn rag and clean it yourself,” Alexander called back as he wandered off to the door beneath the staircase, leading down to the basement.

“Where in the world are you going?” Amy barked at him, the man sighing in tired frustration.

“Downstairs,” Alexander remarked as he opened the door.

“For what?” Amy asked as she got up and tilted her head a little.

“Fer some peace and quiet, thank you very much!” Alexander waved as he closed the door behind him, finally allowing the Captain to address the epistle in hand that had garnered so much attention from his working mind. Making certain he was far enough away from the door so a mischievous ear could not hone in on any reaction he had, the man thundered down the stairs into the dusty basement. The original mortar was still mostly intact, with a workshop on one side of the room, a lamp and bits n’ bobs scattered all over the table. To the other side—next to an oddly placed shrine—was the gas generator, rattling away with its electrical energy. Returning to the letter in hand and flipping it open, Alexander began to read;

 Addressed to Captain Alexander ‘Falkar’ Marcus Shaw of the Iscariot Crown,

''Good day, Alexander. While I must be brief with this letter, even more so when I have to send a similar revision to each of your fellow Captains, I wish to preface this letter by asking ‘how are you?’ and ‘how is Amy?’. I wish I could interact with my Captains more often, but as of now, my hands are currently tied behind my back on such matters of personal interest, due to the Church and their Black Eyes inspecting my quarters daily. ''

''As for why I write this letter to you, dear friend, a chilling piece of information has arrived through the grapevine to me, confirming our worst fears; Belton has fallen to the likes of beasts, and so the Ash Mouths have failed. It’s doubtless that Captain Tremblin will be up-in-arms upon hearing this issue, demanding for more time on this situation, but results have not been favorable, and we are shedding valuable resources in his mission.''

'' So, it is my great shame to announce that an emergency meeting of the Crown must be held and led by yours truly with at least one Black Eye present for the matter. Your fellow Captains Luet Teleman, Sheppard Flint, Rose A. Fernwell, Brent C. Faultier, and Horace P. Tremblin will be present as well, of course, to give their insight, but I implore you through the power vested in me to arrive for the banquet in two days time (77th of the Autumn Season). Failure to reach this event will induce an instant reprimand, and a new Captain will be found to replace you, just like any other Captain that fails to appear. As for the invitation, you will find it inside the envelope you currently possess, so you will be covered on that front. ''

''This is a matter of emergency and must be kept secret. Even from your daughter, I am sad to say. I will post my most trusted Crows on this matter, and I will make certain that this does not reach the eyes or ears of the Church. Iscariot only knows what would happen if they knew about this matter. They would find it as ‘an ordained opportunity’, no doubt, to take her from your care. Or attempt to, of course. ''

'' But I run out of space, and I wish you my best. There is both an invitation in the envelope and a train ticket, and I promise on my good name that your daughter will be safe with those chosen for this job.''

''Yours Truly, King James Richards of the Iscariot Brigade, son to James the Great''

Alexander scanned over the letter once more, trying to understand what lay so clearly worded before him. Thoughts drifted in and out of his mind as he closed the letter with a sigh, gray eyes seeking refuge to the reverent image hung on the wall depicting a rising figure breaking through the clouds with a sword remarkably close to the Holy Crucifix. Behind this ascended being were six ghostly faces, each one depicting one of the six house leaders of the original Iscariot Crown: Ezekiel of the Hounds of Heaven, St. Traft of the Judicators, Rat Trapper Martian of what would soon become the infamous Iscariot Ash Mouths, Sir Walter Thatcher of the Constables, Professor Grand of the Surgeons Accord, and Tradesmen Iza Paller of the Bloodletter Trade Committee. The art was merely a recreation of the one in the Central Museum of Art & Design, but it was damn close to the original, which was the overall intention. Folding the letter and slipping it into his pant pocket, the Captain kneeled before the image, unlit candlesticks sprouting up all around the scarlet cloth the man kneeled on. Cupping his hands together, Alexander began to pray. He wished for solace for those lost under the Great Deceiver’s shroud. Eternal damnation for the beasts that were purged in the name of Iscariot’s wrath, though that prayer was brief compared to the rest. Such mongrels only deserved a singular thought in the mind of the Iscariot Captain. A new beginning for the city that was purged. But overall, he asked his Lord for the safe future of their people and for a future that was serviceable for his daughter in the end. That would be a dream come true to the man of many titles and pasts.

Content that his prayer had been given, Alexander rose, strong hands twitching in anticipation as he neared the painting, brow furrowed. Bringing a hand out, the Captain undid the hidden latch behind the portrait and swung it open, revealing the heavy door of a safe. The lock was a complicated combination of a dial and a key, to which the Hound Captain quickly went to work on, still sorting through his thoughts from the letter. To begin, Alexander was impressed with James’ timing for the letter, chancing that it would get to the Captains in time, which it had. Next up on the Hound’s metaphorical platter as he worked on the door was the failure to clear Belton on the account of the Ash Mouths. They were terrifying zealots of pure rage that would rather die than see their empire fall to the scourge that plagued them from the depths of Hell, and fought on tirelessly for their duty to be fulfilled. In the Churches’ extensive history—which began even before the Hound had made his pact outside of the Churches’ ranks—the Ash Mouths had never failed to complete a mission in the name of their Lord, so such a failure to meet expectations was staggering to members new and old. Alexander sighed at the thought as he got the door open and revealed the contents inside: his weapons of trade, used to slay countless beasts in the name of their Lord. In his opinion, once they’d been purged like the monsters they were, the souls of the dead could sort it out from there.

Alexander’s thoughts were interrupted as the cellar door was opened, and feet began to creak down the stairs. Instead of immediately dealing with the unannounced visitor, Alexander slipped a hand into the large safe and drew out a box of cigarettes he had left inside as a little present for himself whenever such an occurrence arose as another night of beasts and Hunters. Lighting the end of the white rod, Alexander puffed out a cloud of smoke as he turned around, already beginning with his sentence before his eyes fell on the staircase. “Amy,” Alexander grunted. “I told you not to come down hea—” His voice dropped dead when he fully turned around, instead of finding his rebellious youth, he found a man he had never seen before. The intruder wore a black button up jacket with golden pop-on buttons, a matching pair of black work pants that had dust all over them, a pair of once-shining dress shoes covered in mud, a courier bag to his side, and tipped down over his head lay a kepi hat, bashed in with some nasty holes the man made no attempt to correct.

“Who the ‘ell are you?” Alexander asked suspiciously, sizing up the man. The man rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well, sir. That letter you have there,” the man began, having a noticeably less-refined accent than Alexander was originally expecting. “That was nabbed from me, and—”

“Oi, hold on,” Alexander raised a hand, stopping the man. “Why the ‘ell are you in my basement then? I got the letter, big whoop, we can all have a good day. No reason to barge in here all uncivil like. . .Unless. . .” Alexander trailed off as the ‘messenger’ began to open up his satchel, placing a hand in it and rustling around until he found his item of interest, followed by a subtle click—

Disillusioned by the clear evidence that the fellow before him was not an Iscariot courier in the slightest, Alexander flew back into the safe and drew out a small satchel while the attacker drew out a revolver. Pulling back the trigger, the intruder fired, but missed as something was thrown into his shoulder, forcing him to drop the weapon with a hiss. “Bloody Hell!” The man cursed in pain as he held his elbow, inspecting the wound to find a 4-inch dart sticking out of his shoulder, blood now beginning to coat the unconventional weapon. Unintelligently, the ruffian dragged the dart out, hissing in pain once it was free. “Goddammit!”

“Just who the ‘ell are ya, mate?” Alexander snarled, cracking his knuckles. The fake messenger looked up and gritted his teeth, yellowed from years of poor hygiene.

“A believer in the cause,” the man snarled. “And I take it you’re the good ol’ Captain Shaw then, eh?”

“Aye, who’s askin’?” Alexander responded, still bewildered with the situation. A Parish assassin? Couldn’t be. The Parish of the Northern Frontier and the Iscariots had been in a stalemate of peace ever since the Great War, and had much thicker accents of different origins. A revolutionary then? Seemed to be the most likely case with the details Chauncey had given about the previous messenger.

“No one much, really,” the man spat. “Just a cog in the machine. But no longer do I churn ta yer will. No longer. I stand fer myself now, and I’d suggest ya be mighty careful if you try ta throw another one of those damn darts at me, ya blighta.”

“Or what?” Alexander snarled, tilting his head a little. The revolutionary smiled with a cruel grin. “All it takes is one call. . .And yer lil’ boy upstairs is losin’ his pride and joy. Mark my words on that. Ol’ Sally Sue has hated boys ever since she was a youngin’, and I think levin’ such a youngster upstairs was none-too-smart, if ya ask me,” the man warned crudely as he clung to his wound. “Now we’re gonna do this civil-like, ok? I ask ya a few questions, yer boy keeps the sole thing he’s good for, yea get me?”

Alexander grit his teeth and steeled his jaw, but remained motionless. Then, suddenly, the cruelest noise came from him: laughter. The revolutionary stared on in disbelief as the once solemn Captain began to laugh mirthlessly at his words, holding his sides like he was about to double over. The man continued for a few more moments before finally gaining control of himself once more, wiping his eyes more for a gesture of sarcasm than actually clearing them of anything.

“What the bloody ‘ell are ya laughin’ fer? Ya heard me, didn’t you, ya damn cun—”

“Why don’t you shut the ‘ell up, ya blind-ass scumbag,” Alexander retorted ferociously like a wolf. “Because if ya can’t even tell my child’s a girl, then there is no chance in Hell that yer gonna be gettin’ away with this,” Alexander chuckled. “But, to amuse ya, ya damn trike, fire away. Question me and have yer fun,” the man held up a finger as a final note. “But mark my words hea: this doesn't mean you won. Far from it. I just find yer attempt at takin’ the situation by storm to be amusin’. So step right up and give me your best shot. I’m all ears.”

“First off,” the revolutionary ordered. “Kick those darts ova hea. Now!” “Fine,” Alexander grinned. “Didn’t want ‘em anyway,” he replied honestly—or as honestly as he cared to be—as he kicked them over. The revolutionary grabbed it and opened up the bag, taking a dart. Trying to figure out how to use it, the assailant put it between his ring finger and middle finger and tried to hurl it at the Hunter in revenge for his own wound, but instead flung it into the workshop, the metal rod ricocheting off with splinters flinging themselves everywhere.

Alexander whistled at the pathetic attempt. “And hea I thought I was bad when I first began, but now hea you are, teachin’ me the ropes. I’m impressed.”

“Oh, shut the ‘ell up, ya damn shiner!” The revolutionary yelled in frustration, wincing as his wound acted up again.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Alexander shrugged as he took a step back and leaned against the safe, arms crossed and eyes clearly showing he was unimpressed so far with his attacker’s moves or motives. Quite stale, in his opinion. The revolutionary took off his kepi hat and scratched his lice-infested head in frustration, trying to process what to do. Finally settled with an idea, the man adjusted his hat and stared at the Captain with a defeated look. “I was always wonderin’, ya know. . .Since I neva had enough money to come in hea and buy somethin’,” the man said, clearly going off on a tangent by the way he processed himself. “Why’d you name this place ‘Asmers & Briggs’? Did ya. . .bugger ‘em ‘er somethin’?”

Alexander snorted into a chuckle, entertained by the pure, useless question presented to him by a lower tier lifeform. “No, I didn’t bugger ‘em, ya one trick pony. And if I said ‘I laminated ‘em in honey and ate ‘em’, I think you’d take my word fer it, so I’ll tell ya the truth,” Alexander teased, making the man hiss in fury. “Amsers and Briggs were a pair of brothers I met durin’ the war. Cartographers, I think. Don’t know, can’t remember,” the Captain scratched his beard in thought. “But anyway, those two were a kind pair that always lightened up our moods in the trenches till they were relocated mission side to take pictures of the dead ones fer the papers, back in the day. Never saw those two since, but I hope to see ‘em one day. Nice lads, they were, but I’m just repeatin’ myself at this point.”

“But wasn't the war 60 years ago?” The revolutionary asked in confusion, trying to do the math. “How does that make any sense—”

“That’s it,” Alexander interrupted, moving off the safe. “I’m bored.” He stated plainly, adjusting his dress shirt and cracking his neck. “Now, bugger, are ya gonna fight—”

The revolutionary drew a knife from the back of his belt and lunged forward with the blade aiming down. “Die, you bastard!”

“—and that answers my question,” Alexander muttered as he sidestepped the initial blow with ease. The revolutionary growled as he turned, slicing forward once more, which was subsequently dodged, then tried to hook back with the blade, which also missed as Alexander hopped all the way back to the workbench, rear up against the wooden table as the revolter barreled towards him with the knife blade honing in on the Captain’s chest like a spear head. Snorting at the simple strike, Alexander moved to the side again and placed a kick into the man’s shin, making him nearly trip over. Taking the fight to his attacker, Alexander grabbed the man’s wrist with his right hand and the arm with his left as he forced his foot into the crippled leg to keep his opponent off-balance. Satisfied that his hold was strong, Alexander twisted the man’s arm to force some serious pain into the grunting revolutionary.

“Are you done yet?” Alexander asked horsley. “Because I grew tired with this lil get-together as soon as you got in here, and that was what? Five minutes ago?”

“Screw. Off!” The revolutionary cried as he tried to jerk his arm away, but found no give as Alexander sighed.

“And people say I am difficult to work with,” he muttered. “Sorry fer this lad. No hard feelings, eh?” The Captain asked as he twisted the arm a little more and raised his left arm. The assailant watched on in horror as the appendage was raised into the air, then the elbow struck down into the soft part of the revolutionary's limb, breaking his arm with a sharp crack.

“Dammit all to Hell!” The revolutionary screamed as he rolled away, clinging onto his arm with tears streaming down his face. The grim Captain watched the man bitterly, walking after him as the poor soul tried to crawl over to the gun lying on the ground.

“C’mon, bastard,” Alexander growled, almost becoming a different person as he loomed over the struggling soul on the ground before him. “I thought you bastards were tough. The ‘toughest of the tough’, eh?” Alexander quotes, remembering a particular speech the revolutionary leader, Callum Grahm, had performed once in broad daylight. “Us Saint Victorian’s can stand a Hell of a lot more than those Parishite bastards off in the North, let me tell you that,” he continued to snarl as he flipped the man over, who tried to protect his face with his broken arm. “Please. . .no. . .” “Shut the ‘ell up!” The Captain barked down at the man, kicking him in the shin. “You bring shame to us all! We can withstand knives, bullets, and guns like no other through the might of our Lord, but here you buggers are, bringin’ great shame to the entire nation,” the Captain ranted, taking careful note as the other hand of the revolutionary began to reach for the gun. “But you don’t care, do ya? You just want to reap our entire nation dry without any regard for the people’s well-being, regardless of what you damn trikes say. So, you disgust me like the vermin that you are.” “B-but, but. . .” the revolutionary tried to reason weakly, hand wrapping around the revolver. “We do this for the people! No more tyrants! No more Church! Freedom for the people, by the people! Without a faulty God! Without fear! We will do anything to save our people! Even kill the filthy stalk to do so!” He screamed as he raised the revolver towards Alexander, but it was far too late as Alexander slapped the weapon away.

This turned out only to be a rouse though, as the broken arm tossed over a dart into its working partner and allowed the revolter to plunge the dart into the soft part of Alexander’s leg. The Captain cursed as he nearly fell over onto the man who had planned to choke out the Captain, but he would not succumb to such a frivolous battle. Instead, he drew the dart out of his leg and grabbed the man’s broken arm, gritting his teeth.

“The first time, lad,” Alexander hissed, eyes wide with indomitable fury. “I was truly honest with feelin’ bad,” he raised his non-injured leg as he brought the limp arm up like a piece of wood. “Now, usin’ that metaphor again of you bein’ a Goddamn vermin,” he cried as he brought his leg back for a powerful side thrust kick. “Be crushed under the heel of our Lord almighty, forgotten in the guts of your own failure.” He snarled his final words as the kick struck right into the twitching appendage and shattered it into kingdom come, knocking the poor soul out for a short while.

The Captain panted, looking down at the poor sod. “Bastard,” he muttered, spitting on the unconscious body and tentatively touching his injured leg with a wince. Blood seeped down his pant leg as he turned and limped over to the safe, desperately reaching inside with a quaking hand, continually reminded of the sanguine liquor dripping all over the back of his leg. After a few moments of searching around inside the metal container, his hand fell onto his bag, then began to sort inside, almost instantly finding his item of frantic searching, pulling it out cap first.

Sliding down onto his rear against the wall, the Captain settled the sloshing flask before him, looking down at the gleaming lid of the metal container. On the side, engraved into the flask, was an entire oath written in a language far removed from the Iscariot’s tongue, but still making sense to the Captain’s grim eyes as he undid the cap and opened the vessel, the smell hitting him first.

“Here comes ‘ell,” Alexander rolled his eyes before downing the bitter substance, feeling the rush of alcohol and the bitter tang of iron fill his throat as he downed the liquid for a few gulps, then removed the flask from his lips with a gurgle. Wiping a hand across his whiskers, Alexander leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes and feeling the mixture do its work, running through his veins like fire.

The changes, at first, were subtle, coming from his neck most specifically as the blue veins began to turn black. Next, a small shiver ran through Alexander’s system as some of his fingers began to shake and the veins on them began to stand out more. Finally, the Captain felt a soothing chill run down his spine and settle into his leg, and soon the bleeding stopped, allowing the Captain to sigh in relief.

Alexander moved his leg back so he could view where the wound had been placed, satisfied when he found the puncture sealed, a black mark—almost like a liver spot—now replacing the injury. Snorting, the Captain got up and pocketed the flask, adjusting his shirt more for relief than for fashion, and scanned over the mess with a scowl.

A low groan came from the other side of the room, distracting the Captain from his own thoughts as the once-unconscious revolutionary came to, moving around and trying to sit up with his good arm, blinking rapidly. As soon as he saw the Captain however, his groans ended and a yelp came out as he remembered where he was in a flash, horror striking his entire body. The most could do was try to shuffle back from the Captain, now gripping his infamous dueling partner from the locker, the weapon simply known as ‘Old Judgment’ to those who faced the judicial blade.

“Wait! Wait wait wait!” The revolutionary pleaded as he raised his hand in an attempt to stop the Captain, but Alexander’s mind was deadset when he drew the executioner sword in front of him—ornate with scrawled names on one side, a list of laws on the other—and began to charge. The man continued to beg as the Captain drew near and raised the deadly, oversized blade straight over his head and swung down with a devastating blow that would slice a foe into halves. The revolutionary welded his eyes shut when the blade descended, ready to feel the famous disorientation and out-of-body experience that was rumored to happen when one was killed, though that had been a mere rumor from a shady sideshow the man had attended. After a few more moments with his eyes welded shut, the man chanced a look at his surroundings, surprised that he was still alive. In fact, the 7.5-centimeter width of the blade was embedded into the ground right next to his head, devoid of a tip, but still, the rumors of evil forces running through the metal seemed to become reality as it laid there menacingly in the shifting light of the bulb overhead.

“Oi, trike,” the hoarse voice of his would-be victim snarled, waking the man up out of his daze and turn his head over to the grim face of the Captain leaning over him, ponytail trailing down right next to his head. “Look me in the eyes.” So the man did, looking at the Captain with uncertainty, holding his breath for every second.

“W-what do you want—”

“You lost,” the Captain put simply. “And, unlike you. . .” he warned as he leaned forward, almost face to face with the injured man on the ground. “I dropped the urge to kill mankind after the war. My taste for death was settled then, in the twisted mire of my fallen brothers and sisters who fell under the fire of the Parish artillery, ceaselessly striking the fields like the stampede of 1,000 hooves,” the Captain described. “And to be honest, it should have been settled 30 years before that, when the South and their Legion—those who I once called ‘brothers-in-arms’—ran through your land with ease, almost like cutting down wheat with a sickle, but that’s just my spin on it,” Alexander bitterly mused, looking away from the man and into his own past for a moment. “But I never joined that, did I? I guess not. But yet I had to let it get to me like the young fool I was. . .How foolish to think that after so many years of servitude, I would understand a damn thing. . .How foolish of me. . .” The revolutionary looked at the man, unable to properly talk his way out of the situation, much less understand what the Captain was proposing. The gnarled store owner continued to stare off into space for a few more moments, then snapped himself back to reality. Rising back up to his full height, the Hunter drew his blade from the ground next to the man’s head, turning on his heel and returning it to its home. “W-wait!” The would-be attacker yelled over to him with a small voice, Alexander turning back. “What?” The Captain snarled, raising an eyebrow. “I let you live but you still want to speak? What the ‘ell is wrong with ya and wantin’ death so bad? I ain’t given it, so screw off!”

“But. . .but why?” The man asked. “Didn't I just tell you?” Alexander demanded in frustration. “More so than others, even! You should be honored!” “But why? We. . .we were told you damn Captains were heartless killers, who had no remorse fer yer. . .fer their own people,” the revolutionary tried to reason, concluding with loss of any subsequent words. “Well, mate,” Alexander put simply. “In the Hounds, we don’t kill men. We are far, far past that point,” he said, looking away from the man, lost in his own thoughts again soon after. “Nay, we fight things much worse than the common folk could ever provide.

“Now up with you!” Alexander demanded as he stalked over and kicked the man onto his back with a grunt, lifting him up into an armbar. “Stop strugglin’, stop strugglin’! I’m takin’ you upstairs so you and yer damn Sully Sue ‘er whatever can screw off and leave me and my daughter alone! Do you understand me, trike?” “Yes! Yes! Ow!” The man cursed as he was led up the stairs first by the strong-armed Captain until they reached the top. From there, Alexander opened the door and kicked the man through, who spilled out with a curse as he lay there in a daze.

Since Alexander had gone downstairs, the room had become quite a mess. Antiques were strewn everywhere with broken bits n’ bobs, Chauncey was lying on the ground next to the counter, clearly knocked out, and at the passageway that led behind the exchange counter Amy was fighting off the woman the fake messenger had mouthed on about, dressed in a rugged attire with a flat cap, sleeveless shirt and fingerless gloves. On the other side, Amy wielded the broom she had been using earlier, swatting at the woman with clumsy strokes, but that was more due to the inconsiderate weight for one-armed use instead of negligence in combat. “Father!” The girl cried when she saw him, clearly startled with the cacophony of things all going on at once. While she was distracted, however, Sue grabbed the broom and tugged it away from the girl, but not before hitting Amy dead in the chest with the bristles, nearly making her double over when the woman struck. “That all?” The female revolutionary mocked, ignoring Alexander's arrival and taking it as a reverse of the situation that had gone on downstairs as she broke the broom over her leg and tossed one side away, using the end as a bat as she began to approach Amy. “Is the weak little girl gonna hiss and moan? C’mon then. Cry for me. Cry—!”

The revolutionary—much like her partner—would soon come to regret her words as Amy drew her switchblade from her pocket and sliced forward when the woman reverted her attention to the body on the ground, suddenly coming to realize the levels of trouble she was in by this point. The blade sliced across the woman's cheek, sending a splatter of blood across the still inky wall, that slid down with the ebony black. Sue began to move back, holding her cheek in surprise as she dropped the makeshift bat, looking up to only find a punch landing itself right into the center of her face, breaking her nose. “Dammit!” Sue cried as she backed up into the shelf, finding herself cornered as Amy continued forward, utterly lost in her own aggression as she flipped the blade and raised it overhead in a downward motion to strike the woman in her left eye.

“Amy!” Alexander barked, distracting the girl from her fatal blow as the female revolutionary fell to the side to escape, but not before grabbing at Amy's face, hooking onto the patch of cloth and ripping it off. Sue looked up in surprise, trying to understand what she grabbed until she found Amy staring down at the eyepatch, revealing the gruesome wound covering her left eye.

Brazen there was the Crucifix of Iscariot, scorched deep into the young girl’s flesh, marking a grim image on the girl’s overall fair features. Amy’s hand flew up to the revealed wound, but it was too late as the woman snarled and prepared her worst insult. “The Wretched Child!” Sue declared harshly. “Here you were, this entire time, you traitor! How does it feel, knowing that you made this happen? That you caused so much grief? How does it feel, knowing that you got so many people killed because you were so selfish as to say ‘No’?”

“Shut up!” Amy screamed as she raised the knife into the air and stabbed down into the woman’s elbow, making the woman cry out in pain as Amy began to twist. The girl leaned down and watched Sue’s pain, wearing a mix between a scowl and a small grin. “Now I ask you,” Amy repeated, her eye showing no compassion for the woman on the floor. “How does it feel?” “Amy!” Alexander barked, grabbing her arm and tearing it away from the knife. The girl looked up in surprise, only to take a boot from the revolutionary as Sue got up, tore the knife out of her arm, grabbed her partner, and escaped. The Captain cursed as the girl fell to the ground, but instead of helping her up he ran after the two as they bolted out of the door and into the night.

Waving his fist after them, Alexander began to yell threats their way as they ran. “Go on! Run off! If you come hea again, I’ll shove a grenade up yer arse and pull the bloody pin! Now go off! Run! God will be comin’ fer ya soon, and when he does,” Alexander continued to yell until they merged with the night. “He will turn you into the monsters you truly are, and then you’ll be sorry! Trust me on that!”

Turning back and wiping his jaw, the large image of the Hunter filled the doorway, staring down at his daughter, tears streaming down her face as she clung onto her eyepatch. Turning her gaze to the towering man, she looked at him with her scornful eye before turning away, bottom lip quivering until she shattered into sobs, stood shakily, and ran upstairs, leaving Alexander overlooking the unconscious body of his timid carriage driver and his own feelings. The Captain looked down at the body and ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “I need a bloody drink. . .”