Post by Stix on Apr 23, 2007 17:03:15 GMT -5
A lone figure sits alongside Boneyard Pond, another of Sigil's dingy, disgusting bodies of brown, fetid water -- really, just a fifty-yard-wide depression in the streets that collects oily rain and bodies. Even when the Collectors come by with weighted ropes and nets, dredging for corpses to take to the Dustmen and turn into jink, they never manage to empty it of all its deaders. The stench of the place and its proximity to the Slags keeps away all but the most desperate or barmy, leaving this one of the quietest and darkest places in the entire Cage. Indeed, it's only the light of a pair of candles in a nearby window that allows sight at all.
The sliding of a heavy shutter breaks the silence as one of Ridnir Tetch's laborers in the Weary Spirit opens the way to the morgue chute. Another body is hoisted out the window, sliding several feet before catching on the heavily splintered boards. Faint curses rise from within the building, followed by the scraping of a metal pole against the wood, finally dislodging the husk, which slaps wetly against the surface of the water before being greedily devoured by the blackness. The pond's sloshing noises die down after it adjusts to its newest addition. The muted wail of an infirmary patient is drowned out by the antipeak bell of a distant Clerk's Ward clock tower -- and all is silent once again.
A beggar, young but already slouched under his intangible burdens, eases his way out of a narrow alley, heaving a cough with an almost equine noise. Glimpsing the faintest silhouette of someone seated by the pond, he shuffles over in that direction. The pond's rot and waste don't deter him in the least.
"Oy, cutter," the sod starts, defeat the only thing his tone is strong enough to carry. "C'n ya spare a copper so's I c'n sleep in a bed t'night?"
"No. Pike it."
The slumped sod doesn't bother with a retort -- doesn't even blink -- only turning away to limp along the edge of the pond, back toward the alley he'll be calling home again tonight.
He never sees the knife.
It plunges between his spine and shoulderblade with such force that the fist clenched around its grip hammers against him, dropping him to his hands and knees. A bloody gurgle escapes his lips as his killer exults over him in reverent silence.
The beggar's thought that he will be left to bleed out here is cut short as the relentless assault continues. The blade perforates flesh and organs, scraping against bone, as the murderer strikes again and again. Each blow sounds a rhythmic thump into the night, the bloody, staccato symphony of the Hive Ward.
The sliding of a heavy shutter breaks the silence as one of Ridnir Tetch's laborers in the Weary Spirit opens the way to the morgue chute. Another body is hoisted out the window, sliding several feet before catching on the heavily splintered boards. Faint curses rise from within the building, followed by the scraping of a metal pole against the wood, finally dislodging the husk, which slaps wetly against the surface of the water before being greedily devoured by the blackness. The pond's sloshing noises die down after it adjusts to its newest addition. The muted wail of an infirmary patient is drowned out by the antipeak bell of a distant Clerk's Ward clock tower -- and all is silent once again.
A beggar, young but already slouched under his intangible burdens, eases his way out of a narrow alley, heaving a cough with an almost equine noise. Glimpsing the faintest silhouette of someone seated by the pond, he shuffles over in that direction. The pond's rot and waste don't deter him in the least.
"Oy, cutter," the sod starts, defeat the only thing his tone is strong enough to carry. "C'n ya spare a copper so's I c'n sleep in a bed t'night?"
"No. Pike it."
The slumped sod doesn't bother with a retort -- doesn't even blink -- only turning away to limp along the edge of the pond, back toward the alley he'll be calling home again tonight.
He never sees the knife.
It plunges between his spine and shoulderblade with such force that the fist clenched around its grip hammers against him, dropping him to his hands and knees. A bloody gurgle escapes his lips as his killer exults over him in reverent silence.
The beggar's thought that he will be left to bleed out here is cut short as the relentless assault continues. The blade perforates flesh and organs, scraping against bone, as the murderer strikes again and again. Each blow sounds a rhythmic thump into the night, the bloody, staccato symphony of the Hive Ward.