The evening air was cool, comfortable, and inviting. Up and down the London street, antiquated street lamps formed an orderly line, balls of pleasant yellow light hovering in the darkness, casting their glow upon the sleepy layer of low-lying fog that had rolled off of the Thames and blanketed the city. From afar, countless moths came to dance with one another, turning each lamp into their own personal ball room. Every so often, a pair of headlights would pierce through the fog as a car rounded the corner and sighed by like a boat down the River Styx.
It was on this street that a particular Inn was located. The building was old, a remnant of a past era that plainly refused to die. Its windows brimmed with a welcoming light, and the shadows of its patrons moved energetically behind the glass. Most of the patrons. Except for one.
He was content to enjoy the night, preferring its company to that of the strangers indoors, polite though they may have been. Although old music drifted from an open window somewhere above down to the adjoining patio wherein he kept to himself, he didn't need it. He was often wont to let the night speak for itself, as it made beautiful music on its own. That wasn't to say the music wasn't beautiful. Annette Hanshaw had a very lovely voice.
At a round, metal table, seated comfortably beneath the night sky, he laid ink to paper. In his porcelain fingers, he gently held a rather expensive-looking fountain pen, wooden with gold-colored metal accents. Ink flowed from its pointed tip and onto the blank pages of a personal journal, bound with leather, to form lines of neatly-written cursive. Stone gray eyes set into flawless white skin and framed with charcoal-colored hair watched over them as they were organized into the verses of a short poem. Every so often, he would stop to contemplate the lines he had written so far, and what to write next, turning his pen over in his hand and fiddling absently with the high collar of his dark gray coat, adjusting it, then readjusting it, before adjusting it again. He sometimes tapped the toe of his boot against the red brick beneath him in time to the music that trickled down from on high.
Soon, his tranquility was interrupted. A stranger unlatched the wrought-iron gate set into the stone wall that separated the small courtyard from the street beyond, and entered, closing it again behind them, the hinges indicating that they were in need of a drink. The figure was male in appearance, yet faceless, identity concealed by the collar of its overcoat, and the shadow that fell from the brim of its hat. Silently, the stranger glided to the table at which he was seated, placed a folded newspaper before him, and departed the same way they had come.
The Inn patron, alone in the night once again, smoothly replaced his pen and shut his journal, returning them both to their home within the confines of his coat. He took the paper in hand, unfolding it slowly to release the folded document tucked away within. He set the newspaper aside, lifting the document to his eyes, and bringing its words under scrutiny.
It read:
Sellsword,
as instructed, you are to surveil Hellsing's operations until further notice. Your payment has been transferred to an offshore account. The details of the account and the transaction record are enclosed. Report any findings of use to Millenium to the contact listed below. Particularly useful information may be rewarded with additional benefits. Do not disappoint us, Herr Korzha.
Destroy this document.
After a brief moment spent mentally recording the appropriate information, Mihai produced a metal lighter and set fire to the folded page, eagle and swastika vanishing in a tongue of flame and smoke. He snapped the lighter closed, dispersing the ashes with his foot. Returning the lighter to his pocket, Mihai turned his attention toward the newspaper that had formed the envelope for his message, left opened on top of the table. His eyes were immediately drawn to an article on one of the pages within.
ANOTHER BODY FOUND; MURDER RATE ON THE RISE
Continuing the disturbing trend brought to the attention of law enforcement officials approx. three weeks ago, another victim has been found dead in their home in the suburbs of London. The victim, Jenine Hereford (25), was discovered Sunday morning by her family. Police report that the body was drained of blood, seemingly while she slept.
"The circumstances of the young woman's death are highly unusual," said the county coroner in an interview on Monday. "There are no signs of a struggle. If the murder took place in the room, no evidence has been found to support the presence of an assailant. Another, equally-strange possibility is that her body was placed there. But how anyone could position a body so naturally is a mystery."
This victim marks the fifth in a string of murders occurring in and around the city of London. Law enforcement advises locking one's doors in the evenings and
Continued on page E4, see MURDERS
A picture was included in the article, displaying the fair features of the deceased. Mihai looked at her for a while, his eyes glassing over briefly as a pleasant memory played in his mind. His fingers traced the two-dimensional contours of the girl's cheek. As he stared into the eyes of the young woman the world had lost, a cheap imitation made from droplets of ink, his lips curled upward into a certain smile, an innocent human expression made bloodcurdling by some otherworldly trait.
Mihai returned to his poetry for several hours before the sky lightened, a harbinger of the coming morning, whereupon rest beckoned for him, and he retreated inside the Inn to his room to sleep.
It was on this street that a particular Inn was located. The building was old, a remnant of a past era that plainly refused to die. Its windows brimmed with a welcoming light, and the shadows of its patrons moved energetically behind the glass. Most of the patrons. Except for one.
He was content to enjoy the night, preferring its company to that of the strangers indoors, polite though they may have been. Although old music drifted from an open window somewhere above down to the adjoining patio wherein he kept to himself, he didn't need it. He was often wont to let the night speak for itself, as it made beautiful music on its own. That wasn't to say the music wasn't beautiful. Annette Hanshaw had a very lovely voice.
At a round, metal table, seated comfortably beneath the night sky, he laid ink to paper. In his porcelain fingers, he gently held a rather expensive-looking fountain pen, wooden with gold-colored metal accents. Ink flowed from its pointed tip and onto the blank pages of a personal journal, bound with leather, to form lines of neatly-written cursive. Stone gray eyes set into flawless white skin and framed with charcoal-colored hair watched over them as they were organized into the verses of a short poem. Every so often, he would stop to contemplate the lines he had written so far, and what to write next, turning his pen over in his hand and fiddling absently with the high collar of his dark gray coat, adjusting it, then readjusting it, before adjusting it again. He sometimes tapped the toe of his boot against the red brick beneath him in time to the music that trickled down from on high.
Soon, his tranquility was interrupted. A stranger unlatched the wrought-iron gate set into the stone wall that separated the small courtyard from the street beyond, and entered, closing it again behind them, the hinges indicating that they were in need of a drink. The figure was male in appearance, yet faceless, identity concealed by the collar of its overcoat, and the shadow that fell from the brim of its hat. Silently, the stranger glided to the table at which he was seated, placed a folded newspaper before him, and departed the same way they had come.
The Inn patron, alone in the night once again, smoothly replaced his pen and shut his journal, returning them both to their home within the confines of his coat. He took the paper in hand, unfolding it slowly to release the folded document tucked away within. He set the newspaper aside, lifting the document to his eyes, and bringing its words under scrutiny.
It read:
Sellsword,
as instructed, you are to surveil Hellsing's operations until further notice. Your payment has been transferred to an offshore account. The details of the account and the transaction record are enclosed. Report any findings of use to Millenium to the contact listed below. Particularly useful information may be rewarded with additional benefits. Do not disappoint us, Herr Korzha.
Destroy this document.
After a brief moment spent mentally recording the appropriate information, Mihai produced a metal lighter and set fire to the folded page, eagle and swastika vanishing in a tongue of flame and smoke. He snapped the lighter closed, dispersing the ashes with his foot. Returning the lighter to his pocket, Mihai turned his attention toward the newspaper that had formed the envelope for his message, left opened on top of the table. His eyes were immediately drawn to an article on one of the pages within.
ANOTHER BODY FOUND; MURDER RATE ON THE RISE
Continuing the disturbing trend brought to the attention of law enforcement officials approx. three weeks ago, another victim has been found dead in their home in the suburbs of London. The victim, Jenine Hereford (25), was discovered Sunday morning by her family. Police report that the body was drained of blood, seemingly while she slept.
"The circumstances of the young woman's death are highly unusual," said the county coroner in an interview on Monday. "There are no signs of a struggle. If the murder took place in the room, no evidence has been found to support the presence of an assailant. Another, equally-strange possibility is that her body was placed there. But how anyone could position a body so naturally is a mystery."
This victim marks the fifth in a string of murders occurring in and around the city of London. Law enforcement advises locking one's doors in the evenings and
Continued on page E4, see MURDERS
A picture was included in the article, displaying the fair features of the deceased. Mihai looked at her for a while, his eyes glassing over briefly as a pleasant memory played in his mind. His fingers traced the two-dimensional contours of the girl's cheek. As he stared into the eyes of the young woman the world had lost, a cheap imitation made from droplets of ink, his lips curled upward into a certain smile, an innocent human expression made bloodcurdling by some otherworldly trait.
Mihai returned to his poetry for several hours before the sky lightened, a harbinger of the coming morning, whereupon rest beckoned for him, and he retreated inside the Inn to his room to sleep.
Moderators: Alucard (played anonymously) Integra Hellsing (played by KhaleesiDany) Seras Victoria (played anonymously)