Distress was what provoked September from the shadowy corners of the hotel by the sea. What had her hail a coach and head for the city at the greatest speed two horses could take. Impatience and anxiety took nest in her chest. Her fingers fiddling with hem of collar, skirt and glove, again and again, until the site of interest held her eye and the driver was alerted.
Leaving coins with the man who looked down at her from his perch on the carriage, eyes a shade of amber, or even orange, she smiled politely, resolutely, and pulled away her cloak to take the sidewalk.
"Careful where you walk. It's late, Ma'am", he had said, and she could only manage the meekest of smiles, nodding and waving him off. For a moment, to her mistaken eyes, he was Gaul. A flash of a toothy, sullen smile and the driver was gone, and with her pouch of coins and a pang in her chest, she forced a turn away, and headed with head bowed for the door.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Dark blue eyes bore into the surface before her. Breath held. Chin high.
Playing in her mind was what chain of events had led her here. Why after her first killing she had become overwhelmed with a despair, a horror. She had located some of the more unsavoury sorts in a small bar on the very edges of WestEnd, spoken to a few dealers, in their leather vests and flurry of facial hair. They all looked the same. All built the same. All behaved the same. All thought the same. Figured she was some priss with a little money, but not enough. Even when she had peeled back her purse latch to show the bills they had laughed. Blood? Why would *she* want blood? Certainly this was a trick!
And disconsolate and morose she had run angered into the street, hoping to be trampled by a passing coach, attacked and mugged, set on fire, a stake through her chest! Aye, and how she longed for her death. For that final moment. For absolution. For forgiveness. For freedom.
For as long as she needed to kill to sustain her own life she could not focus, could not bear herself, could not convene as one whole person. There would be a most vile war within. One part vulnerable, one part insiduous, so it felt.
So hopes were pinned on rumours of Eva. An attractive woman, too good for this world of shadows and desperation. A scar down her face. Eyes that held fathoms. Stories. Too many for so young a visage.
Another knock. Another breath. Steeling herself.
"Eva... I need your help.."
Her very own voice in the quiet of the night sounded like a strangers. It was small and shrill and sounded every bit as torn as she was.
Leaving coins with the man who looked down at her from his perch on the carriage, eyes a shade of amber, or even orange, she smiled politely, resolutely, and pulled away her cloak to take the sidewalk.
"Careful where you walk. It's late, Ma'am", he had said, and she could only manage the meekest of smiles, nodding and waving him off. For a moment, to her mistaken eyes, he was Gaul. A flash of a toothy, sullen smile and the driver was gone, and with her pouch of coins and a pang in her chest, she forced a turn away, and headed with head bowed for the door.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
Dark blue eyes bore into the surface before her. Breath held. Chin high.
Playing in her mind was what chain of events had led her here. Why after her first killing she had become overwhelmed with a despair, a horror. She had located some of the more unsavoury sorts in a small bar on the very edges of WestEnd, spoken to a few dealers, in their leather vests and flurry of facial hair. They all looked the same. All built the same. All behaved the same. All thought the same. Figured she was some priss with a little money, but not enough. Even when she had peeled back her purse latch to show the bills they had laughed. Blood? Why would *she* want blood? Certainly this was a trick!
And disconsolate and morose she had run angered into the street, hoping to be trampled by a passing coach, attacked and mugged, set on fire, a stake through her chest! Aye, and how she longed for her death. For that final moment. For absolution. For forgiveness. For freedom.
For as long as she needed to kill to sustain her own life she could not focus, could not bear herself, could not convene as one whole person. There would be a most vile war within. One part vulnerable, one part insiduous, so it felt.
So hopes were pinned on rumours of Eva. An attractive woman, too good for this world of shadows and desperation. A scar down her face. Eyes that held fathoms. Stories. Too many for so young a visage.
Another knock. Another breath. Steeling herself.
"Eva... I need your help.."
Her very own voice in the quiet of the night sounded like a strangers. It was small and shrill and sounded every bit as torn as she was.