"We used to not be us. We were once I, him, and him. Before we were us we were them. And when we were them, we were separate," the masked man explained as his one opened, red eye leveled on the man who had been strung up by his ankles in the almost completely pitch black room the two occupied. "When we were them, we were weak. But now, we are us, and we are strong."

"W-who are you?" asked the terrified man, his hands (which were bound behind his back) fighting desperately at the bindings that held his wrists together.

"We are us. We are the Masked Man. We are the punishment of those who do not play by the rules. And you, Mr. Richards, do not play by the rules. I trust you read the news this morning? Heard of Mr. Greystone's fate?" the masked man asked while turning, stepping into the ring of darkness that loomed just outside the flickering light of the few candles set around Eli Richards.

"Y-yes...I-" he was cut off, or rather, his words were interrupted by a howl of pain as something sharp and cold bit into his back, just to the left of his spine.

"You were there, Mr. Richards," said the man, his words accompanied by two extra voices, both the fiery red and the icy blue eye opened and wide. His gaze was unforgiving, his will punished all who broke the rules of the game.

"You could have stopped Mr. Greystone, Mr. Richards. we know you could have. We saw you, we saw you consider it, but you hesitated. And now all those poor people..." the masked man sighed wistfully. "Lives wasted for lives wasted."

"What...I-I didn't think he was going to do it!" Eli Richards insisted with a pitiful wail.

"You are lying, Mr. Richards..." the masked man and his two extra voices whispered into the sobbing man's ear. "We hate liars."

The early morning air knew nothing of Eli Richard's screams of pain and terror, knew nothing of the blood that pooled at the masked man's feet as he punished Eli Richards without hesitation.

Add another body to the pile.

Jonathan Crowskey sighed as he locked up the door to the barbershop that employed him, and turned to start down the dark streets of the market. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, fingers curling around the knife he kept hidden there for protection. The night?s chill-air kept him awake, thankfully. As far as he could tell, there were only a few people left in the market at this time. They were mostly young couples out and about, enjoying a night free of the market?s usual boisterous activity.

He averted his gaze out of fear of being caught peeking, rather than respect, and continued on his way. Jonathan?s destination was a fairly close by one, the path straightforward, with only a couple of turns along the way. Thus, he wasn?t nervous about being alone at night, he?d walked the same path multiple times before, always late, always alone.

A feather fell from the sky, drifting slowly before him. He glanced up while walking around the feather, looking for a bird; none. Assuming that the bird had already flown off and he hadn?t heard the creature, Jonathan shrugged and turned forward again, dismissing it from his mind. After a few moments had passed, another feather drifted slowly from the sky. Again, Jonathan glanced up and saw no bird, and again he shrugged it off and continued on his way.

Another feather fell. Jonathan ignored it. But he was soon caught in a shower of the multi-colored plumes falling from the sky. By this time, he knew that something was up. It didn?t take long for him to think back on the letters, and what they included with them; feathers. The thought made Jonathan blanche in a sudden wave of fear, and he darted off down the street, intent on running away from the downpour of feathers.

They followed him, though. He couldn?t escape the torrent that continued cascading from the sky. The rain of plumage thickened, and soon the frightened barber could see nothing but the falling colors around him. He saw something out of the corner of his eye, a movement that didn?t match the erratic downpour that surrounded him. Twisting around, the knife was jerked from his pocket and flicked open. For a moment, he could have sworn he had caught glimpse of a mask. But then there were only feathers.

Jonathan then turned to run off again, trying to find his way home in the blinding, multi-colored storm. He could barely see the ground beneath his feet, and yelped in surprise when tripping over something heavy and large. His knife flew from his grasp as he plummeted to the ground. Landing with a grunt, the barber pushed himself up onto his elbows, glancing over his shoulder to eye what he?d fallen over.

His eyes widened in surprise and he gave a terrified gasp at the sight that lay before him. It was a body, one with various carvings etched into its flesh. It was the body of a young man, by the looks of things, missing various limbs and skinned in several places. Crying out in fear, he scrambled away on his hands and knees, only to be stopped by a sharp pain in the center of his back.

Jonathan craned his neck to look up and behind him, staring in wide-eyed shock at the Masked Man, who stood over him with a blade in hand. His eyes ran down the length of the blade, up until reaching the point where it been embedded into his back.

He begged for mercy as the blade was wrenched free, gasping in the pain that followed. The barber pleaded and wept, sobbing like a frightened child, and was quickly silenced by a fell swoop of the Masked Man?s blade.

And the artist claimed another.