Five years ago I came to London. For the same reason that we all did: I was seeking something. Some come for treasure, some for glory, I came for revenge. I came because a loved one was taken from me. I cant remember their name, their face. Who they were to me. I am not even sure if they are real anymore. Just a figment that I traded my life on the surface for. What ever my life was before London it is now as dead or imaginary as the person I sought to avenge.
And now there is to be another city set to fall. Two more to go I suppose. I am not bitter, or sad, or afraid. I have become a creature of the Neath in the truest sense. More monster than man. My hands are seeped in the blood and viscera of my prey. Even now I carry a jar of horrific poison in my jacket pocket. Always ready for battle. Always ready to hunt. Always ready to be a marsh wolf in a gentleman’s clothes.
So much savagery and murder- And yet… as I look around my lodgings I see the many treasures I have accumulated. Strange stones. Stranger bones. Books filed with incendiary knowledge. Wines that predate entire nations. Evidence of love great and small. Thousands of secrets, like frost moths: intricate, beautiful, deadly. Weapons, poisons, clocks and canes. Even my wardrobe is stuffed to bursting with attire of the most macabre variety. My typewriter… it knows more of me than anything else. It has helped me see that my stories reach the people of London. My life in bite-sized portions labeled as fiction. I am typing this on it right now. Clicking and clacking like the the feet of a sorrow spider on the floor of a basalt gymnasium. Many eyes are upon me now. In the mirrors. On the very spires of the Bazaar. It is moments like this when I take my non-bipedal comrades into account… except Clyde he walks upright when he is sober. That honey addled monkey has always been there to help with a scheme or two.
I can hear the band of Rattus Faber playing cards under the pantry, laughing and carrying on. Even the petite albino rat. She hasn’t told me her name yet. It doesn’t matter though, she seems happy here.
My ravens, Tower and London, are arguing philosophy . Tower is winning, but only because eloquent speech isn’t London’s way. She is more a bird of action than words. She would never admit it, but she loves Tower. He only speaks in poetry. It’s always good.
My flock of bats has flown the rafters to join the swarms of the Bazaar. Their two great obstinate leaders at the head of the flock.
Near to the fire place is Lami. A grubby little ball of fluff sleeping soundly with her adopted parents, Cordelia, the tigress who has saved my life more times than I care to admit. And Ichabod, the ocelot who has saved my reputation more times than I care to confess. They make a happy little feline family.
The lizards roosting on top of my correspondence plaques look displeased . Or at least more displeased than usual. They know that my melancholic mood means a trip to the circus games tent to bolster my bat flock…
My dogs are barking. Well, one is barking. The second gurgles and waves his tentacles lazily. The third is a snake that doesn’t do much unless devils are about, but I am not one to split hairs…
My "henchmen" must be returning for the night. A rag-tag bunch at best, but loyal and reliable. They are a bit of a bad influence on the urchins though. Oh well, it takes a village they say. Or an army.
I quickly grab my violin. Feed my goldfish. Grab my hat (careful not to grab the one with teeth). Blow out all but one of the candles, for the sake of the frost moth that has claimed me. Quietly call my owl and make my escape out the window.
The whole Bazaar is before me. I can see the Zee from my tower. I don’t know where I will be going tonight, but where ever I end up I will have a place there.
I am not afraid of the fall. Me and mine will watch the new city descend from the Zee as one would watch fireworks.
I am not a citizen of London. I am a creature of the Neath. It took many scars, grievous wounds, and even death to get me to where I am now.
A new city with new secrets. New stories.
I am looking forward to it.
I think I will go play my violin for the wind in the Flit. Maybe the urchins will sing along.
edited by AgentBlueSky on 11/5/2013
edited by AgentBlueSky on 11/5/2013