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London, at night...
Jun. 20th, 2025 08:01 pm...is misty in the Marshes. There's a fog that rolls in from the zee, cool and damp. Do things move in there, or do your eyes play tricks? Perhaps it's both. Listen for a rustle. There.
Something is fighting in the dark. There's the sound of snarls, bestial, mean. The splash of a disturbed pool of water, the flash of a muzzle-shot. A pained yip, then the squelch of a sharp implement thrust into something fleshy. The rip of it being torn away. Agonizing silence.
What comes out of the darkness into lamplight is dragging a filthy pelt, unmistakably white under the grime. A marsh wolf is no easy prey, much less a white one. The thing dragging its body is dressed in much darker colors, if only a little cleaner. Most of the muck is constrained to the boots, and to the long coat, though the knees of the trousers are stained from hours of kneeling and crouching in the mud.
The Tailor is sliding the strap to their harpoon back over their shoulder. The thing gleams, tip still coated with blood. The fellow's face has a streak of dirt on one cheek, and their hair hangs loose over their un-notched eyebrow.
Tonight they are a Monster Hunter. It's a secret they guard from their companions, who seem not to recognize their peligin eyes as anything more than natural color. No reasonable individual in good standing would be in the Marshes, they've found, but then, most individuals do not work for Mr. Inch.
Other things move in the dark. They can hear it. A leather glove stays on the strap of their weapon.
Something is fighting in the dark. There's the sound of snarls, bestial, mean. The splash of a disturbed pool of water, the flash of a muzzle-shot. A pained yip, then the squelch of a sharp implement thrust into something fleshy. The rip of it being torn away. Agonizing silence.
What comes out of the darkness into lamplight is dragging a filthy pelt, unmistakably white under the grime. A marsh wolf is no easy prey, much less a white one. The thing dragging its body is dressed in much darker colors, if only a little cleaner. Most of the muck is constrained to the boots, and to the long coat, though the knees of the trousers are stained from hours of kneeling and crouching in the mud.
The Tailor is sliding the strap to their harpoon back over their shoulder. The thing gleams, tip still coated with blood. The fellow's face has a streak of dirt on one cheek, and their hair hangs loose over their un-notched eyebrow.
Tonight they are a Monster Hunter. It's a secret they guard from their companions, who seem not to recognize their peligin eyes as anything more than natural color. No reasonable individual in good standing would be in the Marshes, they've found, but then, most individuals do not work for Mr. Inch.
Other things move in the dark. They can hear it. A leather glove stays on the strap of their weapon.
