Dirty lies, dirty hearts and dirty thoughts.
Grey and cloudy, as all such places are, the bitter streets were not looking their best. A light rain was beginning to fall; the concrete darkened to a muddy dull iron and the thin wind snapped at the ankles of passers-by. The noise of traffic was as dull as the weather, a continuous mutter at the edge of hearing. Apart from that, there was no other sound.
Salem pulled his coat closer around him, looking down at the vermin that past him with lusting awe or curiosity, his looks sometimes had that effect. Like moths caught in an amber light, they were transfixed, but always that light will burn. The weight of the sky pressed him down to the ground as he hurried along, his bones now aching. He’d been busy these last few days, seeing contracts to be executed, having his knee dislocated by a stupid oaf of a were, he was wearing down a bit. However this didn’t freeze his skeleton to move as quick as he wanted, and he walked fast, too fast to avoid drawing attention to himself as he wound her way through the cluttered streets. Houses loomed close on each other, but there was hardly anyone else in sight - the rain and listless weather was keeping everyone indoors. Either that, or this was a ghost town; he was on the very edge of the Wasteland, or so it felt. But a tall building attracted him, a church of promises.
A slender finger dipped momentarily into the bowl at the entrance. The clear water sparkled like a liquidised form of clear quartz, and the enchanted substance meet the forehead of Salem, then to his stomach, left shoulder, finishing with his right. Instead of the Fathers verse to escape his lips, only a Cheshire cat like smile crept to grace itself on his face, curling to the far corners of his features like the gargoyles that watched from their perches above. Bless me father for I have sinned…
The cathedral windows glistened with sunlight that could not have existed at this hour of the night. He frowned, stepping cautiously into the singular room of the stony entrance, observing the distorted scenes portrayed in the colourful stained glass that lined the panes of the archway windows.
His ears, slightly pointed at the tip perked up with the sound of echoing voices, some angelic and rhythmed into a haunting sequence of notes that pierced his heart. The lore of such a holy factor was appealing, yet also strangely uncomfortable. Salem cradled the thought of being the demon, but if sins were to be repaid in Hell, he sure was going to be at the end of the whip. Torture in the eyes of the beholder was as picturesque as the form of a woman’s body, each mound of exploration inviting for different fantasies and techniques. An assassin was contracted to kill. Salem was an assassin of sorts, an enforcer as his title, but having a past laced with grotesque memories and mental scars, was it any wonder why the vampire had the twisted mind he had? Being the reaper was more to him then gaining money to survive in the mundane world, in which his Queen planted him in, but taking of the life was a precious as making life. The world has a natural balance, and Salem was the shadows that symbolised death. He was as lethal and impish as any leading demon. He often wondered if he was in fact one, and not the species of weak, mindless undead that made his given race. Even with the delicate trail of velvet like smoke that gathered a following to drift here and there from his body, his presence didn’t cause any disturbance. Didn’t evil blow up in churches? Wasn’t it a haven for people who wish to be away from enticement and sins? Finally he reached the mother Mary at the end and bowed, seemly to see if such a statue held power, while faint whispers of god came from his mouth.
Her skin glowed oddly in the dirty light; her hair had a very strange hue given the effect the stained windows were having. It was a good thing he didn't lift his eyes, else someone might've mistaken him for some nymph, some strange creature bowing to Mary herself. A sound pounded behind him, and in mere reflex his whole body turned in defence. A person glad in a mysterious coating felt short of a few paces behind him. He narrowed his eyes, questioning.