Thread: Finding Disaster and Vice [Hahvoc x VitaObscura]

The leather coat still dripped from the coatrack on one corner, in the beginning scarlet pools had gathered and hours later all traces of that bloody encounter were no where to be seen. The gentle splash of each drop would fall into a steel basin, the metallic echo a dim sound beneath the crackling logs of the fireplace, a warm glow cast upon Devlin as he sat cross legged before a leather placemat, a collection of tools, weaponry and oils entranced him. The blades and throwing knives had garnered a layer of patina and yet with enough patience they would soon reclaim the shine that he cherished so much, with every passing moment Devlin would become the instrument he had once sworn never to embrace again. He was vengeance personified, though this time he would claim the heads of those that had slighted him and his, no longer would they be offered to a caller in a burlap sack or silver platter, the Nine had a penchant for theatrics. A brace of Revolvers sat holstered within a leather vest, it's insides bound by steel chain mail that was capable of stopping handheld blades and most pistol calibers, both of which had been useful when he had been a top level enforcer. He had gained a reputation amongst them and this had earned him a name, though Devlin refused the honor of such as superstitions were peculiar like that, believing that if people were to know the name of an alias, that they in turn would eventually know who he was. In the end, he was the void after the spoken word, the calm within the storm, silence. The very last weapon was something he cherished, it wasn't exotic in any stretch of the imagination, it's components consisting of things that anyone could find and create. A steel lined garrote bound within handles had just been finished, it was his preferred method of dispatching his foes. In the beginning he had found it to be exhilarating, watching them struggle and fade before him, the once the newness of the method had faded he had found a sense of respect for the killing dance and his victims. If they were fond of religion and their assorted ideologies, he would often say a benediction for them as they died. Once done he would rise and place his belongings where they needed to be, the clothes he had worn earlier were laid out to dry, the leathers had been treated and polished. In the end he would stand bare, his svelte form held a series of scars from years of physical conflict, each keloid wound detailed in the recesses of his mind. With blade in hand he would sleep upon a cot, his mind numbing beneath the gentle sounds of crackling logs and dripping water. When the morning broke through his curtains, the warmth of the sun lingered upon his features as he arose, his body popping with every movement as he stretched and tested his balance by placing all his weight upon his heels. In moments he was dressed and weapon clad, his boots clipping softly upon the hardwood floor as he left the room, the scent of burnt logs lingered upon his senses for just a moment longer before he wandered through the busy streets, paying for an apple, pickled herring, a few hard boiled eggs, a wedge of cheese and half a loaf of sour bread. If anything he needed the energy after last nights excursion and what would come in the coming hours. He needed to find a brothel, not for pleasures of the flesh, but because one of the Nine could at times be found there. He just wanted his sister back, that was his primary goal, secondary and tertiary pleasantries could be accomplished at a later time, but the Nine would die by his hand, that was a given.