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A Foolish Figure

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The freezing autumn rain sprinkled on the outskirts London. Not a soul could be seen in the damp, vacant streets, but in a back alleyway stood a lone figure, concealed by a black, sodden hood and the thick, heavy, London fog. The whipping wind ruffled the cloak, letting the stinging, icy droplets meeting the figure's pale skin. It mentally cursed itself on the lack of layers it was wearing; yet it remained eerily silent in the shady alleyway. It remained completely still, however, occasionally, it switched from one foot to another as proof it was more than a mere statue. The white mist of its breath mingled with the infamous London fog, and the being almost seemed like a mystic entity in the faint moonlight. It stood there as the minutes turned to hours. The clock named Ben, towering over the sleeping city, struck twelve. And now, in the darkness of the night, the figure seemed as if it were waiting for something—or someone. Then, suddenly, there came a sound.

One, two…

One, two…

One, two…

The sound of footsteps echoed in the still night, and a pair of large brown boots stepped in an icy puddle only a few feet behind the first figure. The first whipped around with the speed of someone who had just heard the distinctive sound of a rattlesnake, and realized in mute horror who it was who had just appeared behind him.

"Master." greeted the first after several moments, biting his lip nervously as he gave a slight bow. As the second shifted slightly, the first flinched and bit his lip even harder. With every breath he shuddered, and even after several moments, he was only dimly aware of the coppery blood filling his mouth.

"Good evening. Quite the weather we're having, aren't we?" said the second, nodding in the first's general direction. Beneath the shadow of his hood was the faint glow of a cigar; somehow still burning despite the rain. Two pairs of glowing, green eyes focused on the first figure. His voice was gruff and held a certain depth only magnified by the smallest hint of a British accent that it held.

"Indeed, master." He was no longer gnawing on his lip now that he was aware of the blood filling his mouth, though he didn't mind the taste. Anxiety was rolling off of him in waves. He clutched his fists at his sides. He flinched at every movement the second made and he had every right to be afraid.

"They say it's going to storm."

"Isn't it storming now?" inquired the first, watching the second suspiciously with his luminescent, glowing, pink eyes.

"No, 'tis but a sprinkle—a mere prerequisite to the coming storm." The second breathed out of his nose in a sigh, smoke mingling with misty breaths and heavy fog.

"Does this mean the plan is starting soon?"

"Correct," stated the second simply, almost distantly as he slowly reached out a single, gloved hand, catching tiny droplets within his palm. "We will make it rain."

"E-Excuse me, sir?" The first had taken a step back and was staring at the second with an almost alarmed expression. He swallowed, now fearing for his life.

"We will make it rain," the second repeated, and even though he couldn't see it, the first could feel the sly smile spreading across the second's lips. "But it won't be any rain, my friend. No, it shall be made of something else entirely."

The first had a feeling of what the other would say. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist the urge question, raising a quizzical eyebrow in the process. "And what shall it be made from, master?"

The reply was a cruel, icy word, followed by a mirthful laugh. The first's lips turned upwards in a sly smile; revealing two pairs of razor sharp fangs. The fear in his now crimson eyes was doused and placed with a malicious lust.

The game was about to begin.

And it started with that single word.