• User ImageThe skies cry black tears, the wind howls out to the moon in the stead of the dogs who cower beneath thatched roofs and rusted sheet-metal, the stars hide in cloud-cover, their beautiful visage not for the world to see. Not tonight. Somewhere, there has been a transgression against nature's own will - yes, therein lies the reasoning behind the twinkling sky-lights' dark refuge from the eyes of the masses. Occasionally, the moon would act as ambassador to man and star, peaking through the flitting wisps of clouds, splaying radiating lights through the crystal tear-drops falling from above, disappearing soon after, feeling that if too much beauty was offered up, there would not longer be a punishment.

    That is indeed what was happening; a punishment.

    Though the heinous cracking of thunder and blinding wall of wind and rain enveloped all aspects of what could be called the unlit roads of Europe's heart, one rider among his steel steed would portray himself in an uninvited yet seductively welcome manner, the roar of the smog-belching engine challenging the lightning's own follower, an ethereal course of fresh steam trailing behind the ungodly well-defined rider and gray blur beneath him. Though the drenching torrent of wave-like rain was next to blinding, the celestial mile-marker could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

    Two hands that seemed to be chiseled from the finest of marble and adorned with the most vitriolic of obsidian nails coordinated a maneuver that contorted the handlebars to both break on the front wheel and increase speed, the heavy-bodied motorcycle ejaculating a screech of delight as its whole frame did a four-hundred-ten degree spin that ended with the mass of it racing uphill towards a silent light off in the distance.

    This would have been the most ominous thing that the rider had seen in a very long time if the bike did not have a mirror. Though distorted beyond the word, the grin set upon statuesque lips could not be mistaken - heart-piercing to even the darkest of men, true inspiration of dark poetry and literature; Lucifer's secret envy. The light so far off seemed to grow, its tempting visage drawing the boy atop the ghostly machine to move all the faster, the drifting droplets finding their place to be aside from him rather than in front for risk of being exploded into an infinity of smaller counterparts.

    It was almost a shame when the misty mass slowed to a stop, a sigh escaping the grin - heard aloud for next to a moment before being lost to the wind. The howling showed contempt for contempt, taking on a deeper tone. The rider slowly dismounted, the engine dieing on its own accord as it would, the sound of searing water against its engine singing out to the world. One boot touched ground, utterly black save for the boot-cut pant-leg of his faded coal jeans that concealed the back of the heel and part of the foot's top. No later than this happened did he remember how long a time it had seemed for him to arrive.

    It truly was only a day's journey, in fact; he had hitched a ride in the cargo hold of a trans-Atlantic airliner, falling asleep inside of an overlarge suitcase lined with soft clothes that were completely ruined by the mud scattered across his body-encompassing coat, the seven individual chain-links sewn into the tail not helping matters, considering that the wardrobe was torn into nothing after a few twists and turns. He had carefully maneuvered off of the plane and into the parking-lot, hot-wiring the most viable motorcycle for getting from Paris to Italy in one night.

    The second boot came down, a puddle of water splashing up and further dampening the sickly wet outfit upon his frame, his body giving off its own steam as the rain evaporated much too quickly from his shoulders. Trailing behind this second boot was a blood-red cloth that had obviously seen what the ground of the world could offer it in terms of malevolence. The boy reached to the back of the vehicle, snatching up a cylindrical tube wrapped completely in a silk cloth that the midnight sky would be jealous of if the clouds would relent for the briefest of moments.

    "I hope the ride was as good for you as it was for me, Liala," the boy snickered slightly, the poisoned wine within his voice flowing outwards carrying the allure of something darker than dyed rose-petals. It was an evil you would die to drink.

    James, you have no idea how much I love to be strapped loosely to the back of a bike and dragged across the European country-side, a voice that was too beautiful for the ears of mortals struck into the boy's mind, echoing tones of seduction mixing with so many millenniums' refinement.

    "I bet you do," James replied with a suggestive tone, his grip tightening on the bundle. A sudden air of ecstasy overwhelmed the thick storm air, regally rising up the spirits of the boy - well, spirits and more. The sylvan outline of the leaching white complex seemed to lighten slightly in a second response. Oh the influences of a strong woman.

    James began to approach the lighted entrance-way, one heavy boot-step after another splashing water up in a surreal manner, the ripples seeming to freeze in anticipation of their counterparts. It was not a long journey to the door - less than thirty-seconds' walk. It was eternity for the both of them. Under the shadow of the overhand, a light spark of red consumed by dancing black tendrils crawled impatiently towards the hand of the boy, penetrating his skin violently then disappearing into nothing. With only the clenching of the free right hand, every drop of water that had dared touch him on that fateful night simply slid to the ground in a final wave, drifting off to meet back with its comrades.

    There James stood in his full glory, ebony black hair tipped with the glowing-steel red of a thousand forges hiding a set of glowing emeralds back-lit by a hidden fire with thin faults that ran deeper than any discovered chasm within its twilight. That same grin was poised in its most dangerous position upon his lips; to exist was to thrive. The world-weary coat concealed both hands, along with a few bulges about its mass, one of which being 'Howitzer', his .50 caliber best friend. The unbuttoned middle exposed his pristine white t-shirt with sewn in tribal-style chromatic hearts. He took in a deep breath of exasperation, then raised his hand to rap upon the door - yet another midnight visitor entreating entrance.

    Only this and nothing more.