[ WP ] Death is a lie made by the government , you are one of the unsavoury characters they send to gather souls .

London 
 
 Midnight 
 
 A raven swoops low over the soot stained tiles of Victorian London, lands on the dark cobbles of Market Street and loses form. 
 
 The raven turns first smokey, then grows to the form of a cloaked figure. Standing to his full height, he stumbles down the uneven cobbles as if unsure of his footing. 
 
 ‘ ’ one more night of this and then I ’ m done ’ ’ he mutters to himself in a tired tone, he walks silently down the road, his presence only betrayed by the lopsided tapping of his cane on the cobbles. 
 
 A damp smell lingers over Market street, the daytime scent of spices and fish brushed away by the night time breeze. Oil lamps long extinguished, nobody else dares travel the streets at night. The chalky gaze of the moon on the street reflected by the pooling water, shimmers against the cape of the man as he stalks. 
 
 The cloaked figure draws closer to his destination, an inn called the travellers wagon. The warm glow from a fire seeps through a crack in the shutters, interrupted by the outline of a bolt from the inside. 
 
 The cloaked figure finally draws to the inn, raises his cane and begins to loose shape once more. First turning smokey, and then losing shape all together as he seeps under the bolted door. 
 
 
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 The traveller ’ s wagon was an ordinary inn by every definition of the word. Tired traders would leave their troubles outside and come in for a cheap pint. The inside was grimy and the walls where filled with various mementoes from around the world, brought by traders who found themselves unable to pay for their drinks as they had yet to turn a profit in the London market; Stags heads, exotic stuffed creatures and various antiques adorned the walls on uneven shelves, alongside artificial alchemist ’ s fire, left smouldering at night to guide any lingering drunks to their beds. An old wooden sign above the bar reads ‘ ’ free bear, tomorrow ’ ’. 
 
 ‘ ’ I ’ m telling you ’ ’ said Robert the innkeeper, a loud man with no care for personal space. Raising his left hand and pointing directly at a chess board in front of him, lifting his pint with the other. ‘ ’ you have to play offensively of you ’ ll get caught by the same old tricks every time! ’ ’ 
 
 ‘ ’ I have no time for a game like this ’ ’ announced Emmett, a young man who knew Robert far too well for his liking. Rising from his stool he set aside his empty glass and strode towards the bar. ‘ ’ If I could allow time to practice for games like these, maybe I could win ’ ’ he carefully set down his tabs worth behind the bar where the drunk innkeeper would see it and returned to the table. ‘ ’ let ’ s see if you can do any better. ’ ’ Adjusting his dull grey alchemist ’ s gloves and setting himself down to watch the game. 
 
 The innkeeper stood over the table as if to make a plan, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted. 
 
 A dark fog seeped under the door. The entire room seemed to change, as if the colour had been drained from the air, the gentle murmur of customers was silenced and replacing it was an eerie quiet. 
 
 The fog rose to the height of a man and then condensed. 
 
 ‘ ’ Robert Gus Clark ’ ’ said the now fully formed man in a heavy southern accent. He stood confidently, with stained white alchemist gloves and a matte cloak to contrast. His hair was a dull black and he had a knowing glint in his eye. He wore the recognisable attire of an imperial alchemist. 
 
 The innkeeper knew all too well who he was. 
 
 ‘ ’ Robert Gus Clark ’ ’ he repeated, this time louder. 
 
 ‘ ’ y…yes ‘ ’ stammered the innkeeper. 
 
 ‘ ’ you ’ re on my list ’ ’ said the man calmly. 
 
 ‘ ’ b..bu ’ ’ the innkeeper stammered again, then suddenly understood. He turned on the spot, as if to make for an escape. Raising his arms to push his customers out of the way and reaching for his key chain. 
 
 The alchemist smiled, then acted. He took one step forwards and lifted his cane, the glint in his eye grew and then faded. 
 
 The innkeeper stopped, as if to freeze, he began to change colour, his expression faded and he began to lose shape. The once man started swirling on the spot and grew smaller, his feet lifting from the unwashed boards. Finally, he condensed into a small orb, pulsating from brown, to red and then back again. 
 
 The whole event took only seconds, the onlookers stared on in stunned silence, as their good friend and innkeeper, Rob Clark, had disappeared. 
 
 The cloaked man now stood taller, loosened his cloak and drew out a large bottle, he uncorked it and pointed it towards the floating orb. 
 
 The nearby drinkers rapidly stepped back in unison as if the events had only just been played to them, nobody spoke out. 
 The orb where Robert Clark had been standing began floating towards the bottle, condensed even further and was unceremoniously sucked inwards. 
 
 The man corked the bottle once more and turned on the spot with military fashion, before unbolting the door and stepping outside. 
 
 The door closed behind him as if any other customer was returning home, and the gentle glow of the fire returned to the room. 

