It was after dark and the rain had dimmed to a drizzle, wetting the stones and making them shine under the gas lamps' steadfast orange glow.

The Bridge loomed ahead, like the bending back of an elephant over a lazy river, flush with foul aroma and a pitch-black color under the night sky.

The silver moon was at its quarter phase, baleful light shining down on the shaded street corners where the lamps could not, or would not reach.

A hooded man stands apart in the gloom, a cane tapping on the cobblestones as his shadow stretched and met those of the alleyways. He approaches the bridge where he stops a moment and listens for a moment. First to the river below him, then to something else.

The sound of laughter echoes from the shadows, like the ebony walls were laughing at something. It's cruel and bawling, like a drunken rage. The Hooded figure looks and spies the source.

A group of boys, fresh from a tavern unseen, staggering about with red faces and slackened pants. Hugging the lamps posts and each other as they tumble more than walk through the darkened streets.

The hooded stranger huffs to himself and ignores them. They draw near, and it is clear that one of them is holding a sack, dragging it along rather than carrying it due to his inebriation.

The sack strikes a sharp stone and gives a mild protest. A Squalling pathetic noise of something have half-dead, the figure holding the bag gives a curse and several foul oaths, delivering a swift kick to the sachel before handing it off to his friends for more abuse.

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The stranger grimaces, and grips his cane. His cloak moves aside for a moment, the glint of a silver skull is briefly seen sitting atop the canes dark shaft.

He approaches the group of rowdy jaywalkers, they take notice of him.

"Oye, What you looking at, Buzzard?!" one of them shouts angrily, a face twisted in debauchery

"Care for a drink?!" one of them calls, the others laugh, seeing him offer an empty bottle. The Stranger tsk's and strikes the man's hand to the side.

The bottle dances away from them, as the men watch it dance and fall into the river's sweeping abyss. They turn toward the stranger in anger. Fists and Knives materialize from hateful shadows, gleaming against the dim night surroundings. Wrath now bent their twisted faces.

The Stranger silently drew a long and wicked blade of his own, the silver skull of his cane, now becoming the pommel of a long and wicked cane sword as the fight began with the Three drunks charging the dark and gloomy Stranger atop the archway.

They danced around each other for a brief moment, leaping shadows cast at crooked angles. Flashes of steel and fury spark the night, charging fists are met with deadly reprisal, and their daggers are countered as the long blade of the Stranger, denying them the taste of death they so crave in others.

Meanwhile, the Strangers blade drinks well of them instead. Biting like a mosquito, and leaping like a viper. Plunging headlong into the chest of its victims, and sending small arcs of blood across the pavement as it recoils to its master's hand. Swinging again to stop a falling dagger, and then across his wrist and into his throat. The Battle ends in scoffing disappointment as the Stranger stands Gloating over the fallen, like a Panther above its taken prey.

Three men, three bodies.

He wipes his blade on the edge of his cloak, and then gently knees to survey his spoils. He gingerly opens the bag and peers inside, the crippled form of a large black cat glares back at him with gold and green eyes, mournfully and pitifully. He tsk's again and closes the bag. He diverts his attention to lifting the purses of the dead nuisance makers.

As he stands to leave, he pauses. Then carefully lifts the bag into his arms as he fades away into the grim darkness of the night.