It always surprised him just how much blood there was. It transfixed him, holding his gaze selfishly when so much else desired his attention. The paleness of the skin, the hollow coldness in the eyes as one escapes their mortal coil. The last, dying, breath. He wished to give these things the attention they deserved. But blood was just so bright and vibrant and there was just so very much of it. When it came to cause and effect, there was nothing as satisfying as bloodletting, nothing so morbidly beautiful as watching crimson liquid pour from the wound one has inflicted on another. So the man thought, even as he wrenched his wretched blade free of flesh and turned before the corpse had time to slump to the ground. It was a theatrical gesture, but when one decides to go about his business dressed in what looked like the stage clothes of a nobleman, topped off with a red velvet cloak and a white operatic mask, it’s hardly surprising to find them succumbing to drama. The scene would have been perfect, except for one small niggling issue, the screams of the victim’s partner were of a horrible octave, and truly the woman had no gift for stagecraft. Did she not know how to mediate her voice so that she embodied the raw fear and passion of the scene without grating on ones nerves? No matter, he would work with what he was given.

“Do you know what it is that makes the sudden demise of you and your partner so sad?” He asked, his voice was hollow and raw, as if he had spent the day straining his vocal cords, perhaps with screams of his own. It was a bitter voice, but unmistakably that of a man. He of course was mostly wasting his time, as his audience of one and a bit were too far gone to really appreciate his words. Perhaps she screamed just an inkling higher, some small semblance of understanding passing through the slum-dweller, recognising the implicit threat in the man’s words. The bloodied swordsman, pistol at his hip and a melancholy mask on his face, looked down at her for a moment, his head turned at a slight angle as if waiting for her to figure out the answer to his question. 

“It is not that you will be missed, my dear.” He almost choked up then, as the great realisation of one of life’s saddest realities broke down upon him. Not that this was the first time he had thought about it, but he was a sensitive soul. “It is that in a place such as this you will not be missed. No one will mourn your passing, you will be forgotten among so many… souls.” His blade thrust through her breast and her screaming turned to coughing, bloody gurgling, more of the liquid pooled down at the man’s feet, almost reaching the puddle of the woman’s partner. It stretched and stretched, but the two pools did not meet. One salty droplet of water ran down his neck. The man turned away.

“But do not fear, for I at least will weep for you.” 

---------------------------

The Weeper had just left the great tower behind him with two extra corpses keeping it company when he spotted Scouti. There was something about her curiosity, her drive, and the sheer life within her, which called to him. Called to him to extinguish it. There was a hidden importance to the Weeper’s sadness in ending the lives of two shanty-dwellers, and that was that the life he had extinguished had inherently less happiness in it. Not so much that to take their lives was a kindness, for had it been then he would have gone to lengths to instead preserve the lives of the two. But enough so that if one regarded his murder as some sort of necessity, as if he fed off the misery he wrought, then they had hardly served as appetizers. What a depressing thought, for your death to be even be unsatisfying to the one who had taken it, even that final purpose ripped away so that even by dying you fail to save the life of another. What a meaningless death.

His sword was drawn and bloodied, the Roman Gladius known as the Weeping blade, twin specks of red marked the otherwise creamy white mask on his face. These two things alone would leave Scouti with little room for misinterpretation. This was a dangerous man waiting for her in front of the building she wished to enter. The man stood there, watching her silently, unmoving.