[h2][b][i][color=008000][center]In This Fine Town Of Arkham[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h2]
[h3][b][i][color=008000][center]A Night At Wilde Hall[/center][/color][/i][/b][/h3]
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[center][img]https://s3.eu-central-1.wasabisys.com/devonilx7/2020/04/forest_path_dark_150398_1920x1080-1536x864.jpg[/img][/center]
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[center][b]"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown"[/b] - [i]H. P. Lovecraft[/i][/center]
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[center][@Dark Cloud][/center]

The footsteps continued to trail him, seeming to match his own hastened pace, and as [b][color=gray]Morgan Eisenhorn[/color][/b] turned onto a new street, his heart sank. The gas lamp that should be lighting the pavement in front of him has died away to a barely visible glow, plunging the street into deep, inky shadow. With the footsteps unrelenting behind him, the slight private investigator realised that he had no choice but to plunge into the darkness. Gritting his teeth, and picking up his pace even more, Morgan pushed himself onwards. And yet, as he moved further into the darkness, his own footsteps echoing against the buildings that loomed up all around him, the footsteps behind him seemed to grow closer and closer. 

	Nerve finally breaking, Morgan practically broke into a run, the vague promise of safety that the light of the next streetlamp offered calling to him, even as the footsteps behind him seemed to match his pace. It seemed as if he was running through treacle, but he finally reached the corner, the footsteps almost on top of him now, Morgan not daring to turn back to see the phantom that was surely about to lunge. He burst around the corner, and a dark shape loomed up to block his path. He had no time to stop, let alone avoid the shape, and he collided into the figure, sprawling to the hard ground with a painful thud, the figure staggering backwards. 

	The breath driven from his lungs by the fall, Morgan was still gasping for air when he felt strong hands grip his collar and pull him upright. He found himself looking into a stern face, pale brown eyes burning with annoyance, and a voice that was almost a growl. 

	[b]"What the hell do you think you're playing at?"[/b]

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[center][@Penny][/center]

The coachman led [b][color=008000]Opportunity Knox[/color][/b] through the foyer of The Excelsior Hotel, busy with the bustle of the evening, and out towards the street beyond. As he walked, the tall dark-clad figure glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the well-dressed dilettante was following, and the initial sternness of his face seemed to soften as they moved through the crowd. Opportunity couldn't help but notice that the other patrons of the hotel seemed to scatter before the coachman as he moved, although whether that was because of the man's formidable physique, or because of the Wildes crest that he bore on his chest, she couldn't be sure. 

	As they stepped out onto the street, Opportunity saw that a black carriage was waiting at the roadside, pulled by a single jet-black horse. Again, the Wildes crest was marked across the side. The coachman turned back towards Opportunity, nodding his head slightly towards her.

	[b]"Apologies for the interruption, ma'am, but Lady Wildes wanted me to make sure that you made it to Wilde Hall safely. Arkham can be a dangerous - "[/b] 

	A dark shape burst around the corner, slamming into the coachman before he could finish his sentence. The dark shape sprawled to the ground, and the coachman staggered backwards, before regaining his balance. Opportunity realised that the dark shape was a man, a few inches shorter than she was, and wearing a fox-like mask. Another guest, or something more sinister? Before she could open her mouth to ask, the coachman had strode over, and pulled the stranger back to his feet, growling out a question.

	[b]"What the hell do you think you're playing at?"[/b]