Drunk and stumbling, the high lord of the ‘M’, as he was called, made his circuitous path out of the alleyway he’d made his berth in to face a brand new day. He squinted and snarled as the light struck his eyes, and an uplifted hand tried to ward off the unwelcome dawn.
Somewhere, someone screamed—an obnoxious sound that made the HL of the ‘M’ cower. He cursed the unseen woman, for it was a woman’s voice, though if he had had a mirror, and been forced to look through it, he might have been forced to give his begrudging leniency, or even a grumbling acknowledgement that the woman had every right to be screaming at present.
He could not, however, see the blood dripping from his own, uplifted hand.
Tale Told 