EvanPurser

1900 Somewhere in London… “The world carries on, sunk down in the mire that is their own decaying Spirit”. The voice snaps you into focus, a swirling, pounding hammer against the inside of your skull; your vision swims amongst candlelit darkness and ink-stained papers stacked neatly along the edges of the wooden desk you find yourself sitting before. A distinct smell of heady, acrid wine, mingled with an undercurrent of coppery blood hangs heavy in the room, and it causes the pain in your skull to sway into an uncomfortable, bleeding throbbing that makes your teeth ache, your eyes sting. Under the glow of the flickering glass light, two dull grey eyes glare as you rest your head in your hands; a pained groan escaping your lips as the room slowly begins to stop spinning. “If this,” the voice begins again, a biting disdain dripping from the lilting tones, “is the current calibre of hire that the dregs of London’s halfbreeds have to give me, then mayhaps I should have sponsored the