Ascent

The wind barrelled, screaming down the dark street, battering against shop fronts, the neon glow of their slogans blinking for passing consumers, almost as loudly at the wind that flew past them. A lone figure came careering from the mouth of a faraway back street, stumbling as an uneven paving slab came up to tangle with feet.
The figure straightened, recovering, and continued on its way. Hunched against the wind, and curling long fingers with immaculately kept nails, around the hem of a worn, weather-beaten near black coat, the figure pushed on. Body swathed by layer upon layer of thick, ratty material, the figure's face cloaked. Long, graceless legs flitting over fractured concrete, making small leaps to avoid the fault line cracks that spread, like ceaseless roots, across the once smooth surface. Stumbling again on a particularly prominent break, the figure pitched forward, the ground rising up to meet them as they fell, saved by enormous hands, splayed like buttresses supporting the figures weight until it had heaved itself up, dusted down and continued its journey down the deserted road.

A particularly persistent gust of wind blew back the cloth that prior to that moment had kept the features of the figure hidden. Beneath it, a twisted, charred mess of scarring - two beady eyes, black pupils wide with a background sclera, scummy and yellowing, set back into sunken sockets, flesh melted away from bone, dripping like wax down roughened cheeks, hanging like the cloth that had covered it before. The nose, prominent in the sheets of disjointed skin, leaned out and away, lying at an odd angle and ending in an abnormally sharp point. Its mouth, a grim slash, twisted until lips were indistinguishable, and the skin around the area coming away from the flesh remaining, scabbed. As quickly as it had fallen back, the rags were pulled back up and around the figure's head, the same perfectly kept long digits, curling around the same abrasive fabric, leaving only eyes, narrowed to black slits, shielded against the wind and its debris. Quickening the pace, the figure stalked now along the road, legs no longer coltish in their movements.

As the figure sped up, a shadow slipped out of an alley-mouth, not far from the place the figure had passed moments before. Keeping a constant distance from the figure, the shadow crept on, from doorway to doorway, alleyway to alleyway, never faltering, always following. The shadow stopped, recoiled and slunk backwards, crouching down and into the nearest doorway. Ahead of it, the figure had stopped abruptly and turned, sweeping the surrounding area with its cold, onyx eyes. Nose protruding from the material that shrouded its face, the figure lifted its head slowly, as if the movement took great effort and caused great pain. It sniffed - once, twice, a third - and smiled. Perfect, straight white teeth shone from beneath the damaged lips, in startling contrast to deep violet diseased, enflamed gums. Bundling itself once more into the swathe that had enveloped it before, the figure began again, moving quickly again in earnest. As abruptly as it had appeared, the figure was gone - sliding sideways into a narrow doorway and through the slim door, lit by a dim, red light, flickering uncertainly, that stood open within, closing it lightly behind.

Outside, the red light flickers and dies.

The shadow paused, its consternation apparent, and crept forward - once, twice, a third - and faltered. Digging deep into pocket after pocket, the shadow produced a pocket watch, 6 thin hair slides and four throwing knifes. Another hand, covered in neat scars - some more recent than others - delving this time into its left boot, brought out a dog-eared piece of parchment-like paper, vermiculate. The shadow scanned the writing upon the yellowing paper in its hand and then produced from beneath it a sepia photograph. It recoiled slightly, replacing the photograph and inhaled once, deeply, letting the breath out painstakingly slowly, shaking in its exit. Then, with a renewed sense of purpose, determination, the pseudo-parchment is placed back into the shadows left boot, hand only trembling slightly, and slithered forward, inch by inch, towards the narrow door.
The red light above the emaciated door splutters back to life, rejuvenated but still indistinct, as the shadow stopped in front of it. First pressing 3 fingers to the the top and to the bottom, to the left and to the right of the door - each time, fingers fitting into subtle groves worn already into its surface - the shadow then drew closer still to the door. With a flick of its wrist, a single serrated knife was up and being pressed along the seams of the slight-looking door. The shadow applied a small amount of pressure with its shoulder and the door popped open. Skittering into the pallidly-lit corridor, as slender as the door it ran behind, the shadow took little care as it closed the door behind it and started forward into the gloom.
Two floors beneath the shadow, the figure smiles.
As the shadow follows the sloping corridor, its shoulders and hands brush upon the elongated walls, a slick, oil-like substance ambrocate its hands. Shuddering, the shadow slunk onwards.
Ahead of it, the figure's smile widens to a grin.
As the shadow approached the end of the passage, it was met by a stone door that stretched front ceiling to floor, ornate carvings adorning every inch of it. The shadow's shudders rose to fever-pitch until quelled. It straightened, then - like a stone - dropped into a defensive crouch, a nefarious-looking knife clutched in each hand. Rising briefly, the shadow put all its weight and will behind one shoulder and pushed. As the door moved reluctantly forwards, the shadow readied itself.

When opened fully, the shadow sprang into the room, knifes glinting in the sudden source of light - and heat. A familiar smell assaulted the shadow's senses, disorientating, and a fire flickered in the centre of the room, not roaring but brilliant enough that beyond the fire lay only darkness. Taking in its surroundings, the shadow noticed that the smell which it had first encountered was coming from dozens, hundreds, thousands of wreaths, everywhere, arranged in orderly rows. Red roses, the underlying scent, and the more dominant scent from pungent aztec lilies, a beautiful, blood-red bloom, assailed the shadows nostrils, and sent it reeling backwards. Steeling itself, the shadow moved forwards again and started around the fire. A small alter held centre-stage on the other side of the fire. A statue, the crucifix and its burden, thrown into relief by the darting flames. The shadow stared up in wonder, knifes still raised, into carved eyes, lost in the image before it. A flicker of something, not firelight, in a blade brought he shadow back to the present. Two eyes like tar reflected in the blade, and a broad grin, livid white. The shadow's eyes widened; then dulled.
The figure smiles, satisfied.