Jared Pace
In the fervid streets of London, a surly dotard sulked in the dark corner of a secluded alley, quaffing a great deal of muscatel and attempting to console his shattered soul. The drink burned as it slowly trickled down his throat, though he surprisingly seemed numb to the pain. His fustian apparel was in shreds, his coxcomb frayed and cut in many different places; a small bauble was attached by a string at his hip. He bitterly doffed the cap to the side, questioning how he had gotten himself into such a precarious situation. Suddenly, without warning, he became dazed. He felt the poison course through his veins and was suddenly stricken with an appalling migraine; he felt as if he had been pierced by an adder. Madcap ideas began to stir in his head, affirming that he had been threatened by a cullion who cozened him into his current predicament. The man was once a pithy prodigy who dedicated his life to the rudiments of writing; he suddenly remembered where in his life he had gone awry, when he lost every ducat he owned, and when he lost every person he had held dear. Abruptly, he began to weep profusely; a never-ending cascade of tears streaked down his face. Dark clouds soon engulfed the skies, showering the land with rain. Utterly lost in this world, he stood up and walked into the dark depths of the alley, a lost soul cast into an abysmal limbo.
