To the reader, (If there are any); first of all: I'm going to say thank you, for visiting this rather... newly started subject. Secondly: The characters, Jacob and Evie Frye, alongside Henry Green and the rest of each individual won't be introduced into this brand new story (yet), The Wolves. Why? You ask. Of course, I apologize for that. ONLY! Because, I want the readers to engage towards what it would be like as a underdog character who musters up the ranks instead of instantly knowing who are the Rooks or the Assassins, and what on earth is going on in the sequence of Syndicate, as well with engaging with what the character(s) acts towards different sets of places.
Here, you will follow both a "Third Person Omniscient" (If new to hear such a range; I'll save you the time and answer: Omniscient means, "all-knowing". Meaning, the narrator is basically not a person; however, knows the both thoughts and feelings of each individual.) And, Third person Limited.
Thank you once again, fellow reader. Do please, enjoy.

Sincerely,

Duvahkiin

The Wolves.

1868, Southwark, London.

Blackened room, thickened by the low tolerance of no air substance, there was nothing to be seen in sight. Only the sound of the bitter air howling harshly outside as it's spit would begin to shimmer along the sound of a window pane. The rain hitting wildly as the brush of leaves from outside would whirl epically then fall as if they were not touched. From the grey skies, a whip cracks: the sound of pale yellow lightning flashing its vibrant – although deadly and sinister – golden fumes. As the lightning strikes, it'd cast its gaze through out every blackened alley, or window and tunnel – this striked at the heart of the window of the blackened room. Thus, exposing a large figure of whom it belonged to a man who stood at the height of 259 centimeters. Despite not having a good look at what he was wearing, the sound of the broad mans thick boots had begun to thud arruptively among the wooden floor boards. His steps sounded wide and slow, as if precisely thinking of where he was going – knowing where he was going . The steps sounded intimidating each time the sound of his heel would click amongst the creaking floor board.
There was nothing but darkness, the lightning had striked no more- the sound of wind and rain becoming a blur as the sound of the mans steps begun to thicken and echoe throughout the room. There was a sniffle- a small sniffle. It sounded damp with wet, covered with thick substance. Through slobbery lips, a ghostly like moan travels in a whimper like tone- the lightning strikes. The lips of a man bounded by course rope on a seat cries out through bleeding jaws, his spittle finding itself sogging down to his white trousers.
'P-p-please… do-don't hu-hurt me…a-an-anymore…' the voice of a begging man would plead out. It was not convincing, as it came out weakly, beaten, tired. It was barely heard, but even if heard- would the large man who stood before him listen?
Through a brief moment of intimidating silence, an exhale is heard through a clear nose, there is no exhale afterwards, the air that was consumed would be left their momentarilly. As for, it finally comes out- thunder snares out like wild fire, the man now spoke… his dignified light grey eyes that observed in a tedious way beneath thick dark brown brows, 'Where is your brother?' The Scottish mans voice was deep and booming- although he had set his tone into a very low tone- making the silent atmosphere even more sinister for the man who was tied onto a seat.
'S-sir…please! I can't. I don't know where he is! Please, sir! You must understand!'
The click of a lighter was heard, the very essence of the flames effigy now danced in the darkness as it was held close to the mans dark brown eyes. He screamed for his life, till the Scottish man spoke again, 'You will loose an eye if you don't answer me correctly, Mister Finch. Let this be clear: Where is your brother?'
'I-I-I SWEAR! I DON'T KNOW NOTHING! PLEASE, I SWEAR! RODRICK IS SOM'WHERE! GALLOWS MAYBE? THE THAMES!? PLEASE, SIR- THAT'S ALL I KNOW OFF BY HEART- BUT I DON'T KNOW WHERE HE'D BE HIDIN'!'
Scratching of a rough stubble heard before the orange flame disappears, the room is covered with darkness again. 'You'll seek your industry out in five minutes, Finch.'
'What?!'
There was silence, the man began to walk again: His long, strides that made the thick atmosphere blotch itself into a dark and sinister abyss. His steps were to be taken away from the man, not hurriedly- or not to slowly. Perhaps it was slow for the man whose face began to rain with rancid sweat- smudging down his flushed pale cheeks and to his chiseled jaw. To who ever saw such a sight- it was like seeing an afraid man, standing in the darkest of night- standing at the edge of a tunnel- while rain would dance among his flesh violently. His heart raced quickly as his breathing came out coarse, he could not say a word- even if he tried- his fruitless words would only become the existence of chalky dust among his writhing flapping tongue that waggled effortlessly. Finally, the footsteps come to a stop- a stomp more like it. It made Finch squeeze down every skin of and above his eyelid so tight- it was like getting a harsh duct tape wrapped viciously among his eye and brow up.
The sound of doors opening, swiftly and fully suppressed with force- as if reckless (or careless) of what'd happen behind the doors knob that would create a large crater along the wall it'd slam to. Now, a soft golden light begins to pigment itself dimly from the doors mouth- and there stood first a broad man who had been whistling a soft tune of a pub brawl. His teeth glistened purely with white as he'd smile brightly over to the boss. He'd look absently to Finch- but shrugs anyway- his face was not torn at all despite seeing the man wet all over. It was all the same any day.
As for opposite of him, leaned a woman standing up to the height of 191 centimeters tall. A quick spotter for her- for her figure would tower over anyone she'd stoop by- be it man or elderly. The broad shouldered woman would have her arms crossed beneath her breasts, her chin berried into the nest of her black scarf that came around her neck twice- not too tightly, but enough to cover her neck- the remainder of the scarf would drop down to her mid thigh. Her almost lengthened legs stretch briefly, her right boot before the other as she'd clamp down the heel of her boot loudly- she lets out a low yawn and turns her dark brown pupils to the boss in an expressionless manner. Despite light brown skin - it wasn't the only thing that made her different to the people of this town: it was her black hair that was gathered back: sophisticated, by how clean the bundle of black lay, and, obstreperous (however, she were no friend to arrogance and boisterous) , seeing that both sides (and the back) of her scalp had been exposed by a faded shave. She'd raise her left hand, take it towards her shaved left side of her head and turns her attention to the man opposite of her.
In response, he just shrugs, left brow raised and a thin emotionless smirk wavering to his lips. 'You first, Slate,' the booming voice spoke, proudly as a chuckle would interrupt.
Slate nods, looks to the sogging man in the seat and approaches him in vigorous steps.
'Pl…ple-don't- k-ki-'
The man would flap his gums frantically, that had been spread with thick blood and saliva as he'd look to Slate with pleading eyes. Slate wouldn't look to him- only to his rope as she then takes out a knife, presses it beneath the bundle of rope and rips it apart quickly.
'You handlin' it, right, Slate?' Thomas would ask, pulling a barrel over his shoulder as he'd look from both Slate and Finch.
Their leader was watching them, watching Finch more closely- although from afar as he'd have a thick blade of a cigarette pressed between his thin lips. He'd have time to watch the grey smoke from the cigarettes end dance up to the air in ghost like effigies before disappearing into the surroundings. He'd sway out the cigarette from his lips, only to exhale out the warmth of harsh smoke that bellowed along his throat- the smoke darts into the air carelessly- but to watch it… it was relaxing.
Slate would be kicking in the oil cannisters and spilling them around the room. Carrying up large buckets and wavering it about along the table that held most of the papers. She splaters the wall with slick oil.
Finch would blink tiredly, then again almost rapidly as he'd then resurrect the last one to become a cleansing of eye sight. He had realized that every bloody painting in the room had belonged to him. He was held captive in his own building.
'NO, YOU FILTHY FOOLS! STO-'
'Hush now, Mister Finch. Don't want other people attending your lovely 'bright' party now!' Thomas would say, grinning cheesily as he'd throw a heavy arm over Finch's neck. Finch almost fell by the weight, but remained in a almost slumped stature. Laughing, Thomas would drag the man away.
Chuckling, Slate would find that joke 'enlighting'. As soon as the three men are escorted away from the building, Slate would let a torch become lit from a wild thrashing fire inside a bin. She tosses the torch into the house.
'This is a lesson to you and your lads for trying to mess up with The Wolves. Your brother is next.'
'Boss… we don't even know where to find him!' Thomas spoke, his pleasant grin growing large without any suggestion or thought of getting nervous.
'He'll come to us… finding out that his brothers planning has come to a stop. We're lucky we found this one first- he's the heart of the Blighters illegal shipping- only in Southwark that is,' Slate spoke. The large factory is sent in flames- unlucky Finch was as the rain had stopped.
'Yeah. Alright 'library archives.' teased of course, the man who still had an arm around Finch.
At that, Slate raises a brow towards Thomas, questioning if she should part the two.
'Thomas. Burn down Theresa Millers Estate.' Ordered Crowley in a blank voice.
'Theresa Millers? Now what? I thought we was gonna burn down them Rooks...'
The man glances firmly to Thomas, despite how pleasant his eyes observed- they looked hard- cold, subdueing Thomas to comment back towards the matter. Thomas turns, sweeps his raven black hair back and sighs silently. To announce his parting, he'd already be walking from the two whilst shoving his dark black cap onto his hair. He'd tighten his black coat (if the jackets could even reach over his broadened chest) . 'See you both so soon!' The sound of his deep and husky voice cried out through a wide smile, no doubt, the tone controlled with comical humour.
From watching the "classic Mr "I don't take my job serious- but get the job done anyway", Slate was looking down to Finch, 'Sir. I track down Roger Winchester?'
'Have you heard of anything new?'
'He's been adopting new children into the child labouring factories- stealing children from their homes... It's the same, however, reducing. Although, I don't know where Finch may be located but I am sure that I will find out where he is.'
'And your plans are where?'
'Here,' Slate would say, extending out a messily scrawny plan sheet. She'd open her mouth to explain.
From the depths of the bellowing dark sky- a sharp piercing of a bullet was heard, cutting its way through the air like a dart, from afar as it echoes. It would rip straight through the coarsing air, heading directly towards whom it was bound to focus.
Slate immediately turns to the boss, ordering clearly with a steady and almost raw voice, 'CROWLEY! GET TO COVER!'
Crowley swoops away from the exposed area, getting behind a wall as he'd take out his high priced revolver. The bullet marks where Crowley was before, it penetrates the window, shattering it then bounces against the stores floor.
Another bullet rips into the area, Slate takes up Finch quickly, knowing that the bullet would be marked for her- The bullet hits.
Slate would be surprised to see that the bullet had entered through the side of Finches head and out, luckily for her, she had ducked. She was not happy though. Pestered would be best to say as she then drops Finches body, looks to Crowley then takes cover. A loud voice crying out proudly, 'GEORGE WAS A SHITTY BROTHER ANYWAY! PISS OFF YOU DOGS!' cackles of fit laughter heard before it disappears.
'Bloody Blighters…' Slate says to herself then turns to Crowley. 'Sir-'
He waves his cane, watching Finches temple bleed.
Silently, Slate studied the bullet mark, of how it'd make a steep narrow curve. Obviously, she knew where the blasted blighter was- Slate was only to reconnoiter the wound to read what sort of bullet it was. For now, she'd make a leave and figure out what sort of bullet that belonged to. Most troublesome word was... The Rooks. Thinking back to what Thomas had said, she had no idea who they were- the name... it was an interesting one. Rather humoured by Pub owners, but Slate could never put a finger on under-estimating her enemies.