Țεἀŕš Ơ∫ Ţħè ÐểὗἰŁ
Ťăĸĭņģ Ŀį∫ẹ Łọśţ
Radiant, incandescent eyes of cerulean sapphire shimmered in the soft moonlight night, raising subliminal mistrust upon the human race that found him invisible. Bristling silvery strands of hair bounded away from his brilliant colored eyes, raising his head to look up at the illuminated night's sky. He stood there gazing inattentively at the stars, delicate and subtle, they seemed to him, to be pinned to the dark fabric of the Cosmos. Bowing his head in a sort of dejected way, the man closed his eyes and felt the warmth draw through his very life form. The wind lapped at his face as if to stroke his fleshy tissue in a soothing gesture.
Thunder abruptly crackled overhead, shattering the man's solemn moment of tranquility. He smiled – looking over the circumference of the foundation he was seated upon. Everywhere beneath, humans ran for cover as heavy rain began to hammer down on the unsuspecting public below. He looked up to the atmosphere; his eyes filled with bitter melancholy. By now, people were hiding under immeasurable amounts of umbrellas; others ducked beneath hats and newspapers to shun the water that heavily fell from the heavens. Water ran from each strand of his milky silver hair, splattering in inadvertent suicide upon the cemented floor.
Clenching his fists, the man rose, another crack of thunder boomed overhead. His dress was flamboyant, -he was shirtless, draped in crimson; the shadowy material of his thick suede trench coat blew with chaotic movement, strapped with multiple amounts of chains and buckles. With each minute the man stood tall, the wind became less and less charitable of his presence. Strapped to his back lay a mighty Great Sword, elaborately forged in steel, bizarre metal adorned the lavish handle. His suede slacks glistened with the precipitation that so ornately clung to his body.
At his sides hung two firearm holsters, each holding a handmade automatic handgun. Each handgun was different in very unique ways – one lush black, the other untainted silver; custom design by their wielder, lustrous, slender, lightweight, and powerful. He wore boots showered in zippers, and glittering polished hooks, and ties. They were evidently built to take a pounding, charcoal black, they melted in with the darkness, and sheltered him from any possible rubbish lying around the metropolitan streets.
With one massive dive, the figure plummeted to earth, landing swiftly unscathed from an estimated four-story drop. Brushing the waterlogged hair from his features, the man sighed, water dripped down his fingers – and he wiggled them – letting the water descend freely from each fingertip. Still, no one noticed him, to the populous, he was indistinguishable, insignificant, that was the way he liked it. Out of the masses that moved so hastily, stumbled a female, - she was clad in radiant white, quite the distinguish mark from those clothed in black suites and ties.
The woman wore a white shirt, transparent at the mid section, and a lacy white skirt that came to about mid shin length, anything from there down was black, she was drenched, but lovely, her high healed shoes made her look fragile. She wore black pantyhose that lengthened over her legs, giving them a firm look. Around her eyes lay black eyeliner, shrouding her almost demonic looking green eyes, the downpour detained her raven black hair over her shoulders sinking into her jacket, almost disappearing into the blackness that seem to flow from her spirit, the length was just past her shoulders by three inches or so.
He took a closer look toward the woman, his eyes roaming up and down her noticeably slender shape. She was unsurprisingly distraught, scrambling now, - that he could see – picking up books and manuscripts that now lay sodden in the tainted street water, ruined. Becoming overconfident, which was distinguishing of him; the man snickered mischievously, approaching the woman. "Did you require some assistance here..?" His voice trailed, asking her a calculated question, in an affectionate voice. By that time, he was kneeling, smoothly picking up each piece of dripping paper with care – so as not to tear it.
The woman looked up distressed, her eyes were fiercely illuminated; her lips parted as if she were startled, to declare something in a speedy response, - but she said nil, and merely returned to scrambling for her work. "Thank you." Breathed the woman frantically, her hands trembling with her irritation over dropping such essential documents. He hadn't noticed the exceptionally eye-catching black polyester and cotton, trench coat she wore. It was corset fashioned in the middle and flared out in the base; leather straps ornamented the abdominal area.
Handing her the rest of the paper she had dropped, the man straitened up tall, towering over the woman, holding out an exposed palm to help her to her feet. The woman appreciatively placed her own palm inside the one offered to her and hauled herself up. "Thanks." The woman whispered to her would be 'rescuer', turned and departed into the crowd.
Looking quite dissatisfied by the fact that the woman immediately ran off, without even saying farewell, he shouted into the masses of people still running for cover. "The names Dante by the way! … Pfft…" Dante murmured, flexing his fingers, wiggling them much as he always did out of routine, before he too turned and vanished into the crowd.
He walked along the smooth cemented sidewalk, his hands confidently planted in his pockets. The heavy rain still didn't bother him, the sapphire painted eyes tinged with the silvery colorless hair that still lay plastered to his face. Dante's flesh was tan, calm, almost purely smooth, untainted, one could say. He began saunter down Knightsbridge, examining the lingering masses of populace meander down the street hiding below the umbrellas that they so coveted. Dante surely looked quite disheveled as he entered the lavish hotel.
His eyes shifted to the bellhop that moved to challenge this swift entry. Dante snickered though, in an ill-behaved irresponsible manner, so was the standard. He tossed the poor startled boy his room key. "Would you mind sending someone up there to freshen up the sheets and put new towels in the bathroom," he paused as if he were waiting for a response of the shaken youth – but then decided against it. "I'd be grateful for it, thanks." He added a soft laugh to this, before turning to the small lobby.
Dante entered the room with a moderately superior snicker on his face, water dripping from every part of his body, saturating the floors with the water he had dragged in from outside. With a plunk, Dante sat down into one of the individual comfortable armchairs that lay joined with others that watched him intensely. He seemed to recline there in the chair, sprawled out touching the soothing pillows with dull colors, and elaborate tassels, everlastingly, before the bellhop returned. The boys face was scarlet from running, almost like the man that was Dante upset him. "Sir," He declared vociferously -his arms now hanging at his sides, but Dante did not rouse from his location. "Sir," he said louder, "Your room is now ready."
"God, do you have to yell so deafeningly?" he murmured, rubbing his head with his gloved hand, roughly as if he was rubbing away the onslaught of a migraine. Ruffling his own silver hair, trying to wake himself. Dante rose, shooting the bellhop a disgusted glare before waltzing up to the stairs; he rounded a corner and returned to his room, three-o-eight-o. Breathing a groan before he twisted the handle, Dante was contented to be home, - at least it was home for now - looking forward to a blistering shower, and a good soak before returning to bed. He opened the door.
The room was radiant, it better have been for the considerable amounts it cost to remain in this sumptuous hotel. But Dante didn't mind, his riches where inexhaustible, so it didn't bother him much. Stripping himself of his coat, the utterly shirtless Dante wondered throughout the magnificently decorated bedroom, the sound of the water that was being filled into the bathtub by the bellhop seemed to quiet his essence, relaxing him as he waited for the water to rise. Dante felt like life was rampant around him in a magnificent tempest, swelling, pulsing, intensifying, and falling. A sigh once more escaped his oral cavity much like it did when he became exasperated, "Heh." Whispered he, rotating his head to the liquor cabinet, and smirk widened on his features.
Why not? There hadn't been a sign of any demons in months, Dante made certain to make quick work of them. Looking quite contented, Dante did indeed walk over to the cabinet that held the intoxicating mixtures inside, investigating the contents of each container of exquisite foreign wine. Selecting a bottle of Japanese Midori, he returned to the shower, glass dazzling emerald in hand, slamming the door behind.