((Screw this waiting. Here goes...))
A lonely winter's night in London, 1870, snowflakes falling from the sky, their frozen beauty stunning in contrast to the black night sky, white stars glittering as the moon hangs above it all, huge and harsh white in a sea of star-scattered black. A drunk, salt-and-pepper beard covered in filth and food scraps, sits in a doorway, sheltering from the night's embrace, his only warmth coming from a bottle of spirits that you would be hard-pressed to allow a dog to drink, let alone a human being, no matter how wretched.
Laughter springs forth from somewhere in the vicinity, people in fine clothing and in fine spirits, unknowing and uncaring of the corruption that inhabits and festers in their fine city; these people leave a party, piling into coaches and driving on, their hearts and minds only open to their own pleasure, their own comfort.
Yet the drunk and the rich are not the only creatures of the night, this night, any night. For others prowl these city streets, living by codes of their own that totally ignore the so-called restrictions of society. We follow one of these others, dressed in a long black cloak, his face white as the snow, his hair raven black, eyes harsh blue, as blue as clear sky viewed from a mountain-top. His name is Vencie Torro, and he is not all human. Gears shift in his body, and steam powers those gears. One arm flesh, the other steel and glass and gold and brass, as lifeless as the night through which Vencie strolls.
He makes his way into through a backalley, a puddle of melted ice spattered by a boot and he strides purposefully towards a large, hardened oak door, scarred with age. He knocks, once, twice, and it opens. Yet no servant has allowed Vencie in, and the area behind the door is empty of human life, apparently.
In Vencie walks, through a small kitchen, and finds himself in a tavern, a few score of various people, mostly of a criminal nature, drinking or talking quietly in corners. A fire roars heartily in the hearth, and yellow shadows flicker across the walls.
He seats himself at the bar, and automatically the bartender brings him a beer, which Vencie does not drink.
He waits, and waits, for something or someone we could not say...