Elysium Nights (WIP)

CHAPTER NINE - THE SINS OF THE FATHER

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Sexual Content & Incest

The intricate plan unfolded in the dimly lit chamber of Lazarus's stronghold, where shadows clung to the walls like silent spectators. Gathered around a sturdy wooden table, Lazarus, Bethany, and the Alchemist delved into the meticulous details of their audacious endeavour.

The plan, though deranged, seemed perfect in its twisted logic. The initial phase revolved around isolating the notorious leader of the Cartel, known only as The Marquis, within the hushed Waterfront District at the stroke of midnight. The Mafia, known for their strategic prowess, would engineer a distraction – a carefully orchestrated feigned attack to draw away the leader's vigilant guards, rendering him vulnerable and alone.

This strategic manoeuvre aimed to exploit the ensuing chaos, granting Lazarus the opportune moment to strike. With the stage set, Lazarus would pounce on the Marquis swiftly and efficiently. A sudden ambush, a decisive blow to the head, and the unconscious body would be surreptitiously bundled into the back of a waiting carriage. Dullahan, the trusted and enigmatic lieutenant, adept in both discretion and speed, would be at the reins, ready to whisk away the captive to the safety of the Mafia stronghold, nestled in the heart of the southern slums.

Upon reaching the stronghold, the Marquis would find himself within the clandestine confines of a place shrouded in secrecy and guarded by the shadows. Here, the grand finale of their plan would unfold – the ritual of soul transferal. In the solemn chamber, surrounded by esoteric symbols and flickering candlelight, the ritual would commence. The Marquis's essence, his very soul, would be meticulously extracted and transferred into the intricate form of a clockwork doll, a creation delicately crafted by Bethany in anticipation of the dark ceremony.

The human vessel, now a mere shell, would be disposed of – an essential step to erase any trace of their audacious act. The discarded body, a remnant of a past life, would vanish into the depths of the underworld, swallowed by the unforgiving anonymity of the city's underbelly. Trapped within the unassuming mechanical form, the once-mighty leader would bare witness to the uncharted existence that Lazarus had orchestrated – a life bound by gears and springs, devoid of the mortal constraints that once tethered him to the human realm. An infinity of torture and pain awaited the transmuted soul, an unending and unforgiving journey through the twisted machinations of Lazarus's revenge.

The carriage lumbered through the messy, rundown streets of the Waterfront District, its wheels grinding against the uneven cobblestones with a rhythmic cadence which matched the horse's canter. Inside, Lazarus sat in brooding silence, his hooded figure barely discernible in the dim moonlight that filtered through the carriage windows. At the reigns, Dullahan, stoic and unyielding, maintained a vigilant watch over their surroundings, his steely gaze scanning the murky alleys and shadowy corners for any sign of danger.

As the appointed hour drew near, Lazarus's focus narrowed to the delicate timepiece clutched in his hand, its intricate gears ticking away the seconds with ominous precision. With each passing moment, the weight of anticipation bore down upon him like a suffocating cloak, the impending confrontation with the Marquis looming like a spectre in the recesses of his mind.

At precisely 11.56 PM, the carriage pulled to a halt on the silent, salt bitten shores of the Waterfront dock. The silence of the night was disturbed by the abrupt emergence of figures from the worn entrance of the nearby dockside pub. The Marquis, a formidable presence cloaked in the darkness of his own machinations, strode purposefully ahead, flanked by his lieutenants like sentinels of the night. Their ominous silhouettes cast long shadows against the flickering lamplight as the men carelessly jested over the harlots they had just serviced.

Before the clock could chime midnight, a deafening explosion shattered the silence, its deliberate roar echoing off the cobblestone walls and sending shockwaves reverberating through the narrow streets. Panic seized the Waterfront district in its clammy grip, the frantic cries of startled onlookers mingling with the chaotic clamour of the night. Of course, a tale would later surface detailing how the HMS Whaler, laden with unprocessed whale oil, encountered a stray ember from a neglected lantern, triggering a catastrophic inferno that engulfed the vessel, though who could say if this is true.