by Melan

Three weeks ago the Builders condemned Whitechapel Row... They hammered and sawed, and erected their barricades of timber and stone... Over those weeks, I dreamed of great iron machines that swallowed the sky, thundering and shouting to defy the winds. I dreamed of nitrous vaults undisturbed, forgotten for the counting of years... At the end of the third week did I awaken in cold sweat, for on that night, I would procure a certain letter from an old house I have not visited in many years... Jacques Mortegris was his name, and I left him in anger, renouncing my lineage and wealth to live a life of knavery and deceit. But now, I would return for those fever-dreams of gold, and a family inheritance.