Gee.Arid

Context, Henry has compulsive presence and megalomania, and holes in his brain where soke of the big bads can enter- he found a ring which fixed all of that which almost immediately got destroyed (fuck u ST lmao) and gave him back everything doubled.

In his rage upon doubling and not passing on he compulsively summoned the mage who did it (who is also the one who has a hole in his mind) to, you know, murder. Buuut rolled so high (disgustingly like 8 successes) he came through the mind hole and possessed him.

A New Artform

Insistent. 

Henry has never liked the type.

"Where are you heading, handsome?" A shrill voice grates on his nerves. A pungent floral fragrance trying to hide the sharp tang of alcohol and sweat that overwhelms her. She must have come from the nearby pub: everything about her screamed 'Cheap'.

"A cold night, isn't it? A bit of company might warm you up," Keen hands caress his shoulder and rest between the crook of his elbow. A scowl and a few blunt words should be enough, "I'm not interested." It is usually enough.

She presents herself on a silver platter. Of course, that is her intention, but the irony falls flat on kine. She intercepts his path, stealing his attention and gait.

Her hands trail across his chest, leaning into his space, "I have a room just around the corner..."

A pale hand jerks forward, grasping across her mouth. Thumb and fingers digging harshly into her cheeks. Green eyes narrow into an intense focus.

"Would you shut up." Henry grits out through a glare.

She's not his type, but she could be something else. If she wants his full undivided attention, she will have it.

Fueled by the persistent growling of the beast inside his chest, a shock of electricity through his vitae quickens his hand, still clutched around his cane. He twists, the shaft falling to the ground with a clatter, as a short silver blade is freed and brought swiftly into the woman's throat until forced to a stop by bone. Her legs give out beneath her as she is pushed down, her skull impacting the concrete beneath her with a 'Crack!'.

A choking mewl from behind his hand sparks a desire inside, a twisted joy, leaving him a slave to indulgence. Henry jerks the knife out only to plunge back in during a gasping breath. The silver rips through flesh, tracing her spine within, right to left. Crimson flows freely under her chin. Muffled chokes and sobs disappear into the silence of the night as the life fades from fearful eyes. He lifts his hands and shifts back onto his heels. His canvas is open and pliant for him to do as he pleases.

A focus in the human form is required in figurative art, one should know what fills the insides. A slice frees ribbons of entrails from the confines of the abdomen, wet and raw. The body whines no more, Henry can only hear the tearing of flesh and fabric and the squelch of blood bubbling from the wound. 

He hikes the fabric of her skirt higher. The knife plunging into his canvas from beneath, ruining the only thing she was good for not two minutes ago. The warmth beneath his palm feels almost searing in the cold of the night; it would be gone soon, along with the rosy flush across her thighs. The taste of metal permeates the air, but it means nothing to Henry while he works. 

His blade carves along his canvas' side leaving streaks of vermillion in its wake, a frame for the pale canvas. The body is surprisingly easy to carve, it gives easier than even the softest of wood. Requiring only the slightest amount of pressure before the sharp tip bursts through the skin. It leaves his lines jagged and rough, having expected more resistance from the medium.

A warped smile grows on his face. His excitement boils with the stimuli, the sight, the scent, the fading warmth under him; the knowledge that he had made this. Were he a lesser man he might have caved to his baser urges to feed. Instead Henry is mesmerised by the sight, as he had been during its creation.

He retreats from his work. The result is a painting of a woman bathed in silver light; a hand reaching for the stable door, fabric hiked up above her knees, and eyes still wide in fear yet no longer seeing. Her cheeks, where he had held her, blooming into shades of purple and black, and the sparkles of scarlet from her throat like beads of a ruby necklace. The fleshy protrusion of her bowels like writhing snakes and his incisions framing her slim body. The crimson contrasted beautifully against the stark white of her flesh. 

It suited her. It was all too much. Too captivating.

Taking the blade into his mouth Henry cleared the blood from his tool, taking in the slight acoholic tang. He wiped the spittle and blood from the palm of his hand onto his thigh with a cringe. The purrs of the beast coursed through his chest, satisfied by the act of creation yet still craving more. He picked up the shaft of his cane, resheathing the blade.

He pondered, as he stared, if this is how it felt for Oliver. He doubts it. That man couldn't discern art from mess if it slapped him in the face, and it has. A sport rather than an art he decides. It can't have been more than five minutes since his blade made contact and already the feeling had faded into disappointment. There was nothing more for Henry to see. The moonlight was gone, hidden behind clouds, blood had dripped leaving shifting trails of dull red, her hair fallen from its place. The scene had changed. Gone was the vibrant painting he saw, his work of art-

Footsteps interrupt his thoughts, distant enough as he becomes one with the shadows. Already there had been murders in the paper nearby, a murder on the streets of London is not out of the ordinary. There was no masquerade to be broken, no names to be blamed.