The trail runs dry
Where are you going, Cahin?
The masked man was asking himself that very question. What was he to do now? There wasn't really all that much. It was such a confusing state to be in. With no where to go. Nothing to find. The trail had led him nowhere, he thought he had had a lead, but no. The prowling cazzo had no trace here. A great sigh heaved through his lungs, the smiling knife looked for an empty alleyway, so he could find a moments peace in the bustling crowd.
There. That one. Good.Â
Cahin slipped into the dark alley, small and unsure of where he was in the city, and he took off his mask, wiping off slight beads of sweat and cleaning out the mask for a little while. He was tired, but it wasn't enough to submit, he wanted to keep looking. Otherwise, what else would he do? He had nothing else to do. But for now, he was tired and he wanted to breath free air for a few minutes.Â
The masked man's eyes were rounded by black paint, that he used to make the mask seem more complete, to line it out and make it seem all the better fit on him, the only human part of him that could be visible when it was on. It was to make the eyes seem detached, and the rest of him seem some unholy vessel of demonic power. Underneath it, though, was still the man. Just a man.Â
