Post by x.Serenade on Oct 5, 2009 21:37:10 GMT -5
Jack the Ripper
Daggers clopped on cobblestone steps, weather beaten and worn down by age. A black mass moved among the ruins of old granite buildings, lurking, seeking any form of life. But there were none. Only a few hawks and buzzards soared lazily above the ruins through which Jack wandered. He was seeking a home for himself, and whatever herd he may gather later on. And it seemed like a perfect place for Jack the Ripper to roam. Whitechapel was what it would be called, the ruins with the fields all around, filled with gorse and heather, moors really, not exactly fields. Yes. This was his, and his alone.
Daggers clopped on cobblestone steps, weather beaten and worn down by age. A black mass moved among the ruins of old granite buildings, lurking, seeking any form of life. But there were none. Only a few hawks and buzzards soared lazily above the ruins through which Jack wandered. He was seeking a home for himself, and whatever herd he may gather later on. And it seemed like a perfect place for Jack the Ripper to roam. Whitechapel was what it would be called, the ruins with the fields all around, filled with gorse and heather, moors really, not exactly fields. Yes. This was his, and his alone.
