Blakeney-Rose Berry

My fingers dance along the edges of my faithful spinning top as I sit in the dim-smoke filled corner of The Hanged Man’s Rest Inn. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, making the atmosphere all the more intriguing. Here destinies become entwined and terrible deeds spoken of between sips.

This unique top is carved from the heart of an ancient oak and blackened as if dipped in sin. Every spin carries with it a whisper of fate, serving as a silent herald of doom. I am not its master, I merely serve as the divine force that governs fates.

The worn table is the stage for my macabre dance, as the top flicks and spins in an eerie vortex of dark intentions. Meanwhile, oblivious patrons laugh and chatter, their cheerful melody clashing starkly with the sombre drumbeat of my heart.

Death’s finger beckons and as an unassuming spectator, I watch with grim certainty as it waltzes to a stop, pointing its chosen one out. Unaware of the fate that has befallen them, the people around me continue to laugh and exchange flirtatious glances.

Leaving behind a spinning coin as my insignia as I follow fates chosen one out of the door, a symbol of the impending cost, I rise as the gaslights falter and the air grows dense. With the hunt in its early stages, the night is ripe for adventure. For in the heart of Victorian London, amidst the fog and filth, I am the spinner of fate, and tonight, fate has chosen you.