prologue.

"I will keep fighting against the god of this world 
until my arms have been blown off and my feet will not carry
me"

1904.  London.

      Rats whisked past the inscription, which had been etched deep down in the brick of the alley, forgotten by time and human warmth.  It was a wide road, once used as a route for carriages and whatnot.  No more footsteps sounded.  A deserted corner.  No more footsteps sounded, except his.  He whistled softly at the rats, holding a kerchief forth.  Crumbs fell from cloth silently, the clicks of the rodents' claws growing louder, fading away as they finished and returned to their shadows.  His steel-toed boots clicked against the floor as he walked slowly towards the wall bearing the inscription... And faded into the brick stone.