Ficlets

Mister Hunter always smiled.

It was, after all, the proper thing for a gentleman to do. Especially a gentleman on the hunt, with the fine hounds and steeds he used.

The hounds had tracked his prey for a long distance, to this house of alms in the middle of one of these strange cities of metal and glass. No matter. The hunt was the hunt, no matter if it took place in verdant forests, or the wretched back alleys of the grotesque tableaus that were modern cities.

Mister Hunter was a tall, handsome man, and his clothes were always impeccable. A fine top hat, a riding costume with a short cloak, a brass bugle at his side, a fine pack of hounds racing before him, baying and howling.

His only affectation was to dress all in black, instead of the crimsons and greens of traditional hunting costume. Black was elegant and subtle. Colors were such tawdry things.

Mister Hunter smiled as he rode through the door, his midnight stallion stamping at the tile floors.

He only hoped his prey would give a good chase.