If you're still taking them may I request B. Under the cover of darkness, with Hartwin please? :)
Honestly this barely hartwin at all, I'm sorry.~~It was a bad night to be out. Ill-omened. Bats littered the sky as the last of the light bled out behind fat, grumbling clouds, and the cries of night birds echoed weirdly down the streets, like they were still the lifeless canyons they had been once, all hard edged rock, unsoftened by wood and cloth and leather and humanity. Not a night for a taffer to be out; the guards would be mean and edgy, unhappy about being out on such an evening, and the townsfolk would bar their windows despite the heat, and the soft protective smother of darkness could be rent at any time by lightning.
It was not a night for staying home, either; claustrophobic and hot, every one of Eggsy's edges flint that could strike the wall and set a blazing row. Best be out then. Best be up off the street, that smelled of hot tar and manure and rotting vegetables.
He'd stay away from windows tonight. Stay away from jewelry-boxes and unattended waistcoats and steal a breath of fresh air instead. He scrambled up the side of the buildings, scaling balconies and windowsills, sat on a roof and watched the clouds roll across the sky, lightning flicking like a serpent's tongue.
Not enough; the night rumbled and shifted around him, goaded him. He sought higher air, above his station as a marketplace taffer, smelling perfume and roast meat from the high-walled houses further up. He swung on lightning-rods, balanced on beams across nighted streets, leaped like a cat across alleyways.
On any other night such risks would have to be carefully weighed against the rewards, any other night he'd have sweaty palms and a racing heart and he'd have to look down.
Not tonight. Up he went, ignoring boudoirs decked with silk curtains, windows left open safe behind high walls and guards and dogs. He heard no fine parties, no laughter; this wasn't a night for that. Inching closer to the ceiling of the world, he was unsatisfied yet, despite being higher than he'd ever climbed before.
Eggsy gazed up at the cathedral. Well, it wasn't like God was watching on a night like this, was it? It was if the devil himself had given him wings.
Gone was the smell of the city, and in its place a heady, rarefied mix of hot stone and incense and ozone, and rain, and it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He was among gargoyles now, hooking his fingers and feet into their gaping mouths and over their horns, and finally he rested, catching his breath, astride one of these creatures and half expecting it to shake itself loose from its perch and carry him off on stone wings.
Lightning again, and Eggsy frowned, sure there weren't that many gargoyles earlier, blinking away the afterimages.
That one there. Not a gargoyle, and as soon as Eggsy realised it, it moved, getting to its feet and staring right at him. For one moment he wondered if the devil had shown him the way here, and was now greeting him, but he had no horns, no cloven feet, just a cloak like Eggsy's own and a piercing stare.
Another taffer.
How had he managed to get up here, Eggsy wondered, entirely uncertain how he'd achieved the feat himself.
The stranger tilted his head, in clear, silent invitation, and Eggsy only hesitated a moment, looking down at the hundreds of feet he'd climbed, before turning his face to the sky and climbing higher.
