Darken clad and ever moving, expression taunt and ever brooding- Faustus shifts from foot to foot, hastened feet, stride to stride, to his own devilish beat.

Conversation finished with Mephisto rang, jealousies traded and secrets hanged, he ruminated upon words exchanged...moods shared.
Inquiries asked to the Fallen himself, and answered truthfully; the Devil knew all, and was bound to say all.

Knowledge fluttered down to his fingertips. Wishing upon each draft of information like a fallen star, he sifted away his soul. Bit by bit, slice by slice, Mephisto gathered, in exchange for axiom. The cosmos, the heavenly body, the earth's elements, wept into his palm, giving him mental refreshment; all the truths he could drink were his.

Entwining finger past finger, bringing palm to palm, Faustus dipped his cloak's cowl low, hiding, shadowing his face lit with feverish fire at being, for once, alone.

Smirking still with what was teeming, power influential and plainly beaming, he watched the globe shift, and read to himself the questions he wanted answered.

Shades and ghosts, brimming to the edge of the occult crystal what he wanted most, to entertain himself with now as the hour grew late, the clock hands frantically walked about the grandfather face, increasing their gate, telling him not to belated in finding pleasurable food, drink and company in a bar and club conjoined in a mortal town not far from he, would he go to satiate the desire to see who he could meet, to learn who he could greet, and secrets he could delve into and keep from mortal lips and hear from mortal ears, he feared, that Mephisto was growing impatient.

Hands stuffed into contemporary pockets, garbed in modern silks and fineries of the mortal world, his presence spoke of a man content to have sold his soul to the better life, which he had, carved out his mortality with a knife and laid it bare for Mephistopheles to gather.
The rusted iron gate shut behind him, finite and definite, proving a thick membrane between the world of the living and the world of the breathless, separating him eternally as he strode onward, looking for a place to waist his immortality on drink he didn't need, company that wouldn't slacken the hold the Devil had on his heart.

A drop fell from the firmament, cold and searing from Heaven's lament, in Faustus' outstretched palm. Fingers furling, hem of his cloak whirling about in tumultuous riplets, he ducked his head low and strode his way through the slow, thick and soupy air. A tavern he must find, for the weather and prior company had been unkind to his uncanny sense of knowledge and lust to know more than he had arrived with. The town he had left to their thoughts was small, and superstitious, suspicious of the strange man with black eyes, his kind words all chicanery, all lies as he swept through breaking ties of close knit families, friends and lovers, with truths he revealed from a small crystal ball that teemed with unbridled axiom.

The red neon sign of the club reflected onto the granite and sand crystals on the pavement, making it appear like freshly spilled blood, instead of light, that he stepped on. The club was packed, and throbbing with music, debauchery and life, filled with mortals wanted to forget their strife and their mere taste of living for one night by flailing themselves silly on a dance floor speckled with lights, their gullets full of inebriating drink.


Authors Note: This is not anywhere near done. You'll notice that there is rhyme sometimes and sometimes not, the style of this particular bit of fiction is rather difficult to churn out. Hopefully the character Faustus (which yes, is derived from Faust) will grow soon.

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