Someone had once told him that a horse and carriage was outdated in this modern age of steam. That it was a relic, a leftover, the refuse of the bygone age. That with the advent of steam power, of mass production, of flight, that a horse and carriage was on the wrong side of history. He did not disagree. The horse and carriage was a relic, a leftover, the refuse of a bygone age. It was for all these reasons he chose it as his form of transport, why it hurtled down the cobbled streets.<br/><br/>The horses were tall, 17 hands each, ferocious beasts, their hue pitch black, burning flaming eyes as their iron-shod hooves caused sparks to fly. The half-dozen pulled a carriage, a Berline style Coach, it’s colour just as dark as the beasts that pulled it, ornate shapes carved into the woodwork, scenes of fantasy and horror, weird twisting shapes that seemed to draw the eye but dismiss it, your sight slipping and sliding unable to quite focus. Dark, net curtains prevented any from seeing the occupants from the outside, smoke wreathing the carriage adding to the mysterious aura that issued from it. Perched atop sat a man in a cloak, blending into the carriage itself, almost unmoving until with a sudden snap a whip would lash out to urge the horses forwards.<br/><br/>It was half deception of course. Any who enter this game must be aware of that. It is about what is seen, what is unseen, controlling both, making ideas form in others heads, maintaining an image, a disguise. The smoke was not smoke but steam, issued through from the boiler hidden to the rear of the carriage, undetectable to the naked eye from outside, the boiler lessening the strain on the horses. The boiler provided the heating for the carriage and the steam came out to aid the suspension. It did not serve the image of the mysterious black magician to spend every journey being bumped and jolted like a sack of potatoes.<br/><br/>The carriage came to a stop outside the Bangers and Hounds, infamous haunt of those whose reputations matched the blackness of the carriage. The door swung open by itself and David de Sabre, dressed in full stage outfit, dark formal dress, black cloak billowing, white mask obscuring half his face, a cane with ornate gold top twirled in his hands before it tip-tap-tipped it’s way forward, it’s sound echoing it’s masters movements. The carriage moved onwards once it’s passenger disembarked , pushing onwards into the distance.<br/><br/>As seems to happen every time David de Sabre encountered a door, it seemed to move on its own volition as he passed the threshold and entered the Bangers and Hounds. Eyes fell upon him and moved away… de Sabre had come to this place before and his celebrity fell more within the chattering classes then those who dwelt in these parts. He swept his way to an empty table in the corner, eyes flickering over those who already populated this place, a gesture and a word and a bottle of red wine and glasses came forth. A gloved hand clasped the glass, a sip of the wine… far from vintage from just about acceptable as the Lord of Blackest Night settled in to wait for those he had once owned the sky with and now were his partners in the Last Laugh.