Only five days until The Caitiff comes out now – please join me in an unintelligable and, yet, vaguely excited noise. For example *squee*.
It was madness; a structured, meaningless anarchy; a contagious insanity which seemed to possess every creature in there, perhaps with the exception of myself and the Artist, and even then I felt the momentary urge to lose myself in the crowd and the shadows. The group of women we had entered with immediately rushed towards the bar and, attempting to share an expression in the shadows and the flickering purple lighting, we followed. They screamed their orders, shouting over both the noise and each other’s desire that, for a few brief moments, the area before me was a maelstrom of sound, no successful communication beneath the group and the woman behind the bar.
She was close against me, though we still had to shout over the nonsensical sounds emerging from the podium on which a single man stood. He was a thief, we agreed, or I think we agreed, a talentless fool who stole the works of others for the amusement of drunks and idiots. He had grown his hair long and then, no doubt filled with some fatalistic urge, had shaved it along one side of his face. The hair that remained, a thick clump of dyed blonde, had been braided sickeningly tightly. It hung from his scalp like a series of rats’ tails, each one writhing in the sweat-soaked air like it was alive whilst he swung his head out of time with the palpitating sound. He was a priest, a spiritual leader of these creatures.