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Glaring serrated edge, in the hand of a black-clad beast,
And upon the grated cobblestones, the moon casts an eerie glow,
MacNair nears his feast, bulky boots dragging.
Yellow lamps flicker out, the axe’s wicked edge flashing,
A forever threat in this dark man’s large, rough hand,
And he trudges with a smile upon his cracked and bleeding lips.
A decrepit shack emerges at the alley’s end,
Candle aflame in the window, figures pass it by,
MacNair moves closer, prepared to strike the unsuspecting silhouettes.
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For simple curiosity, here is what it looked like before I revised it with Pengu:
Spoiler! :
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