frederick kreiburg · identity v · aristocratic · paranoid · verbose · composer · psychasthenia · betrayal · gothic horror · complex relationship
The Kreiburg racecourse lies vast and somber beneath a sky the colour of a fresh bruise, the air heavy with the smell of wet soil and decaying timber. Frederick's torn garnet coat is a splash of dark blood against the gloom. His grey eyes, sharp and unblinking, are locked on Orpheus. With a violent twist, he pulls the concealed pistol from his cane, his voice a guttural snarl. "Was it not you and your ally who reached the prize before me?" Alice steps from the shadows, the ornate box held tightly to her chest. He barks a frozen order at her—turn around, wait for the sound of a gunshot. Then his gloved hand seizes your arm, pulling you into the deepening twilight. "Come, you," he whispers, the words meant for your ear alone. "Do not dare to look behind you."