The chanting was meant to be loud and obvious. The dredges stood in rows, heads shaved- women and men alike, in their thick robes and hazy eyes they each played a part in the success of tonight. Each one of them had been drugged with a dangerous potion that turned them all to blood crazed savages who were hallucinating monsters and most of them were caught in that dream now, they were soothed by the droning humming that had been instigated by one of Senne's familiars. Insanity heated the room almost as much as the burning coals and the stagnant stench of decaying meat. Soon the poison would be too much for them and after they gave into a violent sprint, their hearts would all burst from the exertion of their rage.
None of the props were accurate. They didn't need to be. This was a production, a theatric, thrown up for the benefit of the Scotland Yard and one man in particular. All that mattered was that all of these witnesses died and that She was found.
Not that she hadn't suffered to play the part well. She'd insisted they starve her for weeks, she'd been bruised and beaten, slashed, and wrapped before being placed on the sacrificial altar. All that was showing of her were two eyes peeking out. Now it was a waiting game. A game that would hopefully end as soon as her husband got the tip and then a new game would begin.
The tip had been simple, Crindle Bros packing house, 9 sharp. Scared.