Disclaimer: Based on the poem by Alfred Noyes and the manga/anime/musical by Yana Toboso.
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor
The blonde reaper kicked the sides of his chesnut stallion harder and leaned closer to his steed, feeling his speed increase. Even though it was the dead of the night and the moon was covered by clouds, blocking it's immense light, he was able to clearly see the shinigami library a few miles up the road. Only by night was that he was allowed to see his lover, only by night was it that he could stride up to this realm without other reapers taking him in hostage and throw him in jail, it was only by night that he could ride this main road- no one dared to ride at this late hour unless returning extremely late from overtime or a late night party. He just had to be caught killing that woman and now everything was the way it was. He had to struggle everyday to survive, whether it was stealing food and money, or it was sneaking in the night to his his fair 'maiden.'
One hand was removed from the reins to hold his French cocked-hat firmly to his head so it wouldn't blow off and it be lost forever, there was no way he would turn around to retrieve it when his goal was so close. For a Highwayman, he was dressed formally and quite nicely. Some may say he stole the clothes off a noble's corpse, others may say he robbed a tailor's. But no, these were his clothes that he gone the trouble to buying. A lacey shirt dressed his torso as well as a navy blue, velvet coat. Breeches of brown doe-skin held tightly to his thighs where lay his saw blades that were cased. Boots as high as his thigh were held in the stirrups, keeping his loyal steed in his control.
He rode on under the star- twinkling sky, his face set with determination and need. Just the thought of being able to see his lover made him hot and irritated, aching for any kind of touch from those soft, fragile hands. But he shook the thoughts from his head and focussed instead of getting to the dorm without being seen and then secondly into the bedroom without making a sound. He didn't want anyone being killed tonight or any other night, he was done with killing if he wasn't for his survival or his lover's.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.