Black as ink are the sails that carry him forth
His famine his compass, his appetite north
The vessel, immense, that slices clear through the blue
Alone as he travels, his shadow his crew
Under guise of night he seeks out his prey
When all is cold and freed from the harsh sight of day
From above he descends in a cloud of white smoke,
Fills your lungs with a string, wraps your neck in a choke
Ageless and immaculate, freed of mortal strife
Carved straight from marble and given gift of life
Upon innocent earth he forever remains
Until, all creatures, has he emptied their veins
An agent of heaven from which he so fell
Now devours in full a hunger from hell
Escape is futility, which no one would deign
When faced with his gaze, so profound and profane
Hair like silver, which under moonlight does sheen
With skin cold as ice, all scarred yet pristine.
A crippling height, under which any man shrinks
His eyes even redder than the gore that he drinks
Though noble in nature and refined in his speech,
His grasp of all things lives outside earthly reach
And yet all before him are fare to his feast
The mind of a man, and the breath of a beast
~
England, 1716
An early morning light floods through the translucent window panes of a master bedroom, casting a warm, lethargic glow onto the furniture and people within.
At the center of the room, a large bed is occupied by Idris, an elderly-looking man. Though only five decades old, he has a tired, atrophying air about him which adds many years to his appearance.
Servants come in and out of the room at intermittent moments, gathering up items for laundering, removing dishes which contain half-eaten meals, and tending to other miscellaneous chores.
Sitting at the man's bedside are two women. One of them, Glynis, is of a similar age to Idris, but with a significantly less exhausted demeanour about her. She sits closer to the head of the bed, holding Idris's hand in her own with a tender grip.
Eira, the other woman, looks to be the obvious genetic product of Idris and Glynis. Her dark ebony hair, rounded jaw, and full lips matches those of her mother, just as her hazel brown eyes, pronounced nose, and long eyelashes match those of her father. The only outstanding feature appears to be a single beauty mark on her right cheekbone, probably received from a grandmother or grandfather. She sits a few feet away, looking upon her bedridden father with a gaze of melancholic unease.
Idris senses a disturbance in his lungs arising, already bringing a handkerchief to his mouth with his free hand. He coughs with vehement, forceful heaves, his body trying its best to rid his lungs of any moisture within. He removes the handkerchief from his mouth, the pure white cloth now stained with a deep red hue. He uses an unstained corner of the handkerchief to wipe a few drops of blood from his mouth, then lowers the handkerchief, breathing heavily as he recuperates from the physical exertion demanded by the cough.
YOU ARE READING
The Archman
RomanceWhile departing for London to meet with her fiancé, Eira Pryce finds herself taken captive by a living legend, the fabled pirate known only as the Archman. As it turns out, the fables may not have been so accurate in their portrayal of this mythic f...
