elegy of the roses [thorned hearts: one]

the ghostly town by the sea

Crimore was a quiet place by the sea. The waves echoed along as they ebbed and flowed against the sandy dune of the shore. Tallgrass, though not that tall, covered the roadside. He remembers the times when he would run around the beach with his mother. There was also a forest from a distance, led by a gravel pathway. It was a deep forest that was believed to have such curses from the 'Clockmaker'.

The bitterly cold air kissed against his skin softly as he gazed at the never-ending flow of the sea. The cold was calming, and the subtle hollers of the wind remedied the ghastly silence of the village. Very few people lived at the village, that's why names are hardly forgotten.

His maleficent-green eyes shone immersively as he walked along the roadside pavement, reflecting the subtle shimmers of the sea's waves. His pale face was at it is. Gerald Fitzpatrick breathed in a whole lot of freshly cold air. He was a tall man of a well-built frame, broad shoulders, and a stiff torso. His high-bridged nose was distinct from all of the townspeople there, along with his unemotional lips. His raven hair covered his left eye, and the other lot was parted away straightly.

"Good Friday morning, Gerald," an old townsfolk greeted with such vibrance.

"Likewise, uncle Felix," he said as a reply, then continued, "although I wouldn't consider it as morning anymore. Any new songs today?"

Felix Claythorne sat solemnly on his stool, handling his accordion with utmost care, looking at the young man with a small catlike smile, replying with a simple nod and a happy hum of approval and pointing on the stool beside. He was of British descent, as he says, and was a bard. He was in his middle ages, and in a mediocre stature. He may be fairly old, but his face seemed otherwise. A very fair complexion, with a slight balding around the top of his head, and a jolly smile. His hazel eyes shone inquiringly as he put his daintily soft hands on his accordion. His hands roamed gracefully on the keys of the accordion, starting to play his hymn in a vaguely monotonous melody. He then stopped and looked at Gerald with a slight smile as he took a deep breath.

Gerald acquiesced, eager to hear another tale from the "bard of Olden Times"
A simple melody tuned out as Gerald eagerly sat beside. Around, the people also approach the bard, expecting of his new hymn.

"Now, this story came from beyond the past," Felix started the song with a spoken dialogue.

"A baron that puppets through the realm of time
With a pocket watch that I'll talk about in this rhyme.
A quaint piece of art that changes form depending on fate's adventure,
At day, a glistening gold,
At night glimmering silver."

He then continued his song with people gossiping, trying to guess about what's to come next. He hummed the next lines:

"Now this man travelled time to reap people's souls
He's commonly identified through his pitch black shawl
O'er his leather-like cloak.
His signature item, if I may inform you all.
Is a wilted and stemless, yet fantastical rose."

Gerald stood up as the interlude commenced. The people were displaying portrayal of fear on their faces. He bowed politely, smiling after towards Felix.

Felix returned the greeting and continued to sing.

With a few more typical exchanges, and they bid each other farewell.
His stiff, indifferent emotions could be mirrored with his appearance, and his voice no different, no softness to be heard. It was as cold as a chilly winter, yet his glare was as fiery as a smoldering summer. It may not be obvious but behind this calm, indifferent face of his lied a mentality quite puzzling. True, that his eyes showed no emotion, yet as if this emotionless face had experienced fear in its worst form, it had taken these colorous feelings from him.

His weak mental stature soothed him about the cruelty of human nature. With his identities, he knew he wasn't alone. He would talk to himself in his head when he is all alone, laugh at his own jokes, appreciate the hindrances of the human mind and treat it as something valuable to the human race. His mildly deranged mentality is strikingly wondrous when it comes to solving small town cases of theft [and even a tad of murder].
q
This disturbed mentality, although hindering him to be self-normal, has fruited a lot of beauteous and knowledgeable thoughts for him. He sees the world in a different perspective. Beauteous indeed, but they trigger murderous emotions. The statement meant such an exaggeration to him. He was not extremely disturbed for a fact, and he still has most of his sanity. Yet, he tries hard to keep it clean. That thought brought his mind to peace.

As he gazed along the pavements, he could never ignore the townspeople whom he found interesting. They were darkly enigmatic, as if the light never shone upon their souls. Although they seemed enigmatic, they were kind-hearted people. They were always mistaken for wicked people because of their appearances. They were as peaceful as a library, they smile a lot and greet their fellow townsfolk with gleaming "hello's" and "good day's". Healthy people, they were, always there for one another.

Just as he passed the tavern, a sweet, soft-spoken voice called out to Gerald;

"Gerald," this sweet voice seemed to have shaken him entirely. He turned around just to see a young woman waving at him with grace and meek eagerness, a smiling gaze from afar waved its way toward this stoically deranged youth.

He waved back a loose hand with a slight smile and a tint of red on his pale ever-so cheeks. A vibrance that was not monotonous, a vibrance that shook his soul to its core, a tingling sensation of nervousness and excitement.

"Good day, Ms Ocean Gypsy," his clear, resonant voice jokingly greeted the eversweet call with lilts in tone, and sudden eloquence in speech.