Cup of Blood

Act 1: The Flightless Eagle; Prologue

The male sat down on the grassy plains, of green pastures, of light winds atop the enormous cliff. The winds smelled of salt and a light mixture of animal wastes. The noise of the white birds soaring just above him in circular patterns proved to the winds that they were of not to be commanded by the air. It's mating time for the birds, the male said, in a light, deep tone. The heat of the noon sun stroke just recently, and the gust of the hot air was of innocent nuisance to anyone. The male was seated there, overlooking the deep fall unto the sea, with raging waves crashing upon the geographic formations just near the coast line, revealing a lot of shells. Crab shells, sea shells, all sorts of them. Seemingly coming from the everyday leavings of young boys playing along the sea, hunting crabs and fish for fun, and for a living. It was silent below. Quite reasonable since it's noon, the children may have heeded their mothers' call. There were also no fishing boat or working man on the sea, visible. Even breadwinners must eat the bread, the male said, smiling. The male stood up, and what a fine man he is, with the golden hair brushed backwards, swaying with the wind splashing on it and the man's face. He's young, as his facial structures boast. A soft skin, beautiful blue eyes, red lips, cleft chin, and the usual nose anyone would see at the ports of England, of Englishmen walking proudly with their chins up, but what was different from the English and this man was that he's French. As he stands up, one can see from a distance his beautiful built, not too skinny, not too muscular, but just right for a 20 year-old young man who'd always eat bread and vegetables and fresh water from the nearby spring. He always looks fresh, and he'd wear a white shirt, long-sleeved, and folded up to elbow's length, but dirtied away by the morning's work. Leather pants, for works of strain in the fields, and a pair of strong leather boots. The male's clothing may only prove to anyone that he is of a farmer's young, who tills the soil early in the morning, and never stopping until night, only taking breaks for the usual meals of the day. A boy who grazes the cattle and sheep over the green pastures as to where he's standing, or an errand boy, a slave who is well-fed by his English masters. Anything could be he.

As the male stood up, admiring the birds, the smell of the sea, the heat of the wind splashing upon his face, with a hint of contentment through a smile, heard a voice calling his name. With a twist of his bones, he moved towards the call of the voice. He walked there, through the withering branches of bushes scattered about, through the rabbits watching him, more of a predator, than of welcoming. Through the lumps of earth, hills, but too small, which are filled with luscious green grass. Through the goats he had grazed over, saying a greeting to one of them as he passed through, until he reaches a house not far. A simple cottage, of mud-brick, wood, and hay. The boy entered the house, happily. A simple life, he lives, but even the simplest households face the funniest of arguments ever.

"For God's sake, Mace, can't you quicken the mixture of the milk? Now the heathen rats took advantage of the freshly-made cheese from the barrels! Does your feline even catch those rodents?" A female voice. Seemingly scolding a man, her husband, it may seem. She was holding a broom of some sort, and she'd wear the way any woman of the 18th century would. Those living in the outskirts of the urban life, and those who'd be the main sights of any traveler abroad.

"But Andrea, the cat always seemed to be loafing around instead of doing the work which is due to his kin! It's not my fault your lazy buttocks has caught unto your pet!" The man replied, with a half-angry, half-worried voice.

"Ugh! If that feline couldn't fix the rodent problem, you're gonna be on leash tonight!" The female, in an angry tone, as she gets her broom and exits the cottage from the back, leading to the noisy chickens and the barrels of cheese where the rats have disgusted themselves in.

The young boy would smile at the old man, Mace. A rather old but still muscular man, with a floundering beard, much like that of a ship's captain, but he was no captain. He worked as a farmer all his life and every weekend would go to the urban life to sell the goods his simple living has to offer, at the sacrifice of not having to taste them for his family. "Hey, father, it's okay. I know you won't be upon the leashes tonight; you can't even fit in your trousers let alone a cat's leash," said the young boy, patting the shoulder of the latter, with a mischievous grin upon his face.

"Oh, you, boy!" said the old man. "I sometimes remember my young self through you. Full of ambition, full of pride, full of all those good things. I'm just a farmer now. All dreams gone. All hopes lost." the old man continued, with a sad tune to his string. The young boy was also saddened, but he was not entirely lost, for sometime he has promised his father, the old man, Mace, that he'd one day work in the urban life and save them from their "wretched" life, as his parents would say.

It was night time, and the family has finished their supper. The chickens have silenced down for the night. The cattle and sheep have rested in an open field near their house, guarded by a fence round-about. A dog howls at the full moon. The sounds of the sea calm down, but still audible as a loud crash of waves. The winds are calm, and gentle, more like a breeze.

"Alright now, time to bed," the female, Andrea would say to the boy, or man, depending on how awakened his inner fire is, gently, like a mother would, as she'd let a yawn and bring the lamp to her bed with her husband, Mace, apparently sleeping, letting loud snores at a time. She'd fade away in darkness, leaving the boy in the living room, with the cat sleeping on the table, not on the leash. The boy would also let a yawn, and stood up from the kitchen chairs, and arranged them how anyone would. He let a loud yawn, stretch himself, and exhaled relief. With a faint "good night" to the cat, of which the animal didn't seem to care, but twitched its ears, more likely because of a reflex, rather than the sound of the boy saying the words he had just said. He'd look at the fire by the fireplace. Already dwindling. More like embers rather than fire, but the warmth of it is still there, though slowly dying through the cold night. The boy changed his view towards his room. An open door, with a lamp just on top of a drawer near his bed, illuminating his room. He enters his room, closes the door, and bid the lamp rest for the night. He lays down on his bed, and put the covers up to his chest, not covering his face. At this time of the night, one can see the brands of stars with the naked eye, forming some sort of milky splatter throughout the skies. It's a full moon indeed, and the stars are at their peak. It would be a shame if one couldn't see these before he went to sleep, but the boy was not a bit in shame. His room would be small, yes, but it would be cold during the summer, and warm during the winter. The bed where he lies is placed where one could see the grandeur of the moon and starts without distractions. Yes, his bed is where the sea heads, and luckily, there is a window overlooking the sea. As he'd lay down, he stayed awake for some time, thinking of leaving his house for the urban life. Who knows what he'll encounter? Maybe a pack of deadly bandits along the way? Maybe he'll meet a lovely girl and get married, lucky if the girl is rich, or he'd waste all money he has on entertainers meant to give pleasure to any man of any age. He'd think of those, hard, as he overlooks the sea and the moon and the stars. Bright. Moonlight glistens through his window, creating a chilly effect. The filtered light of the moon brought about chills down his spine, enough to make him fall asleep. The moon seems to sing a lullaby to him, although not audible. He'd think hard, and as the moonlight hits his face, his attention changed towards the moon, and the land beyond this piece of land. Indeed, even in the urban life, it's quiet at this time of the night. The boy looks at the grandeur of the stars, the moon, and the sea reflecting the light from it. A beautiful view. It's nearly like a beautiful lady that would captivate any to be her lover, and indeed it did. As the boy looked harder on the moon, his eyes grew tired, he starts to yawn more frequently, and as the last bit of moonlight hit his eye, he would close himself shut. It's by then, that the boy of active days, was just one of the many who had silent nights.