Voleur de Mon Coeur
Chapter I
Of The Dark and Dank
Hammer, nor Keeper, nor Pagan am I
Not Guard, or Noble, or Merchant at all
In world of metal and of stone, I live
To live, I'm forc'd to steal, and live I must
I live in a time when metal is God
And gold holds more worth than our human souls
Their gold I take, their souls are left behind
So blest they are, for them I do not kill
I thrive on the wealth of the Builder's house
Merchants and Nobles loose, to me, their shares
I oft' feel the thrill of my sinful deeds
But find release from this life, I do try
The gold to the damn'd Landlord, it is lost
Profit to meat, water, and bread is turn'd
To cease, I wish I could find the repose
But night after night, to the streets I go
A good thief am I, and thieve well I will
The Sons of Shade, Daughters of Dark, are we
This night, Oh Luck be mine, I leave again
To this trade I am bound forever more
The Dark Man
By - Lady Xila
In a musky, cold, dark and dank cell, fifty levels beneath the bustling harbor at the southern tip of Ireland, were thousands of criminals. All were imprisoned for thievery, murder, rape, treason, and various other such crimes.
The concrete walls and straw-littered floor stank of mold, rot, and waste, both rat and human. The air itself appeared heavy and contaminated; dust was within every particle.
Screams rang through the temporary silence, due to both madness and torture. Shouts of anger and revolution rose from the bellows and echoed across the vast spaces of the prison.
Men, woman, and children were huddled together like animals, having lost all dignity and respect from others and for themselves.
All were separated for their various crimes; the more hardened, dangerous criminals were contained several more stories beneath the forgotten surface.
There was no sense of night or day. The darkness that eternally shadowed the place was as the blackest of nights without the hope of dawn.
Night forever, never the return of day.
Amidst this crowd of convicts, prostitutes, murderers, and every other criminal imaginable, sat a young man by the name of Jack Dawkins.
His head was bent, and his hands were rested calmly upon his exposed knees.
Eyes of cerulean lingered upon the stone floor of the dungeon, whereupon his bare feet rested.
Ten years he had been in this place; captured at merely the age of thirteen for the crime of pick pocketing.
His changed appearance was as you might expect of a criminal having been imprisoned for a decade.
The notorious hat had been long missing from his outfit, and the dark hair that was present beneath said hat, had grown over his eyes and was beginning to fall upon his shoulders.
The makings of a beard were forming on his face, though extremely unkempt.
He had grown taller, as one might expect, and of course, fully formed into a man. However he, having been underfed, was becoming quite thin, and, at that cost, there was hardly a muscle on his body.
Intellectually he had come a long way, as far as gaining more knowledge on the practice of thievery.
Striving for perfection, he had learned all he could from those whom had been willing to educate him.
He planned on escaping when finally the day should come in which he felt fully prepared to reemerge into the world.
That day, he felt certain, was soon at hand.
So there he sat for hours upon hours awaiting the moment in which a plan for escape would be discovered.
It's what he had trained his mind for, its what he had worked so hard to gain.
"Jack?" stated an elderly man with a rough voice.
The lad raised his head in silent answer, and waited to hear the purpose of the man whom had addressed him.
"Ye gettin out of 'ere, boy?"
Jack merely nodded and then turned his head away, returning his attention to the ground beneath him.
"Ye be careful, ye 'ere me, lad? I've come to admirin ye greatly."
At this last statement, Jack again looked over at the old man and opened his mouth to speak. " And I you, Givvins."
Givvins smiled, "It's been my pleasure to 'ave 'ad the 'onor of bein' locked up 'ere wit' ye."
Jack did not reply but merely nodded his head to the man in both respect and as a sign of the mutual friendship they had formed.
Benjamin Givvins had been one of the few tutors that Jack had considered worth modeling himself after.
"I'm sure gonna miss ye, Jackie boy."
Jack again nodded, "And I you, Givvins."
Ben Givvins then quickly turned his face away so as not to allow Jack Dawkins the sight of a hardened criminal shedding a tear.
Jack, however, guessed the man's reasons for abruptly turning away and snickered silently to himself.
He had never been the emotional sort, and as a result, had never shed a single tear. Well, not since the loss of his entire family sixteen long years ago.
Leaning his head against the wall behind him, he exhaled slowly and closed his eyes to keep out the memories, which had so long remained buried within his mind.
All time seemed lost, along with his hazy recollections of the outside world. He could hardly remember the feel of the sun upon his skin, or the feel of the wind through his hair.
His entire youth had been spent in this musky environment; spent but not wasted, in his mind at least.
He began to reminisce over all he had been taught.
Trained and instructed in the art of thievery by the nations best criminals; his mind had been molded by the hands of experts.
'And now I am ready,' he thought to himself with pleasure, 'finally ready.'
"'Ey, Dawkins!"
Jack's head shot up at the voice responsible for suddenly breaking him out of his reverie.
"Oh." Jack scowled and lowered his head, "'Tis only you, Banks."
The overweight, rough-bearded, middle-aged man lunged forward and grabbed the collar of Jack Dawkins' coat.
"'Tis only me? 'TIS ONLY ME!?"
Jack grimaced as the horrific breath of the man hit him in the face, briefly clouding his senses.
"What are ye wincin fer?" demanded the man upon seeing the change that had come over Jack's features. "I 'aven't 'it ye…yet."
He chuckled and lifted Jack to his feet, staring into the younger lad's eyes with malice and loathing.
"Banks," Jack began with a calm countenance, "let's not be fightin' on our last days together."
The man, Banks, looked down at Jack incredulously. "What ye mean, our last days togethe'?"
Jack smiled smugly and looked towards the cell door, confidence within his gaze.
He jumped, however, at the sudden howl of laughter that emerged from Banks' lips.
"What you laughin' fer?" Jack asked in pretend bewilderment. "I don't recall 'avin' said nothin' that deserves bein' laughed at."
The bloke continued to laugh and Jack still wore the slightest smile upon his face as he felt the man's grip on him loosen.
"The crook thinks 'e's bloody gettin' outta 'ere!" Banks exclaimed through peals of outward amusement. "Our last days togethe'! Ha!"
Unbeknownst to Banks, however, was the fact that he had completely released his hold on Jack, who now stood staring up at him with arms crossed and an impatient glare.
Banks, after finally feeling nothing within his grasp, turned to see Jack raising a fist and saying, "Right, now that you've 'ad ye'r laugh, let's shut ye up fer good."
Then, after a resounding collision of fist to jaw, Banks stumbled back in a daze.
Jack tauntingly motioned for him to approach, and, as the man lunged forward in a rage, Jack lifted a knee into his stomach and then jerked him upright to deliver another blow to the jaw.
Shortly after this final hit, Banks fell to the stone below, his eyes closed in weariness.
Jack ran a bloody hand through his hair and then knelt beside Banks' form, patting his balding head. "Better take it easy old feller."
Jack stood and leaned against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets as Givvins and the other surrounding prisoners emerged from their momentary stupor and looked at him, some disapprovingly and others admiringly.
"Poor 'ole Banks," one man said taking compassion on the fallen man.
"I dare say he had it comin' for some time," another stated flatly.
Jack listened to several more such comments before sliding down and resuming his former position of sitting against the wall and lowering his head.
It wasn't until several hours later that, after waking from the sleep he had fallen into, a sudden idea for escape came across his mind.
A slight smile broke through his somber features, but which soon faded as he gazed around the cell at the darkness and hollow loneliness it possessed.
He shivered, not merely from the cold but from the sheer ominous nature it seemed to hold.
There were so many hours in which he spent simply pondering; pondering over his past, present, and future.
Countless thoughts over who he once was, who he had become, and the man he had yet to be, constantly plagued his mind, sometimes with laughter, and others with a mournful bitterness.
The agony he should've felt, even wished to feel, was never present upon his encounters with the worst memories of his life.
His heart had long been hardened, frozen with all the misfortunes he had endured during his younger years.
He had become as the prison he sat within; hollow, omniscient, and completely filled with a constant darkness.
This place, in which he had been sent, was the only place in the world he deserved to be.
The only place anyone deserved to be is that place which outwardly reflects what one contains within.
Jack's lips parted into a crooked smile as he slowly shook his head. "But when are we ever where we really belong?" he mused.
His persona had become comparable with that of a horrific prison; as dark and dank as the very cell in which he sat.
"Dark and dank," he muttered silently to himself, "thou art dark and dank, Artful Dawkins."