Ugh: Exams. Eventually, like it or not, we're all going to cark it/die/expire/cease our miserable existence, and I fail to see how learning about integers can possibly console me over that fact…
Hey all - this chapter is sort of like 'Filler Art' for a FF, if you get my flow. Not that crucial to the plotline, but just some background information. I have finals soon (actually, like now – thanks to all who reviewed and wished me luck for exams), but I still want to update and give you guys something to read, so yeah. It may be a little bit light-on for the next week or so, sorry all. Next chapter will be back on track, I swear.
The bar is dark, barely lit by the waning candles dripping wax onto their rusting brackets screwed crookedly onto the walls. The only sound comes from the muffled chinking of beer mugs being set back onto scuffed tables and coins exchanging hands. The slight slap of cards being presented to the rest of the betting party and slurring murmurs also carry back to the bartender, wiping and storing the freshly-cleaned mugs away under the scratched counter. It's around two of the clock in the morning, so the assembled pirates, thieves, gamblers and other low-life characters that frequent bars and inns at that time in the morning are muted; ready to down their last pint or bet their last coin before they dejectedly leave the warmth of the bar and travel down the desolate streets of London to wherever it is that they carry out the rest of their sorry lives. The only reason the bartender hasn't closed the bar yet is due to the below-freezing temperature outside. Several hours ago a snow-storm had blown up, pounding against the dusty windows and whistling through the cracks of the wooden boards, eerily blowing out all the already-spluttering candles. Ice frosting had coated the glass, and the entire bar had sat in silence for almost an hour, hardly daring to breathe. Something didn't feel right. It was only half-an-hour ago that the storm had ceased without warning, and since then silence had reigned outside the bar; the streets eerily quiet, not even the clatter of horse's hooves echoing down the cobbstones had pierced the silence.
Just as the bartender moved away from his counter to begin coercing the drunks out into the cold night air, the oaken doors of the bar had burst open, making most jump in their seats and curse blackly as they slopped the remanets of their brew onto their laps. A lad really, only just out of boyhood had stumbled in, his clothing almost frozen to his thin frame, his ginger hair, eyebrows and lashes coated in a fine layer of ice. His face was deathly white and his lips were blue. He clearly had been out of doors during the blizzard. In truth, the boy had swum all day from the burning wreckage of the ship he had once crewed on, to reach the shore, only to discover he was surrounded by a snow-storm. It was remarkable he had survived as long as he had.
"What ails you, boy?" The bartender asks gruffly, more out of surprise than annoyance.
"They're gone; they're all gone!" The boy explains feverishly. "They took them. They took them all." He babbles. The bartender shrinks back from the lad as if he's carrying the plague. The boy has clearly gone mad. He's seen things he can't handle, he can't understand. Hysterical, the boy continues,
"They killed most of them. But some they took with them. I didn't see who… They stole them… How were we to know; how could we possibly know? They looked so harmless…"
Intrigued, one of the gamblers turns around in his seat and asks,
"Who? Who took whom?"
The boy looks at him blankly, his teeth chattering. He's so cold he's beyond shivering. His fingers and toes are black with the cold, and his heartbeat is slowing. Despite the relative warmth of the bar, the blood is freezing in his veins. Uncomprehending of the gambler's question, the boy continues his spiel,
"A cursed day in hell when we allowed them on board. We never suspected… we never saw it coming… how could they kill so many so quickly… so much blood…and their eyes…" The boy breaks down into hysterical gulping sobs that rack his tiny frame.
The bartender grabs the boy's frozen shoulders to steady him. The bartender feels the cold seep through the boys clothing to engulf his own chapped hands, numbing them instantly, but he doesn't loosen his grip on the boy; he wants to know now. Which crew has mysteriously disappeared, and how? When? Today? Last week? He wants to know.
"Who was it, boy? Who killed them?" The bartender demands as the boy collapses to the floor; his muscles and bones no longer able to support his slight weight.
"Somebody fetch a doctor!" The bartender calls in shock, kneeling down to try to help the boy, but the present criminals are either too drunk, or too hardened to care. Why should they leave the comfort of the bar to fetch a doctor for the scrawny brat?
"Didn't know… how could we… devils every one of them… cursed…" The boy whispers.
"Who were they!" The bartender bellows, shaking the boy roughly in his impatience and rage, the boy's gingered head hitting the hard wooden floor.
"They were women… demons… demons dressed as maidens…" The boy stammers, eyes rolling up in the back of his head.
Incensed he couldn't get the boy to speak sense, the bartender slaps the boy's face to try to make his regain some sense.
"Who attacked your crew!" The bartender feels the boy's frail heart finally stop beating and his body emits a shudder.
"The Damned Maidens." And the boy goes limp.
You may have noticed this chapter has changed tense. Felt like a change. Hope it doesn't annoy or confuse anyone. Let me know if it does and I shall desist. The next chapter will be more like normal, I swear.
Apologies for my crude German in the previous chapter (to Heldin especially, seeing as your profile's in German) – I forgot to warn you all and a few of you picked up on it. I am unfortunately not bi-lingual (even my own grasp on English can at times be described as pitiful) so any translations are courtesy of a free on-line translation data-base, but hopefully you all get the general gist of the conversation. Apologies again to anyone who's a native speaker of any other language I've used/will ever use in this FF and feels like I've bastardised and hacked apart their language. The main moral of this is; just because I did German in year 8 studies doesn't mean I should go spouting it around. Lesson learned.