Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26475253-20150903023025

I started this story as my personal equivalent to doodling in class, as some lecture was going on. I already knew the content, so I allowed myself to drift into the open spaces of the mind and write this little piece. I am unsure as to how it ends, although as I write it i will be uploading each part here. I may upload full parts daily, and I might allow it to remain dormant for a week or so. It all depends on my inspiration.

It was a clear, jovial summer day when I was tying the rigging to the merchant ship I had recently been employed on. This particular ship was brand new, made of fine, strong oak, and would be heading towards France soon bringing a large shipment of goods. It was also rather small, requiring a mere ten-man crew to keep it afloat.



In less than three short hours, the crew, the captain and I would be out on the open sea, basking in the salty air and the moist aura trailing alongside our hull. While my heart mourned at every departure of my dear, sweet England, the captain had promised riches to all those brave enough to travel with him. I was a reasonably seasoned face reader, and while the captain looked as if he’d sell out his family in a heartbeat, he also looked as if he would be honest about it. I hastily signed on.



Slightly delayed by some interloper unknown to me, we set off from the harbor roughly three hours later, hardly wasting a breath of time on final preparations. As we left those rocky shores, a tear shone in the eyes of every man on board who was leaving his homeland behind. We all knew this to be a sentimental fling and nothing more, but England meant something, a sort of universal brotherhood to all Britons.



Every man on the ship had been briefed by either the captain or the first mate about every risk, at length. This had actually terrified some weaker souled fellows than us out of the voyage, but our hearty crew of men would not be deterred. They had told us about man eating sharks and krakens lurking far beneath the bottom of the ship, they had told us of marauding demons from the Norse lands, there one moment and a shimmer on the horizon the next.



We had also heard of the forces of the land which would impede our progress, such as wandering French knights looking for revenge over a fallen comrade, or perhaps Magyar invaders, with their mighty horses trampling all in sight and skillfully shooting all that remained.



One more threat remained to be spoken about, although both men had seemed hesitant to inform us of it; a French plague was traversing all amounts of their worthless countryside. We knew that, as strong Englishmen, we would be impervious to the disease. We would watch as the French perished.



On board with us the captain had allowed a single passenger, who would lodge in the cabin opposite to his own. This man, whom we had been informed went by the surname of Albus, was a small, pale man with short, black hair, smoothed in the back. He had extraordinarily high cheek bones, and could never be seen without his black glasses. He was constantly wearing black gloves, tailor made and obviously a masterpiece of their craft. I wondered why, when he wore such upscale clothing that would cost a week’s pay for myself to purchase, why would he wander the seas on such a small, unimportant ship? Could he not afford better protection from raiders? I pondered this, but kept about my work.



I had scarcely interacted with Mr. Albus, and even I had known that the man was quite obviously blind, or at least approaching being so. He often carried a long, sable cane embossed with a golden omega at the handle. I had once seen him with his glasses off, peering in his door before he slumbered, and snuck a forbidden peek at his eyes, shining in their ghostly pallor, pale blue orbs swallowing in the midnight.



<p class="MsoNormal">While it was a small ship, we (meaning the crew members and I) tried hard as we might to avoid Mr. Albus, as he always seemed a bit eerie to us, although we ad disregarded this and chalked it up to superstition. I had been frightened of the man ever since he glared at me that night with those cold, dead eyes, seeming to leech my life or my essence.

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<p class="MsoNormal">Another reason we avoided him was that, wherever he may go, his shadow seemed to be cast a bit darker, a bit deeper, and a bit more sinister than my our own. It was almost as if he was just a bit more real, a bit more… there, than the rest of the human race. Even when sitting in the background, it was as if all you could focus on was him, as if he were your world, all you could see.

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<p class="MsoNormal">The crew and I took to calling him Chalky, in respect to his skin and his social graces. Whenever someone dared greet him or speak to him, he always replied in a dry, almost solid voice, resonating coldness and a severe tone of voice, whether you had just spoken a simple hello or happened to run into him while he searched his way forward, edging along on his cane.

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<p class="MsoNormal">We also took to calling him Chalky as it always seemed so hard to remember the fellow’s name, even seconds after he had told us it. I myself only remember when I view his written name, which happened to be on the ship’s manifest, on which I gazed once before. Even there it looks as if the writer wasn’t exactly sure that that was the name, although this must be it, or at least some alias of the man.

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<p class="MsoNormal">Another odd thing about Chalky was the way he always seemed to compress in on himself, like a neat, designed folding chair, always ready to be retrieved and used once more; this does not mean he was small. In fact, he was one of the tallest men I had ever seen, reaching well above six feet, and a stunning height of the time.

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<p class="MsoNormal"> <ac_metadata title="My Newest Works: Chalky"> </ac_metadata>