Empty Reflections - Marcus Rose

[BreakFree]

Remnants of a Mercenary Sailor; Part One

Waves crashed and the winds howled against the small fishing ship. Gallons of water poured ruthlessly onto the decks as a group of soaked men cursed and fumbled through nets and hundreds of fish. The weather was getting worse by the minute and the scramble was on. Fish were emptied into anything; barrels, boxes, tossed in heaps of cloth. Thirty feet away from the raging turmoil was a young man, fifteen years old at most. Despite his age he seemed to be filled out thoroughly. With every breath of sea-wind that tore at him his shoulder muscles visibly rolled under the thin cloth that covered them. Towering beside him was a man of fifty or so years. Both hands holding the white-wood wheel of the ship as if they were shackled to it, his face in a constant grimace with his graying beard spotted by sea foam.

“Cap’n, we got all tha’ nets up, we’re goin’ tha’ fawk inside,” bellowed one of the men from below; his hair soaking wet and plastered across his face. Briefly he acknowledged the sailor, but his attention stayed on the thundering waves that were tossing the ship around like an ant in a vacuum. The younger man at his side stayed unmoving; his arms folded behind his back; his eyes focusing on the deck of the ship.

“Marc, ye go inside now lad. I’ll call fer ye once we’re outta’ this mess, savvy?”

The boy nodded with a faint frown and slogged his way down the stairs towards the cabin. This living space carved into the belly of “The Sea-Lion” was a pathetically replicated tavern. Two small tables laid in each corner; each covered in bottles and half eaten bread. On the far wall were a dozen bunks, all of which had a makeshift straw mattress and a piece of thin linen balled up at the foot of the bed. One of the bunks had wool blankets tossed across them, these belonged to First Mate John Freetworth.

John was a lanky man in his late thirties. He was balding and was often called “Monk” by the other men due to his hair being gone on the top but thickening towards the bottom. Scars lathered his fragile body and his face. Some said he fought for a Lord’s personal guard before becoming a sailor; others just said he had an epic battle with shrapnel, and lost. Aside from the fact he was a push-over, in someway there was a definite persona of respect and trust from the men towards him.

With a slam the cabin door swung open, thudding as it roared to a halt against the narrow hallway boards. Captain Lenny Dennis looked about the room, smiling wide with his seven or so corn colored teeth.

“Well boys, filled most of tha’ ship on this run… get yer rest now, we’ll be unloadin’ by noon tamarrah,” he muttered hoarsely across the cabin. This was ensued by the expected sigh of relief for the rest, and groan and curses for the unloading. Dark blue eyes traced the room for a moment then spotted the boy, who was sitting with his legs crossed on a back chair; absently spinning a bottle. “Marc, c’mere boy. Need ta’ have ah wee talk wit’ ye.” All the eyes in the cabin shifted towards Marc; who was now standing, and followed him intensely as he followed the captain out.

The door slammed shut and Captain Dennis walked with his normal swagger; reminding Marc of a man with one leg longer than the other, and stumbled into a large wooden chair. Ushering the boy towards a seat, he sighed heavily and folded his hands on top of the choppy log table in front of him.

“Boy, ye been with me fer sum’ two years now, aye?”

Marc nodded slightly, responding with a hesitant: “Aye, sir.”

“Ye proved yerself useful on this ‘ere ship, n’ I be thinkin’ fishin’ nay yer thing. Dunnay get me wrong kid, yer good at it, but ye lack tha’… happy feelin’ when yer out here watchin’ tha’ men drag up nets o’fish.” Dennis offered a reassuring smile, his voice lowering to a hushed raspy tone. “Y’see, I be runnin’ merchantin’ ships outta’ tha same port, n’ I be thinkin’ tha’ may be more n’ yer league, savvy?”

All of Marc’s attention went towards the captain, his eyebrow arching and his voice contained unconcealed curiosity. “How are you affording all this, Captain? Fishing is profitable, sometimes, but not enough to have two ships running simultaneously.”

A laugh roared in the cabin as Dennis lofted his feet onto the table, his boots making waterfalls of rain-water that poured onto the floor. Whilst fidgeting his fingers, he smiled again at the boy.

“Nay, yer right boy. Was plannin’ ta’ explain this ta ye once we were on tha’ other ship, savvy? Back home, I was jhist like ye, orphaned out at ah young age. Met some people who were inta’ tha black marketin’ business n’ gave me tha’ chance ta’ excel at it. Had me pushin’ drugs, weapons, all sorts o’shit inta’ other countries. My mentor, father like figure, Leonard DeHaul, passed away ah little before I hit twenty. Left me his ships, his entire organization, really.

Y’see, this business be ah… family organization, ye gotta’ pass it down one by one ta someone ya trust n’ is raised around it. Known ye fer sum’ two years Marc, ye’ve been under me wing since I met ye, yer like tha son I never had, savvy? Think about it, kid, life’s ah helluva’ lot better when ye gotta’ go steer ah ship around because yer bored of watchin’ yer coins pile up.”

Waves continued to pound on the ship but the rain had ceased its head grinding drumming. Marc sat on the knee height rail that circled the deck, his feet dangled carelessly off the edge. He leaned backwards and pulled a black sling to his side; removing a glistening light wood acoustic guitar. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he glanced towards the sea and the upcoming port; his fingers resuming the beat on the strings that the rain had started hours before.

[nakedxXbeauty]

The Existence of an Exquisite Beauty: Jaslene Brinson, Part 1

The day began like any other.  The girl’s petite form lay sprawled out over the straw covered cobbles of the damp interior of the worn down house.  She was ripped from her somewhat peaceful slumber by the cold splash of water over her face.  She sat up with a start, gasping for air as she wiped the cold water from her eyes.  The room was still dark, but she could make out the figure of a large woman standing just above her, bucket in hand.

“Get up, lazy wench!”

   This routine was normal.  Each day consisted of; waking up (to cold water poured on her head, or a swift kick to the abdomen), and eating a breakfast consisting of a bowl of grayish colored mush.  Her chores began not long after-sweep the floors, mind the children (all six of them, and all under the age of eight), stop by the market if time permitted, fetch water for the day, and cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the family.  Growing up in a shack and living with eight other people was never easy, especially when the one in charge despised you.  Jaslene had never gotten along with her tyrant of a mother.  She’d began to blossom into a beautiful young woman at the age of a mere fourteen, despite the conditions she was brought up in.  The beggars or slum rats as her mother called them had taken notice of her immediately, doing whatever they could to draw her attention.  She had never been intimidated by anyone, especially not some poor man who couldn’t afford to feed himself.  The attention was flattering, to say the least, especially to such a young girl.  If anything, it boosted her confidence even more.

   *The slum house: The outside of the house was much like many of the surrounding ‘homes’.  Two windows, one placed on either side of the worn wooden door, were usually kept open during the day.  The door took you to the small kitchen/living area.  The kitchen itself consisted of a small fireplace with a single pot hanging over it.  A wooden table with a number of mismatched chairs set off to the side, near the fire.  A single large chair had been placed near the door.  The only other item in the room was the tattered rug, placed in front of the door so any unlucky visitors entering in could wipe their boots.  A small, wooden door was placed on the western wall of the house.  This door led to Jaslene’s parent’s room.  This room was small and dark, having no windows.  A large bed set off to one side, covered by a wrinkled, dirty quilt.  A worn down chest rested at the end of the bed, filled with clothes.  The only other door, other than the front door, led to the children’s room.  This room was even smaller than the other bedroom, and was shared by six young children ranging from ages 1-9.  A ladder in the main room lead to the attic.  This room was where Jaslene slept.  The floor was covered with moldy hay, and a small broken window that had never been repaired allowed the cold nights air to fill the room. 

   This particular day was nothing out of the ordinary.  Her order’s had been to run to the market for bread, return home to fix a pot of broth for the children, wash clothes, sweep the floors, and then begin supper for everyone.  The salty sea air filled her nostrils as she paraded herself down to the market, basket in hand.  The whistles from common men were nothing out of the ordinary, and brought a small, mischievous smile to her lips.  She purchased a loaf, and made her way back home.  The sun set high in the sky on this particular day, and she made a point to walk near the docks on her way back to her alley.  The ships amazed her.  It was nothing new, no, she had lived here her entire life, yet she was still astounded each time she gazed up at their large masts.  The men, on the other hand, were a completely different story.  It was the same thing each time she came for a stroll; the calling, the groping, the eyeing.  None of it amused her much anymore; although at times she was tempted…a few more coins could be helpful.  Hell, maybe someday she’d even be able to escape from the grasp her mother held on her.  She pushed the thought from her mind and continued on; making mother mad was not on her to do list today.

[BreakFree]

Remnants of a Mercenary Sailor; Part Two

Thin white curtains fluttered softly over the opened window. Two long leather couches laid side to side in front of the polished wooden desk, which was mounted by two glistening black boots. Marc was leaning lazily in the over-sized, over-stuffed chair; his eyes glancing left to right across the small room. Two thuds echoed through the room and the door swung open gracefully on its oiled hinges.

A man entered, then a second, and a third. Each dressed in snug fitting suit, black on black with a dark blue tie. Marc’s fingers jittered on his thigh and he crossed one leg over the other, staring at the man approaching him. He was a tall man and filled out his suit well; black hair cut short, neatly, capping off a long face. Tanned skin and an obnoxiously white smile, bearing no signs of facial hair; just baby bottom skin.

“Mr. Rose, the ship will be leaving port in thirty minutes. Shall I ready your quarters?”

“Do so, Mr. Chamberlain, do so.”

With a smile and a nod, Marc slid a yellow-tinted envelope towards Mr. Chamberlain. Wordless and without any sign of recognition, the man took the envelope, slid it into his inner-jacket pocket, and left the room. The door sounded with a click as it closed shut.

Winds howled violently and rain poured onto the large ship, the “Mecianatto”. A herd of men, all in damp clothes plastered to their bodies, continued carrying large wooden crates into the ship. Unlike the original brown wood crates that were hauled on during the sunset hours, these crates were painted black; black like the night that shielded their loading.

Marc arrived shortly after the last of the boxes were removed from sight, a dark blue umbrella hovering over him as rain poured down around his figure. His boots clicked softly onto the ramp as he boarded the ship, his suit nearly invisible in the darkness that shrouded him. A few nods and mumbles later, he disappeared into his quarters with a leather bound booklet.

The pages seemed like a random jumble of numbers. Pages and pages of numbers, each representing some object that was being shipped from port to port. Every third or fourth number on every fourth or fifth line represented some phantom stock that Marc preferred to inspect personally before each shipment. He tallied them carefully, making sure that each number of the phantom stock was as accurate as possible. Although this time, this shipment, he didn’t bother to check the stock; or the paper work. His eyes seemed distant and his position was that of a man who had just lost someone dear to him; someone who had lost the only thing he had ever had.

His feet were perched on the edge of the old wooden table; his arms wrapped around his knees; his head buried below the kneecaps. The chair rocked involuntarily with the ship as it took off, then continued on in a flat; smooth motion. But the chair didn’t stop rocking, the man was shaking; the chair riveting back and forth.

Three days prior to the Mecianatto leaving port, a letter had reached Marc at his manor in the countryside outside of the city. It was unsigned, sealed tightly, and a tied with a thin black strand. The strand fell to the ground and the seal was broken; a single sheet of paper with a small sum of words was laid out before his eyes.

Captain Dennis was killed. Meet in Waterdeep, one week.

Best Regards,
John Freetworth

Floating to the floor, the paper landed near Marc’s feet. Jerking up, he snagged his coat from the back of his chair and left the room.

Negotiations in Waterdeep were quick and to the point; all of Dennis’ personal belongings: ships, money, homes -- all to Marcus Rose. The sudden accumulation of enough wealth for six or seven generations left Marc in shock as he lounged at a pricey inn on the outskirts of town. Marc left John the fishing ship; he had no need for it or for fishing, and John was the sort of man to run it well.

As the sun rose over the worn down farm houses, horses roared by the inn and a knock sounded at the door. Marc opened it to find a large bag. Keys, paperwork, and another sealed envelope were tightly fit into it. Hands trembling, he brought the envelope towards his face and opened it.

Marc,
My end is near and you shall soon find yourself beyond well off for the rest of your days.
Keep in mind despite your wealth, the company will still need someone to run it.
You know where the office is, you know everyone that we work with.

Farewell friend,
Captain Dennis

People flocked into the newly inhabited estate. The garden was ripe with bands and people well known around the cities. Wealth fluctuated in every room as hundreds arrived to celebrate. Even though this was a celebration party, many would follow, almost every other night. Marc liked to be surrounded by people; even though he had no relations or even acquaintances with most of them. He sat with the window open, the soft sound of laughter and music pouring in. His feet were propped on the desk as someone knocked at the door.

A man dressed in all black; a tight black shirt with matching black slacks, approached Marc with a slight swagger; his blade glistening against the desk’s candle light.

“Found this one trying to sneak in over the back gate, Mr. Rose. Relentless wench, couldn’t keep her out. I’ll leave her to you, got drunkards swimming in the fountains.”

He left the room and a grunt was heard as a young woman was launched into the room; the door slamming shut behind her entrance. His eyes lifted from his desk towards the woman, a smile tugging at his lips. ‘She’s beautiful,’ he thought to himself as he admired her perfect frame and shining eyes.

“What’s your name, miss,” Marc asked with hidden curiosity.

“Jaslene,” she replied hesitantly; her eyes darting to and fro in the office room. With a laugh he nodded, motioning towards the door.

“Have a good night, miss Jaslene. Eat and drink as you will, what’s mine is yours -- what’s mine seems to be everyone’s.”

A sly grin formed on her lips and she nodded; inching her way backwards towards the door. Her slender hand wrapped around the handle and she left without a sound. Moments later, another knock rapped at the door for mere seconds, then it swung open.

The door clicked shut, the curtain left fluttering in the wind. Marc looked up and around his cabin, small and dusty, only two chairs covered with stuffed red cushions. He smiled faintly as the door opened, a foreign face staring at him.

“Be there by mornin’ Captain.”

Marc nodded and the man left; the door swinging shut behind him. Slowly he stood and made way to the window which gave a full view of the trail the ship was leaving as it raced through the waves. Over the waters the tip of the sun could be seen, illuminating the water into a collage of warm colors; oranges, reds, and yellows. Pages flipped on the desk as a wave crashed against the ship; Marc smiled and grabbed it along with a piece of black charcoal. His boots clicked against the wooden floor as he left his cabin, making way to investigate what phantoms had boarded the ship this time.

[nakedxXbeauty]

The Existence of an Exquisite Beauty: Jaslene Brinson, Part 2

Nearly a year had passed since Jaslene had left her home.  Free on her own, she had turned into a wild and somewhat promiscuous young woman.  Her days were mostly spent in the tavern, with common wenches and alley rats alike.  Nights on the other hand, were almost always spent in a different room with a different man.  She did whatever was necessary to keep decent clothes on her back and food in her belly.  As she grew older, she grew all the more beautiful.  Her hair was untamed, and had turned a deep auburn color.  It was thick and curly, usually worn down, a status symbol to most.  Her skin was tanned from the days spent at the market, or at the docks.  This again showed her station in the town.  She was shorter than the average woman, but her voluptuous figure made up for what she lacked in height.  Her eyes were captivating, a deep green accented by long, dark lashes.  Men were willing to go to great lengths for even a bit of attention from this poor, peasant girl. 

   It was by complete accident that she had fallen into the care of Marcus.  The streets had been bustling that night; there was a party to be had, and a grand one at that.  She dressed in her best, a long velvet gown the color of pink mulberry.  She tied her corset tightly, knowing that the cleavage spilling out of her dress would only draw the attention of men, perhaps even someone born of wealth.  The color of the dress made her skin glow.  The sun had set by the time she finally left the tavern, following the crowds in whatever direction they may be going.  They house that she came upon took her breath away…there before her stood what seemed to be a two story mansion.  The house was built with the finest stone, a light color surrounded by all types of decorative vegetation.  A short stone fence surrounded the house.  The windows were large, and some were open, their silk curtains blowing in the ports light evening breeze.  The sounds of men and women alike could be heard on the inside.  She gazed about the front, noting two things; first, the people surrounding the fountains.  The second thing she noticed were the two men standing outside the door.  Both were quite large, and clad in dark leather.  She casually followed the fence around to the back, the servant’s entrance.  Her eyes darted from right to left; she was alone.  She lifted up her layers of skirts and swung a short leg over the fence.  Not more than a moment later a hand reached from behind, roughly grabbing at one of her delicate arms.  A high pitched scream emitted from her parted lips as she was yanked back over the fence and swung over the shoulder of a tall man.  Immediately she began to kick her legs and beat her fists against his back.  In a swift motion he stepped over the fence and marched to the house.  He had to duck to fit through the door.  The pair made their way through the kitchen to a hidden staircase, most likely built for the servants.  She grabbed hold of the wooden railing, holding tightly until she was dropped from the shoulder.  She attempted to run, but was once again grabbed by the arm and dragged up the stairs.  The next door led to an extravagantly decorated hall; red carpeting brought out the color of the white pillars that lined the hall.  There were statues as well as expensive pieces of artwork hung everywhere.  She made a grab at whatever she could, attempting to free herself from her captor.  The two finally stopped before a large, closed wooden door.  The man knocked three times before swinging the door open, peaking his head in before he spoke.

“Found this one trying to sneak in over the back gate, Mr. Rose. Relentless wench couldn’t keep her out. I’ll leave her to you, got drunkards swimming in the fountains.”

   Before he made his exit, he tossed her into the room.  By now her dress had been tugged loose in a few places.  Her hair was a wild mess, and she had what appeared to be a permanent glare plastered on her face.  He asked for her name, and she told him, but not without hesitation.

“Have a good night, Miss Jaslene. Eat and drink as you will, what’s mine is yours -- what’s mine seems to be everyone’s.”


   Nearly a month had passed since the incident, and yet she had still remained close to him, trailing his heels as if she were a lost puppy and he her master.  She rarely spoke to him, however, still refusing to open up with him about her past, or where she had come from.  He didn’t seem to mind, though.  She was always given plenty to eat, fine clothes, and a large, comfortable bed to sleep in. 

   This particular week had been quite busy around the house.  Marc had been preparing for a short voyage.  She knew he wouldn’t be gone long, but still refused to part from him.  She never admitted to this, yet he somehow knew she would refuse to stay behind.  He had quarters cleaned and freshly furnished for her.  Clothes were packed and loaded onto the ship.  The day they set sail had been like most others; cloudy and gray outside.  In her mind, it was dull.  Marc spent most of his time on deck, giving orders and conversing with the other men.  She sat alone in her cabin until dark.  It was silent, except for the sound of the waves crashing against the sides of the ship, and the rain pelting on the deck.  She lay on the soft cushion of her bed, her skin covered only by the thin material of her long, white nightgown.  Sleep refused to come; it seemed as if she had been tossing and turning for hours, the rocking of the ship not seeming to aid her cause in any way.  She groaned, sitting up and throwing her short legs over the side of the bed.  She lifted the candle that sat still lit on her night stand.  Her bare feet padded over the rug as she made her way to the door, creaking it open and sneaking out. 

   His cabin wasn’t locked.  She knew it wouldn’t be, just in case something were to happen and he was needed.  She opened the door slowly, the low creak heard down the halls.  She stepped in quietly, leaning back against the door to close it.  He was asleep, that much was obvious by the heavy, even breathing.  He seemed so peaceful, one arm draped over his abdomen, the other resting above his head.  She tiptoed to the bed, resting her candle on the night stand.  She slipped the soft linen gown over her head before climbing into bed beside him.  He was startled, to say the least, nearly falling off of the bed as he felt her bare skin on his.  After a few moments his face filled with realization, and he wrapped his strong arms around her.  She spent the night there in his arms, belonging to him and only him.

[BreakFree]

Remnants of a Mercenary Sailor; Part Three -- Finale

Music and laughter echoed throughout the obnoxiously large estate on the outskirts of the city. The garden; a two acre flat of dark green grass, littered with random assortments of mulch and flower beds, fountains, and on most nights, small pavilions. Each of these pavilions, set up in five corners of the yard, were spacious and covering an assortment of bands from the elements. Over a hundred and fifty people drunkenly mingled among themselves, scattered about the lawn like sheep or cattle speckling a hill side. Despite the commotion outside on the grass, the patio was jam packed. Singing, dancing, random cheering, talking, and the headlining band of the evening upon the balcony. Each member of the band donning grey hats, grey suits and white ties; guitars, a random assortment of horns, tambourines, flutes, harps, and a grand piano that was drug out from the house.

Directly above the headliner’s balcony rested a smaller porch-esque area. Guarded by a small white fence it led into the house via two screen doors.  Sitting upon the porch with his feet crossed over a black leather stool was Marc. His suit seemed to be crisp, absolutely wrinkleless and a perfect fit. Solid black; pants, jacket, shirt, and tie. His hair was left rustled but kept its daily trim-like appearance. Suddenly the music dimmed off and the audience grew hushed. Moments passed and slowly he rose from his seat; inching carefully towards the railing and leaning over it; his hands locked as they dangled over the edge.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to my home… please enjoy yourselves as you will, what’s mine is yours this evening.”

Marc grinned and looked down at the crowd; hundreds of colors; hundreds of assorted faces. They all lit up after he finished his one line introduction, not noticing that Jaslene had stepped up next to him on the balcony. The music was softly rising but cut off instantly as she began to speak.

“Uhm… and, while you’re all here… keep in mind that this celebration is also for our… beloved Marc’s birthday!”  Her face was red and her hands were shaking as she looked over the railing. Marc let out a soft laugh and wrapped an arm around her bare shoulders; uncovered from her dress, looking out over the crowd again as they absently applauded.

“Go introduce yourself to people, Jaslene… I have some people to see while they’re here.”  He gave her a reassuring smile and a kiss to the cheek; ushering her off the balcony and out of his room with her arm locked in his. Marc turned down the opposite hallway as two of his black-clad body guards escorted Jaslene to the gathering outside.

The clicking of his shoes down the marble stairway was repetitive and consistent; stopping at a black-wood door three floors down from his room. Carefully he turned the knob and pushed the door open, revealing a long, lit room. Candles lined the walls and the twenty person, iron table. The table held a group of ten men, each wearing a variety of suits and one with an obnoxiously large black leather hat. They sat in silence, a single glass of red liquid in a crystal-esque glass in front of them.

“Gentlemen, welcome to my home. Festivities are under way so we should not be interrupted, so let us proceed.”  Marc adjusted the collar of his suit and made his way to the head of the table, where he slowly lowered himself into the over-sized, over-stuffed chair.

“Mr. Rose,”  the man with the hat began to speak, “We’ve reason to believe that you could transport our stocks, successfully, to the city of Neverwinter and as far as the small town of Port Llast.”

“Depends on your stocks, mate,”  Marc said with a grin, reaching for the glass of wine in front of him.

The party raged outside; people seemed to drown themselves in the constant supply of beverages on the waitresses trays. Chefs refilled the large buffet table with glazed hams, dark steaks, and other assortments of foods on silver platters. Musicians were playing loud enough the canvas tents they were under rocked simultaneously with their music; swaying with each blow of the trumpet and solo from the violinist. Hour after hour passed as the groups seemed to mix and mingle among themselves, stopping at each different tent to find different people and different foods.

The main backdoor; two large, polished slabs of wood; swung open and the group of gentlemen that were in the basement room all walked out. Marc led them with a faint smirk, talking softly to a few of them as they passed, shaking other’s hands. A large, rowdy group of well dressed people approached him as he walked down the stairs, showering him in hugs and handshakes as they drunkenly gave appreciation for his birthday.

His eyes seemed elsewhere as the group talked to him, often finding himself trying to force focus on the group as they chattered. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the fountain and the lone girl sitting next to it. Her skin glistened in the pale moon light, her hair draped over her tanned shoulders, eyes roaming the randomly speckled herds of people in the garden. His eyes locked on her; a smile tugging at his lips, his face lighting up as he pushed his way through the crowd in a determined manner. Slowly he walked up to her and offered her his hand, leading her towards the uncrowded dance platform in front of the main band.

[nakedxXbeauty]

The Existence of an Exquisite Beauty: Jaslene Brinson, Part 3

         She stayed up on deck throughout most of the voyage, leaning against the wooden rail and twirling a lock of hair around her delicate finger.  The journey so far had been calm, with little rain or even gray skies.  Marc spent most of his time alone in his cabin, plotting out new courses and marking inventory.  The crew was small this time, which was a bit unusual for the large load they were transporting.  Morning turned into afternoon and the sun rose high into the sky, darkening her skin and leaving light freckles sprinkled over her bared shoulders.  She left her spot on the deck to make her way down the stairs that led to the boats cabins.  Her room was small but well furnished, with a large cherry bed, a mirror and a stuffed chair.  She also had a set of drawers and a closet that contained enough clothes for the journey.  A nap would do her good.

   She was torn from her peaceful slumber by the sound of a strong fist banging on the door of her cabin.  She sat up with a start, stumbling out of bed and hurrying to the door.  There stood one of the crew members, his large belly hanging out from his shirt.  He spoke too loudly, and his breath smelled of ale.

“Cap’s hungry, lass.  He asked you to bring ‘im somethin’.”

   She nodded in silence, somewhat intimidated by the man.  As he left, she leaned out of her cabin to watch him go, quickly shutting the door and bolting it.  She ran to the mirror, examining her appearance.  Nothing to be ashamed of, by far.  The curl of her locks had calmed a bit from the weight of her head as she slept.  The sun had left her cheeks a bronzed color, and the sleepiness had made her features appear somewhat soft.  The dress she wore was plain but flattered her figure.  She wore a plain white dress with a thick black skirt over it and a red corset.  The sleeves were off the shoulder, revealing the light patches of freckles.  She rushed from her room to the small kitchen to prepare something for Marc.

   She walked to his room slowly, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other balancing a plate of cheese and coarse bread.  His door was cracked open; she used her hip to push it open the rest of the way.  Marc sat comfortably in his chair, one booted foot resting on the edge of his large desk.  He glanced up as she entered, carrying the plate and glass to his desk and setting them down.  Her demeanor around him was shy, usually, except for those days when she could hardly keep her feelings under control.  She turned to leave without a word, only reaching the door before he finally spoke. 

“Jaslene…”

   She immediately turned to him.  He had rose from his desk chair and had the same look on his face that he had the first night they had made love.  She was in his arms almost instantly, their lips locked together in a frenzy of passion.  He leaned her forward against the desk, reaching around her to shove piles of papers and books out of the way.  His hands clutched handfuls of her skirts, lifting them, his fingertips trailing up the soft, bare skin of her legs.  She rarely wore stockings, unlike most women, especially when they were on a voyage. 

   Later on that night came a tap on the door.  The pair laid in bed, nestled beneath layers of soft covers.  Jaslene slept peacefully in silence, while Marc on the other hand lay awake beside her, keeping her small body pulled tightly against his.  The small candle next to the bed kept the room somewhat illuminated.  His mind seemed to be swarmed with many worries; the voyage, the delivery of their shipment, and even her.  He knew it would never work…

[BreakFree]

Challenges of a Two Man Business; Part One

Marc glanced towards the door as it swung open; as did the entire restaurant. Three men paced in with their white suits making a vast contrast to the black night that lingered behind the open door. As suavely as they entered, they seated themselves a table away from the small gathering at Marc’s party. Ensuing their seating and brushing off of the waiter, all six of their eyes kept an uneasy stare in Marc’s general direction.

The party residing around Marc was a full table. Five men, three women; each dressed exquisitely in ritzy clothing. To his right was Jaslene, his left a balding man with a strangely curved moustache; resembling that of a child’s drawing of a bird. Waiters seemed to move from their table to the kitchen like ants, a constant flow of wine and foods landing on the table as the dirty dishes and empty bottles went back to their dwelling.

His eyes drifted every so often towards the table of white-garbed men who never seemed to look elsewhere when they caught his attention. Silence engulfed the restaurant as the door swung open again, a long white cane pointing at Marc. The door slammed behind him and the three table-mates stood by his side. He was a short man, a really short man; maybe two or three inches taller than Jaslene. With an obnoxious black top hat resting on a thick gathering of black springy hair and a bright pink suit; muffled laughs and words seemed to erupt after the moments of dead quiet.

Marc’s attention was drawn directly to the man, the cane looming in the distance, it’s golden foot-piece glistening towards him. A grin peeled at the man’s lips and he opened his mouth to speak, only to emit a harsh cough that left his face cherry red. Smothering himself with a handkerchief, the man glared at Marc; who was in mid-snicker, and rose his raspy voice.

“Sit there and giggle,  you two-timing son of a…”  His voice trailed off into something of a mumble, and he lowered his cane; his expression twisting due to anger.

“A word, Mr. Rose. Outside. In private.”

Marc folded his napkin and set it over his plate, giving Jaslene a gentle pinch on her thigh as he stood. He planted his hands palm down on the table and let out a soft cough with a raised eyebrow.

“Sir, forgive my apparent failing memory, but who are you again?”

“Mr. Rose, we can deal wit--…” A waiter broke in, only to be cut off in mid sentence by the back of a white suited man’s hand.

“Mm, outside then, mate.” Marc smiled and pushed in his chair; stepping over the waiter as he strolled outside with the hatted stump. The night air was crisp and cold, sending goose bumps rushing up Marc’s arm. Slowly and silently they approached a sole bench, planted directly under a street-lamp flickering light with the wind.

“Where’s the rest of my stock, Mr. Rose?”  The short man glared up at Marc as he lowered himself onto the bench. Marcus folded his arms behind his back, his eyebrows raised looking down.

“The rest of -what- stock? I don’t even know who you are, mate.”

A flash of anger shot across his face, his voice rising slightly.

“Don’t give me your mate bullshit, you know who I am. I ordered fifteen crates, I got thirteen. Those two crates were worth as much as that restaurant.”
Marc looked blankly at the man, the muscles of his shoulders clearly seen as he shrugged under the thin coat he wore.

“What fifteen crates were you getting?”

“Fifteen crates, bread and fish, ya? To the port down there,”  the man pointed north towards the docks with a frown, “and I only got thirteen delivered by some ratty looking sailors who dropped them on my doorstep.”
 
Marc’s lips tugged into a grin, letting out a soft laugh. “Mate, I don’t deliver here… you didn’t do business with me, someone else, maybe. Did they go by my name?” The man’s jaw dropped slightly, his voice slurring words and curses for a time before finally talking clearly.

“Said his name was Marcus Rose, would get the shipment into me in three days.”  He leaned in towards Marc, stale breathe pouring out of his mouth. “I see I have no business with you then, I’ll find your twin.” Marc blinked twice and gave a short nod. “Not unless I find him first mate.”

“Charles, Charles LeRouste… not mate,”  the man snarled and stood, patting out his coat.

“Mr. LeRouste, stop by my home this week and I’ll reimburse you for your losses. Spread word that I’m not shipping until the imposter is found. Have a good evening.”   Turning around quickly, Marc adjusted his coat and paced back to the restaurant; paying no attention to what the man was saying.

“Twin… we’ll see about that,”  Marc muttered as he pushed open the door.

[nakedxXbeauty]

The Existence of an Exquisite Beauty: Jaslene Brinson, Part 4

   Jaslene sat alone on the balcony just outside of her room, the salty sea air filling her nostrils as she reclined in the wicker chair.  She peered down from the balcony, eyeing the groups of people who were just now leaving the party.  It was late, probably only hours before the sun would be rising.  Many of the couples left staggering, wine and ale heavy on their breaths.  A cold wind blew, sending her back into her room for a shawl.  The house had grown much quieter, only the sound of hushed voices could be heard from the floor below. 

   The night had been long, and for the most part, just like every other night.  Her and Marcus had quarreled over a man that she had spent most of her evening with.  Things had slowly begun to change.  The two were still very close, although it would seem they both had their own affairs, and did whatever they could to keep these happenings secret from the other.  She had noticed the tall blonde who seemed to be pawing at Marcus all evening, and the glare she gave the woman put a sudden end to it.  She had retired early.  She always enjoyed the parties Marcus threw, but when they weren’t together, or quarrelling, they just weren’t as fun.

   She changed into a low cut white silk gown and wrapped herself in a soft, lavender shawl before making her way back out to the balcony.  It seemed as if the house was empty, the last of the guests making their ways down the road.  The creak of her bedroom door being pushed open tore her from her thoughts.  She turned in her chair just enough to peer inside the open balcony door.  There stood Marcus, most likely coming to apologize.  She rose and entered the room, a smile playing on her lips as if she knew what was coming.  He stepped inside the room, his body no longer hiding the figure that was standing behind him.  She slowly looked up, her smile fading as she eyed the tall, and somewhat scrawny blonde from earlier that evening.  Marcus turned quickly, stepping close to the woman and whispering something in her ear, his hand motioning down the hall, towards his room.  Jaslene turned away immediately, hands planted on her hips.  She heard him take a step towards her, but then turn away, shutting the door as he exited the room. 


   She awoke earlier than normal the next morning, not bothering to dress before going downstairs.  She checked her appearance before leaving the room.  Her curls were soft, the ringlets separated from her tossing and turning the night before.  She was alone downstairs, other than the maids.  The large front door would probably be the one the woman from the night before would exit out of.  Jaslene sat in the great room, sipping from a steaming mug of tea as she waited for the woman.  It wasn’t long before the sound of feet padding against the carpeted stairs could be heard.  She rose, setting her mug on the side table before straightening out the silk nightgown.  The woman appeared from around the corner, her appearance almost repulsive.  Her hair was worn down, the blonde mess full of tangles.  It appeared as if she had been wearing pink powder the night before, the red streaks across her face being the only trace of the makeup.  There were dark bags beneath her eyes, and her dress hadn’t been properly laced up.  Jaslene sneered, turning away from the woman as she spoke, her voice cold and full of spite. 

“I suggest you never come around here again.”

“You, miss, aren’t the owner of this home.  In fact, from what I hear you should probably be scrubbing the kitchen on your hands and knees right now.”

   Jaslene had turned in an instant, hurling her mug and the hot contents at the woman.  She had ducked out of the way just in time, dashing towards the door.  She was alone in the room once more, left to pick up the contents of the broken mug.  What she didn’t know was that Marc had been standing there on the stairs the whole time, listening to the women speak.  He finally made his presence known, stomping loudly enough so that she would have time to collect herself.  She rose, her eyes locked on him as he entered.  He stood still for only a few moments, walking over to her and slipping his arms around her delicate waist, his voice low as he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

[BreakFree]

Challenges of a Two Man Business; Part Two

Loud and furious raps thundered on Marcus’ chamber doors. Half-conscious, he rolled onto his side out of the arm of the tanned beauty beside him. Perching himself on the end of the bed, feet planted firmly on the ground; he watched curiously as the door slowly swung open. Three men donning tabards with city-colors and large halberds looming over their shoulders stepped into the room; fanning out to form a loose pyramid. The man in front coughed to the side, removed a roll of parchment from his belt. It unrolled with a click and the man began to read slowly.

“Marcus Rose, ye are he now sentenced to thee prison under the following charges: Smuggling, Traitor to State, Murder, Theft of State, Possession of Illegal Goods, Unauthorized Shipping Cargo, Unauthorized Un-docking of Cargo In State.”

With a slightly triumphant grin, the lead guard rolled the parchment back up into a tube; stuffing it carelessly into his belt. His boots clicked and clanked with the floor as he approached Marc, taking him by the bare arm and quite easily jerking him from the bed. With his off hand, Marc grabbed the buttoned undershirt of the suit he had worn the previous night, slowly pulling his arm through it and draping it over his shoulders.

The night air was sticky; almost causing an instant sweat on all of the men. A large crowd had gathered outside of the mansion gates. Kids were running along the stone wall, men and women gossiped loudly with the same grin that had been tugging at the guards lips. Shaking his head with a mutter, Marc, escorted by the three thick as tree guards, made his way down the long cobble path way that divided the dark green lawn in half. Upon passing through the opened gate, he was lifted onto the bag of the wagon which sagged heavily by the boarding of the guards. Without a word, the horse and buggy shot off into the night; racing down the dark streets.

Minute after minute past; grinding, the elongated way to an uncertain end. After nearly fifteen minutes, the horses reared to a stop in front of the old jail cell. It had been abandoned some ten years back with the construction of “Miller’s State-House”, the newer, more polished version of Hell. The men each dipped their ways out of the tabards to reveal their all black clothing, striped over one shoulder with a neon green patch and two letters stitched on either side; D L. With no resistance, Marcus was lowered from the wagon and merely shoved into a walk by the men.

As they entered the missing front door, lanterns flicked on around the large room. A man sat with one leg crossed over the other, leaning casually back into the large and forgotten warden’s chair. His smile seemed to widen as he saw Marcus enter; shackled at the wrists.  The guards walked forward until reaching a small, rusty stool; which they unexpectedly shoved Marc in to.

Marc’s eyes trailed randomly around the old prison. Its walls were cracking heavily, floors were upturned to dirt in most of the room. The back passages leading to the actual cells were all collapsed, wooden splints and stone bricks piled thickly in the door way. In the far right corner, he noted a newly created structure. It was coated in a black substance, making the small walls glisten in the flickering lantern light. It was a simply box shape with a sliver for an entrance. He was interrupted by the clap of the man’s hand who was before him.

“Marcus Rose… -The- Marcus Rose,” he clapped again with apparent excitement. “The Notorious Mr. Rose.”

Marc sat silently, merely watching the man and observing his features. He was maybe six foot tall, but it was hard to decipher because he was seated. His hair was jet black, neatly trimmed into short stubble. He had a crooked nose, probably from breaking, and was missing four or five teeth; which were a cheese-colored yellow. ‘Another street thug,’ Marc thought with a soft snicker; the only traceable response his name being repeated idly by the man.

“Mr. Rose, it has… arrived, through various sources, to me. That… you. Are in fact no longer shipping, -any- goods? What has brought about this revelation, oh noble Mr. Rose?” The man’s expression and words were dipped, soaked, dried, and coated in sarcasm.

“Business is business, mate. You should know that,” Marc made a slight head motion towards the three brutes towering by the door.

“Ah, well, sir Rose, there are more rumors about you. Seems the… reason for this sudden stopping of shipments is because of an imposter to your business.  Is this so? Someone, somehow, stole the gallant Marcus Rose’s identity?” His grin widened as he spoke, the missing teeth making an awkward contrast between yellow and black in his mouth.

“Seems those that want what you have often try to steal it from under your nose. It’s a very, very bad habit, you see.” Marc finally smiled, looking into the eyes of the interrogator.

“How so, brave Marcus Rose?”

“It’s happened before, mate. It doesn’t worry me.” The smile playing on Marc’s lips seemed to twist a little, almost to conceal some rush of emotion. The man across from him folded his arms on his lap, his grin replaced by a growing frown.

“You see, if you go to the outskirt of town. A little ways past “Lillian’s Road Tavern”, up towards the small patch of woods. There’s a cave, covered up by nice, thick planks. That’s where they end up, mate, down in that dark little hole.”

The interrogator suddenly snarled, jerking into a standing position. He began to pace slowly; finally stopping to rest his arms on top of the large wooden chair.

“You see, Mr. Rose. If you were to… say, disappear, but no one actually knew you disappeared, hmm? What if one of your long lost twins was actually smart enough to not get traced?”

Marc smirked; giving a soft shrug with a shake of the shackles on his wrist.

“You see that glistening corner, Mr. Rose? Over there, in the corner,” the man motioned to the black-walled corner of the jailer’s room, “That’s like your little black hole in the woods, Mr. Rose. When you go in there, you stay in there, and you’re never found.”

With a reassuring smile, Marc looked at the man. “So, let me get this straight. You’re going to stick me in that corner, and… pretend to be… me, and take over… my business?”

The man nodded firmly; leaning back off the chair with a grin, crossing his arms across his chest.

“And… all the people that I associate with on a daily business… won’t notice?”

His grin fading, he paced a few steps towards Marcus. “A mere accident changes a lot about one’s looks, Mr. Rose.”

Letting out a snort of a laugh, Marc mumbled something about being an accident involving a hit from a brick before a blunted steel object thudded against his head. His vision blurred then turned black. With a groan, not knowing how long had passed; he slid his hand, his unshackled hand, to feel the back of his head. His fingers slid across a large lump which sent his face into a grimace as soon as it was touched. Fluttering his eyes open, he looked around at the black square. A pile of apparently crushed bones were piled in one corner, a third of a lit candle in the other; and along the wall, a single piece of cloth, thinner than a sheet. On the wall was a small piece of parchment, the writing almost unreadable, nailed above the thick links that were bound to chains; chains leading to his ankles, attaching to three separate shackles per leg.

“Mr. Rose, you’ll have plenty of company soon, I assure you. Thank you for your time and everything else. Yours truly,
Delonte Lamear”

[nakedxXbeauty]

The Existence of an Exquisite Beauty: Jaslene Brinson, Part 5

   The sun was already shining through the panes of the window by the time she awoke, her bare skin cooled by the air of the room.  She rolled onto her side as if not willing to face the day just quite yet.  She reached out her arm to wrap around Marcus, only to realize that he wasn’t there.  She sat up in an instant, glancing around the room to see if he was sitting in front of t he fire.  It was unusual for him to wake before her, and even more unusual for him to leave her by herself. 

   She slipped out of bed with a yawn, letting the covers fall off of her bare skin before tugging on the thin silk of her robe.  Downstairs was complete and utter chaos.  Servants were bustling around while the butlers and guards of the house argued with a few shady looking men.  Jaslene quickly pulled up one of the maids to her room.

“What’s going on..? Where’s Marcus, and who are these men?”

“They took him, he’s gone…a group of men, like these, took him early this morning.”  The woman seemed nervous, almost as if she was afraid of the men downstairs.

   Jaslene pulled open the doors of her closet, pulling out a dark green velvet dress.  She dressed in a hurried fashion, not bothering to pull her curly locks into a bun.  She ate a quick, light breakfast before leaving the house with one of the guards by her side.  Marcus had a small group of close friends who she knew could be trusted to help her.  She knew he was in some kind of trouble, but he hadn’t disclosed the exact situation to her.  What she did know was that being taken directly from your home in the early hours of morning wasn’t good, and could even mean danger for his life…

[BreakFree]

Challenges of a Two Man Business; Part Three - Finale

Marc’s eyes fluttered open. His surroundings seemed to dance in and out of reality and a blurry misconception. The walls caved in, then folded back out; the bones in the corner grew larger, nearly crushing him; then evaporated into a dusty powder. The end was near, he could feel it. How long had passed, he couldn’t tell. It was continually dark in his cell, no light remained. His candle, his last strain of hope; settled into a puddle of melted wax in the corner.

“Oh well oh well so here we stand
But we stand for nothing
My heart calls to me in my sleep
How can I turn to it
'Cause I'm all locked up in this
Dark place -
And I do not know
I'm as good as dead
My head aches -
Warped and tied up
I need to kill this pain”

His head crashed back on the wall as it had night after night, the aching in his stomach constantly reminding him that he was starved. His throat was dry, his lips cracking and dripping blood. The only solace he had was sleep, despite how hard he had to force it upon himself. The thump of bone to brick lingered in the air as his body fell limply to the ground.

“How long I'm tied up
My mind in knots -
My stomach reels
In concern for what I might do or
What I've don
It's got me living in fear
Well I know these voices must
Be my soul
I've had enough I've had enough of being alone
I've got no place to go”

Muffled voices stirred Marc in and out of consciousness. His eyes fluttered open as men gathered around him, lifting his body from the dirt covered floor. Their faces spun around his head, too fast to be recognized, each looking like a freshly painted portrait with a large smudge across the face. Cold air rushed over his body and the dim light of the moon nearly blinded him as they hastily moved from the old jail cell to a covered wagon. His body was passed from person to person till it rested inside the wagon on a thick mat. A soft, smooth hand ran across his face. Their eyes met and his vision blurred into darkness.

The refreshing smell of a sea breeze ushered the curtains into a burst of life. Marc’s nose twitched, his hand running across his forehead, then down to feel the thick blanket that covered him. He blinked his eyes open, looking around his own room for the first time in weeks. Pushing the blankets off he stood and lifted a piece of bread from the tray next to his bed. He devoured piece after piece, wiping off his unshaven face with a nearly black hand. His steps were slow, hesitant. The room spun for a moment as he swayed his way to the bath house. A letter was dangling by the corner, punched into the door by an antique stone dining knife.

“Mr. Rose, the old jail house. We’ll be waiting.”

A few hours passed until the jail house was in sight. Marc stepped down from his wagon; his face had regained most of its color, he looked nearly as clean as usual. He took a few strides towards the door, brushing off his solid black suit. He patted the stone knife inside his coat pocket with a slight smile as he entered.

It was as dark as when he had first arrived. Standing in the corner with his normal baggy clothing was John Freetworth. Looming over his shoulder was a hooded man in an earth-tone colored leather armor. His hand clenched a rope, his bicep swelling. Marc’s eyes followed the rope towards the man nearly hanging on top of the Warden’s chair; his toes barely making contact with the wooden surface.

A laugh escaped Marc as he looked at the man and shook his head. He motioned towards the man holding the rope and Delonte collapsed onto the chair. Slowly he pulled the dagger from the inside of his suit jacket; his off hand pushing his head back against the chair.

“I told ya, mate. What the hell don’t you people understand?”

Marc smiled softly, slamming the dagger into Delonte’s throat in a single, side-armed blow. Blood sprayed from the puncture as he stepped back and watched for a moment while John and the taller man left. Muttering a few words, Marc turned on his heels and walked out of the building. He chuckled and climbed into the wagon; looking between the three staring at him.

“Marc, that’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up,” John said hesitantly. “He had connections in the town, you know… officials and such.”

A smile beamed from the corner as Jaslene slid across the seats to rest on Marc’s knee.

“Marc’s connections are better, John!” Her voice lingered in the air, overly drawn out. A strange sensation ran through Marc, his mouth twisted and he muttered softly.

“Sure hope so love, sure hope so.”

[nakedxXbeauty]

Yearning: The Ache for True Love, Part I.

   The cool sea air whipped her hair across her face as she sat in silence on the edge of the dock.  The waves crashed against the wooden beams, light sprinkles of water spraying over the tips of her bare toes.  Her mind was filled with thoughts that trailed back to when she and Marcus first met.  It seemed so long ago, maybe because so many things had happened.  They had grown to depend on each other, their need for one another growing deeper than just a sensual desire. 

   It had only been a few days before that she had awakened alone in bed, but still her feelings of abandonment still remained.  She couldn’t recall ever feeling so alone, or afraid.  Her fear had only grown once she had learned of where he was.  It was that moment that she knew she couldn’t live without him.  She had never been happier to see anyone in her life that moment that she laid eyes on his pale, disoriented body.  He was covered in dirt and filth, though she never hesitated to throw her arms around him and hold him tightly to her. 

   The fact that she truly was in love was not an easy thing for her to accept.  She had been surrounded by men her entire life, though never let anyone into her heart.  At this point she knew that living without him would surely not be living at all.  She rose from her spot on the dock, wrapping the cream colored shawl around her bare shoulders.  She lifted the skirt of her dress with her free hand and made her way back to the manor. 

   The candles had already been extinguished by the time she returned, which didn’t come as a surprise seeing as how the sun had already set.  The servants were in their quarters, sleeping for the night.  She crept upstairs as quiet as she could, making a quick stop at the powder room to examine her appearance; rosy cheeks, soft eyes and messy hair were all softly accented in the dim lighting of the upper floor of the house.  She quietly padded down the hallway, slowly creaking open to the room where Marc slept. 

   The soft crackling of the fireplace filled her ears as she slowly closed the door behind her.  All of the candles were still lit, a sign that he had done his best to wait up for her.  His body was propped up against a mountain of pillows, though his heavy breathing and closed eyes gave sign that he was fast asleep.  She undressed as quietly as she could, draping the emerald dress over the back of his favorite overstuffed chair.  She moved to the bed, slowly pulling the covers back before sliding in beside him.  He slept lightly, and even the slow, careful movements caused him to stir awake.  He turned onto his side, facing her so that she had a clear view of his sleep filled eyes and messy hair.  She nuzzled her body into his strong embrace, smiling a bit at the sound of his tired voice.

“Jaslene…”

   The single word he spoke was nearly enough to melt her heart, though she kept silent as she pressed her face to his neck, pressing a tender kiss against his skin.  Her mind raced with thoughts.  It was the perfect time, yet she lied to herself, choosing instead to keep her feelings hidden away in her heart.  Her voice, on the other hand, was filled with enough emotion to give her secret away. 

“I’m here.”

You are more than love to me...
You are everything.

[BreakFree]

The Capture

The large manor doors busted into planks, splinters, and shrapnel as a large group of guards charged into the main hallway. Marc had his foot propped up at the end of it; the two candles lit on either side of him. Ten men, dressed in the same black garbs as his body guards, loomed behind him.

From the front of the triangular shaped guard party that blocked the doorway emerged a man in polished black armor, with a piece of parchment that nearly dropped to the ground when he unrolled it. His mouth cracked open, a word started to escape it; but only a mist of blood came out. Behind Marc, one of the shaded men stood with his bow locked onto the captain; who was lying in a pool of blood.

The guardsmen charged ahead, Marc stood slowly and stepped behind his group of men as a small war erupted inside of his home. Only a few minutes had passed as the guards overwhelmed the thugs that tried to hold them back. In the midst of the turmoil Marc had left the room, the house, and was making his way down the stairs into his yard.

The remaining, tattered and wounded guards shot out of the house and charged at Marc; who was walking down the path to the gate. Sweat poured from the guards as they closed in on him; he was walking, and knew it was the end. Or was it?

He looked around warily; a large cloud of smoke had seemingly engulfed him. He couldn’t see them, and they couldn’t see him. It had no scent, it was… nothing. Moments later he found himself barely living; buried in snow just outside of a foggy forest. He arose, slowly, and examined his surroundings. The air was cold, the ground was cold, “Am I dead?” he thought to himself numerous times.

As he walked further away from the forest, strange noises and even stranger people greeted him. He bartered off some extra gear he had on him to purchase a cloak from a suited man next to a caravan, and sat on the log next to the fire; eyeing the strangers quizzically as they went as if he wasn’t sitting at their fire.

[BreakFree]

Tranquility -- Volume 1; Sacrificing Serenity

Darkness came and the night still howled, casting shadows into the small inn room turning it into a cloud of vibrant motion. The serene sound of candle wax swishing on the oak planks of the end table, dripping slowly, steadily, endlessly.  With each soft breath of midnight air through the cracked window the candle would flicker, sending a gleaming array of red colors from the gem resting on the arm rest. 

Ripples formed in the blankets as a figure shuffled unconsciously. Long hair fell helplessly off the edge of the bed, bare legs peaking out from under the linen sheets. The repetitive rising and lowering of the cloth perpetuated with the rest of the same steady beat in the rest of the room. Despite the solace an endless mixture of thoughts swirled in Marc’s head. His eyes remained steadfast on the crackling flames of the fire place; the yellow flames dancing to the imaginary beat he had established in his mind. Restless fingers wrapped around the stone resting on the chair, softly bouncing it.

A hand glided around the chair -- a soft, delicate arm lacing around his neck. Lips twisted into smiles, the stone dropping to the ground as the almost fragile, hourglass figure climbed over and onto his lap. Their eyes locked, bodies interlaced, emotions roaring. She reached down and picked up the stone, a small leather bag, and a red tinted key. Slowly she dropped the stone and key into the bag, sealing it with the gold yarn lace and laid it on his lap. With a turn of her head, the long glistening hair flipped and draped down her back. Her body  nearly floated to the bed, graceful and smooth steps, completely silent.

The hand gripped the bag tightly and he stood, shattering the serenity of the room with the Rigamortis scream of the chair. Floor boards wailed, the door screeched, the snow and chilled air broke lose into the room.

[BreakFree]

Empty Reflections; #1 - Lost

Cautiously, Marcus lowered himself into the rickety wooden chair that rested by the fireplace. The agonizing cry of weight against the wood made his face cringe, but he remained committed until the sound ceased to exist. It seemed as though the fire was unusually hot; almost unnaturally hot, yet there was no solace outside as the rain crashed against the glass window. Thoughts rushed through his mind – a tidal wave of mixed emotions that were eased by nothing but caused the inability for comfort. Slowly he leaned forward and picked up a book; a small, leather bound book with blank pages. He dipped the feathered quill into the inkwell that resided next to the book and pressed the pen to the page.

There's more... more to this hell-hole than I've been able to find. Monetary gain has purpose here, but not enough purpose to dedicate your life to its finding. I have enough fang to last for the rest of my days, yet still I am restless. Love... love is love, a mixture of pleasure and pain; happiness and sorrow. Something that you cannot ever regret feeling because it is wondrous, yet ultimately it will always lead to suffering... one way or another. I feel as though I'm in reach of something – a thought, a goal... a path to lead me to what I seek yet there is no method for me to grasp it. It slips from my fingers, tormenting me as I lose grip.

With a hint of exhaustion he looks over his shoulder as a figure rolls on the bed. The glistening light of the fire illuminates her skin; the thin layer of sweat that sets like dew on her back. Expressionless, he looks back to the page and begins writing.

I am tormented. Tormented by this life, by the emptiness I face even though I have everything. I find no peace in my music, my guitar misguides me; it leads me astray from the once relieving feeling it brought. Now there is nothing but a sound, a mere picking of strings to some pattern which pleases others but leaves me in a miserable state – watching their joy, their dancing, their loving. What is it that I seek? What more could I need, there is nothing else to find... nothing else to embrace... aside from...

While he writes, the pen slowly gliding to spread its ink labyrinth on the page; a hand touches Marcus' shoulder. Soft fingers, lotioned, smooth to an almost surreal point. Sighing, he closes the book and sets it on the chair; making his way back to the bed, back to wait for the sun to rise.

[BreakFree]

Empty Reflections; #2 - Faith

“Another rainy day, I'm bored, Marcus!”  Jaslene's soft voice suddenly echoed through the room. With a hint of reluctance, he leaned up from his absent-gaze into the fire to look out the window.

“Or merely another sunless day~... what more can you expect, love?”  His voice kept its suddenly normal empty tone, a monotone that he couldn't excite himself out of.

Jaslene sighed and laid back down in the bed, silently picking at a plate with an assortment of foods as she read through countless pages. With a groan, Marcus leaned forward and picked up his new friend; seemingly his closest friend at the time – the leather bound book and the feathered quill. He flipped the crisp pages, dipped the tip of the quill in the inkwell, and touched it under his last entry.

I find my restlessness fails to cease; maybe I've been cursed by this land. The endless hours dwelling in that underground pit of undead – perhaps something... no, I put everything in there to rest, every time. Or have I? It's absurd to think this way, that something would place a curse on me, especially since it would have other effects aside from these damned nights; damned sleepless nights.

Yet where does one draw the line on possibility, put a label on their thoughts? They never stop, they're rampaging in my mind... like a war with immortal soldiers and unlimited ammunition. However, none of these thoughts mean anything – as of now, at least. Maybe soon they'll lead me-... lead me in the right direction. Until this direction is found, I'll merely embrace my restless nights; perhaps as a manner to improve myself – in combat, in power, in faith. Faith... I have no faith, no faith in this land, its people, or myself.

Marcus lowers the quill momentarily, his head turning slowly to look over his shoulder. Briefly their eyes meet and he smiles; a fake smile, an almost forced attempt to console her knowing that he cannot find peace in bed. Within seconds he turns back to the book, redipping the quill and pressing it firmly on the page again.

What is faith? Faith in Gods who are distant to this land, while they bring power to the bearer ultimately they never succeed. The Evil in these lands is too great; omnipresent, constantly leading to death and despair – death and sorrow. Perhaps faith is something to be built between mundane beings, the mortals that make up day to day life. Perhaps finding faith is needed~... needed to survive these lands, to overcome the relentless Evil. Perhaps...

The cover of the book flips closed, its thin leather strap tied around the cover to keep it closed. Carefully he replaces them by the fragile wooden chair and stands; a relieving howl from the wood emits until silence fills the room. Silent only broken by the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace. Marc turns to Jaslene, his voice partially filled with interest, but mostly dull.

“We're going somewhere, together, tomorrow. I think it's time we practice your skills; practice your skills with mine.”  His lips slowly curled at the edges, a faint resemblance of a once beaming smile.

“Uhm, going where, Marcus?”  One of her brows raised, her expression blanked in confusion.

“Underground, love, where the dead live... restlessly~...”

[BreakFree]

Forever, Volume 1

Snow fell once again, each flake gracefully fluttering while the fire burned a tranquil red; yet the cold, the cold pierced through the room. Marc inhaled slowly, his exhale clearly visible as a cloud of cold-smoke escaped his lips. Time had slipped from his mind, after endless struggles in a foreign world the images of friends and enemies appeared to warm his spirits and vanished just as quickly. They were mere visages of the joys and sorrows of his prison. Exhaustion encompassed his mind and body. 'Forever,' he thought.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. Night after night he returned to the inn, torn and distraught. The same flicker of hope always arose as he brushed the snow from his hood, yet it always vanished after a quick inspection of the thinning patrons.  All ties severed, all friends gone, his one beacon of hope seemed to vanish as well. Years, rather his life, swirled around his wife - now missing too. He searched relentlessly, days at a time. There was no sign, no footprint, no note, no blood, no witness. His life, torn from him once, was torn from him yet again.

Slowly, he slipped the guitar away from his bag, his hands mechanically strumming a repetition of chords.

"I can still see it in your eyes, is the sparkle gone forever... don't say forever. I can still feel your touch, is the fire out forever.... don't say forever..."

A face of stone, empty and worn, stares out of the window. The chord lingers, then disappears into the cold night air.