Degorram Posted October 31, 2009 Report Posted October 31, 2009 (edited) The sun was setting earlier than usual -- with the coming of the fall months it had been growing duskier faster with every passing day, competing with the always dreary weather to plunge the seaside town into darkness. A stiff breeze, cool but not bitter, plunged down the cobblestone street that weaved alongside the many docks. Ships at anchor moved slightly in the water as the wind tickled their sails, restless as horses in their stalls. The women on the street pulled their coats further around themselves and the men ducked under the brims of their hats, either hurrying home or ducking into one of the many pubs that awaited them with cheerful, warm arms. Tristan rolled a barrel up the gangplank of a large ship, his chafed hands deftly moving it with speed and surety. Work was almost done for the day, and many of the sailors had already left, preparing for their journey that would take them far away from Anglia over the sea. He placed the barrel in its spot on deck -- he would move them all into the cargo in the morning -- and leaned against the railing, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes wearily. Tristan was a stocky fellow, tall and well built, with a smooth chin and green eyes. He was at the age where he hovered between boyhood and being a man, though he had taken on a man's work for many years already. The wind pushed at his shirt insistently, and Tristan turned his eyes to the sunset as it cast fire over the sea. The ocean and the clouds all about it were an angry grey, but the sun burned with a hot orange color that lit up all the storm clouds for miles around it. Tristan knew that once it set, the beautiful evening would turn into a miserable night of mists, rain, and fog. It was not a night to be without a roof over one's head. With a sigh he turned away and trod down the gangplank, his hands buried in the pockets of his trousers. The street was empty since all the locals had already sought shelter. This was how he liked it best -- it being a very old street, it would often give up its stories when one walked on it alone. He started home, and a moment realized that the street wasn't empty after all. Ahead of him, sitting on a bench at the edge of the street, was a girl. Her cloak was wrapped around her tightly against the wind, but the hood lay back against her shoulders. At one point it had been a beautiful pine green, for the color still remained beneath her hair, but further down as it approached the worn hem it became the same color as the mud that caked her weary boots. She carried only a single bag, which she had propped up against the bench's leg. The sunset was at her back, and it cast fire on her already burnt auburn hair, which she had attempted to braid behind her -- the wind had whipped out many strands already, and they played around her pale face like riddle-asking spirits. As Tristan approached, she turned her face to him, turning the most beautiful hazel eyes he had ever seen upon him. ----horrible place to end, but I've nothing left for now. Edited October 31, 2009 by Degorram
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