The sea had turbulence. The people of the city could feel it. The air had grown thick with an unnatural fear, brought by something otherwordly, something that was not there, something that made feel a pressure in the back of their neck. The distress hoovering over every single man, every woman, every child, thickned as the undead were approuching. They did not know they were, but many had scuried home in fear.
Now the sky was but a canvas of morning colours, the reflection of the sun painted on the dark waters. The bloodcurdling galleon approuching, baring its colours of black and blue, the ragged flag flapping wildly at the wind. A lone sentinel atop of the forstress that protected the little city was cleaning his sword calmly. As he turned the blade, there was a frightening glitter of the Night Drake, making the boy stare at it, shaking on his skin. Dropping his sword, he ran, shouting an alarm as he pulled on the bell to wake the whole company, his pants wet in fear.
The army rose from its light slumber. Howling orders of the commanders and the rattle of guns and weapons being handled filled the air; the hooves of the horses clacked loudly on the stone floor, as the city guards began to form a defense line. Screams of panic came from within the houses, the chaos was installed. And then came the cannonballs, shattering first the poor little fortress.
Boom!, it had sounded, deafening those that had been far too close when the lead had demolished the barrier of protection. Soldiers rose their cries above the clamor of battle. Boom!, Boom!, came the row of attacks. The stench of hot cannonball clogged their nostrils, the broken bodies that had been squished like oranges by them bringing the weaker to their knees and making them emptying their stomachs with gurgling sounds of vomit.
The pirates came.
The city tumultuous disarray bled through the skies. The red ooze of bodies splattered on the walls and windows as the raid carried on, bringing the iron fetor of blood to the nostrils of men and women. The bawling herd and the depraved wolves were a macabre spectacle, a morbid theatre who had one single beholder.
Sat atop the tower of the modest basilica was she, the minster were people were running to, in desesperate hope of protection from those nightmares of the early morning that shred their homes and men, their wives and heirs, their wealth and dwelling. Like an extra gargoyle was the unseelie, riding an actual stone monster. Were she not as pale as the moon, she would be alike a creature of grey rock so finely sculped, but the light of morning dismissed the mistake. Yet none took a second look at that figure crouching on the big head of the gargoyle pig, too worried for their own neck.
Eyes ajar watching the scene, lips curled in to a smile, the pale hands held to the stone ears of her unmoving mount. The morbid chapeau blinked its one-eye, moving that black pea around, aroused by the savor of blood. The amused expression of the female dropped and she shook her head a little, making the tophat flop side to side lightly. Her white eyes adorned with the black mask moved to the captain that came in to view.
Byron the Black.
She grinned then, looking like a demented fool, her fangs glistening. Standing elegantly from where she stood, her bare feet balancing her perfectly on the thin snout of the horrid looking pig. Holding to her hat, the unseelie took a step forth, just like she was not walking down to that horrible height. She fell, she fell, but not like a body would fall; she levitated. But how could she levitate? She was as if a feather flowing down, lightly, slowly, weightlessly. Safely.
The unseelie wight hit the floor lightly, one foot, then the other, just like she was moved in slow motion. Instead of walking out of the confusion, she was walking right in to the heart of the chaos. She walked past the people that ran, crawled to the basilica, but soon to be slaughtered by the sea savages that too took in their blood earned treasure. A man, face drenched in blood from a gash in his forehead, grasped her arm as he ran past her, "Run, you fool!", but had not stayed to assure she would. The unseelie seemed displeasured with the touch of the human, but said nothing, following him with her unblinking eyes, as he passed by an alley, shortly then being guillotined by a pirate.
Smirking, she tugged on the plush brim of Mr. Fifi, the demonic hat wobbling its body lightly, before snapping the crooked teeth hungrily at the air in front of him. There, amidst the corpses, the unseelie stood out like an ant in a bowl of white rice, but she seemed not to care.
