Fantasy 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍

[calypso]

speculative x calypso ​

 

[speculative]

[class=variables] --accent: #e0baaf; --image: url('https://66.media.tumblr.com/17dd5c06cc06cab7a6f12949f60c40b2/tumblr_okof13e3IB1qhodd8o1_1280.jpg'); --texture: url('https://www.transparenttextures.com/patterns/asfalt-dark.png'); [/class] [div class=variables] [div class=back] [div class=poly][div class=poly2][/div][/div] [div class=bkg] [div class=container][div class=header]cyrus davenport.[/div] [div class=post][div class=scroll]Whenever it came to the dark, it was always difficult to discern if you were in the beginnings of the night, or the midst of it. A poetry of stars smeared over the sky like it was married to a black tranquility, the softness which called for rest, for the heart to let go of its woes and fall into a steady rhythm. The moon was at its highest point in the sky, but the coastal town slumbering beneath couldn't see it. Not because most of their eyes were closed, dreams floating beneath their lids - but because a fog had rolled in. It rolled in from the ocean like a veil of smoke, settling between the cracks and winding streets of Windborne. The wooden houses become silhouettes against a blanket of light, as its inhabitants lay peacefully in their beds, encircled by twilight. Alas, in every village there were those that never slept. The fishermen in this late hour were beginning to rouse to go and ready the fishing boats. Doctors, quite similarly were thrust from their sleep in the late hours often to attend to an emergency illness or injury, but Cyrus Davenport was not one of them. Sleep pooled on his eyelids as he laid restlessly on his silk beds, his dreams more like nightmares. It was always the same events, but he never could remember the details once he shook himself awake, heartbeat pounding in his ears after what had seemed like reality. His childhood, that undiluted naivety corrupted by the the introduction of pirates into his life. His innocent obsession with feeling the salty wind breeze on his face ruined by a near-meeting with death. Nobody saw a ship sliding in with the fog, using it almost like a shield. A large vessel that would be nearly impossible to miss given any other circumstances, but floated into the harbor like it was nothing. Even the fishermen tossing their nets aboard their own ships saw nothing, oblivious and unaware to the force that was on its way. For years they had lived undisturbed, the inhabitants peacefully content with being left alone. The jutting cliffs helped to mask the port and the window candles, and make it difficult for those that chose to enter to make their way through the opening. The ship nosed up to a dock, the villagers still woefully unaware of the fate that awaited them. The pirates made landfall, and the inhabitants house nearest to the shores were rudely awakened by a blade held to their neck, and before long, the alarm was raised. The white canvas of the fog was smeared with blood as the militia stationed in Windborne stood their ground, fighting to defend the sleepy little seaside town they had grown to cherish. Pirates, on the other hand, pushed forth, pillaging and plundering every house they can find and shedding blood when there was no jewelry in immediate sight. The silence of the once peaceful night was broken by the ear-piercing screams of those who would no longer be able to welcome the arrival of the sun. Cyrus did not realise what was happening, even as one of the militia stationed around their mansion dashed in, warning him to stay put. He hugged his knees close to his chest, visible confusion etched on his After the events out at sea, Cyrus had lived his life in relative peace, until he heart the sounds of curdling screams and warfare coming from the village. It made him freeze, ears poised to listen carefully, goosebumps running up his arm as a feeling of dread cross through his chest. He could hear nothing but his own breathing before another scream made way to his ears, this time louder than the former. "Father..." Cyrus' whisper came out coarse, hardly recognising the fear in his own voice as he pushed himself off the bed, pushing the door open and out into the hallways. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, having just been asleep moments before, but his desperate powered him through as he ran for the window, staring down at the town. His breath caught in his throat, the sight of what seemed like a fully-fledged battle greeting him. What seemed like an ungodly amount of blood were sprayed over the ground and the walls as the militia fought fiercely with their swords and strength. That was when he saw a figure in the shadows, the outline of which he did not recognize. To be the son of his father was to know and be known, and as a result he could recognise the face of everybody in their village, and knew most of their names. His he did not know, and Cyrus' bottom lip trembled as a display of fear, but he kept silent. Whoever it was was currently in his late mother's room, and from the sounds of it, wasn't treating it with the respect she deserved. Yet Cyrus was afraid - he had tales of pirates ravaging towns and leaving death and destruction in their wake, sparing no mercy even for the women and children. They were a selfish lot, and Cyrus thought that he had seen the last of them when he was rescued off that ship. He tried to steel himself, but he swore they must be able to hear the beating of his heart - so fast and so strong in his little chest. Despite himself, he forced himself to take one of his father's prized swords hung up on the wall, gripping onto the hilt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Out there in the village flames began to lick the sky, creating a rusty hue to the fog around them that made it seem almost otherworldly. For a moment he looked as though he might faint, or simply die of fright but his face quickly shifted. His eyes grew determined, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he stepped forward slowly, towards the figure in his mother's room.
[/div][/div] [/div][/div][/div]

fated

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