Alcione

 For over a month and a half, I had been marooned in a desolate purgatory, left behind as "The Bonanza" sailed away from the dock, its departure mocking my aspirations. A nostalgic ache for the familiar sights of my hometown propelled me toward a dimly lit pub, a haven where the weight of my solitude could drown beneath the intoxicating embrace of rum. Driven by despair and a thirst unquenched, I succumbed to the allure of the bottle, forsaking the ship that had betrayed me.

With each passing day, I found myself wandering the cobblestone streets, an aimless soul seeking solace in the company of locals. We exchanged tales of the sea and whispered secrets of fishing conquests beneath the watchful gaze of a salty horizon. Nights were a dreary dance with destiny, as I sought refuge in a squalid hostel that reeked of despair. Strange it was, that in such a place, where filth clung to every surface, the prohibition against smoking was an inconsequential rule ignored by all. Even the weathered captain, known for his dalliances with the night's sirens, cared little for the decrees as he dragged his chosen courtesan into his quarters, their indiscretions echoing through the rickety corridors. Ignoring the cacophony of creaking bedsprings, I strained to sleep, yearning for the comforts of home, only to awaken to the chilling reality that my nostalgia had dissipated with the dawn's first light.

It was on one such night, burdened by the weight of my shattered dreams, that my restless footsteps guided me to the town's most infamous pub. It was a haven teeming with the spirit of ancient coastal towns, where tales of pirates and their nefarious exploits echoed through the timeworn walls. I sought a temporary respite, intending to drown my sorrows in a couple of shots, masquerading as a patron of indifference. Approaching the bar, my request for a double rum heralded an unexpected transformation—a dramatic shift in the tides of fate.

As if propelled by an invisible force, the doors swung open with a defiant air, demanding the attention of everyone present. And there she stood, a vision carved from the darkest corners of desire. Dressed in black, her presence emanated an intoxicating magnetism. Shiny boots adorned her feet, a cape billowed behind her like the wings of a fallen angel, and a tight-fitting gown hugged her silhouette, hinting at mysteries begging to be unraveled. Behind her white blouse, her heaving, defiant chest was glimpsed; from her neck hung a chain that gleamed golden, falling between her silk-covered breasts. Her face, barely visible beneath the shadow of her cape's hood, emanated a hypnotic power that could be glimpsed from her gaze, hidden in the shadows that framed her face. At the same time, a perfume unknown to me—a mixture of cinnamon, ambergris, laudanum, incense, musk, and something else my apprentice perfumer's nose couldn't decipher—enveloped me completely, and I felt the urge to come closer, but at the same time, I felt a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stay still in my seat.

If you're wondering who I am, who dares to desecrate your tranquility with the taste of sea and salt? Well, every story, they say, begins with a "once upon a time" or some such crap. Mine never began, and I'd like to know if it ever really had an end. I have more days than the gypsy moon and fewer seconds than the history of the forgotten people of Hastur. I'll just tell you that when the ship ran aground on the rocks, I didn't pray. No one prays when they've already been forgotten by all the sea gods. I walked to the village with salt sticking to my soul, and the first man who spoke to me handed me a bottle and a room where dreams rot.

Bouconville´s words version 2

 Beneath the pallor of a desolate moon, Sophie, a bewitching and adored woman, ensnared my soul with a love that defied reason. Our passage through the veins of time led us on a treacherous pilgrimage across the chilling landscapes of ancient France, a week-long sojourn fraught with peril and darkness. We wove through cobweb-laden villages, treacherous valleys, foreboding mountains, and sinister lakes, delving deeper into the heart of the macabre.

As we departed from the hauntingly beautiful town of Chablis, the memory of its spectral allure clung to our minds like a sinister mist. It was in this realm of ethereal enchantment that we savored a local dish, crafted from the flesh of fowl, and washed it down with an intoxicating bottle of white auxerrois, the taste lingering on our tongues like a forbidden elixir.

An ill omen descended upon our path, shrouded in the cloak of an impending storm. The heavens unleashed their wrath, torrents of rain cascading down upon the earth, obscuring the fading sunset and casting a sinister gloom upon our journey. A plaintive cry tore through the tempestuous air, the syllables escaping Sophie's lips a dark incantation, as I beheld the sight of her lacerated finger, its lifeblood spilling forth like an unholy libation. A small silver knife, an instrument of unknowable origins, glimmered menacingly in her hand, its blade an unholy conduit for the unhinged.

The crimson tide surged relentlessly, drenching her hand and arm in a grotesque tableau of suffering. My heart, gripped by terror, compelled me to halt our desperate voyage. Seeking salvation within the confines of our motorized chariot, I scoured its interior for reprieve. And in a chilling twist of fate, my desperate gaze fell upon two immaculate car cleaning pads, pristine and untouched. They became our sole refuge, transfiguring the vehicle into a makeshift sanctuary, as if it were a vessel sailing upon a river of nightmares.

With trepidation and a love veiled by the shadows, I reignited the engine, its infernal growl harmonizing with the dissonant notes of French music that serenaded our descent into the heart of the enigmatic night. Sophie, a specter of weariness, surrendered herself to the embrace of slumber, while I, tormented by foreboding whispers, navigated the treacherous roads, their macadam a malevolent tapestry. As we ventured further, the spectral glow of a forsaken gas station pierced the stygian darkness, its sickly light beckoning like a siren's call, promising respite from the encroaching abyss.

Steeling myself against the gnawing unease, I left the shelter of the vehicle and ventured into that foreboding sanctuary. Upon my return, a chilling revelation greeted my return, ensnaring my soul in an icy vice. There, amidst her tranquil repose, Sophie's porcelain visage had been transfigured, drained of life's warmth, her once-supple flesh now ashen, her body a vessel for otherworldly frigidity. Panic gripped my heart as I stood witness to a dreadful transformation, my mind an inferno of unanswered questions. Seeking salvation in the language of the land, I stumbled forward, desperately grasping at fragmented phrases, pleading for guidance from the gas station's custodian. With cryptic words, he directed me to Bouconville, a place where the veil between reality and the supernatural grew thin, where whispers of ancient horrors mingled with the whispers of the wind.

Navigating the labyrinthine roads, fraught with unseen perils, I finally arrived, the midnight hour drawing near. Time crawled with malevolent glee as the doctor's gaze fell upon Sophie's languid form, his features etched with a mix of apprehension and enigmatic knowledge. We waited for interminable moments that stretched like eons, held hostage by the sinister dance of time. And when the doctor emerged, his countenance bore a mélange of relief and fear, his words laced with a chilling truth. Sophie was spared, yet her salvation lay tangled in a web of myth and terror. He spoke of the wolfwoman, a creature born of the moon's malevolence, a harbinger of unspeakable transformations and unholy desires. He whispered slowly, staring at me: "Nobody in the world could cut a finger and put his life at risk. Yes, nobody but a werewolf".

Since that fateful night in Bouconville, I have become a slave to the cycle of the full blue moon. With bated breath, I gaze upward, my eyes locked in a futile search for answers within the ink-black expanse. The silver knife, once a symbol of innocuous utility, now glimmers in my trembling hand. As the blade rends flesh, my blood flows like a morbid testament, an offering to the mysterious forces that conspire against our mortal comprehension. And in that ritualistic act, as pain intertwines with the ethereal, the doctor's words echo through the recesses of my fractured sanity—a chilling reminder of the fragility of existence and the cataclysmic power that lies dormant within the realm of darkness, while I remember her kiss goodbye...

Bouconville´s words

Under the veil of moonlit mystery, Sophie, a captivating and cherished woman, enveloped my heart in a love that surpassed all bounds. Together, we embarked on a week-long odyssey, traversing the picturesque landscapes of ancient France. Our voyage led us through quaint villages, meandering valleys, majestic mountains, and serene lakes. The memories of Alsace, with its alluring charm, lingered in our minds as we set out from the enchanting town of Chablis, savoring the beauty that surrounded us.

Amidst our journey, fate took a curious turn. As the heavens wept and the sun bid its farewell, the ambiance grew ethereal. It was then, in the fading light, that I heard a sudden curse escape Sophie's lips, accompanied by the sight of crimson staining her delicate finger. In her hand, a small silver knife gleamed ominously, its blade having unwittingly drawn a crimson offering. Blood flowed ceaselessly, akin to an uncorked torrent, painting her hand and arm in scarlet hues.

Urgently, I pulled over, my heart gripped with concern. Desperate to staunch the flow, I rummaged for anything to shield her wound. It was then, as fortune would have it, that two pristine car cleaning pads caught my eye. Swiftly, I fashioned an improvised bandage, the car's interior transformed into an impromptu infirmary.

With trepidation and love as my compass, I restarted the engine, the melodic strains of incomprehensible French music accompanying our nocturnal drive. Sophie, now exhausted from the events, succumbed to slumber while I braved the rain-drenched roads. Several kilometers ahead, the luminance of a solitary gas station pierced the darkness, beckoning for respite. A warm drink and replenishing the car's thirst became our temporary haven.

Upon my return to the vehicle, a disquieting revelation awaited me. Sophie lay in her peaceful repose, yet her once rosy complexion had surrendered to pallor, her body chilled by an unseen specter. Alarmed and devoid of answers, my feet instinctively guided me toward the gas station attendant, my faltering attempts at communication bared by my nonexistent French skills. Together, we sought the guidance of the nearest doctor, our hopes pinned on a distant place called Bouconville.

The hands of time seemed to stretch as we navigated the labyrinthine roads, the clock nearing the stroke of eleven. Finally, we arrived, and the doctor's presence offered a glimmer of solace. In those interminable thirty minutes that mirrored an eternity, the physician emerged, his countenance bearing tidings of relief. With a gentle reassurance, he conveyed that Sophie's life had been spared. Yet, perplexity danced within my thoughts, for how could a mere finger's wound imperil one's very existence? The doctor's words pierced through the veil of logic, resonating in my core—when he turned to me and whispered "Yes, Werewolves", a wolfwoman,  a creature whose origins lay in the realm of myth and moonlight.

And so, with each full blue moon that graces the sky, I find myself compelled to gaze upward, my eyes locked in a poignant search. With measured resolve, I once again yield the silver knife to my own flesh, severing a connection with reality. In that sacred moment, as my blood reveals its enigmatic secrets, I am reminded of the doctor's words, whispered like a haunting lullaby in the depths of my soul—a reminder of that fateful night in Bouconville, where the boundaries of the known world and the realm of ancient legends converged, forever etching a mark upon my existence, while I remember her kiss goodbye...