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.