different breeds

An entirely different case

White noise pierced the close air of cellchar point, allways white, never black. For the only signs of worldly caustics in this little known, but soon to be iconic peninsula were the belligerent seas, crashing with pithy white heads upon the wildly fluted shores and half-glades of the islet. and as universal as this elemental conflict is, the land and sea had a mutualy hostile relationship in this one uniquely acerbic corner of gods sadism. In a place where familiarity is a foreign word for domestic chauvinism, the only way for humans to benifit, to use earths alien environment, is to rest their calloused hands, sunken faces, empty pockets, with the malevolence of the sea. And if they are lucky, the trade winds would play tricks on their nation-harried partners, and an imposing shape would disrupt the horizon, sails at full, hands on deck, the sea line and ship sharing a flaw made visible. It is in this environment that a family lives thrives, jades and dies, at the complete mercy of chaos. These twenty or so ex-patriots were currently half simpatico, half in defiance of their dissinchronius environment. The latter pertaining,Mother, sister, and psychotically indefinate protagonist lay on the familys hardwood floor, pecking away lackadaiasically in their shared workplace. Father, aunt, beast, and brothers stood uncertainly before theyre equally nonplussed guests, braving the seaspray and sandy winds of the shoreline. The rest lay in peacful surrender, six feet below the stony topsoil, waiting to be sifted out to sea, for the land to fulfill its aggresive contract.

Edward cartwrite is, as is expected of cellchars inhabitants, a rather degraded individual. Having lost any civilitys after his only livestock were confiscated by british privateers, he is driven only by nothing, and nothing is a very ambiguous fuel source. He stands tall at 5 feet 7 inches and somehow manages to keep his weight at a steady 250 pounds. His speech is jejune and fluctuates in volume and tone, as if he is unsure of his desire to deal with the consequences of his dialogue. His persona is clipped and unrecognizable, having led a life suspended in the most isolated of his majestys ship havens. His hands are constantly raw and blistered, but what little skin they bear is as dry as canvas, the closest thing to writing parchment he has ever seen. His equine head Bears thin greasy hair that is functionally black and draws cracks and impressions into and out of his large but unnaturally hollow face, and the rest of his body is similarily scuffed, burnt, and scarred. Edwards is fashonably opposed to hygeine, yet still, what little teeth he bears (wisdom teeth) are brown and twitch nerved. Spotty with hair, his scalp streches over an all to apparent deathshead like a drum, beating constantly, tormentingly. In contrast his angular face is nearly devoid of visible skin, between his thin hair and beard, little is available to tell his emotion, other than his eyes, wich are stubbornly pinched and diminutive. That everything youthful about the man, his teeth, his hair, his obstinate skin, is a testament to the nature of the coloniast era. An imperial pawn is born, loses himself, loses his kings peice , and then dies. Whatever he creates, whatever he destroyes? Thats an afterthought. And the loss of naivety goes along with innocence. Hope, muse, frivolity, existensial despair? These are problems of the past. One set in a cosy harbour town, a seignurial slice of land running you in from tavern to harbour, to township to church, the former triforce of responsibility and copulation catering to the third. Venturures soon learn that working for oneself in your new indigenity, is really working for your successors. The people who will provide faith, labour, and recreation for future generations. Slogging hard, toiling away in places not yet made for men, planting crops, windrows, mudbrick houses with blight, damp, and itchy straw bedding, pain. dealing with enterprising mercenaries, losing to sickly humors,anger. Trying hard to berth as many a child as possible, and to secure the future of your name, not its bearers, stress. The secret of edwards weight is wiry strength. The secret of his health is a place on the foodchain.

This increasing radicallization of self perception is why as he stared at the pair of handsom young redcoats, buttons polished, lapels bristling with invisible pins like choke chains, overcoat, undershirt, protected in a gaudy starched shell of wool, canvas and silk. Dyed with red berrys, black charcoal and blue roots, he felt a primal frustration at these unnatural breeds. Like bulldogs, he thought, they were synthesised, impossible in dimensions and nativity. They reached for pentegrammed handjercheifs to wipe their ever runny, capillary shot noses, and exhumed an air of drunken indifference. Straining against their stiff collars, there place in the world was given further nuance by the badges that provided the only deviations in their red jackets. They appeared to him as babies, too young to live on the seas, to expierience the bordeom and pain of their most fervent dreams a life of constant "adventure". The men held themselves insufferably, coattails leaving them vulnerable and obsequious like a dog pinching its tail, seeming like as if the front troupe of hollowed blue jacket clad ruffians they predided over might be their handlers. Although he was angered by their visceral impudence, he was used to working with men such as these, men who didnt know what navigation was, sailing, beuarocrats and soilders. and knew he could earn something from them. His practiced eye quickly spotted several maladies visible on the ship, and its crew. The mast was bent by salt spray imbibement, withering gales chittered mirthlessly between the rough stiched tear in the mainsails canvas and its patch of plant fiber. The hall was heavily barnacled and varnish parched. As for the crew, they were obviously taken with scurvy. Thinking of his surplus of canvas, he whent after the mast issue first. Hoping to appeal to authority, he adressed the man with the most badges. "Youre sails are not yet with rot?". The mans lurid baby blue eyes bulged fleetingly, a rather disturbing sign of his attention. "Yes?" was all he got out. Not sensing their awkward behaviour, Edward continued. "The patch of faun 'pon the mast" he said incredulously, " you need some good sturdy stretch cloth, lest your destination be a ships haven like this". " Yes, its been shrieking like a harpy for a good part of the journey". Said the patchwork quilt, releived to have identified the conversation. "Wheres that from?" asked edward politely, having already identified there colors as hemshire, and made a note of their returning journey. " Port valance, hemingshire" said the badge bundle, extending his hand with full confidence, then detracted it after Edward turned his back to grab a sample of the "naturally" greened canvas. The bulldog with a pentagon shaped badge on his shoulder, cleared his throat and rasped " They think it is a shame that we sleep through the wee hours, without a worry to carve the cross to beelzebubs tounge". Before Edward had the opportunity for an acerbic retort, the dog with the most metal, reached out his hand again, and said, "how rude of me! I must give you my name", "corporal johnathan tetrault, of his majesty king harrys navy" he said as Edward put his hand in his own and shook limply. Both men smiled nervously, a seagull coughed up its meal near them, green hued waves frothed over the uniformed mans smartly waxed jack boots. After a long silence, the freindlier bulldog's face flashed to stoic, then he bowed and with a flourish of his hands introduced his commanding officer. " May I introduce Admiral James smitheson". Edward grinned “I have a painting of you in which you look much more lively”, “cheeks as red and glossy as apples, skin like a salty cloud that isnt quite formed”. James made a mock smile, “ sounds like the desciption of a charlatin”. “But a lively one”.Edward placed his hands on his hips and half frowned, while squinting his eyes together, not only because he had failed to identify the figure of higher authority, but also because of the shore party leaders high standing. The smithesons were affluent shipping magnates, and were in fact the funders of celchate settlement. Foregoing any normal curtacies, he bowed deeply before his stout unseemly superior, the grubby official within the surrealy splendid uniform James obliged him with a functional nod, and seized the bleach white scroll offered him by the medal specaled corporal. With a flourish, he pulled out his penknife and skewed the velvet binders of the ream, accidently cutting it asunder. He reached for another without a hint of embarresment, and this time simply slipped off the valued bindings. Edward cleared his throat. " perhaps we should reconvene in my home for the reading", " my wife can cater, and we wont wet that pretty little scroll their", saying this as a renewed gust of wind came in off the north, frigid and brimming with salt and water. The first row of men came forward at the nod of their superior, and he lit a cigarre, holding it in tightly gritted teeth, smiling at Edwards perplexed expression watching the red flow up and over the hill. They maintained eye contact for several seconds, anexperience which seemd only to unsettle Edward, before Jameses cigar, nearly empty of tobaco, and the only dry thing for miles around, began to smoulder and had to be stomped into the wet sand. Edward coughed and followed the brigade, ignoring the aggressive stomping of the sailor behind him.

"Who are they?" I asked, seizing the oppurtunity to speak to my father.edward groaned internally and turned his back, beckoning shortly with his hand.