The Shore

The first thing to break through the darkness was the sound of waves crashing on the shore. It was loud, almost deafening. It didn't override the ringing in his ears, though. When he regained feeling in his body again, it was apparent his clothes were damp and clinging to his body, as well as sand to his skin. The first time he opened his eyes he couldn't make out anything other than drab colors - it was all a blur. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried again, able to make out a distance of beach stretching on to the horizon. Where was he?

Moving hurt. Yet he forced his weathered body to move, struggling to lift himself up onto his hands and then ease up on his knees - his back screaming in agony as a result. The shocks running through his arms was almost enough to put him back in the sand. His head felt so heavy, and waterlogged. Pewter eyes moved along the sand beneath him, and he saw the jagged stone that had been under his shoulder. Glancing to himself, he could see where his left shoulder had taken the blow - the tunic torn, jerkin shifted aside, skin heavily bruised and broken to where he bled. Further inspection showed he was a ragged mess, with several more scrapes and bruises amongst the tattered remains of his clothes. On that note, where was his bag?

When he could muscle his way into lifting his head, Josidiah found his bag thrown across the sand. It was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been across the beach. Yet, somehow, by some dull drive beyond his broken soul, he managed to drag himself through the sand to find his bag. What few possessions he had left in his life were in that worn, leather satchel - he wasn't going to continue trudging through this world without them. For now, he had to find some strength to get to his feet... and figure out where he was. Maybe even how he got there.

He needed to get moving - that much was certain. Somehow he managed to lift his head up and his face to the sky, and there was no warmth of the sun on his skin. It was actually cold, and with the sea breeze rolling in from the water he shuddered painfully. The hardest part was getting to his feet, if not keeping his knees from buckling. Once he was upright, it became apparent how much he hurt.

Yet, he hauls the light bag of his shoulder and proceeds to trudge his way along - up the shore, and away from the water. He had no idea where he was, or where he was going. With each step that sunk into the sand, his memories began to come back - flickers of images. A bad storm. Deck hands yelling. A fire that lit ship sails on fire. A deafening explosion and the ship destroying in the destruction. Frigid ocean waters, and crushing darkness.

Yet... despite everything. He lived. Again. Fate refused to let him die yet, even when he begged for release from this living hell where the world constantly threw obstacle after obstacle at him. So, he continued to soldier on - dead and tired.

It was an abandoned fishing village where the small ship known as the Salty Shell reached shore, pulling up alongside a run-down dock that had once held the villager's work vessels and sliding to a halt as the crew climbed overboard and tied their mooring rope around the station so that they could not float off with the tide. It was very late by this point, past midnight and stretching out into the early hours of the morning. Only a few lit lanterns gave light to the scene, for clouds covered the sky and hit the light of the moon.

Within minutes, the crew hauled a long crate up out from under the deck and carried it along the dock until they reached a dirt path by one of the old houses. They lowered it to the ground, took out bars of iron and cracked open the lid by pulling the nails free of the wood. When the lid was tossed to the ground besides them, they looked within at the cargo they had been 'hired' to transport... A pale, well-dressed man as still and silent as death and with eyes that were shut as though sleeping.

"Master?" One crewman asked, his voice a whisper of fear. He tried a second time, louder this time: "master?"

Slowly, Leviath's eyes began to open and the relieved sailors released held breath. "We're here, master, just as you ordered: the shores of Alban."

Though no single muscle of Leviath's body seemed to move, his entire form rose like a lever to full stature until the soles of his feet were firmly against the bottom of the crate. Moments later, he raised his hand to his heart (a move that made the sailors flinch backwards) and then stepped out onto the ground. "Good," came a voice of power and aristocracy. "Your tasks now are to watch this place and ensure my means of leaving this dreary island."

"Yes- I mean of course, my Lord," one told him, then slowly moved off with the others into the village. As soon as Leviath wasn't in sight, they began whispering to one another their plans of scouting and setting up camp in a house near the beach. That made no difference to how well Leviath could hear them, but at least they seemed capable enough to be left alone for a time.

The lord of revenants cast his gaze over the surrounding area, but did not stay long enough to complete a proper surveillance. Instead, he raised his arms out to his sides just in time for a mysterious mist to envelope him, swallow him whole and then release him in the form of a group of large, black bats. They took off into the sky, utterly silent, then flew to the distance in the form of a swarm hiding under the cover of the night's clouds.