The Sway of Ravens Ch. 01

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This is chapter one of a novel I've been having fun with.
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It was a crisp and clear October Saturday in the North Yorkshire village of Ravenscar, a sleepy jewel of England's North Sea coast that keeps its eternal vigil over those waters with the rustic stoicism that carries English villages from one century to the next with only a bit more moss on the fieldstone walls and the inevitable fading of cemetery headstones as any proof at all of the march of time. The advancement of autumn's fullness had gilded the countryside in resplendent vibrancy and the pervasive thrill of the season was evident in the rapid and enthusiastic bustle of both the villagers and the tourists that came from far and wide to admire for themselves the green and pleasant land spoken of by poets and common men alike.

Up and down the cobblestone walks and along the fenced gardens, singly and in small groups, a surprisingly diverse assortment of both smartly and plainly dressed people made their way along the charming and meticulously groomed streets and avenues of the small coastal village. Centuries of coastal storms had layered a muted patina upon the wood and stone houses, inns, and public buildings that dotted the proud and fertile countryside beneath the high moors; and the smell of the salty air, passing over the village with the sea's great respiration, was a tonic for mortals wearied by the disquietude of city living.

The sounds of village life echoed through the narrow streets and clustered two- and three-story houses that had grown together over the centuries into the kind of quaintly picturesque scene that sold post cards, calendars, and hotel rooms to travelers and tourists of all stripes and dispositions from the decreasingly remote corners of an ever-shrinking world.

It was along a shaded side street off the village's main thoroughfare that a somewhat wide-eyed and eager-looking young woman progressed that afternoon, her smartly dressed feet clicking the pavement stones as she passed a village pub, The Smuggler's Briar, and rounded the corner toward the secluded brick and cob building that she had seen many times in her small collection of dog-eared pamphlets and brochures.

The Ravenscar Village Museum was the sleepy and often lonesome repository for centuries worth of paintings, portraits, documents, and tomes, as well as the myriad artifacts of English innovation and nostalgia that had been donated for the edification of future generations of Britons; and Ciara Grayling had arrived there by no accident, beholding after her long journey the unlikely home of the curious item that her English hostess had mentioned in the last of her letters shortly before Ciara's sudden departure for the lands of Europe.

The sudden and mysterious correspondence of Ciara's twenty-first year carried with it the revelation of her place in the Grayling clan of Yorkshire, England as well as details of her family's history and accomplishments that ignited within her a curiosity that burned like the autumn leaves. The illustrious Baroness Charlotte Vanderbosch had broken her decades-long reticence with a quill pen, and Ciara was instantly consumed with the desire to see the lands of her ancestors and meet with the strange, elderly lady that lived in a castle over the sea.

The man who had become Ciara's guardian in her infancy, a self-made industrialist and aluminum magnate, corroborated the letters and spoke at length with her about the long-obfuscated details of her family's past. Ciara's shock upon learning of the unsolved murders of her grandparents had filled her with a templar's focus; and with the resolve of a true Grayling, she declared she would one day find the answers where others had failed. A resentment for his years of secrecy began to grow within her as he spoke; but when he had finished his retelling of the tragic events that led to Ciara's adoption, she forgave him in a shower of kisses and ran off with her letter to read its perfectly printed words again and again.

No Yorkshire agency nor bureau was spared Ciara's inquiry as she ordered and amassed what might have been every publication on the subject of Eastern England as well as copies of photographs and newspaper articles, some specially requested, until she might have been counted a scholar with her thick notebooks and bound portfolios at the ready. It was armed with these sheafs and letters that she flew across the wide Atlantic, meeting the villagers of Ravenscar at last with a smile that seemed for a moment even fresher than the North Sea breeze.

No head in the village went unturned at the passing figure of the young Miss Grayling, whose exotic yet tasteful raiment spoke of distant America, and whose utterly flawless pale skin and infuriatingly wry smile always left a trail of furtive-lidded men withering under the heated glare of their wives' and girlfriends' eyes, even when the young lass dressed in nothing fancier than a long woolen coat and unassuming faux-fur traveling hood that allowed only glimpses of her silken, pale yellow hair and delightfully symmetrical and wholly comely face. Ciara Grayling was a petite thunderbolt who was no stranger to splitting the skies with the plasma-hot lines of her paradoxically buxom yet lithe form.

A string of small bells shaped like hummingbirds chimed as the diminutive wayfarer turned the antique doorknob and pushed her way into the dimly lit and seemingly deserted village museum. A thick blue carpet greeted her feet as she stood surveying the place, and the dull tang of must was evident as her senses adjusted to what felt increasingly like a den or lair to the intuitive young woman. Her eyes cautiously adjusted to the scarce light, revealing a dizzying array of oddly selected, dusty, and undeniably aged artifacts on the tables, walls, and display shelves; and antique glass cases, darkling in the feeble glow of the low gas-light, filled up the modestly apportioned rooms of the cottage museum.

As she turned and closed the belled door, her eyes fell upon a tall and heavily built individual who could only have been the establishment's guardsman, dressed as he was in a reluctantly worn navy blue uniform and the quaint, crookedly mounted hat of his station. His face seemed naturally inclined to leering and sneering, though he held his expression at bay with mock solemnity, settling somewhere in the middle as a caricature of aped professionalism.

Throwing off her hood, the stunning young woman drew a barely stifled inhalation from the insincerely stoic man behind the desk. Ciara's face might have made Pygmalion throw down his chisel, for each of her lines was a study in perfection; and the fairness of her unblemished skin, taught and intelligent brow, and luxuriant golden hair might have stolen the golden apple from Athena herself. Innocence clung about her like a mist on a limpid sylvan pool, unabjured by her nubility, and it often seemed to those who beheld her that she shimmered and glittered with an inner radiance. The American adventuress smiled expectantly at the lumbering guard beyond the polished hardwood, but he merely smirked and shook his head with perceptible incredulity.

Back in the States, Ciara would have expected a greeting upon entering such a place, especially as the only guest of a rapidly aging day. Straightening herself after her walk and shifting slightly under the weight of an over-sized handbag, the young Grayling feigned preoccupation as if giving the man time to welcome her; but he was silent, and her attention soon fell on a beveled wooden plaque that warned visitors against speaking with the staff. The young cosmopolitan understood this tradition easily, and smiled curtly as she sauntered past his booth, tossing her head slightly in acknowledgment of the custom. She could feel his eyes raking her body as she pretended interest in an anachronistic farm implement or a portrait of some long-dead village elder; but she made no protest as he failed to hide the courses of his witless orbs, and exaggerating ever so subtly the sway of her hips, she traipsed off into an attached chamber that seemed promising in her hunt for the thing which had coaxed her over the wide Atlantic.

Ciara was aware of video cameras above her as she passed antique desks, bureaus, and bookshelves that filled the section of the museum dedicated to the local nobility and the lore surrounding their accomplishments and holdings. Ravenscar was home to a number of ancient estates, and many proud families had left their marks on the social and artistic landscape of the region. As her paces carried her through the English centuries, she ran her fingers along framed documents, models of the castles and manors of the Yorkshire lands, and the glass domes of richly embellished clocks and statuettes. She was already turning to move on when her eyes settled with a start on the object of her search, a white metal scroll case etched with the achievement of the respectably ancient, though troubled, Blackheathe family. With a sigh of feigned distraction, she brushed the silver keyhole with the tip of her gloved finger; but remembering the undoubtedly alert guard, she removed herself to another corner of the room and feigned to send her attention elsewhere.

It had not been for nothing that Ciara Grayling arrived in Ravenscar well ahead of schedule. With plenty of time to listen to the gossip of the hotel maids, she was soon a welcome ear for their stories and jests. The village girls were charmed to be asked this and that by the radiantly beautiful American stranger; and Ciara was in turn dutifully and delightfully eager to hear as they described the physical and social characteristics of the various rogues, rascals, stand up men, and pillars of the village. When the conversation was steered toward the tourist museum, she heard all she needed to know of a certain Darin Downard and his reputation as a village ruffian, womanizer, and reluctantly employed museum guard.

Momentarily availing herself of a small compact mirror, Ciara made a terse fluffing gesture to better arrange her plump blond curls. With false resignation, she wandered away from her prize and approached the cunningly leering guard who had been staring hungrily at her lissome form on his video monitors. He licked his teeth under his lips as she approached.

"It must be a lot of work to keep this place safe," lied Ciara Grayling idly after a moment under Darin Downard's lasciviously alert gaze. Ciara leaned in forward, her alabaster cleavage swollen beneath her combed wool coat and her lashes fluttering demurely as she pouted. Darin could not master his eyes as they followed the girl's figure through her carefully exaggerated gestures. The air had become a bit warm for her, and she idly unbuttoned the top of her coat as she ran her fingers along the polished wooden counters of the guard's station.

"I'm not going to lie; it's probably the most dangerous job we've got!" broke out Downard's earthy, East English accent. So much for the silent sentinel act, thought Ciara amusedly behind perfectly feigned admiration for the oaf.

"There's types what would rob this place blind," he continued with his eyes firmly fixed on Ciara's confoundingly clothed bosom. Darin spoke the absolute truth for once, having himself planned countless capers on the subject. Sighing tactically, she leaned in close to him and lowered her gaze upon his shirt cuffs.

"Brave sir," Ciara cooed approvingly, her lips turned down deliciously; and daring to run a finger along the insignia on his upper arm, she pretended all the admiration in the world. Darin offered no protest, and looked quickly at the museum door as if expecting a new guest to blunder in and scare off this unexpected and intriguing bit of game. A bead of sweat had formed on his temple and it was all he could do to keep a tenuous semblance of composure as he watched the pert, frowning lines of her fresh and glossy lips as she spoke.

Darin Downard had been a layabout and charlatan while his youth had lasted; but as a man eternally plagued with the cost of his bottles and the price of easy women, he was forced at last by burden of appetite and family pressure to take up his guard post and its modest income. A more cunning punishment for his troublesome rambunctiousness could not be devised, and it seemed to him that the museum was a cage in which they could keep him pent up and be rid of him at a stroke. Young Ciara had wandered into his social hinterland; and his every thought was bent upon her exploitation, for the sake of not only his lust but his nurtured indignation.

"Well, at least I got to hear a village hero speak if nothing else went right," said the young woman forlornly, theatrically gathering the collars of her coat and eying the door as if preparing to make her farewells. Darin was entirely too dull to notice her thespian's ploy, and searched desperately his paltry stock of brains for something to stay her departure.

"Well what kind of talk is that?" he hurriedly exclaimed, looking from side to side as he lowered his voice to conceal his enthusiasm; but nothing could hide the furtive squinting and quick breath that revealed the intense interest in his guest. "Why, we've got it all in here; haven't see you seen anything? What's the hurry, little one?" he said, his accent thickening in his distraction.

"Well, it's just that I came to read the inscription on the bottom of the Blackheathe Scroll, but they've got it locked away under glass. It makes sense, I suppose, or someone would make off with it!"

"Well you bet they would if not for old Darin 'ere," he boasted. "Them sort of junk, er, treasures, is the heart and soul of the village! My advice is to forget this little fancy; there's plenty else for your pretty little eyes."

Now a woman is a master of sighs, and the specimen that Ciara Grayling emitted cut straight through the last shreds of Darin Downard's composure.

"Well, I suppose I'll call it a wash, then, Darin... uh, sir," she blinked soulfully and cast a wistful glance about the museum's fixtures. "A man of your integrity mustn't be troubled by my silly curiosity."

Ciara made a quick curtsey and turned toward the belled door. Darin bolted forward, still behind his enclosure, and recklessly put his hand on the girl's firm and delicate shoulder. Ciara cast her eyes sideways at his hairy wrist and forearm and paused to give him opportunity to speak.

"You must understand, this stuff's all quite important! Why, the risk I'd be taking even letting you near it!" protested the eminently corruptible guard, turning out his pockets for any excuse at all to delay her.

"But just to have it in my hands for a moment, sir, is it so much? My curiosity is burning me up, I'd do anything!" said the girl, and Darin almost choked on his tongue.

"Well now! I've got to see this thing what's got you so balmy," he exclaimed as he stepped out from his wood-paneled station and girded his loins with his cunning eyes fixed firmly on the diminutive traveler. He motioned for Ciara to turn, surreptitiously slipping shut the front door's latch with his middle finger as he took her arm. Back through the museum, Darin Downard roughly and over-eagerly led his still pouting guest to the site of the glass case that held the antique but solidly crafted platinum scroll case that the Blackheathe family had donated under mysterious circumstances decades before. Even inside the sealed display, a thin layer of dust had settled upon the etched metal relic, and it looked utterly precious to Ciara's sparkling violet eyes.

As the rattle of metal keys echoed faintly around the still hall, Ciara stood by eagerly as Darin unlocked the glass pane and let it fall open upon the felted table. He looked back and forth between the girl and the faintly tarnished heirloom, perplexed that such a dull looking trinket could have captured the desire of this foreign bombshell. With a giggle of delight, Ciara's beige gloved hand instinctively reached for the beveled cylinder, but Darin's heavy meat hook found her wrist, and he looked down upon her with a leering and expectant smirk.

"Well, I did say I'd do anything," said Ciara with mock resignation, her voice lowered to just above a whisper; and the luckiest museum guard in England that day set his hands upon her coat buttons with such suddenness that the young woman started like a doe that has been startled by a rock slide. As she was stripped of her woolen autumn raiment, Darin was for a long, panting moment dumbfounded by the sight of her impossibly supple form and perfectly sculpted proportions.

A scintillating blue blouse barely contained Ciara's young and buoyant bosom, meeting at her waist in a dark indigo knee-length skirt that hugged her slightly narrow yet womanly hips. Her slender limbs were adorned with rich but tasteful jewelry and upon her feet were the shapely, matte blue heel pumps that were the fashion of the day in her native land. In every conceivable way, Ciara was a girl who might at any moment have been taken in arm by a dark and mysterious foreign aristocrat; but today it was Darin Downard who had fixed his thick hands upon her shoulders and applied his stubbled mouth to her warm and vulnerable flesh, shaming even a dog for the next several minutes as he ravished her neck and cleavage with his furtive slavering.

Driven at last to the frenetic heights of lust, the uniformed hulk of a man pushed Ciara down hard against the base of an enormous display case that held the polished oak wheel of some long-retired ship of the line. Breath driven from her, she looked up meekly at the man as his hands raced one another to pull free his belt buckle and undo his pants. Abandon had widened the wicked grin on his debauched face; and thrusting his hand down, he drew out his erect and straining shaft, pausing momentarily to admire the look of it looming against the wide-eyed and fresh-faced innocence. The smell of it was upon her, and she parted her plump and moist lips perhaps a half an inch as she regarded his pulsing and glistening bulk.

Breaking suddenly the titillated hush of the quiet museum, Darin put his hands on either side of Ciara's pretty albeit startled face and pushed her head hard against the wooden display. As stars filled her eyes, he stepped forward, pinning her with his right leg and in one quick motion placed his thick tip against her lips and pushed himself into her mouth with a triumphant grunt and a low groan. Ciara's head was fixed to the spot, pressed hard and held fast by his leg and pelvis as he savored her moist captivity. With two handfuls of blond hair, he pulled slowly his length from her shocked lips as she struggled for air, thrusting in again with a beast's vigor as she vainly protested with balled fists pushing against his thigh. Her eyes rolled up in an effort to see his face, but she beheld instead only an ascending row of polished brass buttons as he launched himself over and over into her gasping face and bursting throat.

Disheveled and almost whimpering with the brute's driving penetration, her lips strained to contain the nine inches of Darin Downard's seeping endowment. Thrust after thrust, he violated her slender mouth as she protested his roughness with muffled and coughed syllables; but he did not hear her, deaf as he was with the ecstasy of her slithering tongue and submissive acceptance of his manhood. In his mind, he had thwarted his jailers with his lustful rebellion, and his gloating only fueled his tense and bestial incursion into her lightly painted pink lips.

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