Prelude

Quite a long time ago, and in a place somewhat removed from us at present, a ship slipped silently through the gloomy and misty waters of the English Channel. It was night, and darkness covered all with an impenetrable gloom that weighed down upon the tiny, frail ship like an ill omen. Her sails were fully extended, and oars slipped out into the water as desperate sailors fought for speed. Men ran to and fro upon the deck in an attitude of great excitement and fear, yet all was silent. No one spoke, not one man so much as murmured to his fellow as he set about his duties; the grim look on every face was conversation enough.

Only one figure remained unmoved, frozen. A beautiful young woman stood against the rails, staring out into the night, clasping her arms about her to gain some warmth against the chilly air. In her stillness there was such poise and grace that even the most perceptive observer would be hard pressed to detect any sign of agitation and fear like that which so stirred the men about her; and yet, there was about the features of her delicate face an air of hopelessness and doom deeper and more profound than theirs, and in her shining eyes were set a thousand clues portending that hers was a greater grief than all her fellows’, and that none felt the sting of the present moment more sharply than she. A chilly breeze assaulted her, and she shuddered suddenly in a motion not entirely prompted by the cool air alone. Unseen by the men scuttling around the deck and scarcely noted by even herself, a single solitary tear slid off her cheek and fell into the salty sea.

For another ship rode the waters of the Channel that night - a large, black, and glooming shape that dwarfed the other as a man dwarfs an infant. Its enormous bow, an affront to nature by its very size, did not part the cool waters of the sea so much as it tore them asunder in violent motion, cutting through the blackness with an efficient, frightening speed, gaining on the smaller ship in quick pace. On the topmost deck of this monstrosity another single figure stood motionless, wrapped within a voluminous cloak of the very color of the gloomy night. It was a man (or, perhaps more appropriately, a creature who had once been a man) large of frame and height with hunched shoulders and enormous booted feet. A large black patch covered one eye, and a long, hideous scar ran down the side of his nose, cheek, and neck, twisting what once might have been fair features into the grotesque and the terrifying. His mouth was turned into a scowl, and his uncovered eye squinted at the shape of the smaller ship in the distance as a hawk squints at his prey.

He nodded to himself. Only a few minutes more, and they would close the gap.

"Fouillez le navire," the dark figure rasped at his men. "Apportez-moi la fille." He spoke with the heavy accent of an Englishmen, but his crew, native sons of France, saluted eagerly and cowered in fear of his every look.

"This time there will be no escape," the dark figure murmured.

The two ships grew closer together, and every sailor on each prepared himself for a battle whose outcome, it would seem, was inevitable. In the midst of this confusion, one single lifeboat slipped away from the doomed vessel, vanishing almost instantly against the dark water. The two men on board this small raft rowed for their lives, hardly daring to breathe lest the sound reveal them, heading with no small effort towards the distant English shore....