Man of Medan

Man of Medan

It’s often the strangest of circumstances and the greatest of coincidences that dictate where a man found himself. Whether it be the smooth tinkling of a harp or the harsh screech of a gull, each brought solace upon it’s listener in its own way.
For James, his dreams of grandeur blessed with the faintest of violins, were interrupted by the sudden scream of what seemed like a thousand gulls intent on dismantling the very ship he sailed on. As the man shaped by the salty breeze, the rough seas and the blessings of Poseidon himself, fell off his bunk somewhere on the captain’s deck, the ghost of a ship groaned.
The Ourang Medan had finally found land after decades and decades of being lost to the tides and it’s sole occupant, slowly steadied his form and got on his feet. As his hands clawed at the bed for grip, a slightly faint glow of his blazing sapphire hues took over the dark room. At 6’4, the man wasn’t the shortest of the bunch, and months of sailoring a ghost ship meant to be forgotten, had rendered him with minimal fat, leaving him with bulky veins criss-crossing his rather monsterous arms with a few travelling up his neck only for a singular vein to march right across the left of his temple.
As his rough palms dusted off the last of the sea’s salt from his sturdy coat, he furrowed his brow and clunked away on the iron clad floor from the captain’s cabin onto the deck and let out a sigh of relief.

And ’twas done.

He rushed back to the captain’s cabin and released the anchor, parking the ship in the harbor and jumped overboard, only to swim his way to the port.

In the coming three hours and a quick conversation later, James had found himself seated in a car to the only place he knew on the outskirts of the city, having sold the ship, and having become a rather very rich man in a matter of hours if not minutes.

Tired and famished, he made his way to his room as naturally as his muscle memory and days of dreams would carry him and finally crashed onto a bed
that was not a bundled mass of cotton wet by the overly humid misty seas.

A whole 30 hours later, the sapphire of his hues gleamed once more as he slowly came out of his coma like stupor.

As James of the Ourang Medan finally came to his senses, Sir James Knight slowly started to shape himself once more.
As the scraggly beard found a shapely trim, and the man bearing a blaze of the sea wore a purfume more suited to a gala amongst royalty, an entirely different man stepped out of the room that once had given a place of rest to the weary captain.

Dressed in an Italian suit of black the shone just ever so slightly against the ambient light, enhanced by the very tasteful platinum suit pieces, his ensemble was completed by a Vacheron Constantine on his left wrist and a pair of silken gloves donning his roughed up palms.

With a slight tap behind each of his steps, he stepped forth with confidence and swagger only bestowed upon those of royal mannerisms.

In due time, he found himself slowly but surely finishing every dish baked or cooked in the kitchen just to give his saltened taste buds some life and his parched tongue some fluids and a return to normal life.

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