The wind howled through the cliffs as the mist rolled in from the moors. Blackbeard strode out of the mist, his black cloak billowing out behind him. His face was a gallery of cuts and scars. His eyes were blue, piercing blue. His hobnailed boots gleamed, and his wrinkled face was calm, calm and sinister. Ragged yet strangely elegant clothes hung off his slight frame. A blood red sash was adorned with an assortment of deadly weapons each had done its job; painfully.

His silver rapier was shrouded in mist ready to cleave through anything in its way. A weather-beaten face glared with confidence at passing locals, they cowered under his powerful gaze, he demanded respect. As he approached the town his face was set in a grimace. The blade was sharp, and the time was now. 

Ralph Evans