The Harbor...the docks...

Guest

At seven past midnight, Michael alas brought his 'Dragon' around port-side. With a gentle 'bump', the bow clamored against the dock as the waves sloshed against the side of the boat. The waves began to show an angry temperment as the night wore on. He hitched the rope around the post and secured the main sail with twine. Looking up at the moonless night brought him security, almost as if the darkness was more a friend then adversary. His lone bulls-eye lantern hanging off the mast jostled its light to and fro, fighting back the midnight. Michael quickly took it off its hook and extinguished the flame inside. He had become so familiar with his little dinghy he didn't need sight to move about, he'd sailed, 'My Folly', for seven years now.
He hoisted his Marmot backpack, full of his books, notebooks and favorite quill-pen that belonged to his mother and slung the black backpack over his right shoulder. As usual the backpack strap got caught on one of the many fly-lures pinned on his vest. Not really noticing it, or, through habitual acclimation he proceeded with his next task of securing his broomstick.
Ah...there it was, resting near the tiller.
Picking it up, he threw himself over the rail and onto the plancks of the dock.
Balamb.
Then a gentle slanting rain began to fall; the meaning of the waves ire, but the rain was a warm one and as superstitious as the young Michael Rubymane was, that was a good omen. He looked up again and let the rain baptise him. It felt good, but he was hungry and arriving at such a dishonest hour might make it difficult to procure a meal.
The town's street and shop lights were on in some places and that gave him hope.
His gaze went to the cobblestones as he began walking, his wet black locks shrouded his face as somewhat of a smile formed.
He mumbled a literary passage to himself, "...we men of ruin'd blood."