Far out in the River Thames a cool mist forms. It travels slowly across the water, picking up moisture, and becoming thicker with every moment. Over The Nore it travels, and then proceeds, like a creature with it’s own destination in mind, to follow the coast line of the Isle of Grain, and to the Cooling Marshes. There it swings inland, and weaves it’s way through the marshes, winding this way and that, until it comes eventually upon a graveyard. In that graveyard, there are many stones, all the same, monotonous in their size, shape, and placement. Yet, somewhere, in this never-ending sea of death, there lie the stones of a family, and before these stones stands a young boy, although young he no longer is, a boy he remains.

The mist runs through his short coarse hair. It is oddly shaped, even with the wind running through it, for it has peculiarly grown. Some parts of his split hair are long while other short, creating a mismatch of parts, like a leggo house with different color blocks. They make the final product, yet are unpleasant to behold for too long. His hair looks like someone, rather than trimmed it, attacked it with a vorpal sword, or claymore, lopping of chunks of it with every massive swing. His hair, like the rest of his body is dirty, due to lack of washing. The oil shines in his hair on sunny days, yet luckily, those are rare in England. Like all other Englishmen of the time, you can smell Pip far in advanced of when you can see him.

A cold chill runs through his body, starting at his hands and working its way up his body, eventually making him shiver, and twitch. He looks down at his hands and sees the ends of them turning yellow from coldness. His hands are small for a man, or a boy in this case, yet built like a any mans whose hands are his trade. His smallest finger is so built with muscle, that it is twice the width of a normal man’s thumb. The bottom side of his hand is callused, and rough from hours in the forge. His arms are short, yet strong from wielding the hammer, but like a boy, only a small fuzz has formed on his arms, which like his hair adds humor to the picture. His body is short, yet muscular, and as he stands there, outlined in the mist, he looks handsome, like a warrior of old, resurrected to fight again.

Standing there, the boy is dressed like a gentleman. In his beautiful clothing he has the look, and in actuality he is unsure of who his is, and where he is going. There is only one thing that is for sure, he is leaving the land that he called home, and setting off to be the mismatched gentleman. Far off in the distance the Name Pip is yelled, and the boy responds, slowly walking back to the place that for the time being, will be home.