Thin Man’s patience was wearing thin. With a growl, he said, "I was informed that Maven's son labors within these walls. Reveal his whereabouts immediately, and perhaps I shall deign to spare the pitiful remnants of your insignificant existence," his Gaulish accent hissing through the words. He circled around to face the innkeeper, speaking with the polished tone of a knight.

With deliberate intent, he dragged a chair into position and settled himself in full view of his captive. "Maven's a tall, tanned man with dark hair. Might go by something else. His son is obviously a coward, too, or he wouldn't have left these people to die. Are you going to keep hiding and let these men die for you?"

Marcellus blanched. The description fit him well; he was hiding but using no alias, and he didn’t remember who Maven was, his father was dead he was sure.

He desperately hoped the innkeeper hadn’t seen his hiding place during the initial attack, fearing he might reveal it to Thin Man. In this dire situation, Marcellus was ready to sacrifice anyone to ensure his survival. He did not want to die.

Thin Man extended a finger from his left hand to lift the innkeeper's chin, but Marcellus couldn't see what transpired next due to the obstruction caused by Thin Man's body.

The innkeeper's scream of agony pierced the air, followed by a horrifying sight. Blood began to seep from the innkeeper's orifices, and a gruesome mass protruded from his body, his eyes melting as if he were an internal explosion personified.

The innkeeper's lifeless body slumped; his vacant gaze fixed in the direction where Marcellus had sought refuge.

Marcellus's heart pounded in his chest as he found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless stare of the innkeeper.

The weight of guilt and terror settled upon him, as the realization of his potential exposure washed over him.

He knew that Thin Man's gaze would soon follow, searching for any signs of hidden survivors. Marcellus's instincts urged him to flee, to escape the imminent danger, but fear rooted him to the spot, rendering him paralyzed by the sight before him.

Where would he run to? Was he fast enough? could he outrun them?

As the second man passed by the narrow crack, Marcellus's body tensed, his hand slipping from the hinge as he held his breath.

The closet door was violently torn open with a deafening crash, the hinges wrenching away from the weakened wood, sending splinters scattering through the air.

The sheer force of the intrusion startled Marcellus to the point where he would have urinated involuntarily had there been anything left inside him to release.

Before him, stood Ganoes, his countenance adorned with a toothy grin that sent shivers down Marcellus's spine.

"Well, well, well," Ganoes sneered in a familiar Valar accent, his voice dripping with contempt, "look what we have here Forgemaster—a little weasel!"

son of a sow!

Marcellus cursed inwardly he had not been paying attention to him. He'd been consumed by the terror instilled by the presence of Thin Man.

"Why don't you come out and join us? we do not bite" Ganoes taunted, extending his hand into the closet and forcefully yanking Marcelus out by the collar.

In his desperate struggle, Marcelus's flailing arms inadvertently knocked over a stack of glass jars, shattering them into sharp shards that ricocheted off the back of Ganoes' booted ankles.

"Well, well, well. It seems we've found you, son of Maven," Thin Man sneered in the same Gaulish accent, his words piercing Marcelus's consciousness. son of Maven? Me?

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The revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning, but before he could fully process the implications, Ganoes abruptly hurled him to the ground.

Marcellus instinctively reached out to break his fall with his elbow, but a wave of excruciating pain shot through his forearm, causing tears to well up in his eyes.

It was clear to Marcelus that his circumstances were about to take a turn for the worse.

Damn, the pain burns. That cursed Harmonious Nexus Path proved futile, a breathing technique, nothing but fantasy. Damn it all. Marcellus cursed.

"We've been scouring every corner of Wisbech, searching for you, little squirt," Ganoes sneered, looming over Marcellus. He absentmindedly filed his nails once again, using the same bloodied knife that had caused so much pain and suffering.

"I don't understand who you are or why you think I'm the one you're looking for. Please, I beg you, let me go. I'm from a poor family, I barely have coin..." Marcellus pleaded, his voice trembling with fear.

However, he abruptly silenced himself, realizing the futility of his words. They weren't after money or compassion; the innkeeper had just been pleading like so.

Thin Man leaned closer, slowly lowering his hood. Half of his face bore the ghastly scars of burns, a grotesque visage.

The other half retained the features of a Galician, his skin slightly swarthier than that of an Anglian.

"Yes, your father led a group of rats that stormed my house," Thin Man growled, the bitterness evident in his voice. "He ravaged my wife and daughters before my eyes, and he left me with this disfigurement as a reminder of his cruelty...." he paused "and my weakness".

"I don't know who you are! I have no business with you, Just leave me alone," Marcellus pleaded, tears streaming down his face. He felt the crushing weight of his impending death it felt like Thin Man was concluding.

Ganoes let out a callous laugh. "Apologies, but my companion has been eagerly awaiting this moment for six long years. Rest assured; He has business with you."

Marcellus glanced at Ganoes once more, a flicker of recognition stirring within him. "you, I have seen you before," Marcellus accused under his breath.

Ganoes pretended he hadn't heard him.

Thin Man gestured towards his disfigured countenance and then to his crippled hand, casting a disgusted and hateful gaze upon Marcelus.

"Despite the extensive time we spent tracking you down," Thin Man remarked, his voice dripping with disdain, "I believe your father took far more pleasure in our roles being reversed."

Marcelus's voice trembled as he tried to defend himself amidst the chaos. "You've made a mistake. You've got the wrong person; I am a disciple of the priestess of the Chruch of Combat " he pleaded desperately.

Tears continued to stream down his face, falling onto the blood-stained wooden boards, mingling in a macabre blend.

"Enough games," Thin Man's voice grew colder, his eyes narrowing with resolve. Marcelus's fear intensified, realizing that the situation was about to escalate to deadly seriousness.

Marcellus swallowed, the bitter taste of pride choking his voice.

Begging wouldn't work, he knew it like the calluses on his palms. Yet, the desperation gnawed at him, sharper than any winter wind, leaving him shivering.

In a desperate attempt, he called out, "Help!"

It was his last glimmer of hope, a final chance for someone outside to intervene and potentially save him from this gruesome fate.

Thin Man and Ganoes erupted into mocking laughter, revelling in the irony of his plea. Marcellus understood their amusement, for he too would have laughed if their roles were reversed. Instead, he sobbed, despite his lack of faith he had prayed to the God his mother believed in; the God of Combat, yet nothing happened.

Whistling a haunting melody, Ganoes approached, casually swinging a lute he had picked up in the tavern, using it almost like a walking stick.

He peered down at Marcelus, his eyes momentarily revealing a flicker of recognition followed by surprise.

"Please," Marcellus pleaded, his voice filled with desperation as he raised his trembling hands in a feeble gesture of surrender. "Don't do this. I won't tell anyone."

The recognition flashed in Ganoes' eyes before vanishing completely. With a chilling resolve, he hoisted the lute above his shoulders, wielding it like a menacing mallet.

"From the stories I've heard, Maven was a Bastard" Ganoes sneered, his words dripping with contempt. Marcellus could only nod, realizing they weren't actually referring to him. "Unfortunately for you," Ganoes continued, "your dead father made powerful enemies. No one will come to your aid now."

As the words sank in, Marcelus's world turned upside down. Before he could fully comprehend the situation, the lute crashed down upon his face.

Thud!

Stars exploded in his vision as his face slammed onto the tavern floor, sliding through the pooled blood of others.

The metallic taste of salt lingered on his tongue, whether from his own blood or that of the other victims, he could not discern.

His head throbbed with searing pain, akin to countless explosions within his forehead.

He yelled out in pain or terror, likely both. Or perhaps he didn't yell and only imagined it.

The lute shattered, sending splinters flying and tangling its strings.