Marcellus rose from the pool of blood, his muscles screaming and his resolve like iron. He nudged aside Ganoes' lifeless form, casting it to the shadows of oblivion. His path was clear, and the macabre scene before him demanded no further attention.
All he possessed were the clothes on his back: worn brown pants, frayed shirts, and simple sandals—nothing more.
In a grim dance of necessity, Marcellus searched the fallen around him, his fingers grazing cold coins, gathering fifty silvers and some odds and ends. He steered clear of the innkeeper's stash, honoring the man's memory with this small act of reverence. His family needed every coin, now more than ever.
Compelled by a deep need to see his home one last time, Marcellus headed there, his heart a battlefield of hope and dread. What would those familiar walls hold for him? Solace or sorrow?
As the door groaned open, silence enveloped him, save for the faint snores that punctuated the air. The threshold to his modest dwelling seemed a portal to another life, the wattle and daub walls whispering tales of days filled with laughter, now echoing with loss.
Inside, the candle's flicker cast ghostly shadows, mirroring Marcellus's internal torment. His gaze found his mother, her figure a pillar in his turbulent life, now shrouded in the room's thick sorrow. Beside her, his adopted cousin Kenric and niece Agnes lay in innocent slumber.
This scene, a stark reminder of what he was leaving behind, deepened his resolve yet weighed on his spirit like chains.
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His house, once a mere backdrop to his life’s dramas, now loomed large with memories and unspoken promises. Marcellus's eyes lingered on a crude painting by Agnes, her youthful artistry a stark contrast to the grim reality beyond these walls.
Tears threatened as he stood, a silent sentinel at the crossroads of his life, the weight of impending departure suffocating. The wind outside moaned, a mournful chorus to the storm within.
Wisbech had always been his world, its stories confined to the tales of travelers and the less savory stories from Anchor, the late innkeeper's helper. Now, he was to step beyond its borders, into the unknown.
Each step from his home felt laden with the gravity of his choice. The village square, once a place of familiarity, now marked the boundary of his former life.
Rain began to fall, each drop a cold echo of his own sorrow. The road stretched endlessly before him, its winding path a metaphor for his own uncertain future.
As he walked, the only sounds were the rain, his footsteps, and the distant calls of night creatures. Loneliness enveloped him, a stark reminder of the solitude that now defined his existence.
Desperation whispered to him, tempting him with delusions of return, of forgiveness. Could the priest overlook the horror he had left behind? Yet deep down, Marcellus knew the grim truth: Wisbech, with its drunken guards and strict temple priests, would offer no sanctuary.
No, there would be no mercy. The blood-drenched walls of Bastard's Haven would haunt Wisbech forever, and Marcellus, now a fugitive in his own land, would be the face of their nightmares.
With each step, the reality of his exile weighed heavier, and as he crossed the village boundary, the finality of it enveloped him. Tears mingled with the rain, a silent testament to the heartbreak of his departure.
As the road took him further into the unknown, the rain veiled the world around him, mirroring the storm that raged within. Each step was a step away from everything he knew, each drop of rain a reminder of the life he had left behind.