An Old Man's Quest: Part 2

Marcus Biscay · 08-21-2010, 09:29 PM

[html]

Sorry it's so long xD You don't have to read it all if you don't want to. The end is the important part ;-)

Marcus' eyes widened, and his lungs filled with a gloriously generous amount of air. Oh, how he wished to tell a story. It gave him joy, in it's rawest form. For a man who's life had been so long, and so turbulent, the retelling of events made him realize just how lucky he was to have found refuge. It brought happiness to an old man's heart to be able to dazzle people with the ventures of The Musketeer.

Marcus gestured for his new friend to sit down on a mound, and slid his cane back down to the palm of his hand. "I always wish to tell a story, Ghita, said Marcus, as he looked to the sky. His bi-coloured eyes squinted as they hit the sun's heavy rays. He turned the whole of his body towards Ghita, and planted his cane by his foot. He leaned on the old stick, and used it as a balance to sit on a large stone. Once the old man was down, the cane was placed by the side of the stone, and his eyes met the curled ball that his hands had become. "Back where I come from-- and I suppose where you come from as well-- there was an ancient society. Ever since the Rising, the society was flourishing. They were The Specialis Lupus Congregatio. Nobody really knew who they were, what they did, or why they did it, but what was known for sure is that they were the most powerful organization ever to cross the face of Europe. They were kings, and they were paupers. They were generals, and they were slaves. To those within the organization, it was simply 'The Congregatio'. To those without, it was nothing. A speck in the light. A shadow from the corner of their eye." Marcus' tone darkened slightly. "And what can a shadow do? Nothing. So you ignore it. You let it slip away from your mind. But then it's dark, and the shadow can consume you. This was The Congregatio. Wonderful, and treacherous." His tone settled once more. "Among the society's renowned alumni were the very best in every field imaginable. Spies, historians, brutes, linguists, scientists, chemists, navigators, strategists, and of course, swordsmen. Among the best of all, arguably the best of all, was The Musketeer; the master of swordsmanship, and jack of all other trades. He was so named for his mastery of the sword and gun, and his righteousness towards others. Throughout the whole of his career, he amassed such a large reputation that in the end, he had to be retired, due to the large pantheon of enemies he had won himself. This, is a story of him."

"You yourself are from Italy, and so I assume you are familiar with the Adriatic Sea. Well, on the other side of that immense body of water is a large city known as Sarajevo. It is a city of impossibly ancient buildings, and amazingly scarce order. Even the wonders of Rome could not compete with it's age. It is there that our story is set." Marcus leaned back, and rested his hand on the grass, supporting his weight. " It was near the end of The Musketeer's career. He had just finished his last assignment in Berlin, turning up only one lead on the man he was chasing. The one lead led him to Sarajevo. As he arrived in the city, he was greeted by a large pack of men on horseback. They looked mostly harmless, save for one; apparently, the leader. He was armed to the teeth with weapons, customized to fit his hands, and upgraded to cause maximum destruction. He also bore the seal of the family Harsevekt. The seal which The Musketeer was chasing. The sealed leader spoke up, and said, 'What is your business in Sarajevo?' The Musketeer's ears peaked. He knew that tone. This man would not think twice about shooting him clear in the head. He tried to reason, saying 'I am here, only to find a friend of mine. Let me pass, and none of you will be harmed' The men laughed at The Musketeer's threat. The leader drew his sword, and laughed even louder: 'You are one man! We are legion! YOU will leave now, or else YOU will be "harmed"' The Musketeer sighed. He did not want to see bloodshed. 'This is your last warning, Harsevekt. Let me to your brother, or I will take no pleasure in killing you.' The Harsevekt leader's eyes widened. His grip on his sword grew tighter and tighter, and he reared his horse in anger. He let out a foul scream. The Musketeer was not welcome here. But alas, wherever his mission led him, he had to go, and so, he quickly drew a pistol from his belt, and fired a single shot towards the leader. The Harsevekt thugs started scattering, and began to attempt attacks. The Musketeer's single bullet spun through the air, and finally met with it's target. The Harsevekt leader flew off of his horse, and tumbled to the ground. A path had been cleared, and The Musketeer began to dash to City Hall."

"Around every corner of every block The Musketeer cleared, a new group of thugs appeared to challenge him. He would lash out his gun, blaze two or three off of their horses, and clash swords with the rest. He worked for what seemed like a lifetime to get to the town square, and eventually made it into City Hall. An eerie silence fell on the main room of the hall. The Musketeer grew uneasy. This was a trap. The man he was seeking, Klaus Harsevekt, was a renegade spy from The Congregatio. He was one of the best, and more than a match for the skills of The Musketeer. Caution was key. An easy foot was The Musketeer's most friendly ally as he snuck through the empty hallways. Eventually, he made his way to the Governor's office, where Klaus was sure to be. He stepped inside, and heard the voice of an old friend. 'Mr. Birch!' This was The Musketeer's name. 'Mr Birch! how lovely it is to see you again!' His tone was evil in nature. Mr. Birch threw his head about the room, searching for his old ally. He spoke: 'If only I could say the same, Mr. Harsevekt.' Suddenly, Klaus burst from a cabinet, sword brandished, and threw himself toward The Musketeer, who drew his sword just as suddenly, and clashed blades with the spy. Having lost the element of surprise, Klaus ran out of the room, and jumped out of a window. He landed in a bail of hay, and exploded upwards, and outwards toward his horse."

"The Musketeer saw his target's planned direction, and ran out to the front door. He drew his pistol once more, and stepped out into the sun to meet his enemy. Klaus, predicting The Musketeer's actions, led his horse around the corner of the City Hall, and charged towards The Musketeer. Now, The Musketeer was fast, but not fast enough. The horse trampled over top of him, and crushed his ankles beneath it's tremendous weight. The Musketeer howled in pain, and laid broken on the ground. But he would not be beaten." Marcus rolled off of the stone he was on, and mimed the next part of his story. "He grabbed his pistol from in front of him, used his arm as a balance rod, and aimed at his fleeing enemy. He waited for the correct moment, and when the moment presented itself, he took his shot." The old man stood, and mimed the bullet's path with his hands. "The shot connected perfectly, piercing both Klaus' leg, and the horse's torso. The horse bucked wildly, flinging the wounded spy wickedly into the air, and into a stone wall. If the impact had not destroyed him, the Congregatio would soon be around to collect his body. Not soon enough for The Musketeer, however. He crawled across the city, quickly ridding the streets of any leftover thugs who thought they could take advantage of a crippled man. He arrived at the harbour, and put himself on-board an old fishing boat. He grabbed an oar, sat himself up, and rowed back into neutral lands, to the North." The excitement on Marcus' face soon turned to diluted sadness. "When he arrived at the Congregatio outpost, he was celebrated, and honoured. Imagine... To be celebrated for killing a friend. He was given two months leave after that. Recovery time. Time to be spent with his family. He enjoyed that time..." Marcus trailed off. That time that he spoke of was the last period in which he spent more than a few days with his family. But he would not let his past catch up to him. Not yet. He pulled out his watch. It was almost three o' clock. A friendly glance was sent to Ghita. "The moral is, you're only as weak as you believe you are. The Musketeer was no-one special. Just a regular man, from a regular pack, in a regular city. His wounds have healed, and nowadays, he's no less dangerous." Marcus winked at Ghita, and gave her a playful grin. Perhaps she knew what it meant, and perhaps not. Truthfully, it didn't matter. The old man's point had come across. That is all he could have hoped for.

1,500+

Login




Remember me Lost Password?