In a dim-lit corner of a world forked by destiny, Marcellus found himself enveloped in an aura of existential quandary. The metaphorical crossroads that lay before him were a maze, intricate as a spider's web, with three diverging avenues to the hallowed title of knight.
The allure of each path was comparable to fruits hanging low, tantalizingly within grasp. But as Marcellus had learned through the crucible of life, thorns—delicate intricacies that promised to snare him guarded each fruit, wound him, or cast him into a river of regret.
The first route was the time-honoured tradition of becoming a squire to a seasoned knight.
This option depended heavily on the mentor's skill and character. A skilled mentor could impart invaluable wisdom and training, whereas an inadequate one might cripple his journey from the very start.
What if I get stuck under an inept knight, or worse Marcellus worried?
The duration of the squire hood further complicated matters.
This phase was replete with duties that often verged on menial labour rather than actual combat training. Imagine spending a decade or more sweeping floors, cleaning armour, and looking after horses with barely any personal growth to show for it.
The financial burden was another hindrance.
While mentorship often included room and board, sending remittances to his struggling family would be nigh impossible.
Marcellus vividly remembered fleeing from the priestess for this very reason. She was skilled and sincere, but the mentorship under her would take an interminable amount of time. And he couldn't stand her condescending laughter when he got knocked down during 'sparring' sessions—a capable mentor, yet another cul-de-sac in his intricate maze of choices.
The second route involved bribery or compensation—a shortcut laden with peril. A cash-strapped noble might be willing to sell the title of a knight for the right price. But the nature of such a transaction was fraught with danger.
Who's to say that a noble willing to sell a knighthood recommendation wouldn't betray me later? Marcellus mused.
Even if the nobles kept their word, Marcellus would likely spend the rest of his life as a hedge knight, an errant warrior without a lord. Hedge knights eked out a living by lending their blades to various lords, often receiving meagre rations and sleeping under bushes for lack of better shelter.
The financial toll of bribing a noble would also be daunting given Marcellus' current financial status, which was nothing short of penniless.
The third path was the most perplexing. It wasn't, as some might jest, about challenging a priest from the Church of Combat—such an action would be tantamount to challenging a god. These priests were divine martial artists, their every move a form of sacred devotion.
Instead, this route required accomplishing something so exceptional that it forced society to recognize him as a knight.
Like the tale, the priestess had once recounted about a 12-year-old slave who had performed such extraordinary martial feats that the knighthood was bestowed upon him as a matter of course.
Marcellus thought, to be so spectacular that they can't deny you—that's the dream.
But dreams were nebulous, hard to define, and even harder to attain. Such a feat would not only need to be extraordinary but also duly witnessed and acknowledged, and in these trying times, who would even care to notice?
This was why Marcellus left Wisbech in times of war serving soldiers would be Knighted for serving suicide missions or being exceptionally skilled.
So much for my plans. He reflected wryly now.
Now Marcellus was stronger than when he left his home, some he was able to make more choices as he had previously surmised, however, he was restrained by some problems.
As he got stronger the thong he could do many but he was also bound by other things; Captain Crowe and Edwin.
He had been a pawn in whatever intricate game Crowe was playing, and though they had parted ways, Marcellus couldn't shake off the lingering feeling that Crowe might yet have plans for him.
Edwin was a different enigma altogether. His motives were far from clear, but Marcellus could sense that Edwin saw him as either a pawn or a toy in his machinations. While he had more agency now than ever, Marcellus felt increasingly cornered by these looming figures.
As his ponderous steps led him to a building with an air of illicit allure—ostensibly a brothel—he paused. The wooden façade was faded, its windows opaque with years of grime. Dim light spilt through cracks, casting an ethereal glow on the cobblestone pathway.
It was a sanctuary of lost souls, perhaps.
Marcellus took a deep breath. The weight of the decision bore down on him like a mountain. It was not just about choosing a path; it was about defining who he wanted to be.
What is freedom? Marcellus mused. Is it the absence of external constraints? Is it the ability to choose your path despite them? or is it the liberty to select one's chains?
A nascent thought flitted through his consciousness—imprecise and undefined. Perhaps he could synthesize these disparate paths, or even carve a new one, unshackled by the rigidity of convention.
Marcellus strode into the building, his feet clacking against the worn wooden floor.
The interior of the brothel was a paradox of sordid luxury. bronze-lined benches adorned the lobby, contrasting sharply with dim lighting that cast a moody ambience.
Women in provocative garments smiled coquettishly, while men of various backgrounds haggled with the madam. The air was thick with the scent of incense and perfumes, creating an almost cloying atmosphere.
Despite his inner turmoil, Marcellus couldn't help but remember his previous visit. The raucous laughter, Noah slapping him on the back, the strange sense of camaraderie that seemed so genuine at the time. How naïve he'd been, believing himself part of a chosen family when he was nothing more than a pawn.
The irony was not lost on him; the very establishment that represented his past indulgence now stood as the crossroads of his future.
As he ascended the stairs, memories overlapped with his present, like translucent layers of his life being superimposed on each other. His eyes narrowed; the smile that graced his lips was so faint it could almost be mistaken for a trick of the light. It was anticipation, yes, but not for what the brothel had to offer.
As he ascended the creaking stairs, recollections of a former visit unfurled within his mind—he remembered for a brief moment flipping a grown woman on the back and wrestling with three more women.
maybe there is a charm to this place.