The Marksman- Dreams of the Past

The last time we saw our amazing adventurers, the Marksman experimented with the arrows the Inventor gifted him, as the other heroes prepared to sail across the waves in the Mystic Wave. As the Marksman returned to join the others, he was ambushed by an assassin of his Order. The Marksman defended himself valiantly, but narrowly escaped the assault, sustaining serious injuries in the altercation. We find our heroes set sail with the injured Marksman being tended to by the talented Dr. Wolf below deck…


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The blackness finally begins to part slightly as the Marksman grasps at consciousness. The Marksman tries to sit up, but a searing pain flares in his shoulder. The pain causes the darkness to close in again. He looks over and sees several stitches. His mouth is parched and sticky. He’s laying in a soft bed, and as he turns his head, he sees his cloak draped over the headboard post. This was his room aboard the Mystic Wave.


Dr. Wolf leans over the Marksman, his amulet worn around his neck like a bolo necktie.


“Take it easy, you’ve sustained some serious wounds. Between my medicine and some magic from the Wizard, you should be right as rain,” says Dr. Wolf.


The Wizard also leans into the Marksman’s vision.


“Here take a drink of this, it’s a mixture of the Herbalist’s herbs. You should sleep well now,” encourages the Wizard, as he lifts a small cup to the Marksman’s lips. 


The Marksman pulls in the bittersweet liquid in, slightly choking as the liquid burns a trail down his throat. The darkness begins to cover over the Marksman’s vision, but this time instead of taking over like a rushing wave crashing onto a beach, unconsciousness washes over him like a gentle mountain stream.


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The Marksman awakens with a start. He looks around, the surroundings aren’t the same as they were on the Mystic Wave. As he begins to focus on his surroundings, he realizes that this was his childhood bedroom. 


He slides out of his bed and walks around his old bedroom examining the walls and the trinkets he had laying around. Everything was the same as he remembered. The Marksman looks over and sees the door standing open. He continues through the door and walks into the dining room and kitchen. The stove is lit and dinner is simmering on the stove top. The table was set for three. The cellar door was open… the cellar door was open?


The Marksman strides over to the open door and drops into the cellar. The torches were lit, revealing the weapons rack and Thousand Eyes uniform hung on the wall. 

This is where his father told him the truth; that he wasn’t a mere king’s currier, but instead a personal agent of the king, acting in the Realm’s interest. An agent that operated in the shadows, quashing rebellions, capturing dangerous criminals, and stopping insidious assassination attempts from foreign governments. His father was an elite warrior, assassin, spy, ambassador, and much more. After finding out the truth, his father vowed to train him in the ways of the Order. Someone was hunting them, and they had to be ready. He trained with his father for four long, and wonderful years. 


Just then, the Marksman realized what night this was and he ran outside, tearing through the countryside as fast as his legs would carry him. The full moon casts its light all over the sleeping hills as the Marksman crashes through the underbrush in his way, trying to get to the bridge before it happens. 


He makes the clearing, but realizes he’s already too late. On the bridge, his father is engaged in a knife fight with a dark-cloaked assassin. Across the bridge, stood huddled together a younger Marksman and his mother. His father trusted the assassin, an old friend from the Order, who kept the father updated on proceedings in the Realms. He was actually the one the father was sneaking out to meet so many years ago when the son snuck up on the two of them.


The father was winning the altercation scoring several strikes in a row. He swung his knife at the assassin’s arm wounding him.


“Relent,” screams the father. The cloaked figure raises a hand in surrender, the other arm, injured, hangs limply at his side. The father walks over to restrain the assassin as a blade silently drops into the assassin’s wounded hand. The assassin quickly buries the knife into the fathers chest, driving him over the side of the bridge. The son on the other side of the bridge and the Marksman cries out at the same time. The son and mother flee while the assassin stands looking off the bridge.


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Back in the Marksman’s room on the Mystic Wave, the Marksman lies sleeping in his bed. A tear rolls from his eye.


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Back in Franklin, a fog hangs over the bay. A boat slowly creeps into view, a galleon with perfidious construction is revealed. The ship is constructed of thousands of polished bones, the sails are made of hide with several strange designs drawn onto it (suspiciously similar to tribal tattoos…). 


A ghostly crew man the ship’s deck. Green glowing, disembodied natives quietly mill around the deck, mindlessly swabbing the decks and working the sails. The Witch Doctor stands resolute on the poop deck, guiding the boat into harbor. The boat makes port and the Witch Doctor strides onto the dock. The Witch Doctor walks through the quiet town, the streets deserted due to the awful weather. The Witch Doctor, understanding that his current tribal dress makes him stand out, snaps his fingers, changing into a knee length leather coat and a top hat, with leather pants and crocodile skin boots. The Witch Doctor sets foot into the tavern, walking over to the bar to get a drink. He gets a gin and tonic, turning around to survey the room. He sees a dark-cloaked figure, nursing a beer and an injured leg in the corner. The Witch Doctor grins and makes his way over.

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