Given the ordeal to reach this place, Marc expected to find something akin to a foreboding crypt carved from obsidian. A place perpetually covered in dark clouds, where the occasional lightning bolt struck a passerby to keep things interesting. 

Alternatively, he could end up in a rundown part of the city, where the criminal element ruled over its frightened citizenry with an iron fist. That would spice things up for a soldier searching for a purpose… Alas…

Instead the club, like the area, was decidedly nondescript. The most notable aspect of the canal they used to reach the club was the lack of direct sunlight. The channel was narrow, and perpetually bathed in shadow.

Venice was a collection of islands, while some were connected by bridges while others were accessible exclusively by boat. Marc preferred the former, but this club was isolated from the network of bridges. 

Because of the time and distance, most boatmen refused to make the trip. Eventually he found a man who knew of the club and after buying several rounds of liquid courage, agreed to take him.

“That weapon’s filthy,” Marc said.

He returned to his chair and picked up his book. For the rest of the evening the patrons gave him a wide berth, and spoke in hushed tones. Hopefully they’ll leave me be…

Alas his decisive victory emboldened the potential challengers. Tales of the duel and his cavalier attitude meant he was the man to beat to make a name for themselves.

After a year in Venice, Marc at twenty-three years of age, added another thirteen ghosts to his torment. Most challenged him to a swordfight, but a few still believed they had a chance with a pistol. Alas, every single challenger proved to be dead wrong…

It turned out that his appearance often worked in his favour, If the aggressor had any survival instincts that is. They would leave the moment they caught sight of those dead eyes. However, sometimes that only served to add fuel to the fire.

His first challenger went so far as to call him a coward. Marc wanted to walk away, but gentlemen often took ‘turning the other cheek’ as a metaphor for cowardice. Marc was forged in combat, and did so while facing insurmountable odds, so he would not willingly suffer that label.

The drunken welp chose pistols at ten paces. Marc proved to be the better shot, piercing the young man’s heart. His life line was cut before he pulled the trigger. Without so much as a glance, Marc tossed the smoking pistol to one of the servants and walked away. Another voice to torment me in my dreams…

Of course the first things that came to mind were logistical in nature. He had to secure stables for his horse and to find a place to stay. After making inquiries he found both, and wound up staying at a working class hotel. The rooms were spartan, but there was plenty of traffic to get lost in.

After that, Marc did his best to avoid the fairer sex. Although it helped that most women here were dark haired and bronze skinned beauties. Still, he went primarily to game rooms or gentlemen’s clubs. Even then, he liked to find a quiet spot to read.

While Marc did his best to remain anonymous, it was a challenge to avoid duels. A man’s inhibitions invariably waned with drink, was often forced to deal with some drunk who hated the way he looked or was too high and mighty for their liking.

In the distance there was a great city, one that went by many names, such as La Dominante, the Queen of the Adriatic, the City of Masks or the Floating City. With names like these he expected the crowning jewel of the Republic of Venice to be beyond compare.

“There’s certainly a… bouquet to this place,” Marc confessed.

Marc never had the pleasure of taking in the scent of the sea at low tide, let alone in a city with its extensive network of rivers and canals that doubled as a sewer. This heady bouquet of decaying sea life, piss and excrement shattered his childhood ideals as Venice.

Warning, oxygen levels at 11.2% and rising. Proceed calmly to the nearest emergency shelter.

“We drank the tavern dry,” Marc finished.

Tired, dehydrated, and suffering from a nasty headache, he said goodbye to Cornay and even hugged him in front of his men. No one dared say anything…

Marc and his Adjudant were the first to arrive in town. It was their time and effort that turned a dilapidated fortification filled with green troops into a fighting force that beat the odds.

“Once again I was faced with a journey into the unknown… towards Susanna.”

“After the garrison was turned to rubble, I disbanded the men. By the time the Spanish arrived, there was nothing left to lay a claim to. Lastly, I invited my men to celebrate our time together.”

He remembered the evening at the tavern being a bittersweet moment. They had taken heavy casualties and were victorious despite the odds. That was in no small part due to the townspeople. Who were betrayed by both sides of the conflict…

“They expected us to die, so the King of Spain could lay claim to a victory before signing a peace accord,” Marc added.

If not for the intense cold, Marc would have spit on the floor, just like he wanted to back then. However, the harsh environment of space was just as effective as duty and honour was as the time. I had to maintain decorum…

In the end Marc reversed the sequence of the orders. He threw open the gates of the garrison to the townspeople. They cleaned their stores of provisions within an hour, compensation for the land and crops contaminated by the battle they fought the vanity of a king. Without our supplies, they may not have made it through the winter months.

Next they set up charges throughout the garrison. At sunset, they lit the fuses, turning what was once their home into a fireworks display.