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B3 Chapter 21: Door-to-Door Salesman of the End Times
🕑 Added 2025-11-19 05:46:02 +0000 UTCB3 Chapter 21: Door-to-Door Salesman of the End Times
Unfortunately for Marcus, the front gate of Count Rollo’s estate was locked. But unfortunately for Rollo, Marcus had learned quite a few tricks during his exile.
He flicked through his spell book to find one of the many unlocking spells stashed away in the middle. Whispering the incantation aloud, Marcus heard the lock click as the gate slowly swung open.
The noble would surely object to someone breaking into his estate. But the way Marcus saw it, he’d object even more to dying. So he’d call it even.
Marcus hurried toward the main building of the estate and dispelled his [Glamour]. A handful of [Guards] stood watch at the door—mere level 13’s that tensed at his approach.
“Halt!” One shouted, his hand going to the sword at his belt. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
Marcus swept into one of his signature bows, but kept it shallow enough to keep his eyes on the men. “Greetings, friends! I come to speak with Count Rollo about matters of the utmost importance. Would you kindly inform him of my arrival?”
His words were accompanied by a flare of his social skills. Unlike with Bernard, he had absolutely no compunctions against using them in these circumstances. But even then, the men still retained a healthy dose of suspicion.
“And who, exactly, are you?” One eyed him up and down, his brow furrowing as he presumably appraised Marcus.
“My name is Marcus Silvanus D’Angelo,” he readily supplied. “He will recognize the name.”
The guards glanced at each other uncertainly. Then, one jerked his head toward the door. “Inform the count.”
His comrade nodded, hurrying inside as Marcus waited with the rest. Only a few minutes later, he found himself standing before the count in his study.
The rather exhausted-looking noble straightened as he looked Marcus over. “It really is you,” Count Rollo remarked. “I didn't expect to see your face again.”
The Count was a brutish man with a scar pulling at his lip and another crossing his opposite eyebrow. He wore a heavy suit of armor with a blade buckled at his side, evidently prepared for the worst to come. But rather than the decorative pieces that adorned most of the nobility’s estates, these had already seen its share of battles. Of that, Marcus was certain.
The man was a warrior through and through. It was one of the reasons he disliked Marcus so, seeing him as a weak and pompous man—not unlike the Legionnaires, in fact. But despite their mutual distaste for each other, Marcus could not help but have a kind of grudging respect for Rollo. Of all the lords in the city, he was said to be one of the fairest, never imposing such harsh taxes that his peasants could not feed themselves throughout the winter. He also was resolutely single since his wife’s passing and refused to engage in any form of womanizing. Which, now that Marcus thought about it, might have also been a reason that the man didn’t like him.
"Count Rollo,” Marcus affected an open and friendly demeanor, yet injected some seriousness to ensure the man understood the severity of this situation. “It’s good to see you again, as well.”
“Not what I said,” the count replied gruffly. “So? What’s your message? In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got bigger things to deal with than exchanging pleasantries with a dead man.”
Marcus sighed inwardly. Always so impatient. It was a wonder the man even tolerated the rest of the capital’s nobility with an attitude like that. Perhaps it was just another symptom of his stubbornness.
“It is less of a message and more of a warning,” Marcus began. As he sensed the count tense and shift toward hostility, he raised his hands placatingly. “I assure you, however, this is no threat or ultimatum. Nor do the ones I deliver this warning on behalf of desire to be your enemies. Rather, it is my attempt to ensure that you are afforded the opportunity to sail upon the rising tides of history rather than have your vessel dashed upon its rocky shores.”
The count rolled his eyes in obvious impatience. “Speak plainly, Marcus, or we’ll be here all day.”
“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “A new Empire with a military that might as well be counted as a cataclysm is taking over Novara as we speak. Once they drive the orcs back and slay the King, they will continue to expand and execute any who try to actively oppose them. Oh, and both Duke Redcliffe and the elves have already subjugated themselves to this country’s ruler.”
Rollo stared at him, his eyes narrowing as though the count were searching for evidence of deceit. When he could find none, he spoke again. “...I’m going to need more elaboration than that.”
Marcus grinned.
And so, he explained. He told the count an abbreviated and slightly embellished version of the Legion’s story so far, excluding his own role in their arrival of course. He dove into their history and their gods, the elves, and even some of the strange evidence of their empire’s previous existence in these lands.
He emphasized the parts that Rollo would likely find the most compelling. Namely, their strong sense of responsibility, competence, and, of course, battle strength. The man seemed particularly impressed by the honor and rewards granted to the first over the wall during battle.
He did try to keep it somewhat brief though. After all, this wasn’t the only stop on Marcus’s list.
“Hm.” Count Rollo frowned in thought as Marcus concluded his tale. “And you claim their military is strong? How strong?”
Marcus did not want to give away too much. So rather than explaining the underlying mechanisms of the Legion’s strength, he took a different approach.
“Allow me to put it this way. These are the titles of a single one of their common footsoldiers…”
He began listing off the titles one by one. Tiberius had asked about many of them during their talks, and Gaius had filled in the gaps. Count Rollo’s eyes widened with each successive title, and by the eighth, he had gone pale.
“Impossible. Multiple Bane titles at such high ranks? Even a single one of those would be the culmination of a dedicated man's entire life. And yet you claim their least soldier has all of them?” Rollo shook his head. “This is no time to spin tales, bard.”
Marcus raised a hand. “I all the gods to confirm my statement—the titles I have listed are, to the best of my knowledge, all possessed or exceeded by the youngest and freshest Legionnaire of the First Legion of the Roman Empire.”
Of course, he didn’t mention the fact that the titles themselves were earned via the Legion’s pooled efforts. Though he suspected even that caveat wouldn’t do much to minimize the impressiveness of it all.
Rollo tapped a finger on the pommel of his sword. “And their strongest?”
“They have even more accolades besides,” Marcus confirmed. “Why, I hear that one of their top leaders has [Born to Fight], if that’s any indication of their abilities in a battle.”
The man swore as Marcus simply smirked. Count Rollo would’ve been counted as impressive if he had half a dozen basic titles or a handful of high-rank ones. So this was simply unheard of.
“And they’ve been here for less than a year. So imagine what they will look like in a decade,” Marcus prodded.
"And there are six thousand of them?" Count Rollo asked.
Marcus nodded. The noble sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I understand your point. But,” Rollo held up a hand to forestall and further words from Marcus. “I will not simply roll over and submit in the face of overwhelming odds. Not if it means placing my people under the heel of a tyrant.”
“Like the current king?” Marcus raised a questioning eyebrow. Rollo’s eyes narrowed.
“As much as I may… disagree… with some of my lord’s choices, the fact remains that Novara is one of the few countries in the land where humans are able to live in peace. Regardless of its current state, it remains better than the alternative.”
That sounded like coping to Marcus, but who was he to judge? Instead, he continued. “Well, luckily for you, the Romans seem to me to be far more reasonable. They have their own brand of fairness and readily extend it to any who readily take their side. Which is quite a good idea, considering the alternative.” He visibly shuddered to emphasize the point. “And I am quite interested in seeing how this novel system of governance of theirs plays out. Though considering that it does not seem to involve any recognizable sort of nobility… I don’t entirely know what will happen to Novara’s current court once they take over. Hence why I am here.”
“If they take over.” The count corrected. He then crossed his arms. “But very well. What do they want from me?"
"Unconditional surrender," Marcus said. "Such that your oath of fealty will be transferred to them. If you do that, then you and yours will not be harmed. They seem to prefer assimilating their conquered lands rather than massacring them. But, and this is very important, you must surrender before anything else. If you attempt to fight them off or engage in battle, then your surrender will only buy indentured servitude, death, or worse.”
“Strange custom,” Rollo muttered. “But I understand. It’s not as though I have men to fight them off, anyway. Most of mine are busy on the wall.”
“Which is quite fortunate, considering that there’s likely nothing we could do to stop them anyway.” Marcus delivered the last line with a cheerful smile, as though he weren’t admitting that they were all screwed.
A moment later, Rollo nodded. "Very well. I will speak with the representative when they come. I suspect that you do not have the authority to negotiate on their behalf.”
The assumption rankled slightly, but Marcus was too much of a professional to let it show. “Correct. I would expect a visit sooner rather than later.”
“Understood. I make no promises either way. I would rather see these men in action for myself before making any true commitments. But… I appreciate the warning. Thank you.”
The man stood, offering a hand for Marcus to shake. The gesture caught him a little off guard. Rollo well knew that Marcus was of common birth. For him to make overtures as though they were equals…
Marcus clasped the hand and met the man's eyes. A more genuine smile leaked through his expression. "Very well. Then, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave. I have many more to visit on my list.”
The guards saw Marcus out. As the front gate closed behind him, he turned to see the men heading back to their own posts at the count’s manor. Once Marcus was certain that he was out of sight, he turned toward one of the gateposts.
A piece of yellow chalk appeared from his sleeve. Deftly, he drew on the post to indicate the count’s disposition toward the Legion. A signal to The Legionnaires that the man would be open to negotiations.
He stepped back and eyed his work. It looked… vaguely birdlike. If one squinted a bit.
Frowning, Marcus scrubbed the marking away and tried again. He'd never been much for drawing. His artistic abilities lay in other areas. But he was all but certain that the Legionnaires would never let him live down such a poor illustration.
Tilting his head, he tried again. This time, he activated [Performance] as he drew. He focused on drawing as though it were an act meant for an audience, its result the climax of a dazzling display of artistry more akin to dancing.
This time, when he stepped back, the results were far more recognizable. A small golden eagle, its wings spread wide as it proudly puffed out its chest. Distinct, but subtle enough to not draw undue attention.
Nodding with satisfaction, Marcus moved on to the next estate.
Comments
Burkholt
Marcus raised a hand. “I all the gods to confirm my statement— this needs correcting. Tftc!
Michael Herold
I like how he used performance to draw something decent
