Spoiler: ~Ambience~ Good Men Fall The smell of rotting food and booze-filled the young Reverend’s nostrils as he sat in the watering-hole as he did so many years ago. The sporadic clomping of feet and music played together to create an upward vibe that most would stand too, the laughs bellowed through the tavern as the dei Marchesi mercenaries danced with the common ladies. Though, the Reverend sat, giving off a few laughs and claps as his men pranced drunkenly about the bar. In the midsts of drinking and dancing the doors of the tavern doors opened and in came a boy who ran up to Franco, and his brother Angelo and began calling for them hastily “Master Franco, Master Angeloㅡ your presence has been requested back at the estate immediately.” said the ragged boy who was soon swept aside by the two brothers as they swiftly made out of the old, familiar tavern and mounted their horses. Angelo was the first to speak as they took the reins of their own horses “Franco… it could be our father.” he said in his usual grating voice, though was swiftly cut off as the younger brother dug his heels into the horse's side and began the gallop that quickly led Franco down the dirt path into the dimly lit forest. Soon followed on by Angelo who tried his best to keep up with his brother. The horse's hooves pattered loudly through the dirt paths until they finally came upon the metal gate, guarded by soldiers in half-plate and dei Marchesi colors. The imposing “Halt!” of a guard as the Marchesi dismounted his stead and made toward the estate stopped Franco only briefly to push the guard aside as the iron gates clattered to open for the two brothers. Both members of the house quickly made their way inside, and few maids awaited their arrival as they began marching alongside them, trying to keep up with both of their pace “Master Franco, and Angelo your father has awakened from his afternoon slumber in a rage of illness, and the doctor said to call for you… I’m terribly sorry.” though they too were terribly cut off as their journey up the steps, into their fathers' chambers was held to a stop when the guards by the door gestured them to stop following as the two boys made their way inside. There laid the man that the two men came from the holy city to tend too, and already on their short venture back home had the elder been dwindled to his last minutes. Priests surrounded the bed and gave each of their own prayers to cleanse off any remaining sins the elder Marchesi had tallied on his soul before they were interrupted by the pair- quickly finishing and setting off to the side as the two younger men crowded about the man, worried. Sweat from the elders wrinkled features left the pillow beneath his paling head soaked, his eyes were bloodshot with the expression of fear as his gaze traversed up to his only children, weakly calling out “My.. boys.” he spoke out as if there were chains holding his words back. The elder's right hand soon accompanied by the early Reverend, Franco, and in his left held Angelo’s hand. Angelo didn’t dare speak but instead let his head fall into his father's shoulder, crying as Franco stared down to his deathly father, not letting tears escape him but his grip tightened. Franco spoke out in a monotone voice “It’s going to be alright, my father. Look at me― it’s going to be alright.” he said, his words stubborn and slow as his voice cracked through his saying under the immense sorrow that filled his mind, and heart. The expression of fake stoicness was ridden on the young Reverend's face as his gaze held steadily on his father, though the young Dressolini’s eyes spoke the truth as they were watered, and filled with emotion- he did not dare to cry. The brothers glanced at each other as their father's grip subsided and fell limp, and cold in both of the men's hands. Franco’s gaze quickly flickered away as he gestured for the clergy to arise and set back in their prayers for the late patriarch of House dei Marchesi. Hours passed, and soon Franco found himself outside and slowly sauntering toward the pond not far from the estate, a spot where familial events were common- such as fishing and the like. His hands reached out as he made his way through the brush, feeling the leaves and branches against his palms as he neared the coastline of the water. Once he made it to the coastline the now patriarch sank to his knees. His body bowed to the water, and each hand gripped the earth as tears dripped from him, he gaze slowly flickered up to the sky in his vulnerable state and mumbled out an incoherent “Why..” and then, angered by no response he yelled out “Why must good men fall?!” throwing his handful of dirt into the pond as he slowly stood, looking into the sky for a response. Suddenly there was a rush of wind around him, his hair waved in the wind as the evening fell into the gloom, and droplets of water descended onto the man's face. Franco stood there, his expression fell flat as this ‘response’ didn’t seem to anger him further, he stepped back and turned around, and began to walk.
