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. Marakion was sure the
marauders were here. They had to be. During the last few
days, he'd come across numerous wretches like the one he'd
just felled. None of them belonged to the Knightsbane, but
their presence might be a sign that he was getting close to
their hideout.
It wasn't long before sparse trees gave way to a huge,
rolling meadow. On its edge stood a squat, dirty little town.
Marakion didn't even look twice at the ramshackle
buildings, the muddy, unkempt road, the muck-choked
stream. The sight of people living in such squalor was not
unusual to him, not unusual at all. In fact, this place was
better than some he'd seen.
The few people he saw as he followed the road to town
gave him quick, furtive glances from beneath ragged,
threadbare cowls. Marakion ignored them, made his way to
the first tavern he could spot.
He didn't even read the name as he entered. It didn't
matter to him where he was, and the names only depressed
him - new names, cynically indicative of the time, such as
"The Cataclysm's Hope," or old names, which the owners
hadn't bothered to change. Those were even worse, sporting
a cheerful concept of a world gone forever, their signs
dangling crookedly from broken chains or loose nails.
Marakion opened the door; it sagged on its hinges once
freed of the doorjamb. He pushed it shut, blocking out the
inner voice that continued to remind him how worthless life
was if everything was like this.
Marakion turned and surveyed the room, walked
forward to the bar that lined the far wall
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