Marcello awoke abruptly. Shielding his eyes against the rays of the afternoon sun, he tried to recall his dream. An old familiar face swam at the edges of his mind. He felt a stab of pain. His left hand clutched at his chest. His necklace was still there; the golden ring was safe. He let out a heavy sigh. The ring brought forth the clarity Marcello needed.

He had slept longer than he had planned to. He had wanted to leave the outpost at dawn. The day was already halfway over, and the small outpost was sweltering in the heat. Marcello could smell his own sweat and blood perforating the stale air. Marcello gripped the wall and tried to stand up, but he quickly fell back to the dirt floor. Pain shot through his broken right leg. Healing his wounds took top priority for the moment.

Focusing Marcello brought forth a soothing green light to his left hand. He placed his hand on his hurt leg and began to concentrate. Healing spells had never come easy to Marcello, but he knew enough to mend broken bones and heal certain injuries.

Marcello could feel the spell working. There was a dull pain as bones grew back together, muscle tissue re-attached, and fractures began to mend. In only minutes Marcello's leg was completely healed. He stood up and put weight on his leg without resistance. He would have full use of both legs again.

Finally able to move normally again, Marcello began his search through the abandoned outpost. Monsters had torn the place apart and taken everything of value. There would be no herbs left, no magic water, and most vital of all, no food. Marcello knew an old soldier's trick to keep hunger at bay. Using just a small portion of healing magic he could keep his stomach full for a few days.

It wasn't a smart strategy. Soldiers would keep fighting feeling strong on the outside, but inside their bodies would be starving. Many foolish soldiers had died on the battlefield because they'd been too dependent on magic. A packed lunch would have been smarter for them to bring along than a magic staff. The trick would only keep Marcello going for a week at most. More than a week and he would be tempting death.

Marcello wasn't searching for food or herbs. Even in the ransacked building there would be one item left untouched: an item monsters couldn't lay a single scaly finger on. Using his left arm to knock away what remained of the broken table, Marcello found what he was looking for left abandoned in the dirt.

The table must have been used to hold the food and supplies, and to Marcello's luck, the table had also held the vials of holy water. Six dusty, but still usable, vials of blessed water lay in a pile beneath splintered remains of wood. Marcello kneeled to the ground and reached for the closest vial.

Magic could heal cuts, cure poison, mend broken bones, and fool hunger, but no magic could cure thirst.

Marcello wrestled with the glass vial. Holy water is not meant for drinking. The vials are made of glass with a stopper at the top to hold the water in. Once the stopper is removed the small openings at the top of the glass allow the holy water to be sprinkled on clothes, people, items, whatever you want blessed. The tiny holes at the top would prevent a person from drinking the water in one gulp. The water would have to be shaken out of the vial rather like a salt shaker.

But Marcello had other plans for these vials of holy water. He popped the cork off a vial and the cork flew into the air in a celebratory arch like a wine casket being opened. Then using a rock, Marcello broke the glass cover of the vial and carefully removed the glass from the top. With the holy water completely open, Marcello took the vial and poured the liquid past his dry lips.

The water was warm but Marcello swallowed the life-giving liquid down greedily. He used the same trick to open the next four bottles. His thirst hadn't been completely quenched, but his chances of surviving the next few days had greatly increased. He stood up with the last vial in hand.

Marcello looked down at what remained of his Templar uniform. Every inch of fabric was caked in sand, his boots had been ruined by the hard ground and harsh wind, and his gloves had been turned into useless weights on his hands. With a hint of regret, Marcello threw his gloves off; the air on his bare hands a surprising relief.

His right arm was still injured. He couldn't pin-point the exact cause of trauma to his arm. He could move his fingers but trying to lift or bend the arm brought a wave of pain.

It was of no serious concern. Marcello was ambidextrous. If need called for it, he could wield a sword in his left hand. His right hand could still hold small items.

Marcello adjusted his belt so that his sword now hung at his right side. His Templar sword had seen the least damage of his belongings. Perhaps a trip to the blacksmith to fix an edge or two, but the sword was still just as deadly in his hands as the day he had earned it. He would keep the blade in its sheath until he would need its steel. Marcello looked for a spot he could place the last vial of holy water. The holy water's presence could keep weak monsters at bay, and until he reached the shore he could make good use of it: for both monster determent and nourishment.

Marcello's hand strayed to the hidden sheath of his dagger. He hesitated. The dagger was no longer there. Of course, he already knew that. Marcello had left it at Savella Cathedral months ago. Months that floated in Marcello's memory through a thick haze. His dagger was gone, buried and lost. No one would be able to retrieve it, not even him. His dagger was gone and it would never be returned to its sheath.

Marcello pried open the sheath and dropped the vial of holy water inside. Through an awkward angle the holy water could stay fixed to his belt.

Marcello left the small shack that had sheltered him through the night. He didn't look back as he hurried through the desert surroundings. With his leg healed and his body rested, Marcello could survive the wasteland. His mind was sharper and he was more aware of his surroundings. He could reach the shores of Neos before sundown. Marcello had traveled farther than he had thought the day before. His goal was within grasp; he would leave Neos and never again have to stare into that black hole.

Overhead, Rhapthorne's Citadel remained in the sky. Its dark miasma poured out in foul clouds. The Citadel would poison the sky itself, then the earth. Every being of light would be consumed by darkness. Rhapthorne would have the world as his own obedient shadow.

But, if only Marcello had looked up, he would have seen a small golden figure, wings spread in flight, soaring closer and closer to the Citadel's entrance.

GASPETH. Yay! That only took me...hm, a couple of months to finally post here.

Ah, apologies. It's me, JessicaAlbert13, moonlighting as fanfic ID LadyLora13. Nice to, uh, see ya'll again. You might know me as, uh, that gaming chick who really, really digs Dragon Quest/Dragon Warrior.

At first I wasn't going to post my little Marcello-rific fanfic, but some friends on tumblr encouraged me. Thanks guys! Ya'll finally gave me the extra pep to continue my favorite storyline! You guys on tumblr are the most awesome people in net existence! Dragon Quest comes to my mind before any other work of fiction EVER!

*war cry*

ANYWAYS, yesh, I will be continuing this escapade here. Eventually more characters will be introduced, but for now you'll just have to content yourselves with Marchy here.

I'll be back posting more chapters eventually! The fic will go on! If not on this site, then in my head!

Er, and tumblr. Whatever. Now I simply have to master switching between game world mindsets (damn, demons and aliens).