Marcellous approached the area where the boats were docked, hoping to secure his passage to the war front.
Marcellus stood by the dock, his gaze fixed on the bobbing boats that lined the quay. A heavy sigh escaped his lips all the running he had done to get here felt 'worth it' he had never seen open waters before, not even in his dreams.
Marcellus approached a weathered sailor leaning against a barrel. The sailor's worn attire and scruffy beard bore the influences of a life spent at sea.
Marcellus stepped forward and addressed with a polite yet determined tone, he spoke;
"Excuse me, sir. I'm to secure passage to the war front. Might you happen to know of a vessel sailing in that direction?"
The man's weathered face turned towards Marcellus lifting his chest slightly at the mention of 'sir', his eyes scanning him for a moment before a knowing smile crept across his lips.
"War front, ye say? It be a long while since I've seen anyone set foot on that path, lad. Pirates be infesting those seas, makin' it a treacherous route to tread."
"I am aware of the risks, If there is even a sliver of a chance to reach the war front, I must seize it."
The man studied Marcellus for a moment, a glint of admiration gleaming in his eyes.
"Aye, lad, there be a spirit of defiance in ye. I'll give ye that. While you may be willing to gamble your life no one will gamble with you."
Marcellus sighed, The sense of desperation began to weigh heavily upon him, as he felt all hope slipping away.
Just as he turned to leave, "There be a boat departin' these shores bound for Belfast. Now, Belfast may not be the war front itself, but it is closer to the capital, a grand city teeming with opportunity. Once ye set foot there, lad, the tides may just guide ye to a ship headin' to the heart of the battle."
A glimmer of hope danced in Marcellus's eyes as the sailor's words sank in. The possibility of a detour to Belfast seemed like a beacon of light in the midst of darkness. "Belfast, you say?"
"Aye".
"Belfast be closer to the capital and a larger city than Lutton. If ye want to reach the war, that might be your best bet..."
Marcellus considered this newfound opportunity, grateful for the information.
"Why would you want to go to the war front?" The man asked with a smirk. "Ah, kid, it's good to be young and stupid. But hey, it's your choice."
Marcellus's patience wore thin as he couldn't afford to let this chance slip away. Impatience crept into his voice as he interjected, "Where can I find the boat?"
The man's eyes narrowed, his demeanour shifting to a more shrewd and calculating tone. He rubbed his thumb and index fingers together, a gesture Marcellus recognized all too well. Bastard's Haven had taught him a thing or two about such gestures.
Marcellus reached into his pouch and withdrew a handful of copper coins, holding them out to the man. "Ten coppers, now tell me everything you know."
The man's eyes lit up at the sight of the coins, and he grinned, revealing a few missing teeth.
"Aye, lad, yer coins have sparked the fire of my tongue! Listen close, for I've got news for ye. The ship ye seek is a trading ship from The Skytines, bound for Belfast. she'll set sail tomorrow, mark my words."
Marcellus pondered if the sailor's mention of "Belfast" was actually a reference to "Sanctum." Despite the sailor primarily speaking in Valar, he occasionally used a language Marcellus thought to be Nostratic, distinct from Gaulish.
While Marcellus was fluent in Valar, his native tongue, he also had sufficient knowledge of Gaulish to confidently distinguish it from Nostratic.
"Here's the catch, lad. There be someone important from the North-trading companies aboard that vessel, so the security is tighter than a clam's arse. Ye won't be gettin' on that ship through regular channels, no sir."
Marcellus's brows furrowed, "How can I secure passage then? Tell me."
"Ah, here's the trick, young scallywag. You'll need to find a way to bribe the cook on board. Those cooks, they be the unsung heroes of the galley, holdin' the secrets to accessin' places ye wouldn't even dream of. Slip 'em a few extra coins, and they will help ye find a spot in the hold."
Marcellus's lips curled into a sly smile as he pondered the man's words, understanding the game he needed to play. "I see thank you, I assume you can help with this arrangement?." Marcellus put some more copper into his hands.
The man's grin widened, revealing more gaps in his teeth as he pocketed the coins.
"Aye, lad, I'm always happy to lend a hand to those who know how to grease the wheels. Come back when the sun sets tomorrow."
Marcellus cast a lingering glance at the man, his instincts tinged with scepticism. Trust was a delicate thread, easily frayed in these treacherous times. He couldn't afford to reveal his desperation, not to a stranger of questionable character. With a composed facade, he turned away from the dock
As night descended, Marcellus discovered a modest inn to rest his weary bones.
The worn sign creaked above the entrance, its faded letters spelling out the establishment's name. The interior was dimly lit, with a musty smell that lingered in the air. The innkeeper, a stout woman with tired eyes, greeted him with a gruff nod.
"One copper for the night, lad."
Marcel handed over the copper, grateful for the modest accommodations.
"Thank you," With weariness weighing on his shoulders, Marcellus ascended the rickety wooden stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet corridors.
He entered his room, where a threadbare bed and a small, dimly flickering candle awaited him.
Despite its lack of grandeur, it offered a semblance of shelter from the harsh realities of the outside world, It was even better than what he was used to at home.
Marcellus lay there, attempting to find himself in the embrace of sleep. However, his efforts were in vain as Lutton Marsh refused to surrender to the night's silence.
The cacophony of noise grew increasingly pronounced, a stark contrast to the relative tranquillity he had experienced in Wisbech at night. The bustling village seemed to come alive as the darkness deepened, its vibrancy echoing through the thin walls of the inn.
The occasional neigh of a restless horse. Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside his room, each pair of footfalls seemingly locked in a hurried dance, and he could vaguely hear mice humping in the walls.
Falling asleep is a skill.
Unable to find solace in sleep amidst the clamour of Lutton Marsh, Marcellus finally surrendered to restlessness and rose from his bed. With a sigh, he made his way seeking refuge in the common area of the inn.
The atmosphere downstairs was no different from the village's bustling streets.
The room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of ale and a chorus of conversations that mingled in the smoky haze. Patrons gathered around the worn wooden tables, their voices competing with the clinking of tankards and the occasional burst of laughter.
Marcellus approached the bar, where the innkeeper stood, wiping down mugs with a well-worn cloth. He leaned on the counter, catching the innkeeper's attention.
"A drink, please." As he dropped a copper on the bar table.
She reached for a bottle and poured a generous amount of ale into a tankard, sliding it across the counter towards Marcellus.
"Drink up, lad, it's my best brew."
Marcel took a long sip, savouring the bitter taste that flooded his senses. The warmth of the ale seeped through him, offering a momentary respite from the noise and chaos that surrounded him.
As he sat at the bar, he observed the patrons around him. Their conversations blended into an indistinct murmur, punctuated by the occasional raucous laughter. Some sought companionship, while other fishermen drowned their sorrows in the bottom of their mugs.
The drink fortified his weary mind, refreshing his candour.