As the pirates lingered outside, they watched Marcel's unease, his every movement betraying the storm raging within as he braced for the encounter with Blackbeard. The air was thick with tension, every breath a testament to the gravity of the moment. It was then that Noah's hushed counsel reached Marcel's ears, a beacon in the tempest of his thoughts, "Whatever you do, don't show fear."
Marcel gave a subtle nod, his gaze anchored to the door that stood as a barrier between him and the unknown. His heart hammered a fierce rhythm against his ribs, a wild dance of anticipation and apprehension. The faintest sounds from within the room whispered of the approaching confrontation.
Struggling to harness his rising nerves, Marcel drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with the musty air of the corridor, seeking a semblance of calm.
The door creaked open, and Marcel's eyes widened, a gasp trapped in his throat. Before him stood five figures, four of them women, each cloaked in an air of enigma and allure, their presence an intoxicating blend of danger and beauty.
Among them, a figure stood out, shrouded in the dimness of the room, a black hat casting shadows over their face.
A silence fell, heavy and expectant as if the world itself held its breath.
Then, in a moment that seemed to defy time, the figure in the black hat raised their head, revealing features that defied Marcel's every expectation. Pink lips graced a face of delicate femininity, a stark contrast to the name Blackbeard had conjured in his mind.
Confusion furrowed Marcellus's brow as he stammered, "You're not Blackbeard."
At his words, the woman rose, her movements fluid, revealing herself, splitting open her legs bare in a way that was both shocking and mesmerizing. Her age seemed to be in the early thirties, her form a testament to both strength and allure.
The pirates at the door watched with sly grins, their eyes glinting with the thrill of the unexpected.
Noah's voice, laced with mirth, broke the tension, "So, you like what you see? You've just met Blackbeard."
Marcellus, quick to catch the undercurrent of jest in the situation, allowed a wry smile to curve his lips. "Oh, I see," he responded
"Remember, show no fear," Noah reiterated to Marcel, with those parting words, he and the others departed, leaving Marcellus to stand alone at the threshold of the room. Inside, the five women awaited.
Among them, one woman stood out, boasting a particularly thick and luscious mane between her legs, earning her the nickname 'Blackbeard.'
In the dim, candlelit chamber, Marcellus found himself lost in a whirlwind of sensation, his sense of time dissolving like smoke in the fervent heat of passion and indulgence. It was a realm far removed from any he had known, where desires untamed were pursued with a hunger that knew no bounds. Amidst the chorus of soft laughter, whispered lust, and the echo of shared ecstasy, Marcellus was both the seeker and the sought, delving into pleasures untold with each of his newfound companions.
Yet, even as he revelled in this dance of sensuality, a part of him remained ever vigilant. His eyes would occasionally flit to the vase.
This night was not solely for his own fulfilment; it was also a service rendered for the coins that had passed hands.
Marcellus, ever the pragmatist, was determined to ensure that each moment was worth its weight in gold, leaving both himself and his companions thoroughly sated.
As the night deepened its embrace, a rare tranquillity settled over Marcellus. For the first time in what seemed like ages, sleep beckoned him not with nightmares and fears but with the promise of peaceful oblivion. He yielded to its call, the echoes of passion fading into the stillness of the night.
Come dawn, as the city awoke to another day of unceasing toil and treachery, Marcellus rose, feeling a lightness of being, his mind clear as a mountain stream. The chamber, now devoid of its nocturnal inhabitants, held an air of solitude that clung to him like a shadow.
He dressed with meticulous care, each piece of attire a part of the armour he donned against the world. His fingers brushed over his silver pouch, reassuring himself of its intact contents, a small victory in a life where nothing was certain.
Approaching the vase with a purposeful stride, Marcellus's heart sank. The vase now stood empty, his loot vanished like mist in the morning sun. Confusion furrowed his brow as he grappled with this unexpected treachery.
His mind raced, a torrent of questions and possibilities. Were the pirates toying with me? Did I err, letting my guard down? What is my next move? How do I reclaim what's mine? The book... surely its value is beyond measure. Do I dare to confront them, to reclaim it? And what of the consequences? Will they come after me? I am still a second-rate warrior.
In that moment of turmoil, the door creaked open, and there stood one of the women from the previous night, her hand clutching something tightly.
Marcellus's eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the book, the object of so many desires and fears, now held in the delicate grasp of this mysterious woman.
The tables had turned, and the game had taken a new, unforeseen twist.
A mixture of emotions swirled within Marcellus—curiosity, concern, and a tinge of apprehension. He wondered how she had discovered his secret, and what her intentions were with the book.
A silent moment hung between them, pregnant with unspoken questions and intrigue.
"A whore for every finger on your hand, but your eyes kept drifting to this." the woman declared, her voice a blend of curiosity and accusation. "Pray, tell me, what treasure does this tome hold that captures your soul so?"
Marcellus ensnared in a web of his own making, chose the path of silence, his heart a cauldron of greed and determination. He advanced towards her, each step a silent testament to his resolve. The book, for which he had already spilt blood, lay in her grasp.
The memory of the life he had extinguished to claim it weighed upon him, yet the prospect of another sacrifice in its pursuit did not sway his purpose.
With a predator's grace, he closed the distance, his intent clear. Yet, as he moved, she retreated, her step dance of caution, mirroring his advance with a retreat of her own.
"One scream and Mr Doan will come running," she cautioned, her voice a tapestry woven with both fear and calculation. In her life among pirates, she had learned the futility of threats against those who danced with madness and reason's absence.
"Let him come," Marcellus challenged, his voice tinged with defiance. "I'll gladly inform him that his esteemed girls enjoy pilfering from their patrons."
A sardonic smile curled his lips, a gambit of intimidation rather than a wish for bloodshed. Yet, the woman stood her ground, her response not a retreat but a parry to his verbal thrust.
"And he can inform your new captain that you've withheld something of great value, an item that rightfully belongs to his latest prize," she retorted, her voice cool and composed.
Marcellus felt a flicker of doubt as her words struck true. She was no ordinary woman of the night; her intellect cut sharper than cold steel.
Marcellus's education had been on the streets, without formal education. His intellect, honed not among peers but in the crucible of survival, was his guide.
He measured others' wits against his own, a dance of mind and instinct. In this dance, he recognized an equal, if not a superior.
Confronted by her deft manoeuvring, Marcellus discerned three truths. Firstly, her possession of the book was not mere chance; she sought something from him.
Secondly, her reluctance to summon Mr. Doan suggested a strategy layered with subtlety and secrecy.
Third, if he was to attack he would have to kill her quick and fast, without incriminating himself.