Marcellus' interest peaked. Anything that involved urgency and 'delicacy' usually meant more coin—if the risk was worth it.
He perched himself on the corner of the sturdy table in the room, gesturing for Finn to continue.
Marcellus released a resigned sigh, the annoyance clear as day even in the dim candlelight. "You're lucky I don't value sleep as much as I do coin," he grumbled. "But if my sleep is being stolen, then so should your coin be generous."
"The coin," Finn began, fumbling with something in his pocket, "is good. Very good. Enough to make a man consider... well, consider waking up another man before the rooster's even had a chance to clear its throat."
Nodding eagerly, almost tripping over his words as he spoke, "It's a handsome sum, I swear it. More than you'd make in a fortnight of these... 'inn sleeps' of yours."
The promise of substantial coin was enough to cut through the grogginess of sleep. Marcellus pushed off from the bedpost, his movements deliberate as he stepped toward Finn. His height seemed to swallow the room, a silent demonstration of the presence he would bring as a 'protective escort.'
Marcellus raised an eyebrow, "Give me numbers, Finn. My sleep has a price, and you're chipping away at it with every word not related to coin."
"Talk then, Finn. How much are we discussing? And what's the nature of this errand that demands a presence at your side?" Marcellus inquired, the slight edge of curiosity mingling with his professional demeanour.
Finn's hand came out of his pocket, revealing a small pouch that jingled promisingly. "A hundred silver upfront," he said, placing the pouch on the table with a clink. "And that's just for starters. More when the job's done."
Marcellus' eyes narrowed, considering the offer.
one hundred silver is a lot, where did he get this from?
A hundred silver coins were a tidy sum, enough to pique his interest, indeed. "And the task?" he probed, his mind already turning over the many dangers such an 'escort' job could entail.
Finn hesitated, then leaned in closer. "It's a meeting, an exchange. I need someone with your... talents to ensure the deal goes smoothly. No trouble, no thieving, just... presence."
"Presence that's worth waking me at this ungodly hour means trouble's expected, not just possible," Marcellus deduced.
He picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand. The heft was satisfying. "I'll need details. Everything, Finn. If I'm to walk into this with eyes open, I'll need to know who, what, where, and when."
Finn nodded, a serious cast coming over his youthful features. "It's... sensitive information. But yes, you'll get your details. Can't have you swinging that blade at shadows."
"Or at allies," Marcellus added dryly.
"Especially not at allies," Finn agreed, a wry smile flickering across his face.
Finn's relief was palpable, and he seemed to breathe for what felt like the first time since he had entered the room. "You have my word, Marcellus. You won't regret this."
As the first fingers of light reached through the windows, Marcellus, who had acquiesced to Finn's plan, showed no sign of urgency.
The promise of dawn hadn't hastened his pace; instead, he treated the morning with ritualistic respect, starting with his attire.
His movements were methodical, each article of clothing donned with practised ease that came from days of living a life tethered to the unpredictable whims of the sea and its shores.
Strapping on his dagger, Marcellus ensured that his coins and other belongings were secure against his person.
The sword, however, was a slight inconvenience. Without a waist strap, he had adapted to carrying it horizontally in his left hand.
Exiting the room with Finn trailing behind, Marcellus's thoughts were on the task ahead.
The term 'exchange' might've been used to add a veneer of legitimacy, but both knew the true nature of their early morning endeavour.
The market they were about to engage in operated in the shadows, away from the prying eyes of law and order, It was a black market deal.
Descending to the common room of the inn, they were greeted by the innkeeper. Her presence was as much a part of the establishment as the wooden beams that held the place up.
The sparse crowd, comprising an older couple whose life at sea had likely been exchanged for the quietude of the shore, and a young girl assisting with the morning's chores, paid them little mind.
Marcellus made his order in Mythralis. The food in this city had the comfort of familiarity, yet each dish carried the mark of its own culture—a variation on a theme he was well-acquainted with.
Taking his usual spot at the centre table, much to Finn's visible relief, Marcellus settled in.
The common room of the inn was suffused with the soft glow of dawn, light sifting through the cracks of the heavy wooden shutters. Marcellus, his senses sharpening to the subtle sounds of the waking city, sat at his usual table in the centre of the room.
The timeworn wood under his hands felt as familiar as the hilt of his sword.
The service was swift, a benefit of the early hour, but Marcellus's pace was not.
Breakfast arrived, carried in on the lingering scents of smoked fish and fresh bread—a medley of sea and shore.
Marcellus thanked the server with a nod, his demeanour calm, his gaze taking in the spread before him.
He was a man who respected the cadence of a proper meal, regardless of the urgency that awaited.
Finn, standing nearby, was a contrast of nerves, a portrait of impatience in the still life of the inn. His foot tapped an erratic tempo, a beat at odds with the serene morning. He watched Marcellus, willing him to eat faster, to acknowledge the urgency that quivered in his bones.
For Marcellus, the meal was as much a part of his preparation as the strapping of his blade.
He would not rush this necessity, not for fear, not for coin.