Marcellus's curiosity was now piqued to a higher degree, the mechanics of such a transformation intrigued him. "But how does one come by such a potion?" he inquired, the notion of these potions of power igniting a spark of interest within him.
Finn shook his head slightly, a wry smile touching the corners of his mouth. "If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn't need the man's assistance," he admitted with a hint of frustration.
"These potions, the very essence of an aspirant's powers. Their creation, the knowledge of their ingredients, the alchemy behind their potency—it's all fiercely guarded. What I understand is that they are exceedingly rare and safeguarded by those who have a vested interest in maintaining the balance of power."
He leaned back, running a hand through his hair as he continued,
"This is why the man's offer is significant.
Such potions can't be found lying around in apothecaries or purchased in the underground markets—not the authentic ones, at least.
There are tales, of course, rumours of secret locations, lost recipes, and covens of alchemists who can brew such concoctions. But they are just that, tales... The average person, even someone like me, involved in the fringes of this hidden world, would stand no chance of acquiring them without the right connections."
Finn's gaze, heavy with unspoken thoughts, settled back upon Marcellus, a solemn shroud cloaking his features. "This man, enshrouded in his enigmas, claims to have breached the unseen barriers. His asking price is not measured in mere coin, but in the currency of allegiance, of embarking upon errands fraught with peril.
In my youth, an orphan under the austere tutelage of the Church of Storms, they sought to mould me into an Aspirant. Though I faltered in that pursuit, it was there I gleaned barred knowledge."
He paused, the weight of memory etching deeper lines upon his brow. "There are known 22 Pathways, 9 sequences descending from Sequence 9. Each step bestows its own peculiar gifts, its unique dominion. These Pathways are not mere conduits of offence or defence; they are rivers of potential, diverging into a myriad of streams - from the subtleties of divination, the artifice of crafting, to the raw, unbridled might of commanding the very elements or the spirits themselves.
For an Aspirant, to partake in the potions of a Pathway not their own, is to dance with death. At best, it condemns one to a life half-lived, half-mad. At worst, it beckons an end as abrupt as it is catastrophic - an implosion, leaving nought but dust and regret.'
The gravity of his words hung in the air, a palpable presence that underscored the monumental nature of the choice that lay before Finn.
The potions represented a threshold beyond which there was no return, a leap into a realm where the cost of power was as substantial as the power itself.
Marcellus, experienced in the ways of the world and the complexity of human desires, could see the allure of such an offer. Yet, he remained acutely aware of the dangers that accompanied the pursuit of power, especially power that came through obscure and possibly nefarious means.
The two sat in contemplation, the hum of the tavern around them a distant echo to the conversation that had unfolded. It was clear that this aspirant's potion was a beacon for Finn, one that illuminated a path to a future he yearned for but also cast long shadows that could not be ignored.
The day had unfurled its hours, and noon now held court in the sky.
During this time, Marcellus had allowed his thoughts to churn ceaselessly, reflecting on the revelations Finn had brought before him. The mention of 'super powers' by Captain Crowe was not a stray comment; it now seemed to be a calculated nod towards the clandestine truth of 'aspirants.' Could the Captain himself be one such individual?
Marcellus found himself considering the possibility with a new kind of scrutiny.
Captain Crowe, a figure who commanded respect and carried an aura of the extraordinary—could it be that his abilities were not solely the result of natural skill or administration but were augmented by these arcane potions?
In the world Marcellus was accustomed to, power was often a direct result of discipline, training, and experience.
However, if Captain Crowe was indeed an aspirant, it indicated a layer of power acquisition that went beyond traditional means—a world where power could be ingested, a reality where one's physical and perhaps even mental faculties could be exponentially enhanced through these mysterious potions.
The very thought of it was both fascinating and unsettling. If his suspicions were correct, it lent a different perspective to every encounter and decision involving Captain Crowe.
His prowess in battle, his uncanny foresight, even his leadership style—how much of it was his own and how much was the product of this aspirant's advantage?
It was a question that dug at the foundation of everything Marcellus knew about strength and capability.
The implications were far-reaching. If such power was attainable; what did that mean for the balance of power among the factions at sea and on land? Who else among his acquaintances, his allies, or even his adversaries might be part of this concealed echelon?
Marcellus was no stranger to secrets—he had his share—but the magnitude of this secret, the existence of aspirants and their potions, was a revelation that could alter the very fabric of his reality.
It was a secret that demanded cautious exploration, for in this new world of enhanced beings, knowledge itself was a commodity as valuable as the potions that granted such formidable powers.
These thoughts occupied him wholly, casting a long shadow across the sunlit hours of the day. When evening would come, it would find Marcellus armed not with a blade but with a question, a question that could unravel the truth about Captain Crowe and the depth of power hidden within the enigma of the aspirants.
As the day leaned into the amber tones of the evening, Marcellus and Finn made their way through the winding streets to meet the stranger, the supposed aspirant who was to facilitate Finn's transformation.
The address given to Finn led to a house that seemed to hold many stories within its walls west of Mythralis, standing with a quiet dignity that comes from age. The garden path they followed was lined with creeping vines and the whispers of a time long past.
The door creaked open before they could knock as if expecting their arrival, revealing an old man with a flowing grey beard. In the failing light, he appeared feeble, a stark contrast to the powerful figure they had constructed in their minds.
His eyes, however, told a different story. There was a sharpness there, a clarity that belied his frail exterior.
perhaps, the most formidable powers resided in vessels worn by time.
"Wasting time I don't have is a sin young Finn." the old man's voice was like a leaf skittering over stone—thin but with an undertow of vitality.
"I have been expecting you," he said staring at Marcellus.
Finn stepped forward, his determination setting his shoulders in a rigid line. Marcellus remained a step behind, observant and silent, taking in the scene with a practised eye. his mom used to say 'deadliest creatures beneath a calm surface.'
The interior of the house was modest but filled with trinkets that spoke of a well-traveled life and a penchant for the esoteric. Shelves lined with tomes, maps splayed open, marking places unknown, and various trinkets that seemed to hum with latent energy.
As they were ushered into a sitting room, Marcellus couldn't help but wonder about the stories that clung to the objects in this room, each one possibly a testament to this old man's journey—had he gained his aspirant status through such adventures, or were these the spoils of a life spent trading in the rare and mystical?
The old man gestured for them to sit. "I suppose you have many questions," he began, his gaze lingering on Finn before turning to Marcellus. "But first, who is he?"