Marcellus held his tongue as Finn spoke, giving context to his presence. "He is Blackeye," Finn said, referring to Marcellus by his moniker—a name not earned and often spoken with a mix of caricature and jest.
"He sailed once with the Vipers but serves no one. I brought him to watch over me."
The old man's nod was slow, weighted with understanding and acceptance.
It was a prudent move in such processes to have a watchful ally, a guardian of sorts when venturing into the unknown and potentially perilous waters of bargaining for power.
Trust was a currency as valuable as any potion or promise of power in the shadowy realms they were navigating.
"I see," the old man said, a gesture of his hand dismissing any need for further explanation.
His eyes, still sharp as they met Marcellus's, seemed to size him up—not in fear or challenge, but with the evaluation of one who understands the necessity of caution. "It is reasonable, indeed, to feel vulnerable, especially when the grounds of trust have not yet been laid."
His acknowledgement was not just of the physical protection Marcellus provided but of the psychological assurance his presence afforded Finn. It was a silent agreement of the terms of their meeting, an unspoken understanding that, while they sat in the old man's domain, the balance of power was to be respected.
Marcellus felt the subtle shift in the room, a realignment of roles and expectations. By introducing him as a protector, Finn had solidified Marcellus's position—not just as an observer but as a participant in whatever was to transpire.
It added a layer of complexity to Marcellus's role; he was now involved.
The old man continued, steering the conversation toward the heart of the matter, his voice never rising above a conversational tone, yet carrying a weight that seemed to resonate with the walls of the room itself.
The old man's countenance carried the weight of years, but there was something in the twist of his mouth, a flicker in his eye, that hinted at a cunning that far surpassed his physical frailty. His words were laced with an enigmatic blend of warning and assurance, a dance of falsehoods and ambiguity.
"Although the price has been paid," he began, his gaze lingering just a fraction longer on Finn, "if after you attack me or conspire to attack me, I will know."
The statement hung between them like a spider's web, delicate but not without strength. "After taking the potion, do not delude yourself into thinking you are stronger than me, because you are not."
The words were pointed, directed at Finn but inclusive of Marcellus's understanding. "For every transaction, especially those involving potions, comes at a cost."
This forewarning was as opaque as it was ominous, suggesting a power at play that transcended mere physical strength, implying a reach beyond the immediate confines of their meeting place. It was a deft reminder of the rules of their engagement, a power play cloaked in the garb of a caveat.
The old man's explanation regarding the potion took on a colour of mysticism, shrouded in the veils of vagueness that seemed to make him less of a mere merchant and more of a soothsayer or charlatan.
"A Pathway of Ascendance, or Path of the Divine," he elucidated, weaving a tapestry of bewitching complexity, "corresponds to a series of sequence named potion formulas that give access to corresponding supernatural and mystical powers."
His hands moved as if he were drawing unseen threads from the air, crafting his next words with care. "Once a being has drunk a potion, they are said to have become an Aspirant of that pathway."
His words were a siren's song, promising knowledge and power beyond the ken of ordinary men.
"There are 22 Standard Pathways seven of which are orthodox, each possessing Sequence levels from the lowest Sequence 9." His voice dropped a note, a subtle crescendo to the revelation of these mystical echelons. "Each Sequence contains its own abilities."
He paused as if allowing the magnitude of this revelation to settle upon his audience, to tempt and terrify in equal measure.
"Now, because you don't know any paths, I will divine the pathway most suitable for you." The old man's face was a mask of solemnity, but the edges of his mouth turned in the faintest suggestion of a smile. "If you want to know other pathways, that will require extra payment. Knowledge is not free."
The old man had effectively transformed the air in the room, now thick with the scent of ancient mysteries and the intoxicating allure of the unknown. He had not just offered Finn a potion; he had opened a door to a world labyrinthine in its depth and darkness—a world where the currency was not just gold or silver, but trust, risk, and the currency of one's soul.
The room seemed to contract, shadows stretching towards the old man as if drawn by an invisible tide, gathering around him like spectres at a séance.
The old man's practice of sciomancy, divination through the complex interplay of light and shadow, was more than an arcane ritual—it was an ancient art, shrouded in the veils of mystery and darkness. As he invoked the unseen forces, Marcellus and Finn watched, a mingling of raw curiosity and wariness etched upon their features. The scene was theatrical, the old man's every gesture imbued with the weight of cryptic significance.
They could not understand what was going on but they felt something unusual about the atmosphere it seemed a little chill.
Marcellus felt gazes locking onto him from different angles.