In the underbelly of the city where shadows clung to the stones like weary travellers, there existed a particular bar that thrummed with the heartbeat of the night. Attached to this bar was a brothel, known as much for its discretion as for the company it provided.
This brothel was the residence, or perhaps the captivity, of Ginger—a woman who betrayed Marcellus.
Finn knew the place well, not just the bar, but the labyrinths of human desires that twisted and turned in the rooms above.
He steered Marcellus through the throngs of evening revellers, past the bar where tankards clinked and ale flowed like the endless tales of the patrons. They found a quiet corner, a nook away from the prying eyes and the eavesdropping ears, where the weight of the day's revelations could be given the space it deserved.
The table was small, the wood worn by countless elbows and spills, and it felt like an island in the midst of the stormy sea of raucous laughter and bawdy songs. The smell of roasted meat and spiced potatoes filled the air, a homely scent that served as an anchor to the reality they had so recently seen shifted.
As the server brought over platters of food and jugs of drink, Finn's demeanour took on the mien of a benefactor. The gestures were subtle—the way he pushed the fuller plate towards Marcellus, the manner in which he raised his cup in a silent toast to his friend, the way he listened more than he talked, giving Marcellus the space to process the day's unearthly events.
Throughout the meal, Finn's conversation steered away from the spectral and the arcane. Instead, he spoke of bonds formed in the crucible of shared experiences, of loyalty not bought but built, of trust that was not assumed but earned. His words were not overt promises or manipulations; rather, they were the laying of a foundation, an invitation to consider what they might accomplish together.
Underneath it all was an unspoken understanding. Finn, now touched by powers unknown and eyes newly opened, sought to ensure that Marcellus felt valued, that he saw a place for himself in this newly widening world. Finn needed an anchor, he sought to make Marcellus just that—both a companion on the road and a bulwark against the strange tides they would face.
Marcellus, for his part, ate and drank with a quiet contemplation. He felt the push and pull of the evening, the warmth of the food and the buzz of the drink, against the cool, distant call of the powers that had brushed against him that day. And in the flow of ale and the clatter of plates, in the camaraderie that Finn fostered, he found a strange comfort.
Later, as the night deepened and the laughter grew louder, they would venture upstairs, to where the night promised other comforts and other secrets. But for now, they ate and drank as men do—bound by the simple pleasures of the table.
After the warmth of companionship and the hearty indulgence in food and drink, the moment came for departure, as all such moments inevitably do.
It was a reluctant divergence, each man feeling the gravity of their shared journey yet recognizing the need for solitude—to reflect, to brood, to come to terms with their thoughts and the silent voices that speak only when the clamour of the world fades away.
Finn excused himself with a courteous nod, There was a sense of purpose in his stride, a measured pace that spoke of a mind preoccupied with the weighty considerations of his new abilities and the path that lay unspooled before him.
Marcellus, on the other hand, meandered towards the Wayfarer's Inn with a pensive air.
The night's chill seemed sharper now, the darkness a shade deeper, as if his brief brush with the arcane had adjusted his senses, making him keenly aware of the nocturnal whispers of the city, but that was just his alacrity as a sword saint.
Upon reaching his temporary abode, the Wayfarer's Inn, he was greeted by the familiar mustiness of the well-trod woven mat and the residual warmth of a hearth fire dying to embers. His room, modest and unassuming, was a haven of simplicity after the day's complexities.
The bed was small, a solitary island in the dimness, the sheets cool and smooth to the touch—a stark contrast to the warmth of the tavern.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Marcellus allowed the silence to envelop him.
The wall against his back provided steady support, as his mind replayed the day's events—the old man Aulus, the transformation of Finn, the whispers of powers that lurked in the unseen corners of reality.
The room around him was still, save for the occasional creak of the inn's timbers settling into the night.
The faint sounds from the other occupants were muffled, as if they too respected the sanctity of the late hour. Here, in the quiet, Marcellus contemplated his own desires, his own envy of the power that had brushed so closely by him, yet seemed as distant as the stars above.
The coins that had jangled in his purse now lay silent, He considered seeking out Aulus on the morrow, to negotiate, to bargain for his own taste of the mysterious potions. Yet, deep within, there was a flicker of doubt—a question of whether he should wait till the morrow.
Maybe if he had powers Edwin and Captain Crowe's problems would not look so daunting.
Marcellus leaned back upon his bed, the mattress accepting his weight as the night accepted his fatigue. And as sleep began to weave its gossamer threads around his consciousness, he found himself adrift in the space between wakefulness and dreams, where the world was not what it seemed, and the future was a tapestry yet unspun.
With a start, he got up, warmth quickly forgotten.
What if Edwin comes for me tonight? for some reason, he felt strangely restless now he knew that powers could be obtained.
The possibility of Edwin, with his veiled threats and dark intentions, slithering through the streets to settle scores, sent a ripple of urgency through him.
It was the understanding that the world held more dangers, now that he'd glimpsed the outlines of power and sorcery, that prodded him into motion.
How could he sleep when people like Edwin might have powers?