Gathering his funds—a mix of the silver coins, perhaps some tucked away in hidden pockets—was a task he undertook with a newfound sense of purpose.
Each coin clinked with the sound of potential: for protection, for passage, for power. With his money secured, he moved swiftly but quietly, alert to the sounds of the inn around him, the muted conversations, and the rhythmic snoring that seemed too regular to be anything but the breathing of the weary.
In the back of his mind, Marcellus was aware of the shift within him. Before, money was a means to an end—survival, comfort, a night's entertainment.
Now, it represented something more. It was the key to unlocking those same mystical abilities he'd seen manifest within Finn. With such power, he wouldn't have to worry about threats like Edwin; he could be the one people feared, respected, or both.
With a muted sense of urgency, he double-checked his gear, ensuring he had everything of value and utility. His movements were methodical, a counterpoint to the racing of his heart.
The idea of venturing into the night, usually a daunting prospect, now seemed like the only reasonable course of action.
Decision made, Marcellus didn't linger. There was no fond look cast upon the room that had been his shelter.
Edwin and his ilk belonged to a world that Marcellus now felt a step removed from. He was no longer just a man with a purse of coins; he was a man on the threshold of something greater. The promise of the night, the secrets it held, beckoned him with the allure of whispered promises and veiled power.
As he slipped through the streets, Marcellus's mind was not on the dangers that lurked in the alleyways or the eyes that might follow him from the dark windows above. Instead, he was focused on the path ahead, the path that could lead him away from being the hunted to becoming the hunter, from a man of mundane means to a figure of arcane might.
The stars above, pinpricks in the velvet sky, seemed to watch him with a knowing glint, silent witnesses to the turning point in the life of one Marcellus Blackeye—a name that could, perhaps, one day be uttered with a note of respect, or even fear, in the dimly lit corners of taverns or the hushed gatherings of those who spoke of magic and power.
As Marcellus slipped through the streets, the cogs of his mind churned with the implications of Finn's newfound abilities. Finn, a seemingly ordinary individual, had now tapped into the mysterious—a realm that lay beyond the reach of conventional power and hierarchy. If someone of Finn's humble beginnings could wield such capabilities, the ramifications were indeed deep.
Edwin and Captain Crowe could potentially have powers.
A tinge of envy mixed with anticipation coursed through Marcellus's veins.
What if he, Marcellus 'Blackeye', could grasp such power? What if he could elevate himself beyond the threats and the grasping hands of those like Edwin?
The 'what ifs' morphed into a tapestry of potential scenarios in Marcellus's mind.
He could see it—power, such power could shield him, could elevate him to a status where he would be courted for alliances rather than being seen as a mere pawn or a threat to be neutralized.
The idea that the nephew of the governor might be left wanting in the face of such inexplicable power was intoxicating.
Marcellus allowed himself a small, sardonic smile. The game had changed, or rather, he had found a new game to play—a game with rules not written in the ledgers of merchants or the decrees of governors, but in the language of the universe itself.
Marcellus stood before the old man's abode, his silhouette casting a long shadow in the moonlight. The western side of Mythralis held a different air.
The house itself seemed unremarkable at first glance—a testament to the old man's desire for discretion. But Marcellus, with his newly keen senses, could feel that there was more than met the eye.
It was a fortress of solitude, masquerading as a humble craftsman's workshop.
Taking a moment to steel his resolve, Marcellus approached the door. His hand hovered before the wood; aged and warped with the passage of countless seasons. It was not merely a barrier to a home but a gateway to a potential new life, one fraught with the perils and promises of power.
'I have more than 600 silver I could just leave and go back to Wisbech to start an inn but-'
He rapped on the door with a rhythmic knock, a code that he hoped would signal his serious intent. The sound seemed to be swallowed by the wood, leaving only the echo of his heart's rhythm in its wake.
Moments passed. Then, with a creak that spoke of worn hinges and secret mechanisms, the door opened a crack, revealing the flicker of candlelight from within.
The old man's eyes, bright with the reflection of knowledge and cunning, peered out at Marcellus. "Back so soon?" he rasped, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile that knew far more than it would tell. "And what brings a wayfarer to my doorstep at this hour?"
Marcellus met the old man's gaze, his own eyes alight with a mixture of determination and the raw edge of desire. "Information," he said simply, the word hanging between them like a key to forbidden doors. "I've come for the knowledge of the potion you offered to Finn."
The old man's smile widened, and the door swung open wider, an invitation into a world shrouded in mystery. "Then step into my parlour, Blackeye," he beckoned. "Let us discuss the price of information."
As Marcellus crossed the threshold his journey had truly begun—not just on the cobblestone streets of the city but on the winding paths of power that threaded unseen through the fabric of the world.