As the hesitant rays of dawn's first light spilt through the narrow aperture of Marcellus's chamber window, he stirred from a restless slumber.
His dreams had been a tumultuous sea, awash with the echoes of Aulus's enigmatic counsel and the vivid imagery of arcane potion ingredients.
These phantoms of sleep clung to the fringes of his consciousness even as he rose, and they danced behind his closed eyelids, blending indistinctly with the ethereal tapestry of light and shadow cast by the morning sun upon his walls.
Today heralded more than just the arrival of a new day; it beckoned the first resolute steps of his pursuit towards transformation.
Marcellus, with his resolve as unyielding as tempered steel, pledged to lay the foundational stones of his Hallowed ascension.
In the quietude of the morning, Marcellus positioned himself at the edge of his bed where the aged vellum scroll awaited his scrutiny.
The edges of the parchment curled and twisted as if mimicking the ancient and gnarled branches of a storied willow, and upon this scroll, he would imprint his strategy—not with ink and quill, but etched in the very forefront of his mind.
The most formidable challenge lay in procuring the Heart of a Hallow Serpent, an item of such rarity that it might necessitate a perilous venture into the empty mountains, where the creatures were rumoured to entwine their being with the very mists that shrouded the peaks.
His thoughts then drifted to the Weeping Willow's sap, an item within easier grasp. The Willowmarsh was a stone's throw from the fringes of his city—a place where he had crossed blades in the shadow of such a tree on his ventures to the governor's palace. It seemed destiny now called him back to that familiar terrain.
As for the essence of pure water, Marcellus trusted that Aulus, with his vast repository of esoteric knowledge, would grant him aid in this regard.
And so it stood, each supplementary ingredient, from the most mundane to the esoteric, could be bought, bartered for, or beseeched from allies old and new. The sap he would extract himself, a task that would require not particular skill.
However, the Heart of a Hallow Serpent loomed as an unknown.
He pondered the likelihood that such a treasured item lay within the hoards of a collector or the wares of an obscure, itinerant merchant.
With his mind teeming with plots and pathways, Marcellus felt a surge of indomitable purpose.
Today was not a day of idle musings or tentative considerations—it was a day for action.
With the waking dawn as his silent herald, Marcellus adorned himself in garments as usual. He collected the necessary coin, provisions for the road, and a small cache of valuables that could serve as bargaining chips in unforeseen transactions.
I am so glad Aulus did not ask for money if not I would have to go looking for these myself. Marcellus smiled and he stuffed his dagger between his garments and went to pick up his sword.
Marcellus's hand froze mid-air, hovering above the hilt of his sword—Which had a semblance of a cutlass. Its familiar contours promised protection.
But it was the unexpected anomaly lying innocuously on the wooden floor that arrested his attention—a solitary scroll of parchment, sealed with no mark, situated as though it was meant for him to find.
His brow furrowed, a shadow of concern passing over his features.
The room had been secured, or so he had believed. The windows remained fastened, the door had been locked, and no sign of disarray suggested an intrusion. Yet there it was—a mysterious missive with no herald to announce its arrival or origin.
Cautiously, as one would approach a coiled viper, Marcellus stooped to retrieve the scroll.
The parchment was not aged.
His heart pounded a rhythm of wary intrigue as his fingers worked to break the seal, which gave way with an almost imperceptible crack, like a secret being unfurled.
He unfurled the scroll, and his eyes quickly scanned the contents. The script was fine and deliberate, the ink a deep shade of onyx.
The message was succinct, yet it bore the weight of gravity that pulled at the very fabric of his intent for the day.
The message read:
"To My Gladius,
Your missive has found me in darker times. I am joined by Lucretia and Elena, their spirits unbroken, but we mourn Leon, whose light has been extinguished prematurely.
My family, steadfast and unwavering, scours the hidden threads of power to unveil those who orchestrated the vile ritual. Yet prying eyes have noted caution.
Seek sanctuary with your priestess, or find solace within the Church of Storms. I believe that a Storm Seeker will extend their hand in your hour of need. I will join you soon in Mythralis.
Be swift, be silent, and in the cacophony of the tempest, may you remain unseen.
I remain always, Ayden"
Marcellus read the words once, then again, each syllable sinking into his consciousness like a stone in deep water.
Ayden she sent it back! so it is spelt Ayden. Marcellus was excited!
The mention of Elena brought a measure of relief, a friend from a dream was now entwined in his current reality. But the news of Leon's death was a cold blade to his heart. Leon, the steadfast, Leon, the teacher—fallen.
Who is Lucretia?
The urgency of the message was clear. His location was compromised, and Marcellus was no longer a shadow among the multitude.
Eyes, unknown and unyielding, were fixed upon him, making the sprawling city of Mythralis a labyrinth of danger.
The church of storms—an unfamiliar haven, yet one that now beckoned as a sanctuary in the gathering maelstrom.
I should have gone to the Church of Combat, maybe the priestess would have believed me.
The priestess, a trusted confidant, would be his first recourse, her wisdom a guiding star. But what of the Storm Seeker? This was a title that resonated with the power of the tempest, an entity, or perhaps an order that held sway over the elements themselves.
Marcellus' mind was connecting Mystical abilities to the church!
Taking a deep breath, Marcellus tucked the letter into the inner pocket of his shirt, close to his beating heart.
There was no time to lose; the path ahead was fraught with peril, but now he bore the herald of the storm as his shield.
To the church, he would go, to the heart of the storm. There, he would find his bearings.
Ayden's words echoed in his mind, a mantra for the uncertain road ahead: "Be swift, be silent, and let the storm pass you by."
The quest for the Heart of a Hallow Serpent, and indeed for his transformation, had begun.