The streets of Mythralis unfurled before Marcellus.
He moved with purpose, yet his gaze lingered on the docks, where the absence of The Viper was as conspicuous as a shadow in the rising sun.
The ship's Absence weighed on him. he also noticed the absence of the ships. overall the docks were almost empty.
With a sigh that carried the weight of his silent plea for aid, Marcellus shifted his focus from the sea to the city's heart.
The Church of Storms stood as a beacon amidst the cacophony of life.
He wove through the throngs of people, a solitary figure against the tapestry of life that Mythralis presented.
The church, he knew, had to become a familiar refuge, a waypoint in his labyrinthine journey. He committed to memory the turns and landmarks, the scent of the sea and the cries of the market, each sensation a breadcrumb on the trail back to this place of potential sanctuary.
As Marcellus approached the Church of Storms, the architecture commanded his attention—a manifest testament to the power it was dedicated to.
The edifice was grand, wrought with the precision of artisans whose chisels spoke the language of thunder and whose hammers sang the verses of gales.
It was here that those who revered the tempestuous nature of the world congregated, seeking to harness or appease the capricious whims of the skies.
He crossed the threshold, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing in the silence that shrouded the interior.
The air was cooler, the light filtered through stained glass, casting mosaics of colour that danced with ethereal grace.
Marcellus felt an unfamiliar calm. The church was serene, its ambience a stark contrast to the storm that brewed within his own heart.
He looked for the telltale robes of a priest, the clergy of this mighty establishment, to whom he could present his plight.
As Marcellus's gaze swept across the hollow expanse of the Church of Storms, it alighted upon a singular figure—a priest garbed in sky-blue raiments.
This man of the cloth was knelt before a child, his demeanor gentle, his voice a melodic undertone that seemed to carry both comfort and command.
The stillness of the scene was palpable, a tranquil island amidst the sea of prayers and confessions.
When Marcellus began to redirect his attention the priest looked up, and their eyes met. Time, it seemed, paused in silent recognition.
This priest bore the marks of a life etched by trials and triumphs in equal measure. His skin was the rich hue of the night without stars, smooth and unblemished save for the tapestry of scars that trailed down one side of his face like the remnants of a storm's path.
The most striking feature was the void where his left eye should have been—a hollow testament to a story untold, covered not by an eye patch, but left open to the world, a silent challenge, or perhaps an emblem of his faith in the Church of Storms.
Despite his visage that suggested a past rife with strife, the priest's remaining eye sparkled with a vibrancy that belied his calm exterior. It was an eye that had witnessed the tempest's fury and the serenity of the eye within it, an eye that now regarded Marcellus with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the facades of pretence.
His head was shaved, the smoothness of his scalp reflecting the muted light of the church, His large hands, folded in his lap as he rose from his ministrations to the child, were those of a sculptor—capable of crafting solace from the stone of despair.
As Marcellus retreated, the priest's face split into a welcoming smile, a herald of the warmth that had nothing to do with the absent sun. There was no need for words just yet; the priest's gaze invited confidence, promised discretion, and spoke of a strength that Marcellus sought within himself.
This one-eyed priest simply waved. With the silent benediction of the one-eyed priest, Marcellus left the Church of Storms.
He moved through the bustling streets of Mythralis, the sounds of commerce and the clamour of daily life playing out around him like a familiar melody.
The marketplace beckoned, a sprawl of stalls and shops arrayed like jewels upon the city's vibrant tapestry. His mind was awhirl with the list of ingredients needed for the potion, each component a thread in the fabric of his impending transformation.
Some of the Merchants stalls were strangely absent as though they never sold goods here.
The first of his acquisitions would be the supplementary ingredients—those that were readily available if one knew just where to look.
The Echo Berry Juice required a visit to a woman hawking fruits. Her stall was an olfactory delight, scents of lavender and sage mingling with the sharper tang of citrus and the earthy aroma of mushroom spores. The juice was procured with a few coins and a smile, its vial glinting with a promise of the potency within.
Purifier Salt was next, a staple of any restaurant. The salt vendor was a rotund man with a jolly laugh and an eye for mischievous jokes. He scooped the salt into a vial with waxing poetry about its purity and transparency.
As for the Eclipse Fish Eye, it took more haggling at the fishmonger's, a briny stall with nets and ropes hanging like the rigging of a ship.
The fish eye, a glistening orb of opalescent hue, was nestled within a bed of ice. It was an oddity, a rare delicacy that few sought, making Marcellus's request all the more unusual to the weathered sailor who manned the stall.
Pure water, though a seemingly simple item, required a purity that the city's fountains could not provide. He knew Aulus had some so he sought to ask him for some.
As the sun reached its zenith, Marcellus found himself standing on the edge of Willowmarsh. The sap of a Weeping Willow awaited him, its droplets the tears of a thousand dawns and dusks. With careful reverence, he approached one of the majestic trees.
A sharp dagger and a steady hand allowed him to collect the sap.
With the exception of the Heart of a Cloud Serpent, Marcellus had gathered his components.
That final, most elusive ingredient loomed in his thoughts, a challenge he had yet to face. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, a breath taken in the solace of completion.
He sauntered away from the market, his pouches a little lighter and pockets a little heavier, his resolve wavering.
Marcellus knew that the true test of his resolve would come with the hunt for the serpent's heart. The day waned, shadows stretching like fingers to claim the light, and Marcellus prepared for the morrow's venture with the setting of the sun.
And it occurred to him that he had not eaten all day. Is this how Finn felt when I ate slowly in front of him?