The urgency of the situation became palpable to Marcellus after the three days' grace provided by Edwin had elapsed.
He found himself in a precarious juncture; Captain Crowe's plunder from the Hulk—a massive vessel known for its impenetrable security—had transpired just over a week ago.
Given the lapse of time, the details of the heist would have undoubtedly reached the ears of those in command at the headquarters.
Marcellus, while having operated as a privateer, was not deeply entrenched in the intricate weave of their network and thus, His grasp on the possible fallout and the machinations of their brand of justice—or vengeance—was precariously thin.
His thoughts, now a tumultuous whirlpool, fixated on one urgent question; How could he elude capture?
The prospect seemed daunting, considering some denizens of Mythralis might have witnessed him in the company of Captain Crowe. With his association with the captain no secret, his apprehensions intensified, knowing all too well that such connections could be damning.
Faced with his predicament, Marcellus's determination crystallized: he would seek the counsel of Aulus. Hastening his meal, he ascended to his chamber, swiftly collected his arcane components, and stole away into the obsidian embrace of nightfall towards the west of Mythralis.
It was there, enshrouded in secrecy, that he unburdened his precarious plight to Aulus.
Aulus, whose demeanour often appeared as unyielding as the stone walls that bordered the town, listened quietly.
"Blackeye," Aulus began his voice a low rumble of thoughtful consideration, "The gaze of Mythralis may well be the least of your concerns; the Privateer's League itself might cast its watchful eye in your direction. Rumours of this heist swirl—it's branded as the grandest of pirate larcenies, not for its monetary yield, but for its ripples through the waters of geopolitics."
"I wonder, why you bypassed me for aid with ingredients for the potion," Aulus mused, a trace of inquiry in his tone. "I could have supplied you with what you needed for a price of course. I took your silence for mistrust, or perhaps a judgment upon my willingness to provide."
Marcellus responded with the weight of recent events lining his words, "Times have changed."
Aulus let out a chuckle, "Indeed. And you'll be of no use to Finn—or anyone—if you're dancing at the end of a hangman's noose."
"For the heart of a cloud serpent—a bounty few can obtain—I will need 100 silver. It's a steep price, but such is the cost of preservation."
His eyes held a glint of pragmatic wisdom as he regarded Marcellus—the rogue privateer caught in a web of consequence.
Marcellus understood all too well the laws of exchange and the heavy currency of favours in their trade.
The heart of a cloud serpent might have been a trivial quest for a seasoned hunter; to dispatch the beast was not the grand challenge.
It was the alchemical ingredients required for its preservation that came at a dear cost, and Marcellus was aware that Aulus's price included the unseen expense of silence and risk. Yet in this moment, with few allies and fewer options, the premium was of no consequence to him.
The ancient oaken table served as the stage for Marcellus and Aulus's nocturnal endeavour. Each item was arranged meticulously, the array of ingredients forming a semicircle around the Heart of a Hallow Serpent, which sat at the fulcrum of their alchemical array, an opaque gem.
First, the Heart of a Hallow Serpent was gently laid into a vessel shaped like a flask.
Next came the Sap of a Weeping Willow. Each drop fell with the weight of sorrowful centuries. Seven drops they counted—each creating ripples upon the surface of the pure water they had collected from Aulus personal reservoir.
They let fall seven beads of the sap, merging into the heart, melting it, not with heat but with a potent dissolution that spoke of endings and new beginnings.
As the Echo Berry Juice—dark as twilight shadows and thick with the whispers of dusky woods—joined the concoction, it infused the blend with its enigmatic essence. The colour deepened, the Violet hue swirling and dancing with the serpent's heart, its aroma evoking visions of a forest at twilight.
The addition of the Purifier Salt came next, three spoonfuls, each a sentinel of purification, their crystalline forms akin to shards of celestial bodies. Stirred into the potion, their granules dissolved, as they stirred the salt into the mixture, the liquid cleared, becoming a mirror ready to receive the essence of the final ingredient.
Finally, the Eclipse Fish Eye was added into the blend with murmurs of old oceanic tongues, the dialects of deep and ancient waters. The eye plucked from a creature that bore witness to the depth of the abyss, imbued the potion with a promise of revelation—of secrets to be seen, of paths to be illuminated.
The concoction's completion was met not with fanfare but with a hush—a sense of something momentous and sacred. The potion, now complete, was a tapestry of essences woven together, a liquid embodiment of fate and will.
Marcellus and Aulus beheld their work: a potion of translucent silver mirroring the night sky.
Marcellus took the phial, the contents shimmering with a liquescent dance of silver and stars, a potion of the Hallowed.
Wasting no more time Marcellus, with the potion cradled between his hands, could feel the liquid's subtle vibration, as if it contained a heartbeat syncing with his own.
He observed the way it captured the moon's silver glow from the aperture in the room, an ethereal luminescence swirling within the confines of the delicate glass that promised glimpses into realms beyond the ordinary.
Taking a deep breath, he brought the phial to his lips.
The potion passed his lips, cool and smooth, and as it slipped down his throat, an icy cascade filled his being with a frigid tide.
The flavours of the potion were an intricate tapestry of sensations—bittersweet with a hint of earthy undertones, followed by a fleeting, ineffable taste that teased his palate, a flavour that no language could encapsulate.
It spoke of forests shrouded in mist, of the abyssal depths where light dared not reach, and of winds that whispered secrets through the mountain passes.
His eyes closed instinctively as he allowed the elixir to saturate his being. The room around him faded into insignificance, and a profound silence enveloped his senses. It was a silence not of emptiness but of anticipation, as though the universe had inhaled and held its breath along with him.
A spectral chill crept through his body, an icy touch not uncomfortable but invigorating, cleansing his innards like a breeze dispelling the miasma of a fetid swamp. His heart hammered against his chest, a staccato rhythm beckoning the effects of the potion to surge forth.
As the essence of the Hallowed potion fused with his own, Marcellus felt a crystalline clarity settle upon his mind.
The tumult of fear and uncertainty that had plagued him was shed as easily as a snake's skin. His thoughts sharpened, becoming resilient. It was as though he had been reborn into a fortress of solitude, his psyche an impregnable bastion.
As the concoction's essence diffused through his body, His consciousness stretched, thinning and expanding, extending beyond the physicality of the room, beyond the confines of the ordinary. His senses sharpened to an inhuman degree; the flutter of moth wings was a thunderous clap, the scuttle of a rat a pronounced rhythm.
Visions and mummurs cascaded before his mind, ethereal and fleeting.
The experience was metaphysical, not merely an enhancement of the physical senses, but an elevation of his entire essence.
As the potion's potency reached its zenith, Marcellus's perception of his surroundings crystallized. He was acutely aware of Aulus's steady breathing beside him, of the distant hooting of an owl that sang the song of the night.
When he finally opened his eyes, the room swirled back into focus, the room returned to normalcy, but it was a new normal; sharper, clearer. Marcellus knew, with a clarity that bordered on the inhuman, the path he must tread.
The elixir had done its work, and now, it was time for him to do his.