Of Stones and Song

[Vogelens]

"Do you /have/ to do that? It is incredibly unsettling." Gwendolynn remarked, as she glances over to the windowsill of her room. Rain was pattering outside, a welcome change from the snow if the redhead was asked. The mage's eyes were on the owl settled in the window sill. It's body facing towards her, but it's head turned all the way around to look outside. Past the falling rain and into the gloom. It was an unsettling sight for Gwendolynn, though she was aware she could not blame the creature. There was almost a fondness in the complaint even. The owl did not respond. Apparantly it indeed had to do just that.

A soft exhale passed her lips as she turned her gaze back to her work, keen emeralds glinstering with bright curiuousity. That look in her eyes she often had during research or divining work. The search for answers, knowledge. To unravel secrets small or big, that were hidden, unnoticed, untold. Before the spellsword one such mysteries lay amidst books and tomes, already opened up on pages of interest. Gemstones, divinations and other works of research Gwendolynn had available and thought to be relevant, if only for crossreferences.

An immaculate gem, it's surface smoothened by the questions and arcane potency that she feld around it before. Or, Gwendolynn supposed, that was the poetic thing to think. Found in an old tomb, haunted by evil so vile it made the dead walk. Yet to it's darkness, the gem stood in stark contrast, like a bright candle. Or rather an evocation of light, Gwendolynn would say. Candles suffer from the wind or burning out, where the arcane light would persist under most conditions still. But this was not the time for her mind to drift, it was to be focussed.

The gem was placed in the middle of a rectangle, formed out of four strips of ivory. Gwendolynn preferred circles, due to the potency of them. The power within circles, but the ivory was a neccesity. The rectangle would have to suffice. A spellcomponent pouch was opened, already readied on the table. A tuft of fox for, red and soft was produced from it, and placed upon the gem. She was running low, Gwendolynn noticed. A mental note was made to ask either Garvin or Aleira if they could gather more for her.

A fine powder followed next, what was once a gemstone often desired by noble ladies and common folk alike was already crushed into a fine powder by the magus. A husk of it's former glory, but the pearl's sacrifice was not in vain. Lightly it ended up being sprinkled in a glass of wine on the table, not for the drink itself - she did not favour this particular type of wine after all - but a neccesity for small ritual.

An idle glance was cast over to the owl on thje windowsill, it's head still turned in that creepy manner. At least the donations of owl feathers he offered were welcome, the spellsword mused to herself as one such feather was indeed used, stirring the wine. Mixing the fine powdered pearl throug it.

Preparations were complete and Gwendolynn focussed. Her mind cleared, concentrating on the words, the logic. The delicate ways to use magic through the Weave by means of knowing how to do so, through formulas and calculated manipulations of it. Archaoic words of power spoken, flowing from Gwendolynn's lips. Spoken from memory, recited, as the delicate gesture with her hand was made. Releasing the magic of the spell upon the gemstone. As the words were spoken, her other hand reeached for the glass of wine. She likely should have taken the stirring feather from it in hindsight, as it ended up tickling along the side of one eyelid, the eye forced to close a moment against said feather.

The liquid, the wine with the powdered pearl within it was drank down, and with it knowledge, answers. Or that was the intention. The divination spell completed, the incantation of Identification cast, Gwendolynn turned her attention to the gemstone again. Extending her senses towards it, and referincing her books and comparing notes in them, were needed.

[Obsidian Sea]

The art of Divination is a strange and imprecise thing. Those who specialise in the field of Divination see much, and yet are often thought to be the most mad of mages. Gwendolynn Highblade undertakes the effort, adrift in a sea of Daemonic studies and Abjurative engagements that do much to beleaguer her mind, and it is a dangerous enterprise. Nevertheless, the spellsword stands unequaled among the Wizards of Impiltur - at least those that she has met. If ever there was a person most suitable to the task, surely it stands as a pillar in logic that it is she?

Soon, the Wizard is upon the silver river. Her mind's eye drifts through a fast-rushing current of portents and obscure symbols and references the likes of which Deneir's servants commit their entire lives to deciphering. This is the practice of Diviner's: the exploration of the intangible, and the comprehension of the incomprehensible. Having conducted her ritual correctly, the humming, polished stone that Gwendolynn acquired in the old mines off of Pilgrim's Road remains at the centre of her vision whilst all the rest is swimming and attempting to pull upon her focus. She cannot lose her concentration however: to fall into a curiousity of any of these other fascinations would be to lose the strand of her original purpose, and having not committed the spell to seeking one of their meantime symbols and suggestions, to lose herself thusly would be a futile waste of energy, effort, and the Arcane.

Catching up to her target, the Abjurer reaches out and seizes the moment to understand the gem.



Into vision swims a human, yet a hectic scene. There is a man with healthy brown locks of hair that fall nearly to his shoulders, but he is covered in soot and his hair is matted with dirt and the trials of the road. His clothing remains out of view; only his face can Gwendolynn Highblade perceive. He is in the process of falling backwards, and in his eye is reflected a flame. The scene changes, and a man - perhaps the same man - lies back upon the ground, pushed up upon his hands, his silhouette quakes as he looks upon one squashed, yellow eye that glares out from an indistinct place. Pieces of parchment flutter all about the scene, the writings upon which are incomprehensible.

"Rnankott totnhdznauk."

It is a terrible sound, disembodied, rising above the scene, and then the vision is entirely consumed by fire. A piece of parchment is buffeted desperately upon the wind of the inferno, closing the scope of the lens until it is all that Gwendolynn can perceive. Upon it, she can see her own Arcane Mark, burning green.



Gwendolynn raises out of her vision, drawn back from it as one wakes from a bad dream, and a brief but very real scream escapes her mouth.

She is greeted by the normalcy of her room of study. Whatever this terrible vision might mean will require a clearer, more certain mind to comprehend - or at the very least, it will require a clarity of mind from Gwendolynn that only a good, long night of sleep will grant her.

Tonight, you suspect, will not be that night.

[Vogelens]

The clattering of furniture sounded through the room along with the spellsword's scream, as well as the shattering of glass. Having jerked up in a rise when snapping out of that vision, her seat was knocked over backwards and the wineglass - drained as part of the ritual atleast - suffered it's fate as it was accidentally knocked from the table.

Palms coming to rest on the surface of the desk, Gwendolynn leaned on them, panting softly. Blinking several times to regain her bearings, her focus. She definatly did not expect this, nor was she in the slightest bit prepared. She performed such divinations before and knew the risks but... Was there anything she could have done to prepare herself for something like this..?

One of the magus' hands reached up, running through her hair. A few locks felt clammy, with several beads of sweat on her forehead poresent as well. And then that feeling of drums pounding in her head, a throbbing headache kept her from focussing fully. Thoughts were swimming, the echo of the vision reverberating in her mind. Those words, that all consuming fire. And why her Arcane Mark, burning green as it did...?

A shaking hand reached for the gem, picking it up. She looked at it, watching it before securing it in a pouch. Closing her eyes again, to try and work through those thoughts, though her focus was clearly not there. Her thoughts were everywhere, shattered, shaken. She was not the only one. The owl that was nestled in the windowsill was confused, restless. The downsides to the bond a wizard and familiar share, that empathic bond. The restless sounds, and fluttering of wings did snap Gwendolynn to attention briefly, her gaze falling upon the owl, the window and after that the world at the other side of the glass. Outside.

She needed fresh air. Yes, fresh air might help, the spellsword concluded as she turned to the door. One hand reaching for her staff while the other snatched her cloak to done it, she hastily made her way out of the room. She knew the night held no answers, at least not to the questions she had. To find those, her mind needed to be calm first. Calm, collected. Something it clearly was not right now.

Even if not many answers were found, at least the spellsword did walk away with some newfound respect for Diviners, from this ordeal. Small mercies, she supposed.

[Vogelens]

It was not a full day after Gwendolynn's arrival in Songhall, that she could set to work properly again. Business was taken care off, and wishing the fellow scholar good luck with his pursuits after delivering the requested scroll, she went on her way again. The alleys in Songhall, where the magical stores were took most of her time. Gathering some supplies and then preparing them.

The innroom in Songhall was a bit smaller than the one she had in Sarshel but she did not need much space. The furniture was already moved aside to clear the center of that room, not an overly difficult task for the spellsword. She was stronger than most scholars. A result of staying fit and her practice of swordplay. And then there were those that claimed a bit of physical strength never would be of usewith research.

The room's center cleared, Gwendolynn had drawn a circle on it, with a silvery dust. She had decided to stand rather than sit this time, allowing some additional precautions to be taken. One of them was her armour. The spellsword rarely wore it while performing research, especially when in private. This time however, the adamantine protection was donned, the metal holding a greenish hue in the flickering candlelight.

The spellsword did not expect to face any physical danger, or for the armour to see use. No, she realized why she decided to wear it all too well. She felt safe in it, confident. Perhaps a foolish notion. Definatly a crutch to bolster confidence, but who would judge her? A strange thing, that. An arcanist who not only wear armour and be able to not have it hinder her, unlike other practicioners, but also one who found comfort in it. Perhaps habits of wearing it in danger that made her think so. Whatever the reason though, confidence and a feeling of security would go a long way here either way.

A glance was cast to the table, shoved out of the way in a corner. Materials were gathered on it. A copper coin, a bit of fur from a bloodhound, a hummingbird's feather. Neatly arranged and needed. A glass of wine, with her familiar sitting next to it, watching. The wine was a bit murky already, the crushed and powdered pearl had been mixed through it already as part of Gwendolynn's preparations. At least the owl had the decency to have his head the right way forward this time, the spellsword mused with a faint smile. Still, she had wished him there either way. If something went wrong, he would have instructions to fly back to Sarshel and alert Serace. It is said a prepared wizard's does think of many things in their plans.

And then there were her notes. Notes with what she had remembered from a previous vision, written down when they came to mind. Much was still a blur, but that was expected from divinations. Even many diviners would need to decipher and interpret what they see and divine after all. Perhaps this time, she could find more clarity and discern more details, at least it was her intention. Better prepared this time, for it is said that the prepared magus can overcome many an obstacle with greater ease. Gwendolynn was no different.

First, the feather of the hummingbird was taken, along with the pinch of fur. An exhale before words of power flowed from her lips, as her work truly begin. The first spell, a powerful divination was performed. As the fur was sprinkled around her and drifted slowly to the ground, Gwendolynn felt the magic take effect. A strange sensation, as if a veil had suddenly been lifted. The world around her seemed more... clear. No longer observed through a filter. Divinations can do curious things to one's perception, this powerful one was no different.

With her senses enhanced she could hear the sounds of a rodent skittering through the walls, the sounds of footsteps on the hallway. The conversation that took place in the adjecent room. A glance cast out of the window had her see every single raindrop individually, seeing into the street. Even the cobblestones stood out to her below as she gazed out. She noticed the bits of fur landing on the floor at her feet when they did, without even paying attention to it.

The spellsword exhaled slowly, standing silent. A strange sensation, she did take a minute or two to get used to it. She did not wish the risk to be overwhelmed by any sensations through her magically enhanced senses. The magic would last a while still, she could afford taking a bit of extra time to let it settle. Feeling ready again, the copper coin was picked up from the table, held in a gauntletted hand. She realized all too well to try and divine with enhanced senses could be dangerous to the mind, exposing it like that. Perhaps a practicioner of the Art having this as their field of study could avoid the inherent dangers as second nature. A sixth sense for it. Or, Gwendolynn considered, when it comes to them more likely a fifteenth sense.She was no diviner, but she was an abjurer. She could prepare, and prepare well.

A gauntletted fist closed around the coin, as more words followed. Ones more familiar to her, she knew them well. There was little that made more sense in her mind, a result of the dedication given to it. She felt the power as the spell was cast, the incantation finished. As she opened her hand again, the copper coin was nothing but a fine dust, disintegrated into near nothing to aid fuel the magic. Magic to ward the mind, to fortify it. She needed clarity in the matter, her mind clear and focussed. And right now, for the time being it was nothing less than an impenetrable fortress against anything that might assault it. Or, the spellsword hoped at least.

The wineglass was taken in one hand, and the other hand took a gem, a gem that brought her many questions. There was a lure to it, something the magus could not quite put her finger on. Something that made her want to learn the answers to the questions it whispered. Glancing at the gem with a faint smile, Gwendolynn made her way to the center of the room, the center of that circle of silver dust.

Candlelight flickered around her, creating that strange sheen upon her armour. It was not dark, not yet. It would be in several hours, but the candles aided. To see when it became dark, but also to keep track of how long a possible vision would last and how long she would be out of it. It did not hurt, at least.

"Now, what secrets, do you hold?" Gwendolynn asked the gem. She expected no response, it was a gemstone after all, one that had not felt a need to hold conversation with before. Her head canted to the side slightly as she regarded it, resting in the palm of her hand. A wry smile followed but a moment after, as she caught herself. "..Evidentally, one of them being the ability to make me talk to myself." Words spoken not quite out of amusement, but moreso drawn out due to the fact Gwendolynn was nervous. Why wouldn't she be? Her first experience was one that left it's mark and resulted in her mind needing to recover. She was prepared this time though, her mind fortified and her senses enhanced. Enhanced senses, to try and glean more details about what she saw.

The man, perhaps who he is or imprint his features in her memory. What truly transpired and happened to him. The location of what happened. Those... words. The strange, foreign syllables her mind could not get a hold of. And what uttered them. And what the connection was with all this, the gem she was holding and her own burning mark. Nervous as she was, she was prepared and eager to try once more to find out.

The words were spoken, the glass with the mixture of wine and pearl was drained. Gwendolynn's eyes fixated on the gem, holding her palm with it up, focussing her enhanced senses on it. Was it wise to try and discern more after last time? Divinations carried a risk and the risk here was real, one she knew well. But, some risks needed to be taken.

Warded, prepared and clad in armour for safety and confidence, the second attempt to learn more and try and understand the vision was underway.

[Obsidian Sea]

It is a strange second vision upon which Gwendolynn Highblade's inner eye alights upon her next voyage into the unclear and unorthodox world of divination. The power of her will, latching itself upon the magical object, is nothing to be taken lightly, and if there was doubt in the sanity of a rational woman who sought to make forays into this field of Arcane study, they might be combated by the endorsement of other Diviners, who see the wisdom in one's making preparatory comforts to support their work. Primed with the spells of choice for the evening, Gwendolynn makes contact with the gem once more.




It starts as the last had concluded, with the lens burning in a fire which was quick to part upon the arrival of the mage's eye. The scene that greets her is that of Songhall itself, though she looks on the fortress as if she were a bird suspending in mid-flight. She catches a glimpse from her vantage of the top storey of many buildings, not only their rooftops behind the settlement's walls. Dainty, but slow, her eye is moving across in a horizontal plane, as though to regard the location from the limitations of this one plane with as many perspectives as she can.

Soon the vision swallows her further. Like skiing, she glides in towards the cobbled streets of Songhall. There is a crash as she lands upon the pavement, but - incorporeal - nothing is felt. Gwendolynn seems to sit there upon all fours for an immeasurable length of time. Seconds; hours; all the while, it seems that all the vision demonstrates is a breathing - but it is only demonstrative, for in the corporeal world, nothing is happening of which the mage is aware. With great effort, a movement beneath the spellsword's vision happens as she is lifting her palm to look at it. Her skin is paler now; it hasn't her Cormyrian tan, and she might be someone else. It does not matter; what matters more is that the centre of her palm is ripped open, and bleeds profusely; and yet there is no mental sensation that pain is being delivered.

Everything changes gear once again. Raising her palm, Gwendolynn's eye is now standing and she faces a heavy wooden door, on which a great iron ring hangs: a handle. It is not in this way that her eye seeks to open the door. The same unfamiliar right hand rising at the corner of her vision to take the centre, and presses itself upon the door. It leaves a bloodstain upon the wood, but nothing happens. Again, Gwendolynn sees at length, and no activity takes place. Seconds; hours; and then the door swings upon. There is a silhouette of a man in the doorway. There is no detail of the room behind the silhouette, for everything is consumed by an inferno. There is no sound to it; only that of the man's courteous voice, as the singular noise within a vacuum.

"Ah, Ms Highblade, I am glad that you have come to see me."

He continues to speak, very handsomely and without the slightest suggestion of significance. But now, there is a new noise rising to greet Gwendolynn's eye. It reaches through the inferno, and past the featureless body of the man. There is the heavy beating of a hand upon a door. Neither that, nor the voice, relents, until both have reached a deafening resonance.

"Rnankott totnhd--"



The vision relents, and corporeal sensations surge violently into scope once again. Gwendolynn Highblade is sweating, but more than that her body has resisted. It takes another moment before she notices more than her vital signs: there is a polite knocking upon her room door.

Gathering her bearings, the Abjurer discovers that not so much time has passed. It is still night. She has survived the vision with more strength than when the last had taken her. The gem maintains the neutrality of its rest, as though nothing at all had happened, and it was entirely nonplussed by what has occurred. But that can not be so. Something has occurred; new suggestions and ciphers to accompany those that have already revealed themselves. Continuity is a rare acquisition in the land of divination. Gwendolynn catalogues these thoughts the best that she can, pushing away the distractions of the Material Plane much as a person must to retain the memory of a dream. But this activity must rest as a voice informs Gwendolynn that the knocking upon her door is no drunken accident of the evening.

"My pardon, Ms. Is this the room of a Ms Highblade?"

[Vogelens]

Gwendolynn had performed divinations before, yet this sensation, to awaken from a vision remained a strange one. Two worlds colliding, the memory of a very lucid dream, a vision struggling for dominance with the material world. The waking world. The latter would win of course, the sensation would pass.

The spellsword blinked, hearing the voice, registering it fully now. She was in the room again, the feeling of the adamantine armour on her body. The flickering candles, the sounds of the city during the evening time, the movement of her familiar as he preended his wings. That knocking on the door and the words spoken.

She licked her dryer lips, before speaking up. "Aye.." Her voice was hoarse still, needing a moment to gather it and her composure. "Aye, she is I, and this is my room."

She was noe expecting anyone. Was she? Though perhaps it should not come as a suprise, not in Songhall at least. She was after all working on getting her name more established amongst the other scholars at the Library. "A moment, please." The wizardess said, as she moved. Eyeing the gem in her hand as she headed to where her notes lay. Both the mysterious gemstone, as well as her notes were gathered, placed in a satchel. Not the sort of thing one would leave laying around when meeting with a possible stranger.

One hand dapped some sweat from her forehead with a piece of cloth as the wizardess headed to the door to answer it. A brief glance cast at the palm of the other hand, the one that was bloodied in the vision. She eyes the gauntlet worn, thoughts on what she saw, what it meant. The image of the blood that coated it still fresh in her mind A shudder coursed through her spine briefly. That person that spoke to her, it unsettled her. It knew her name and spoke to her, in a vision. Are visions supposed to talk directy to the diviner? Something to look up, how to interpret something like that. It felt important as well as unsettling.

And then those words again. That inferno. What /did/ those words mean? What was their significance? She dreaded to think of what might have happened to her mind, were she not prepared as she was. She had to write them down as best as she could later and figure out what language it is, what they meant.

Armoured footsteps reached the door and a hand reached for the doorknob. There was no point in revealing the temporary state of the room to all who might pass by, so she opened it only slightly, to be able to see who it was while also presenting herself. The room was not a mess, the furniture was moved aside with care at least. But, the room was turned into a site of arcane practices, something not everyone could understand or relate too. Of course, the circle of dust on the floor would likely bring forth a frown from any maid passing by too.

Her composure gathered as much as she can after the ritual and vision, a faint smile on her face, the door was opened, words spoken. "Though /technically/ I cannot claim ownership of the room, it belongs to the propiertor of the inn. I am merely renting it for the night." She could not help herself, but any vaguely familiar with her might already know of her strange sense of humour and need for semantics. A wry smile on her lips to follow, after the wizardly greeting to her visitor.

[Obsidian Sea]

It is little more than a boy who stands on the other side of the door. A mirror image of the sound lad often working the bar at The Thirsty Fool, Milos Borsavin, save for that this lad is less handsome and scrawnier in shoulder span. That does not belie the honesty or humility that his large brown eyes and plump pink lips have trademarked. Inheritance, more than likely, from his mother than his father, and emasculating him the due amount. It is perhaps the shame of his simple appearance, or if not, then an awareness of the status of the person to whom he speaks, that makes him shy.

"I am apologetic, Ms Highblade. I had it on good authority that you were awake, still. I'll not trouble you further, only to pass on the message I am to relay. In the morning, when rested from your recent labours," begins the messenger, who thereafter coughs out a tickle in his throat, provoking a slight murmur in the shape of his mouth - it appears that he recites the message as it was dictated, and lacks the certainty of the one who delivers it, "It is the wish of the one resident Thaumaturgist Dessedren that you visit his place of lodging. It is Room X, on the upper floor of The Pavilion. If in the morning you have meetings of another sort, he politely shall delay the meeting, but it is his high insistence that you meet him before you depart the fortress - and also, that you bring with you the current item of your studies."

The messenger boy looks back into the corridor a moment, wary at the risk of having woken any others who reside in the inn that night: it fluctuates between a high and gravely low likelihood that there are any other residents at The Thirsty Fool this night. Either the sustained and dreadful weather conditions have prevented the coming of any travellers at all, or they have trapped them herein. At the top of the corridor, a lone candle attempts to push away the darkness of deep night.

"Goodnight, Ms Highblade. I apologise if I woke you." He stands a moment, simple, but not so incapable of thought that inaction paralyses him in perpetuity. There seems to be a thought upon his mind and, for better or for worse, he does not hold his tongue with it. As any lad of his employment would, he waits to speak it until his client has paid the sardils due for receiving the message. "But truth be told, I don't think that I did."

His job done and his payment received, the boy makes a prompt leave towards his family's apartment within the fortress, and leaves Gwendolynn Highblade in the deep of night to consider the twofold events of the night, and the consequences that both are to have upon the day that is to follow.

[Vogelens]

The spellsword nods her head slightly as she listens to the message delivered. Silent, as she takes in the information. Gwendolynn does offer a faint smile to the boy, a reassurance he did not wake her at his apology. At least not in the sense he meant, though his knocking might have been an influence to rouse her from her vision.

But, she was not even certain she truly minded that, as much as she had wished to see and learn more. Unsettling visions are best handled in small doses, or something along those lines. A small handful of sardils was counted out, an appropriate amount for messengers, and offered to him. A small nod of her head following. "No, tell the Thaumaturgist that I shall meet him in the morrow, I have no further meetings or arrangements as of yet."

As the messenger spoke up again, believing he did not wake her, Gwendolynn merely smiled wryly. She did not comment for a change, not much point on trying to explain the ways of divinations. Her mind was elsewhere already anyway. Parts of the vision still, as well as the meeting the next day. A curious thing, that more of her work was already known amongst others than she had anticpated or perhaps even realized.

Coincidences were plentiful this evening and sure more to follow, the spellsword mused as she retreated back into her room with the messerger's departure. Aa pensive expression remained etched on her features as the wizardess headed to the desk. Parchment was gathered, as well as a quill and inkwell. First things first though, she had to catalogue parts of the vision in ink as well, adding to her notes on the subject. Putting it to words and writing things down often gave new perspectives after all, as well as allowing it to be available for later reference. And those words... Alien syllables and sounds. Having them on parchment would allow her to find out what the meaning behind them was with more ease too.

Then vision took maybe only moments, but Gwendolynn worked well into the night, guided by diligence in her search for answers. Answers might not come yet, but she could at least try and gather more pieces of the puzzle for now...




----



The spellsword made sure the room was in order before leaving. The furniture placed back, the magic circle cleaned up. Leaving the place a mess would set a bad precedent, not something she could here here in Songhall. It was an early morning, onw with a bare minimum amount of rest, something not too familiar to the amgus however. She was used to it after all, being on time for the meeting was more important.

Making her way from the inn to the Library, metallic footsteps crunched the snow on the streets and steps, with the spellsword's cloak wrapped around her to shield her from the weather otherwise. The all too familiar steps were taken to ascend through the fort towards the Library, Gwendolynn's mind was anywhere but with her on the streets, that morning.

Thoughts drifting here and there, meandering along parts of that vision still. Trying to discern the meaning of some of the things she saw, how they connected. IThe meeting she was headed towards was on her mind too, trying to think about what to expect. The way of most magi, being in familiar situations, or those they had predicted and planned for did leave them more comfortable. Each has their own element to favour being in, after all.

The heavy doors to the Halls of Knowledge were pushed open as Gwendolynn entered the library. It always left a strange feeling within her, stepping forth in these halls. Not a bad feeling, though. No, that same feeling a treasure hunter might get, finding a lost pirate's treasure. That feeling a child might get, when presented with a bag full of sweets. The feeling a wizard might get, when entering a place of knowledge and lore, waiting there for her.

A smile formed on Gwendolynn's lips, slowly. She was glad that feeling returned every single time she visited still, she had to admit. With it, it brought motivation and a drive to further her studies.

Making her way through the library and up to the Pavillion, the magus offered polite, though quiet greetings to the Loremasters she recognized. Inquiring to Room X and asking for directions as she went onwards, to her meeting.

[Obsidian Sea]

"Room X? Dessedren's logdings?" quizzes the Loremaster, immediately rather puzzled as to the purpose of Gwendolynn Highblade's inquiry. She holds her hands together beneath the sleeves of her robe. "I am glad to see your work with the scholars here is gaining more traction, although your pardon, Ms Highblade, but I am rather surprised to hear it. Thaumaturgist Dessedren has had no contact with even the other scholars here."

Gwendolynn is directed across the courtyard, in the appropriate direction. The Pavilion, though resplendent with stony dignity, is rather mocked by its current inhabitants, as those who cannot find board at The Thirsty Fool, and are yet unable or unwilling to risk the downward journey to Outentown overflow from the streets of Songhall to find bedding in these fine halls.

Scaling a final staircase, and passing across a study hall in which are gathered a puzzling collection of Arcane trainees, scholars, and common men, and going by Room Y, Gwendolynn halts before the door of Room X. She faces a heavy wooden door, on which a great iron ring hangs: a handle. The firm wooden portal seems unlikely to yield to even the effort of a Barbarian's maul, but at least it is not for Gwendolynn to find the answer to that. Lacking any more logical solution, a knock upon the door seems like the most fitting way to gain access to it. And yet there is an uneasy feeling of déjà vu in the mere act of confronting the door.

Moments later, the door swings open. A tall man's body covers much of the doorway, although there are two beds and pieces of parchment strewn all about in the backdrop. A pale, handsome man glad in heavy robes greets the spellsword, relaxing his stance as he takes in the sight of her with round eyes. His hair ought to be cared for better, for it is nearing shoulder length and as such has a proclivity to appearing disheveled; particularly at the end of long hours of study and sleeplessness, as it seems he has immediately been engaged in. Despite the initial pause for consideration, the man's habits relax very quickly. He speaks handsome, yet without the slightest suggestion of significance, as though he were greeting a daily acquaintance.

"Ah, Ms Highblade, I am glad that you have come to see me."

//OOC: This shall be continued serverside at the next convenience of both player and DM.