29th of Frost, Year 4622
It was snowing. It was, meager and trace as it was, the first snow Sheorlund had seen that year, though it wasn't the first Taelian had seen. The man had spent many days toiling, committing himself to constant ventures through Jorikford and then the constant parley back-and-forth to Lorien, where he aimed towards becoming an industrial big-league. As pleasant as the walk was to the guild-tower, snow and all, far less pleasant was the prospect that some Watchman might attempt to restrain him and bind him to a bed, placing a brand against his neck. As much as Kyng Uldred had encouraged it, Taelian was on the fence about joining any sort of Guild, considering what he would have to give them. A shaving of his soul, which -- as far as he was aware -- could encompass some fractional element of his Divine Spark. That idea was harrowing, as was the concept of submitting himself beneath the knife of a foreign Kyng whom had never yet proven why he should be a recipient to Taelian's very selective trust.
Still, he was there approaching Raviken, not to join it but to attend the Covenant's affairs. Taelian was the man who managed their relationship with Radenor's southern half, and this bleak, onyx-colored chapter was a part of that mosaic. The valley that surrounded the tower was quiet, save for the spectated magi practicing their talents on boulders, cervidae or trees. Eventually, the long trek from forest to open field to tower-face ended, and Taelian was met with a large set of metal doors, which nearly dripped with their need to impose, intimidate and even unsettle. As collegiate as life as a Guild-Mage might have been, the warnings and threats -- often unspoken -- were surrounding him. Escaping meant death, or perhaps a fate worse than that.
He did not even need to knock. The foyer was opened to him, a tall salt-and-pepper haired man greeting him with a Knightly bow. "Lord von Klade," the man muttered. "I am Watchman Osian. We have been expecting you. Please leave your weapons and any arcane artifacts with me--I will watch over them."
Taelian squinted. He did not have any artifacts, save for Ard Fuil, which was his weapon. As attached as he was to it, the Thespian reluctantly reached around to unstrap his blade, handing it off to the Scab with little more than a huff. "Do you know who I'm meant to be speaking with?" he inquired.
"Overseer Lyrim," Osian answered. "Overseer Ferrous, from Thaiven, is visiting her right now. They should be at least an hour or two more. Until then, please wander the Wards and floors at your leisure. This first floor is the Grand Foyer, where people mostly come to convene and gather in social festivities. It is also where our barracks are. Please feel welcome, here."
Taelian nodded his head. "I'll make sure to do that, thank you," he replied, before brushing past the other man and into the grand, circular hall. The Knight wore a green satin vest with matching satin slacks, a bronze-colored pendant hanging from his neck. His shoulders, arms and the area around his collar were exposed, with his Mark of Resonance visibly wrapping around his left wrist. Glancing around, the Knight's orange eyes scanned the room, the corner of his lip twisting until his features spelled a certain, distinct sense of overwhelm.
