The silence was deafening in a thoughtless haze. How many hours had he labored through ancient tomes and brittle scrolls? Time, his constant nemesis, stretched onward in its eternal glory. Said to heal all wounds, he undoubtedly was exempt for the pain only worsened the more time he was given. Whether he found himself in the hallowed halls of a vast library or secluded himself to the stifled confines of tombs and crypts his pursuits remained unchanged. He would find a way to make contact with Kaila, his supposed dead wife, and unearth the whereabouts of his estranged son, Darren.
His separation from them had driven him mad. Merely a hollow shell of his former self. Long ago he'd been a prominent teacher of rune magic and a member of the Magical Academy of Gobaith. From the heights of this greatness his descent to destitution had came swiftly and unmercifully for the mage. By this way and that he'd managed to survive the demise of Gobaith and often found himself in Runewick. Now, indeed, had come such a time.
Huddled at a corner table the dingy brown cloaked individual sits unassumingly in the library of Runewick. Before him a single candle gives barely enough light to make him visible amongst shadows. More noticeable, however, are the haphazardly stacked books and scrolls that rise from the ornate oak table. Those nearby might even hear his hushed mumblings in this quiet place.
If one were to linger long enough nearby they might see books on the table before him close themselves, scrolls roll up on their own, and with subtle motions from a single finger the research materials would begin to levitate and glide through the air. Judging by their movements the mage would be returning them to their proper storage places upon the bookshelves. Soon all that is left on the table are writing materials, his leather satchel, and the lone candle.
The longer you watch the mage it becomes clearly evident that magic is keenly interwoven into nearly every action he performs. When he rises from his chair it silently moves backwards to give him ample room to stand. With an intricate flutter of his fingers a seemingly coordinated magical event begins to take place on the table. First, his ink well and pounce vile stops themselves with tiny corks. Then a collection of quills bundle together as a loose string binds and knots them together. His written documents stack themselves, roll up, and again are bound and tied by a loose string. Finally, much like an army his possessions line up and find their proper place notched and lodged onto and into his leather satchel.
As he begins to turn he summons his satchel from the table and it flies toward his side while the strap secures itself around his shoulder. With languished steps the mage goes to leave but pauses in thought. Taking a downward glance back he nods to himself and reaches back to swipe a finger. The motions prompts the chair to travel silently back to its rightful place under the table. Before he turns to continue on his way he also snaps his fingers and the candlelight expires with a swirl, a flicker, and a pop.