Wandering the towers of Runewick, Thurimbrand was now quite lost. The youthful elf was surely where he didn't belong, and yet as each hall opened to a dozen new rooms and each room to a new hall curiosity drew the elf into parts of the towers where he certainly was not invited. As he passed through the corridors magic torches lit in their sconces automatically, an eerie feature of the Archmage's dwelling that he would never be comfortable with.
As he came across a room with it's ancient wooden door slightly ajar, he decided this was an invitation. Inside the musty spell of old books and scrolls were immediately recognizable. Rows of bookshelves with untold secrets lined the walls, but these wouldn't interest the trespasser. At the far end of room stood a well-worn writer's desk paired with a stool. Atop the desk there was plenty of empty parchment, a bottle of ink (still wet!), and a long white feather from some breed of bird Thurimbrand didn't immediately recognize.
Pushing himself up onto the stool he crossed his legs in front of himself and made himself comfortable. Having removed the cork from the bottle he sniffed the dark contents before placing it down near the parchment. He took up the feather and after a quick dip into the jar placed it's tip against the parchment, drawing his first line. After some time the lines begin to take form and as he finishes he blows on the wet ink. He takes the finished drawing to the window to examine it in the light of the sun:
He chuckles heartily at the memory he recreated.
Leaning out the window he looks down at the fields below the tower. There folks are busy working, so small from here they don't look real.
Taking his drawing, Thurimbrand creased it in the middle, then folded it and folded again. It took the shape of a simple airfoil. Throwing the paper out the window he watched as it circled and fell slowly like a bird of prey or a dragon. He watched until it became too small to see then wondered if anyone would ever see it.
A hooded figure with a few wayward strands of pale blonde hair fluttering in the light breeze, moves cautiously into the city to sell her loot accompanied by a man some may have heard called "Grapes". Neither stays long as the man greets others obligingly yet the woman simply gives a nod remaining quiet most of the time. Leaving just as quickly as they arrive, both stop to explore a couple of sites outside knowing they wouldn't be back for a long time.
Near the outside wall of one of the towers the woman pushes the hood back to watch something like a bird drifting down then motions to her partner. With him looking over her shoulder, she opens it to view a drawing and anyone in the vicinity would have heard laughter. Next stop Cadomyr. Still not allowed inside, even though both have a parchment signed by some bigwig with permanent entry allowed, the woman whispers to someone walking into the gate as she slips a couple of coins his way.
Tell Fooser I guess he doesn't need me anymore.
Leaving the drawing with the guard, they both retreat to hunt with grins on their faces.
