The School of Devastation passed into Urenda in the early morning. Some thirty-odd members strong, the overlarge party of walkers, riders and caravans remained unmolested for their entire trip toward the city proper, for no demon or Shadow in the area with any sense would try to attack such a large group, let alone one of such notable Arcane power and physical ability. Whilst the guards outside the walls were obviously perturbed at first, a series of quick checks upon all its members proved that none were demonic creatures in disguise, and they were allowed entrance for rest, recuperation, and a certain degree of civilised concourse. For several hours, a number of Artists clad in robes and armour of varying colours, styles, and degrees of defensiveness could be seen wandering the streets in search of new members, enjoying a rare drink in the tavern, or visiting the church for the sake of supplication and tithe; ultimately, however, the School thanked the city's members for the hospitality, and walked out again with great expectations of its newest student. All they left behind was a fairly short figure, in what could only be immensely stifling red armour, which waved its farewells to the school- however temporary they might be- until the convoy finally left visual range. Then, supplied and with an air of importance to its mission, the lone Artist strode into the tavern.

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[h2][b]Magnus the Red[/b][/h2]
Ah, I do love the smell of alcohol in the middle of the day. 'tis truly the elixir of life. Only slightly behind water, of course, but then it has to have water in it, doesn't it? Without further ado, I drag myself up to a seat at the bar, pull my helmet from my head to rest it in my lap, and call to the innkeeper: 'A mug a y'r finest beer, if ye please!'

[So if Magnus' speech patterns don't coincide with those of any given subrace or larger gathering of dwarfkind... blame his parents.]