After Vamyr's knock, the inscription burned away with a hiss of a silent firework. Suddenly: silence. The flames of the lantern turn as still as stone, and the smoke ceases to swirl. Not a living breath is heard. Then, from within the marked room, there  comes a tap of wood hitting wood, and the stillness is broken in a second by a bang of a muffled thunder that clears the hallway air and leaves it with a faint scent of whetstone shards which disappears almost as fast as it came.

The door slowly opens, and from the small gap appears a serious face, old, wrinkled, and grey-bearded, with a pipe between the lips. The body which bears it is tall, despite the age, and clad in long dark blue garments under a dark grey cloak damaged on the edges by the elements. The body rests on a dark wooden staff the top of which is as white as a birch tree, and branched like one, too. The grey eyes shine curiously. After at least a whole minute of motionlessness, he blinks, says:

[color=0072bc]''I am already liking you, Vamyr Turambar. You did knock. Just as I have instructed you. Albeit in an ancient mode of elvish.  Why, I am a what they call a wizard! And a wizard must be mysterious, must he not?!''[/color] His lips then twist into what under the long beard seemed a smile. [color=0072bc]'' Aelin, Thurin, Ellaryn, Calariel, and of course, Vamyr... ''[/color] He squints, as if counting their heads; but soon his face morphs into a brooding expression, and in sudden haste, as if they were to blame for his inaction, he says: [color=0072bc]''Come, now! All of you! No more claptrap! There is no time!''[/color]  The wizard bites his white pipe and starts hurriedly ushering everyone into the room with his free hand and tapping on the floor with the staff in the other.