[center][h1][color=a36209]Walgrave[/color][/h1][/center]

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Down the long sterile corridors of the island's central tower the old woebegone magus Walgrave came, picking his way with slow halting steps through the unfamiliar halls. 

The wizened Thaumaturgist's usual melancholy had given way to sullen anger, an indignation brought on by misery that built with every step he took closer to his goal. He should have come with more fanfare, drawn to his destination by handsome stagecoach, or a palanquin pulled by slavering homunculi. Instead he had been forced to crawl from his home, something that had become as much a part of him as his skin over the years, and make his way to a flight that would take him halfway around the world to this hideous construct of glass and chrome. 

Walgrave had never flown before and it was something he had nearly refused to do, only the promise of the Grail eventually coaxing him up the slender walkway onto the bizarre flying machine. How he had managed it all in the end he was not sure. It had been nearly a century since he had traveled further than a days train ride from his dark house in Chelmsford, and now he found long distance travel to be torturous. The trip had been a slow moving nightmare, one that had only intensified when the doors had finally opened and he has stepped out into the ghastly tropical air.

He had long ago grown inured to the cold, but the wet heat that had met him on the island had been a shock to his system beyond what he had been prepared for.

As bad as that had been it had been an even greater disappointment to see the other Magi that had been assembled for this undertaking. He had isolated himself from them as much as possible, retreating to a private room instead of dallying in the waiting hall untill the call to gather was finally given. The crowd was full of young people, apprentices, few of which looked to be over 30. Was this really the event hosted by the great Schweinorg?

He shuddered, his skeletal arms trembling as he finally approached the summoning room that he and the others had been called to. With a brief round of minor reinforcment he banished the worst of his frailty, drawing himself up to his full, rather impressive height before he strode into the room. 

The first thing that drew his eye was the tall central figure of the Great, the One and Only Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, Wizard of the Second Magic. He paused for a long moment, staring despite himself. He had seen the Wizard a few times before at the Clock Tower, but only from a great distance and only briefly. Now he stood before him, one of the strongest most influential humans to ever live. 

Unbidden the thought came to him, riding on a wave of unmuted feeling he hadn't experienced for many many decades. 

[color=a36209][i]When all this is over, I will be like you.[/i][/color]

In that moment he knew the hellish trip had been worth it. 

Silently he turned towards one of the many magical circles that had been drawn out on the floor and made his way stiffly over to it, pointedly ignoring the other Magi and their petty babble. Here they were on the verge of a Miracle, a Mystery of Magecraft and True Magic the likes of which had only been seen a few times on this sad dusty ball, and they were arguing. He would crush these fools in the end, if only his strength did not forsake him so far from home. 

Kneeling he bent and placed a the slender shard of an ancient crown in the center of the circle he had chosen. This was all the wrong environment for casting he judged, but he was not about to voice such an opinion in the presence of a Sorcerer of such fearsome mien as Zelretch himself. 

Wishing the chamber was not nearly so bright, or nearly so clean, Walgrave surveyed the rest of the room with disdain, awaiting the moment when their leader would signal the time to begin.