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Cold stalked the halls of Vólkerben Castle like a specter. It seeped into the skin of all it passed through, causing hair to stand on end and flesh to bristle. Its wordless whispers were carried on the wind,  warning of what lied just beyond the boundaries of stacked, lifeless stone: a storm of ice and snow that tore the life from the chest of any living thing brave or stupid enough to enter its embrace.

There was precious little comfort to be found in those halls for Thomas Rosemont. He had never been particularly good at keeping warm. Even back home, where the winters were long yet tolerable, every new layer he'd put on felt like it wasn't enough. It felt like the cold would slip through it with the ease of a dagger poking through sackcloth. The weather down here was different- the seasons were shorter but far more intense. The specter pierced even the heaviest of coats and dug its claws into a man's very being, draining him of his choler and turning his blood to ice. Thomas had given up any hope of feeling warm.

Even the food was cold, he'd come to learn, as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips and found it wanting.

It didn't have a distinctive taste of any kind, just hints of poultry and vegetables hidden in discolored broth. His nose turned up at it out of instinct. He still wasn't used to the taste of a normal man's food, even after all this time. He'd grown up on the savory feasts meant for lords and ladies, where there were so many different spices competing for his attention that he could barely keep track of it all. To go from that to dried bread, salted pork and potatoes...

The wooden spoon fell back into his half-finished bowl, the young initiate's attention shifting back to the parchment rolled out on the table and held open with his other hand. Written in fine blackletter script were the notes he'd taken during his time with the blackwardens, detailing every lesson he thought important enough to use ink on. He'd spent most of his time at dinner pouring over ever word, only ever sparing a moment to break a bite off his bread or a sip from his soup.

Try as he might he couldn't still the shaking in his right hand, anxious as Thomas was. Was he even ready for the final trials? Would they swallow him up on the cusp of his ascension, denying him what was surely rightfully his?

He'd spent every waking moment preparing for this: studying, training, and meditating until his mind was as sharp and quick as his sword arm. There was nothing more he could possibly do to ready himself, he reasoned. If he failed at this final hurdle then perhaps-

[i]'-Perhaps success was never meant to be mine in the first place.'[/i]

The bellowing of an arrogant little imp drove his gaze above his papers and his mind away from uncomfortable postulations. He recognized the ill-tempered girl as one of the other initiates, though they weren't exactly well-acquainted. She was of a different sort than he- and their sorts weren't prone to intermingling. Still, for all her obnoxious blundering and chest-puffing, he could tell that her hunger was genuine, and not some poor attempt at bullying better men into bending to her will.

Thomas waited until she'd tread closer to his table to grab her attention. He didn't bother speaking, that'd  be a waste of breath, only clearing his throat loud enough for the imp to hear. Once he had her eyes he lifted up his bowl, gestured with it, and then set it at the seat across from him.

Just as soon as it was done he went back to his studies, intent on not wasting his time with the frivolities of posturing. That didn't mean he was above a snide remark or two, of course.

"Stop being an arse. You aren't impressing them." He didn't look up from his work as she drew near, motioning with a finger toward a gaggle of [i]real[/i] blackwardens sitting at a table all their own. Rosemont had come to learn the hierarchies that ruled this place: it wasn't blood or familial prestige, but glory won with the work of ones own hands. He wasn't worth any more than the imp across from him, painful as it was to admit.

His eyes glazed over on their return to the page. After so much time staring at it, all the words were running together and turning to nonsense in his mind. The stress was still getting to him. Made it hard to focus on what was important.

Keeping his attention tied to his notes to maintain appearances, Thomas spoke to the girl once again to distract himself from the heavy thumbing in his chest. "We've a long night ahead of us. Do you think you're ready?"

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