Malcador clutched the torc for a brief moment as if it were a symbol of holy Sigmar, before he stuffed it into his pocket. Malcador sighed to calm his nerves, before gesturing with his head toward the door Albrecht stepped out of. "Do you think he knows?" 

Emmaline ran her hand through his dark locks. "Hmmm?" She blinked. "Oh, no! I mean, he's not stupid, he probably suspects something, but he doesn't know anything." 

"I guess we [i]have[/i] been careful," Malcador reasoned as Emmaline threw clothes across the room, fixed her hair, and changed into a different blouse in a flash of cloth. Malcador closed the door, before he turned back to Emmaline, looking even more beautiful than ever. She sported a light jacket and men's trousers for moving quickly, hair tied into a ponytail. 

"Not that I'm complaining but..." 

"Our chores are done, remember?" She asked him. 

Malcador was still chilled from the spell on him, but after a minute or two, he remembered. He stroked his fine chin. "You're right, we've got a halfling to warn." He said. "But, after that, we're getting drinks, a room at the inn, and my tongue buried in wherever you want." 

She looked at him incredulously, tilting her head. "You're acting as if that's a quid pro quo and not something I was planning on doing anyway." 

"...right. Should I change?" 

"I can spruce you up a bit, I suppose..." 

A few minutes later, the two of them were down the stairs and heading off of the College grounds, trying to pass as quickly and quietly as possible, while still trying to appear to be nonchalant. They almost made it out, before the unlikeliest of people barred their way. It was the old Celestial mage they had delivered the scepter to earlier, his beard singed from some unknown mishap in his arcatorium. He looked as if he was heading somewhere to complain, a gleam in his eyes, when he stepped in their way on the smallest street. 

"Oh, it's you lad! And the golden lass as well." He said, as if he was waiting for this moment. Perhaps he had been. He took a professional poise, pursing his lips. "You know, I should thank you for the timely delivery. Here..." 

He closed his eyes, and placed his hand atop Malcador's forehead. It was warm to the touch, and it grew mildly hotter as he began to concentrate. There was a soft light behind his closed eyelids. "I foresee you have great potential! A true master of your craft, my young mage! But a dark cloud hangs over your head, threatening to scatter your talent to the wind if you let it!" 

Malcador was not certain what to make of that, before the old magister turned to Emmaline and placed a hand atop her forehead.

After a few moments, he said. "Ah, the dark cloud I had foreseen." 

Emmaline gave an offended gasp, but Malcador looped his arm around hers and pulled her away. The old wizard cackled at their backs as Emmaline glanced back over her shoulder, glaring daggers. 

"He's joking. He doesn't like gold wizards." Malcador assured her as her anger turned into a pout.