Vlantian walked slowly to the tower and saw other people make their arrivals; one of which was a more 'dramatic' one by nature. He had no taste for such petty spells; only the runes of old could have the professionalism that he had spent many years perfecting.
What was I thinking again? Oh yes, the Tal rune...
As he half-attentively walked up to the door, thinking about the intricacies of the Tal rune, he forgot about knocking, instead seemingly dooming himself to hitting his head on a large solid door, and thought about the odd heartbeat-like hum coming from the tower.
To his great fortune, it opened for him, reminding him of what he was about to do. He looked at the servant who stood in the doorway with a surprised mutter of, "Oh.. ah, good day to you sir..."
"Welcome," the servant had to think for half a second, a half-second that annoyed Vlantian. Few would notice it, but Vlantian was irritable. Walking for as long as he had. "Vlantian III, to-"
"Yes, yes, I feel welcome... my room?" he muttered. It was obvious that they gave him the newest of servants. Not a very old one, either. Then again, he didn't send any mention whatsoever of his preferences.
"Yes, of course. Right this way." the servant lead him up one flight of stairs, a journey that Vlantian found almost as excruciating as carving a mid-tier runeword, and opened the door to his room. "This is the room selected for you. Please make any adjustments to it as you wish." Seeing that Vlantian only had the pouches and many pockets of his long robe, he went off to greet another visitor, secretly relieved.
Vlantian walked into the room. Its furnishings held no appeal to him, as he had lived in an old ruined castle with little thought for the fine cushons and sheets that had once been the 'state of the art', which by his time had become rat-homes that he replaced with a carved headrest some time ago. There was a table on the side of the room, just barely big enough to suit his needs. At least the host had known he was a Runic mage and provided that, along with three stone slabs. A decent start.
He had put the spellbook and his runeword-in-progress into a unique rune of his own creation, one designed to contain a certain amount of mass, and where he had put his objects in. Bringing out a small runestone, he pressed hsi index finger in the lower loop and placed it on the table.
The rune vanished, being replaced with a spellbook, a half-finished runeslab and, appearently, a runic dagger. He didn't recall putting that one in.
He sat down on the bed, barely keeping his balance as it was a bit on the soft side, at least for him. He would have to recreate his assortment of protective runewords. That would require a few days and a pair of slabs... he started regretting not sleeping the past three days. He couldn't sleep any more, either, unless he put up the most basic of defenses in such alien ground. Particularly the same ground his own father had ranted against for years.
He didn't share his father's hatred of the place, but didn't entirely trust it either. There was certainly an immense amount of power in the very walls of his room alone.
He supposed he could understand that. It was made of the same power that had brought his line down in the first place; it had to be immense. At least the old witch hunts, as his father called him, ended a long time ago. Now all that remains was considerable distrust by magic users of all types, although he had met a rare few that were more open.
He refocused, looking at the slabs on the table and pulling out one of his thirty ink vials along with his specialty pen. Time to get to work...
What was I thinking again? Oh yes, the Tal rune...
As he half-attentively walked up to the door, thinking about the intricacies of the Tal rune, he forgot about knocking, instead seemingly dooming himself to hitting his head on a large solid door, and thought about the odd heartbeat-like hum coming from the tower.
To his great fortune, it opened for him, reminding him of what he was about to do. He looked at the servant who stood in the doorway with a surprised mutter of, "Oh.. ah, good day to you sir..."
"Welcome," the servant had to think for half a second, a half-second that annoyed Vlantian. Few would notice it, but Vlantian was irritable. Walking for as long as he had. "Vlantian III, to-"
"Yes, yes, I feel welcome... my room?" he muttered. It was obvious that they gave him the newest of servants. Not a very old one, either. Then again, he didn't send any mention whatsoever of his preferences.
"Yes, of course. Right this way." the servant lead him up one flight of stairs, a journey that Vlantian found almost as excruciating as carving a mid-tier runeword, and opened the door to his room. "This is the room selected for you. Please make any adjustments to it as you wish." Seeing that Vlantian only had the pouches and many pockets of his long robe, he went off to greet another visitor, secretly relieved.
Vlantian walked into the room. Its furnishings held no appeal to him, as he had lived in an old ruined castle with little thought for the fine cushons and sheets that had once been the 'state of the art', which by his time had become rat-homes that he replaced with a carved headrest some time ago. There was a table on the side of the room, just barely big enough to suit his needs. At least the host had known he was a Runic mage and provided that, along with three stone slabs. A decent start.
He had put the spellbook and his runeword-in-progress into a unique rune of his own creation, one designed to contain a certain amount of mass, and where he had put his objects in. Bringing out a small runestone, he pressed hsi index finger in the lower loop and placed it on the table.
The rune vanished, being replaced with a spellbook, a half-finished runeslab and, appearently, a runic dagger. He didn't recall putting that one in.
He sat down on the bed, barely keeping his balance as it was a bit on the soft side, at least for him. He would have to recreate his assortment of protective runewords. That would require a few days and a pair of slabs... he started regretting not sleeping the past three days. He couldn't sleep any more, either, unless he put up the most basic of defenses in such alien ground. Particularly the same ground his own father had ranted against for years.
He didn't share his father's hatred of the place, but didn't entirely trust it either. There was certainly an immense amount of power in the very walls of his room alone.
He supposed he could understand that. It was made of the same power that had brought his line down in the first place; it had to be immense. At least the old witch hunts, as his father called him, ended a long time ago. Now all that remains was considerable distrust by magic users of all types, although he had met a rare few that were more open.
He refocused, looking at the slabs on the table and pulling out one of his thirty ink vials along with his specialty pen. Time to get to work...