A Delving in The Watchful Eye Feb 15, 2015 0:16:31 GMT -5
Post by perspicacity on Feb 15, 2015 0:16:31 GMT -5
A tall, gangly red-haired woman steps before the innkeep in Espar's Watchful Eye. Armed with only a broom and feather-duster, she cuts an incongruous figure against those who have come before her. This perception is furthered as she aks Murio for the least-used and most remote room available, then with naught but a requrest to be undisturbed after no service but two buckets of hot water, she pays triple the rate for a three day stay.
Gertrude ascends the stair, turns the corner and makes her way to the remote room. Settling in, she places the broom in one corner, the duster upon the humble bed and awaits, patiently, her buckets.
When the buckets arrive, Gertrude takes them with nothing but a simple 'Thank you' to the porter and a generous tip. She then secures the door and slowly rolls up her sleeves. The freckle-besotted Diviner then moves to the center of the room, shifting the sparse furniture to clear a circle of six-foot radius. In its center, she places a silver chalice, then fills the vessel with spring water from a small skin. Stepping back, Gertrude reviews her work, takes a deep breath, then pulls an odd, ornate dagger from her belt. Gazing upon the inexplicable runes carved deeply along the fang-like dagger's side for the seeming millionth time, Gertrude lays the dagger ascross the chalice's rim then steps back, rolling up her sleeves.
Over the next few hours, in part to cleanse her mind and in part to exorcise her anticipation, Gertrude sets about a thorough, almost obsessive cleaning of the room. She does all this manually, slowly and meticulously, eschewing any arcane aid but for the simple use of an arcane hand to dust the unreachable upper corners of the room. When finished, Gertrude turns to the unused second bucket, now tepid, then subjects herself to the same ministrations, cleaning her own self.
Stepping back once more, the tall wizard, armed with several day's research in Suzail's Silent Room, the Oghmite temple in Arabel and Stormhaven's own repository, as well as a rather dubious recounting of a personal encounter from a bearded elf; sets a small censer at the base of the silver chalice, upon which she rests a particularly aromatic and expensive cone of Calishite incense. Rising for a moment's observation, she bends again, then begins meticulously placing four small strips of Chultan ivory around the chalice, oriented on the prime compass points.
Gertrude straightens once more, looking over the tableau before her with some note of satisfaction, then, steeling herself with a deep breath, she bends, recalling her first active arcane lesson and slowly coaxes the tiniest of focused flames to her fingertips. Gently, slowly, almost excruciatingly, she brings the incense to smoldering life. Rising, Gertrude's eyes roll white as she begins a slow and laborious chant, calling out ancient pleading words whilst one hand carves a repeated lemniscate in the air before her. The invocation, while repetitive, seems to take an interminable time, and at its eventual conclusion, the thin mage's arm throbs from the effort, her mouth is dry from the exertion.
Gertrude, looking over the display once more, then moves to the dressing table, sitting down before it. She looks into its mirror, not unpleased with the homely freckle-laden face before her. She then tips her head back, peering upward as she opens herself to the Weave. After a short shudder of rippling ecstasy, she drops her gaze once more to the mirror, then, reluctantly, to the brush resting on the dressing table's surface. Steeling herself with another deep breath, Gertrude takes the brush in hand and prepares for an endeavor set aside for this very moment because of the length of time the normally routine chore might take.
Gertrude begins slowly, meticulously, brushing her hair, keeping her awareness open to the conduit of weave she has created.
// Lore Roll 3 + 49 Modifier = 52