Ellanise allows herself to breathe a sigh of relief and give Rowan and Käinen a smile over her shoulder after Teryn makes it to the other side of the room. "We might actually pull this off," she comments.

The lectern radiates with the faint hum of the leyline below you, but as you lean in, your eyes confirm what instinct is already telling you: no traps lay here. The heavy cover opens with a soft groan, brass corners catching the light. Neat lines of script precisely written across the vellum pages, each entry precise, crisp and final. 

It takes a moment to find the right section. Perhaps your nerves make you a bit clumsy, distracted, perhaps by the lattice’s hum or the ever-moving shimmers swirling around you, but fortune is kind. With patience, the name Eltrax appears inked into the record. His ledger, his claim. The entry sits waiting, a single line, once altered, could alter reputations, or entire schools of thought, with the stroke of a quill.

For the first time in a while, the path is clear: one edit, one planted inkwell, and the job is done.

If you could give a Deception check to make the alteration, that should be enough. Unless you can think of a way to use another skill check.

Teryn inhales slowly, letting the leyline’s hum fill his lungs before exhaling through his nose. His hands are steady, though the weight of what he’s about to do presses heavy against his ribs. From his pack, he draws the inkwell, its copper filigree catching the faint shimmer of lattice-light. He sets it upon the lectern quietly then plucks a quill from its holder. The dip into the ink is smooth, practiced, but he has to pause and steel himself before putting the top to paper. When it is done, he lets the quill rest, his eyes lingering on the line that now carries more power than any spell he knows. Only then does he step back and set the inkwell on the bookcase as directed.

Deception: 12 -.-;;

(OOC: Apologies, I had to meet a deadline for work and couldn't post for a few days.)

Rowan stood rooted near the chamber’s edge, shoulders tight, eyes fixed on Teryn’s careful steps as though each one might be his last. He held his breath so long it burned, only letting it out in a sharp sigh when he finally saw quill meet vellum. The halfling leaned forward, cupping one hand around his mouth to keep his voice low, a hiss cutting through the heavy hum of the room.

“You need a hand with it, Teryn?” he whispered. “Say the word and we’ll string a rope across, get over yonder, see what good we can do.” His fingers brushed the coil of line at his hip, ready but waiting.

OOC: No worries. I'm pretty casual with the posting in this game. It will move along when it does.

The quill scratches across vellum; steady, but not flawless. This new line settles into the ledger with the right shape, the right cadence, but not the right soul. To a passing glance it is perfect, indistinguishable from the entries around it, but to a keen eye; an archivist, a rival scholar, it might one day stand out. Like a single sour note in a long, elegant chord.

For now, though, the hum of the room is steady, undisturbed. The wards do not stir, the shimmers drift on untroubled. The inkwell gleams faintly on its shelf, an innocuous trace left behind, just as planned.

The job is done.

Teryn gives a shaky breath before steadying himself, recalling Ellanise's directions from before and retracing his steps to exit the chamber at last. "Done," he remarks with a weak smile, regarding the passage to the exit, "Let's get out of here quickly."

Ellanise supplies any help Teryn might need for him to make it back to them. She smiles and gives him a reassuring nod.

"I agree. Let's get out of here."

The way back feels slower, though your steps retrace the same path. The lattice hums steady, carrying on with its silent watch. Through the glyph-warded corridor, past the shattered husk of the automaton, and finally up the narrow hall, you cross the same threshold where the wards first prickled against your skin. The heavy air loosens. The door opens with its familiar groan.

And then you are outside.

The contrast is stark. The night greets you like a different world. Cool air spills over your skin, carrying the quiet scent of grass and distant rain. The sky above is an inky black, scattered with stars, the Constellarium's high towers outlined against their glow. The silence is deep now; no alarms, no guardians, no pursuers, only the faint creak of timber and the brush of leaves, the sounds of a city that has no idea what just passed in its shadow. For once, everything seems still.

Rowan lets out a long, heavy sigh as the night air spills over him, cool and clean after the humming weight of stone and wards. He rolls his shoulders, loosening muscles still tight from the fight and the sneaking. For a moment, the familiar rush of a job well pulled-off stirs in his chest—but it falters. Normally, there’d be a trinket in his pocket, some scrap of brass or curious coin to run his thumb over and bleed off the edge left behind. Tonight, his hands are empty, and the absence nags at him like a missing tooth.

He glances around at the others, a small, wry smile creeping in. “Well done, all of you,” he says, voice low, farm-worn calm smoothing over the nerves. “We’ve planted what needed planting. Now best let the field lie until we see what sprouts in the coming days.” He rubs his belt absently and adds, “A night’s rest will do us more good than any more scheming. Tomorrow, we’ll see how far the ripples reach, or to which field we'll go next.”

Ellanise, practically bouncing when Teryn rejoins them, sobers considerably on their way out. When they finally exit into the night, she has returned to her previous quiet nature.

She nods at Rowan. "I know I could use a rest."

And a time of reflection, she doesn't say aloud.

Teryn nods as well, taking a moment to appreciate the fresh air and glance at the sky just to confirm it is still as he remembers. The Veil's distant presence is comforting after that nerve-wracking business.

"I expect Saelric will provide what we agreed upon promptly, to insure the matter is put behind him. In the meantime, a rest sounds wonderful."

The entire way back he was quiet. Every bit of his attention turned to detecting the signs of an approaching enemy that never came. Good, he felt as the corridos were left behind. As good as it can be.

”I just hope we didn’t destroy the life of the poor bastard. And that the faculty doesn’t track what we left behind back to us.” Käinen said after Teryn, breathing in the night. He always like it better than day. The pain was becoming more sensible which was equal parts, blessing and curse. Problem would be to not be feeling. ”Back to the rooms I suppose?”

The question was almost rhetoric by that point. His mind was full with thoughts of chains, enchantments and transference of magic but he was too tired to speak of plans. They all were. I can ask Marsh tomorrow. Part of him wanted to ask the professor for an automaton as reward. There was plenty of history about adventurers, term he considered but an euphemism for mercenaries, adopting beasts, goblins, spirits and other exotic things. It wouldn’t be that far fetched of him to wish for a construct, though the goliath doubted the faculty would share his view. I can dream. He earned that much through survival.

The walk back through the Constellarium’s corridors is a blur of soft footsteps and dim candlelight. The halls, still half lit from late night scholars, hum faintly with the same energy as the vault below, except it feels gentler and more tamed here. When you reach the upper floor near Professor Marsh’s office, the familiar scent of ink, paper, and alchemical dust greets you. The hall outside his study is empty, save for one figure rounding the corner, a familiar one: Vasha.

Her arms are full of books, and her eyes widen slightly at the sight of you all: dust-streaked, sweat-damp, exhausted. For once, the analytical gleam in her gaze softens. “You look like shit,” she says bluntly with the slightest hint of a smile tugging at her lips, setting her stack down carefully on a side table. “Marsh is still in session with the chancellor. Best not to disturb him at this hour.” Without waiting for an answer, she gestures toward the adjacent hall. “Come on. To your rooms. I’ll make sure he knows you’re back in one piece.”

The rooms are just as you left them: Warm with candles flickering low, beds neatly made, the faint smell of parchment and dried lavender lingering from the university’s cleaning. As you settle in, the night outside the arched windows is still.