Teryn steps inside with a soft exhale, the tension of the day loosening slightly as the familiar scent and hush of Marsh’s office settles over him. He moves toward the sitting area but doesn’t sit just yet, instead thumbing open the folio Saelric provided and holding it loosely at his side.

“Eventful is…one word for it,” he says, voice wry. “We’ve struck a bargain with Lord Vareth. In exchange for access to the Iris, he’s asked us to amend a particular passage in the university archives—Eltrax’s rejection of his latest theory.” Teryn pauses, letting the weight of that settle before adding, “He’s asked us to forge a revision. And plant a bottle to suggest misconduct.”

He finally meets Marsh’s gaze. “We don’t intend to act without knowing what we’re walking into. What can you tell us about the vault Eltrax uses in the Office of Historical Theory? Wards, guards, patrols—anything you know could spare us a very public catastrophe."

Rowan’s brows hitch beneath his tousled fringe, the lines of his face creasing like furrows turned the wrong way. Straight as a fence-post, that one, he thinks, watching Teryn lay the scheme bare before the professor. Either we’re fixin’ to make Marsh stump-break his own hedgerows, or we’re testin’ whether he’ll plow clear through ’em for the sake of this cursed book.

He shifts his weight, thumb drumming the belt at his waist. To Rowan’s mind, asking a scholar to map out cracks in the academy’s vault feels like inviting a miller to foul his own flour—possible, but only if the stakes are richer than pride alone. Reckon we’re about to see how deep Marsh’s roots run, he muses, eyes flicking from professor to warlock. If he starts chartin’ wards for us, that tome must hold a harvest worth far more’n any parchment ledger.

Rowan keeps the thought behind tight lips, offering no more than a steady nod to show he’s listening—content to see which way this conversation goes.

Professor Marsh listens to Teryn, and though his expression remains calm, the furrow in his brow deepens with every sentence. He doesn’t interrupt, even when the matter of planting evidence. A long pause follows when Teryn finishes, the only sound in the room being the distant tick of a wall-mounted orrery. “Well,” Marsh says finally, with a long exhale as he removes his spectacles and begins cleaning them on the hem of his sleeve, “I can’t say I approve. But I suppose if we wanted this done cleanly, we’d have left it to the historians and quill-pushers and waited twenty years for the dust to settle. Then again, we don't really have the time for that.” He sighs and pushes back from his desk. “Right, then. Let’s be practical about this.”

Shuffling to his side table, he begins rifling through stacks of scrolls and loose papers. “If you’re going into the restricted archives, I’d rather you didn’t get yourselves turned inside out by the defenses. The arcane wards down there are…old. Some of them are legacy protections from when the Constellarium was still part of the royal network, before Luminaar’s independence. They don’t always recognize the difference between an intruder and an overeager student. If they detect something suspicious, well...”

As he digs, one of the nearby towers of tomes sways treacherously. Marsh reaches blindly to stabilize it without looking and misses entirely. A cascade of books collapses across the floor with a dull thud and a flurry of dust. “Blast it, Vasha…” he mutters, but continues, finally retrieving a blank sheet of parchment and laying it on the desk in front of him. He pulls a quill from the inkwell and begins to sketch. The map he draws is rough, but it gets the job done. You can see the layout of the lower archives, the locked doors, and the concentric rings of wards embedded into the floor and ceiling. As he works, he narrates in his low, thoughtful cadence.

“This door, here, will require either clearance from the High Scriptorum or a very convincing override. I doubt you have the former.” He circles an area with a tap of the quill. “These runes? Glyphs of Warding. Triggered by magical auras, and more than one is keyed specifically to detect shapeshifting or illusion magic. Step wrong and you’ll have the pleasure of a summoned guardian beast breathing down your neck.” He continues marking the page: one corridor partially collapsed, another that leads into what was once an observatory vault, saying “no longer in use, but still on the leyline grid. If you hear humming, walk faster.”

Finally, he sets the quill down. “There. That should help you avoid the worst of it. Do your work quickly, quietly, and for all our sakes, don’t disturb the central crystal lattice system. If that feedbacks into the Astral Weave again, we’ll be cleaning echoes out of the archives for months.”

Ellanise follows the others into Marsh's office — her brief foray into the forefront now over.

When she hears that Vasha has disappeared, her brow furrows. This news only deepens her suspicions that the tiefling may not be all she appears to be.

But the elf's musings on the missing assistant vanish as Teryn boldly proclaims their intentions in the archives. She turns her wide eyes on the professor and unknowingly holds her breath as she waits to hear his response.

When he begins drawing the map, she joins the others around the table to watch, both relieved and a little wary. She has to step out of the way as the stack of books tumble, once again briefly bringing Vasha to mind again.

After the map is finished, she asks, "And the ink well? We're supposed to get it from Eltrax's study."

Seeing how his companions chose the long way he could not help but feel that everything was left to chance. If they were lucky, they would make to Iris before the time of whatever ritual whoever stole the book was about to try. If their target was there, they could find a lead to the tome. May coincidence be on our side.

“No chance to have our interference later framed as a security test and publicly expose that the alteration was an act we independently took to prove our success then cleaning the poor bastard’s name?” He asked far from thrilled about giving the likes of Valreth anything they wanted. “And you should probably see what she is studying. The thieves are professionals who entered here once and influenced a lot of people’s minds. No telling when they may try controlling either of you.”

It was also a good idea to avoid magic explosions but Käinen knew better than say as much out loud. No spellcaster would be pleased with that kind of suggestion, let alone distinguished researchers of the university. By that point the goliath was quite confident neither professor nor assistant had anything to do with the theft. At the very least not in their normal state of mind.

Rowan scratches his chin, eyes on the map like a man weighing when to sow and when to reap. “Reckon that lattice sounds like a hornet’s nest best left un-kicked,” he murmurs, nodding thanks to Marsh. “Seems to me this ledger job’s a quick enough seed to plant—just needs a spell o’ sunshine before it sprouts. No sense sittin’ idle while the crop ripens,” he stresses again that he agrees with Käinen that they might need to look for a faster way into the Gilded Iris. 

Rowan straightens, tapping his belt. “We push both rows at once: ledger first, fresh leads on the Iris second come ’morrow. If one harvest fails, we’ve another sproutin’ right behind it. What d’you all say—sound soil under our boots?”

He flicks a glance toward the corridor. “How ’bout we split our furrows? Half of us slip down to ink that line tonight, quiet as mice in a granary. The rest keep an eye on other gates—maybe tail Vasha awhile, see what field she’s wanderin’. If she spots the shadows, we’ll say the professor sent us to fetch her for supper. Keeps her safe, shows us if any weeds are twinin’ round her feet.”

Professor Marsh glances up from the map, blinking as if reminded of something left on the stove. “Ah, yes! The inkwell." he mutters, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve where a book struck. He leans forward in his chair, gesturing vaguely toward the far end of the chamber. “If Eltrax had one of his own, it’d be in his office. Most instructors keep personal tools there." He picks up a bit of parchment and absently wipes a smudge of ink from his fingertips. “That wing over there, second floor, just past the mural. Staff offices are arranged by department, though the labels are rarely updated. If he’s still got an office assigned to his name, you’ll find it there.” He pauses, then adds with a shrug, “I couldn’t say which one was his, exactly. I never crossed paths with the man. He was usually gone before I arrived."

"Vareth said the inkwell has Eltrax's initials on it, so we should know it when we see it." Teryn gives a sigh at just how obvious this planted 'proof' will be. "I agree, Rowan. Saelric seemed set on me being the one to make the alteration, so I'll be on the Vault team. I imagine Kainen will be keen on following Vasha." The high elf gives a small smile, having noticed the goliath's obvious liking for the tiefling. "I doubt she's up to anything nefarious, but I'd hate for her to get in over her head trying to gather information on our behalf."

Ellanise is suddenly torn. She wants to stay by Teryn's side — probably a pull toward a shared heritage. But then the idea of catching Vasha and confirming her suspicions is very tempting. The female elf smiles at Rowan, happy that the halfling also seems to feel there might be more to the tiefling than she'd like to let on.

"I'm ... okay with either," she finally says, still looking at Rowan.

Rowan gives a slow, rolling shrug, “Splittin’ the team’s a bit like plantin’ two rows with half the oxen—things can drift crooked if we’re not mindful,” he says, voice calm and gravel-warm. “Still, these are academy fields, not bandit scrub. If ever there’s a patch where folk can work separate furrows without wolves nippin’ their heels, this’d be it.”

He glances between Ellanise and Käinen. “If there’s a naggin’ worry ’bout Vasha, best we scratch that itch now, before it festers. One pair shadows the tiefling, polite-like—just makin’ sure no weeds’ve taken root round her. Other pair slips down to the vault and inks Saelric’s line.”

Wishing the halfling had voiced a preference, Ellanise decides to pick one to keep the group of wasting anymore time.

"I'll go with Teryn. You two," she says to Käinen and Rowan, "can track down Vasha."

Teryn nods, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in quiet gratitude as Ellanise volunteers. “I’ll be glad for the company,” he says, the tension in his shoulders easing just a touch. He carefully folds the Professor's sketch into the folio and tucks it beneath his arm before offering the man a respectful bow of the head. He strides for the door, his voice low but certain as he glances back at Ellanise. “Let’s go find Eltrax’s office. This part, at least, should be simple enough."

Ellanise slides out of the professor's office after Teryn and quickly matches step with the other elf — though her steps are absolutely silent thanks to her boots. Despite the unfortunate task at hand, she is comforted by the deep shadows they move in and out of. This is the time of day when she feels most at ease. Even during her post-prison rehabilitation at The Shrouded Spire, she often spent hours alone after the sun had set, meditating and praying. The grounds were more utilitarian than creative, and she preferred the way it all looked under the gaze of the moon.

"We can't take for granted that the office will be empty," she says quietly, "but we shouldn't knock and alert anyone else to our presence." She takes another step. "I'll cast detect magic before we ascend to the second floor to watch out for any traps. Once that is active, we can hurry to the office. I'll pick the lock if it's locked, and we'll enter as quickly as possible. If anyone is in the office, we can pretend to just be looking for an empty office for some alone time."

Rowan tips his head to Ellanise. “Fair choice, lass. Käinen and I’ll keep to Vasha.”

He turns to Marsh, thumb hooking the rune-belt. “Professor, if the tiefling catches us trailing her shadows, best we’ve a reason ready. Need any scroll fetched, tea delivered, or a question answered that only Vasha can tidy? A quick errand from your lips’d cover our tracks cleaner than morning dew.” As soon as Marsh comes up with something —or not, Rowan turns towards the door waiting for Käinen to join him shedding light on the reasons behind Vasha's scarcity. 

Teryn casts a sidelong glance at Ellanise, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You seem to be in your element,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “No offense, of course—it’s...oddly reassuring.” His fingers brush the edge of his Book of Shadows as they walk, already sorting through which enchantments might serve them best. “I’ll be right behind you with illusions and lies, if it comes to that."

Professor Marsh pauses in his scribbling at Rowan’s comment, then offers a short, dry chuckle.

“Hmm. Yes, good thinking.” He sets down his quill and rubs at the side of his nose. “Tell her I asked for the third volume of Runael’s Transitional Theorems. It’s part of a set, and she’ll know the one. You’ll find it in the stack she was cataloging earlier. That should give you cause to poke around, at least until she turns up.” He gives Rowan a knowing glance, though his tone remains casual. “And if she asks why I couldn’t get it myself, you may tell her I was preserving the sanctity of my vertebrae.”

With that, he waves you off and returns to his cluttered desk, parchment half-curled beneath his forearm, the soft scratch of quill resuming as the last slivers of daylight crawl higher up the far wall.

Teryn and Ellanise step out into the open courtyard, leaving behind the glow of Marsh’s lamplit study as the last gold of sunset spills across the academy. The air carries the cool promise of evening now, and the bustle of the day has begun to thin as students start trickling home, scholars retreating to their chambers, and lanterns flickering to life one by one along the cobbled walkways.

The building Marsh directed you toward stands apart from the main structure. It's a quiet, squat annex tucked near the back of the campus, its slate roof darker than the others, its windows tall and narrow. This wing is older by the look of it, less adorned, and likely home to one of the more obscure fields of study. As you enter, the sound of your footsteps echo in its seemingly empty halls. The interior is lit by only a few persistent enchantments glowing dimly in the sconces, casting flickering light against polished wood paneling and shelves that haven’t been dusted in some time. Whatever faculty remain here are finishing up their work. You can hear distant doors close, and murmured conversation fade out as robed students and faculty swish out into the night.

Moving deeper into the unfamiliar corridors, following Marsh’s vague directions, you reach the hall where the oldest offices reside. The doors are lacquered dark wood, their knobs brass, some crusted with faint sigils, each closed, each unmarked.

”I will?” Käinen answered pointing to his face, painfully oblivious. His mind was so focused on the possibility of a magical attack that he genuinely missed the subtext. Instead his mind went to the group division logic. Teryn was the most indicated to make the alterations, being the most academically inclined and while since moving into smaller would be more discreet there was little reason for both him and Ellanise move to the same area. That said he wasn’t exactly the best tracker. Shouldn’t be that hard here and Rowan knows nature, he’ll make up for me.

For a moment the goliath considered asking the elf warlock if he felt any kind of magical influence over the professor but between how hard it would be to whisper the question and how Marsh was solicit to their every need that seemed more trouble than it was worth it.

”Hopefully, we’ll be back soon.” He told the professor before following after Rowan. Hopefully they’ll be back soon, said the voice of his mind as he thought of the two elves.  Theirs was the riskier task and by far. Tough they did let a man scape from the warehouse. One that had no reason to keep silent about them. Shouldn’t be hard for the thieves to figure who sent them or farfetched for them to decide getting more information.

Ellanise pulls Teryn into a corner or niche that she deems private enough. She quiets herself and spends 10 minutes muttering a long incantation while her hands and arms paint invisible runes in the air before her. As she finishes the process, her eyes seem to shimmer, and the world of magic becomes visible to her. "OK, let's go," she smiles. "We're looking for a mural on the second floor," she says, reminding herself as much as Teryn.

Rowan & Käinen

With the sun now dipped beyond the rooftops, you cross through the quiet stone paths that wind between the faculty residences, guided more by habit than sight now. The faculty wing is hushed, the chatter of students long faded and the windows glowing gently with evening warmth. You reach the door to Vasha’s quarters. The lights within are dim, and shadows shifting behind the curtains. The usual pale scent of old vellum and polished stone is stronger here, like she's been burning midnight oil without fresh air.

You knock. No answer. Another knock. The footsteps that follow are quick. Irritated.

The door snaps open halfway. Vasha’s horned silhouette filling the frame, her hair slightly tousled, her shirt unevenly tucked like she dressed without thinking about it. Her eyes flicker between you both, irises sharp and unfocused for a moment as if she's emerging from a trance.

“What?” she asks, the word clipped. Not angry, but distracted. Not quite her. You’re used to her measured calm, her deliberate stillness, but now there’s something just beneath the surface. Like being disturbed from a very private conversation. Her tail flicks once before turning and heading back into the room.

Behind her, for just a moment, you glimpse her desk. A single piece of parchment sits on it as if preparing a letter. The inkwell is dry. But her quill still hovers in her fingers.

Teryn & Ellanise

The hallway smells faintly of dust and old ink. The sconces along the wall flicker to life magically as the two of you ascend the wide stairwell, your shadows stretching long and warped along the marble floor. The halls here are different, less traveled, more somber and strict. This wing bears the scent of Eltrax’s field of study: hermetic, theoretical, and reclusive. 

On the second floor, a mural spans the far wall: An aged, detailed diagram of the land of Runewarren, rendered in stark inks and trimmed with faded gold leaf. At key points across the sketched geography stand towering illustrations of Runewarren’s known monolithic runic structures, each one drawn in stylized silhouette: jagged spires, looped arches, spiral towers, and fractured obelisks. Delicate runic annotations line their bases, and faint ley lines arc between them like invisible threads of power. Each monolith bears a title in fine script, some clearly translated, others written in ancient glyphs. You spot names like: The Hollow Pillar (deep in the Sable Expanse) The Severance Stone (jutting from the cliffs above Lake Vael) The Bramblefang (half-buried in the forested Wildmere) The Orison Gate (drawn near the capital, but with a bold red X through it) The Silent Crown (atop the arctic highlands, barely marked except for a circled question mark)

Several sites are marked with faded annotations or lines of inquiry long since erased and rewritten. The mural isn’t just decorative, it seems, it’s a working map, riddled with historical theories, contradictions, and unresolved debate.

From here, the offices branch outward like spokes from a wheel. But unlike the cozy clutter of Marsh’s wing, this place is…quiet. Too quiet.

You hear footsteps, a distant echo.

Someone else is in the hallway ahead, muttering under their breath as they pace, a pair of hard-soled shoes moving in short, rhythmic bursts. Possibly another faculty member finishing up work for the day. Their office door remains open a crack, a narrow column of lamplight spilling out. To proceed you’ll need to cross the line of sight from that room without drawing attention.

Teryn lingers at the edge of the mural, his sharp eyes drinking in the artistry and academic clutter with quiet reverence. “Beautiful,” he murmurs under his breath, fingertips twitching as if resisting the urge to trace the ley lines with a scholar’s instinct. But the soft echo of footsteps draws his attention back to the present, and his ears tilt subtly toward the muttering voice ahead. Curiosity piqued—and unable to resist the temptation—he exhales a quick incantation (invisibility) and vanishes from sight, the air shimmering faintly for only a heartbeat. Silently, carefully, he pads forward toward the partially open door, every step as measured as a breath, his invisible form slipping close enough to peer inside and listen, eyes narrowed with cautious intrigue.

Perception if needed: nat 20+2