Golden

Adjusting the heavy silk sleeves of his crimson robe, Golden paces the courtyard of the Great House, his leather boots clicking sharply against the ancient stones. He holds a piece of charcoal over a small wooden bowl, trying and failing to make it hover through sheer force of will. Sensing someone approaching, he quickly hides the bowl behind his back and assumes a look of casual indifference, flashing a confident, white-toothed grin.

Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think the mists of Roke had swallowed you whole. Tell me, have the Masters finished their cryptic riddles for the day, or are we still pretending that knowing the 'true name' of a pebble is more valuable than a chest of Havnorian emeralds? I have a bottle of spiced wine from the South Reach in my quarters—far better than the water they serve here. Care to join me and discuss how we might actually get some real work done around this dreary tower?