Laszlo sips his ale. The Strati are a tighter group than he'd thought, he'd have to remember that if he ever ran into one again. This one claims to be powerful, although the few mages he'd met had all been boastful. She doesn't look the type to brag. Gods but he had hoped she was a thief, on the run with some stolen grimoire or magical weapon, however, her trail was running cold, and it was time to scrap the heist, and focus on his mission. Were it not for this he'd be upstairs preparing right now. The girl might have a few trinkets on her, Laszlo doubts they are worth the trouble. He'll cut this one loose, it's time 'Siriel' disappears before the stone starts acting up again.<br/><br/>Siriel stands up, and adjusts her armor, "Well miss, I believe you. Gods know it's what I'd do at your age anyways, nice to get out and see the world while you're young enough to enjoy it. You can have my services if you like, I know where folk like us can go to get a meal or a new change of clothes without rousing the rabble's suspicion, show you how to earn a keep without paying tax or whoring, and teach you where not to be and when. There are certain places round here the guards use to fill their quota. I'd start you tonight, but I've got errands to run, previous engagements." She makes her way to the door, "If you've no arrangements, you can stay here tonight, I guarantee there'll be no trouble. If not, you can meet me here for dinner tomorrow, we can discuss fees then. Night miss." She sweeps out the door, and Laszlo finally lets go of the reins, and relaxes into his seat. He waves the keep over again<br/><br/>"Inn keep, if that girl stays here tonight, it's on the old woman's bill." He hands over another gold coin, and the keep nods silently, "I'll be taking this to my room, send up some bread and chicken after me."<br/><br/>Laszlo stands up slowly, and makes his way to the stairs, gingerly stepping like an old man. He glances back at the girl. If all went to plan, 'Siriel' would not be back tomorrow, or any other night for that matter, he doubted he'd ever resurrect the bawdy old woman. No, tomorrow he should be on his way out of town, gold in hand, secrets in head. The girl would sink or swim, he'd wasted enough precious time and gold on her. He walks up the stairs. Time to focus on his real mission, the temple. He opens the door to his room, and finds himself frozen in place.<br/><br/>There, dozing on the bed, is the bright eyed young man he'd made a few hours earlier. He's come back as promised. Laszlo hears footsteps downstairs, the inn keep is coming up with food. He steps into his room and sets his walking stick aside, the inn keep slips in and quietly places his food on the wash table, Laszlo glances from the boy to the swarthy, unassuming man.<br/><br/>"This one is also my guest." He says, breaking out in a cold sweat. The innkeeper glances around the room and frowns, then nods and backs out of the room slowly, not moving his eyes from Laszlo. Laszlo stares at the sleeping young man, hadn't the inn keep seen him? No matter what the case, he was no threat, Laszlo reminds himself. He takes his plate and quickly eats the cold chicken and hard bread. The boy dozes on, seemingly unaware. He sets the plate down and gathers his things from the chest at the foot of the bed, tools he'll need for the night ahead. He snatches his set of picks and his drill, wrapping them in cloth, they'll be quiet in his pack. He thinks for a moment and grabs a small, clinking bag as well. He closes the lid of the chest, stopping halfway. The young man is sitting up in bed, staring at him. How had he missed the sound of his movement?!<br/><br/>He squats there for a long time, lid in hands, eye wide in apprehension. The boy stares. "Fuck this," he slams the lid down and quickly walks out, illusory walking stick abandoned. As he closes the door another glimpse of the young man shows him sitting on the edge of the bed, tracking Laszlo with a blank smile. He closes the door and hurries out of the Elderwood, beard vanishing as he tugs it away outside. His heart is pounding, and his hand hurts. He looks down and opens it, the stone is squeezed tight in his palm, cutting into his fingers. He stares at it for a long moment, feeling his sweat cool in the night air.<br/><br/>"When I've no need of you, friend, we're taking a boat ride down the river, and I'll be casting you into deepest, blackest waters I can find," He growls. The stone shimmers.<br/><br/>He tucks it into its pouch around his neck and makes his way down the road towards the temple, concentrating on remembering the layout of the building. He'd hit the academy a week before, picked through it's library but found few leads. The tome on history of the priesthood's many temples had been a godsend, there were many etched diagrams of the grand temple here in Ai. He hopes there have been few modifications to the layout since. Of his quarry he'd found nothing he hadn't already known. An old tome of history mentioned him, a werewolf named Kerklos, master scholar, warrior, and alchemist, lived most of his life exiled from the clans in Ronana, and died at the battle of Crescent Glen over 600 years ago. The dusty tome hadn't mentioned the most important detail.<br/><br/>Years before, when he was starting out on his quest, he'd taken to learning werewolf history, hoping to find some clue of where to start. It was a difficult thing to study, as most werewolves are illiterate, most he found by raiding dwarven history vaults, as the beards obsessively document everything they know. Years passed, and he had begun to loose hope that any had ever beaten the Rage, when he read within  'Valbere's Anciente Hystorys,' the dwarven account of Crescent Glen. It had said, in a small note, that on the day Kerklos died, he had been 67 years of age.<br/><br/>Werewolves are a strong people, but very transient as well, long lived as the humans they appear to be. For one to make it to 40 without succumbing to the Rage was a feat of great concentration. Once in a generation, an elder of extreme wisdom might make it to his 50th year without loosing all human faculties, but out of all the renowned werewolves of history Laszlo had researched, none had lived to anywhere near 60 on two legs. In that regard, Kerklos was unique, most credited this to his extreme mental capacity, but 'Valbere's,' the most complete history he had read yet, attributed it to an elixir the man had concocted. He'd drank it at Crescent Glen, and at 67 years it had staved off the Rage in heated combat. Such a feat is unheard of. If such an elixir existed, its boon to Laszlo, or any werewolf, would be a life free of the raging temper that begins to build over the years. The priesthood of Ai had many scrolls of history and lore to be found nowhere else, and are healers and alchemists of great repute. Were there to be a copy of Kerklos's formula, their lore vault in the grand temple may well hold a copy. Hopefully it had not long since been burned out of spite.<br/><br/>Laszlo looks up at the night sky, the weather is as he'd hoped, overcast, and a good thing too. The moon would be full tomorrow night, and even now with the clouds obscuring it, Laszlo can feel a dull throbbing near the back of his eyes. It'd be impossible to resist tomorrow, but without the cloud cover it would've distracted him beyond his wits tonight. He arrives at the temple walls.<br/><br/>He waits. A slight breeze picks up, and he retrieves his grapple. Footsteps clack by above. Laszlo swings the grapple counting slowly to twenty. It whizzes up, looping around a rampart and pulling snug. He scales the rope quickly, peering over the edge at the guards, their circuit is taking them back along the same path, he blinks, and a set of spectral footsteps run past them into the guard tower they've just come from. They stiffen and stomp after the mysterious noise.<br/><br/>With a jump and a light somersault, he's in the courtyard, no bones broken this time. He's flying blind from here on out, the guards within the compound are impossible to spot from without, and without any knowledge of scripture, it was unsafe to scope the interior out in the guise of the faithful. Nevertheless the route he's planned through the temple should see him to his goal. He grins, feeling the rush of adrenaline, and creeps forward towards the temple proper, ears pricked for approaching feet.