It was an excruciating long sliver of time, awkward and almost uncivilized, when the Wizard Kos looked at the girl's hand, a pale moonlight colour, delicate and outstretched to him, and he contemplated touching it as if it were fouled by something devious or perhaps too moral, too decent. Eventually, something in which seemed to be forever, yet only minutes, he took the girl's hand in his, and to Araia, the grip of the mage's was not particularly strong, or weak, but it was unsettling and she knew not why. Her brow twitched with perplexity, a curiousness, when she felt something cold pressed onto her soft palm, and immediately, her instinct was to pull away, to flinch, yet she compelled to remain hand in hand with the wizard. She had wanted to cradle her hand when it was release, but it was a silly thought, childish in nature, for he had not harmed or hurt her even though the words he spoke were tinged and tainted with a menacing undertone. She concluded that perhaps it was only the man's nature to spook people which forced them to leave him be, and although he stated otherwise, more than likely he started his own rumours of his wicked ways; even if not, the very idea gave her comfort that she needed at the time being.<br/><br/>“I take your words as a warning, indeed,” Araia said, and then smiled at him, trying to rid herself of any unsettling feelings she had been plagued with earlier. Her smile broadened.  “and although I may sound arrogant and too vain in my upcoming statement, traits that I do not think that I really possess, I doubt that I will disappoint you, after all, I do try my best to please.” The young woman admitted to the wizard, and then with purposeful strides, she went to the gate to retrieve her chest that she knew would be too heavy to carry by herself and yet she could not ask for assistance.<br/><br/>She scowled at the chest, one that was very plain and simple: it was made from cedar wood and reinforced with iron studs and hinges, and like all chests, heavy. Her thin hand grasped an iron handle, and she pulled and tugged on it, and barely did it move save for an inch; it scraped along the pebbled earth. At first, however, she turned to peer at the grotesque figures that lined the wall to the Wizard Kos' home, fearing that the noise came from those hideous gargoyles, and then she giggled to herself when she realized that it was the trunk. She pulled and tugged again, wrinkling her brow with the stress of physical labour, and then she decided that pushing might be suitable to the task. So Araia pushed and pushed and pushed, and all to little to no avail except to warm herself and strain muscles.<br/><br/>Araia wiped a trickle of dampness from her brow and looked in the direction of the mage. His willowy figure had a regal appearance to it.  “I believe,” Araia began, and questioned how to address the man,<em>Wizard Kos? Mage Kos? Archmage Kos? Kos?</em>she shook her head and scrambled to finish her statement.  “I believe it may be kind to help me move this trunk as well, or else I fear you may be standing in the gardens waiting upon me for quite some time, and I am certain time is of value and essence to a man of your nature.” she warmly smiled at him.<br/><br/>