So it begins (Intro/Open)

A week ago, a great storm had come screeching through. It had snarled and mewled with its deadly voice, sounding like a wailing spectre. It had ripped slates from roofs and its slavering fangs had sent the last of the squirrels into hibernation. Its scavenging skies had compressed down upon the land, surveying it with a deadly malice. The rain it had brought with it was bitter, like ice-silver bullets of spite. It had gashed and gouged at every living thing, sparing no one. Doom-laden clouds, bloated with hatred, had roiled in the sky before unleashing their vengeful wares. Now the blaring of the wind and blasting of the rain was over. This was the aftershock. The world was becalmed. The furious winter tempests had given too much of themselves. They were spent. Well, so was she.

Standing next to the window sill, keen, red pools observing the frazil-silver laden nature; Aedre couldn't help but wonder when it would calm down and she could step out. She was too much of a wandering soul to be cooped up in the citadel of Savage Skull and too much of a reluctant spirit to traipse out in such pulverizing weather. A conundrum of preferences, indeed.

The world visible in the periphery of her vision was imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounded, nothing stirred, nothing sang. Winters slavering fangs had come and gone. Its lacerating winds had stripped the last leaves from the trees, leaving them naked and brooding in a harsh world. They were wrapped in their surgical coats now, groaning under the weight of the snow. Occasionally, a great limb would creak, crack and collapse. It sounded like an explosion going through Spooky forest. Other than that, an alien serenity garbed the forest. There was no dawn chorus, no symphony of sound, no avian orchestra. The world was entombed in a dome of silence. Winter’s deadly clutch had strangled and stifled all life from the land.

In the midst of that, there was the clacking of boots - muffled, as it was, but attention seeking enough on the cold, stone floor that made up the foyer's base. It could've been any member of the guild and the woman with acolyte-white hair wouldn't give it a second thought, but the aura that this person carried was different. Something she'd never sensed before, and ironically, there was something similar as well. An eyebrow arched up in a bemused fashion, 'Wonder who our guest is.'

Naked feet made their way to the door of the room, skin having accustomed to the ice-cold floor, and pulled it open with nothing but a split creak. Her face poked out first, an inquisitive gaze holding the muscular fellow who'd showed up in the hallway, a few garms following his lead. An amused curve of lips poked up her face as she heard his words, "My name is Lysander Crawford. Direct me to Harrigan or otherwise keep your mouth shut."

"What did you say? Crawford?" The woman's voice cooed, as she stepped in full view, dressed in a casual, loose, white-turtleneck and black three-fourths, "No need to use the name of Crawfords to enter Savage Skull, sire. If anything, Harrigan hates imposters above all." She spoke, almost breaking out in a chuckle at his choice of introduction. There wasn't a single progeny of the Crawfords that Aedre didn't know of - the aristocratic and vain family had the whole tree painted on a wall back in the mansion. She remembered it as clear as daylight. As she waited for his reply and possibly his real name, Aedre's posture was calm, not even a crack assaulting it while she addressed the stranger. Except for the paltry nagging in her heart, like a premonition - but she brushed it off for the time being. This not-so-excellent masquerader was her prime interest.