Only Mildly Corrupt and Nothing More [Open; Intro]

A slender man trudged up the snowy mountain of Basilisk Fang, not looking to be bothered in the least bit by the cold weather. Snow-white hair matched the flakes that weaved and danced their way from the sky to the ground in gentle swirls and twirls. Only strands of the nightly sky trickled through the white of this man's hair, marking it with strangeness of his corruption. Red eyes, flecked with the mere gold of the sun's rays, studied the haze before him, up to the peak of the mountain. Stationed in front of him was the massive structure of the dark guild's hall, encased by stonemason's stone and bitterness of the world. A grandeur appearance, a sightly feature, and the man paused to admire the mass that towered before him. Its sight was one to behold, and here he stood, about to entire the grounds of which no mage ever returned from.

Marschal glanced away from the awe-striking castle, down to the doors that were eccentrically designed and carved. He weaseled his way through the snow and up to the doors, grabbing hold of one of their handles, and swinging it open. The door creaked like that of entering an abandoned, supposedly haunted home, echoing to the rafters of the great building. Quietly, the former legal mage stepped into the hall, his footsteps echoing before people started to emerge from their hiding places. Not hiding places, just places where they had been because what was it that Basilisk Fang feared? Nothing. Those people around him though? They were incapacitated by the aura that spilled off him, keeling to the ground. Eyeing those people, the drinking master waited for someone more important than the lowlifes kneeling before him.

"Who here runs the place?" Marschal called out, sweeping his gaze over those who were fighting to stand and keep themselves balanced. He'd point a clawed finger at another man, his grip white-knuckled on the table to keep himself from keeling over and throwing up. "You there... tell me... who here is the Masssster..." his deep voice rumbled out in a low, felinistic growl...

Marschal tilted his head in Sol's direction, recalling the man's deep voice from back when they had briefly met at a bar. He blinked his black sclera, red eyes, shifting them toward where the poison dragon slayer descended from the stairs. Glancing over the taller man, though not by much, he definitely began to realize that he knew this guy. No name came to mind, however, and his eyes narrowed at the words the man spoke to him as he walked down. The guildmaster was not here, how unfortunate, but it appeared that this guy was left in charge for the time being. Did that mean he could accept new members into the guild or would he be forced into waiting for the guildmaster's return?

His feline ears perked forward at the man's name; so... Sol happened to be the name of the strange poison breather.

"My name is Marschal Leigh... I hail from Black Rose-- well, I used to be from that guild, but I would like to join this one," he answered. To prove that he was no longer from that guild, that mage lifted his shirt to reveal a bloody patch of skin where his mark used to be. Clearly, it had been torn with his own claws, bits of flesh hanging off his pelvic bone, staining his pants with the red liquid. "They don't know I left... I think... so I just took the mark off myself because I didn't like it being there anymore." His eyes glanced down to the wound he made on his own body, then he dropped his shirt and looked back at Sol. "I hope that you don't mind if I join, but I suppose that I did come at a rather bad time if your guildmaster isn't around."

It was only due to his Pain Suppression that Marschal paid no mind to the throbbing and pulsating sensation of the tear. "Black Rose is a legal guild now... once independent... but it changed its status before of its lack of benefits from what I hear," the mage responded. "A legal guild just doesn't fit me... too much good in a single day would drive me nuts; I preferred it back when it was independent. Back when I had more freedom... now it's just a bore and I have to say, I've had better times away from that place." His rambling would stop, as he was certain the guildmaster fill-in wasn't interested in what he thought of his former guild. "I fully understand what I'm getting myself into, but I advise not placing your entire trust into my hands..." He smirked at the mage, rolling his shoulders some and ignoring the rest of the mages around them as they bustled.

"Aye, same to you, Sol... my best advice is to avoid me as much as you possibly can... I'd hate for you to get motion sickness," Marschal taunted the slayer. The smirk widened on his lips, his red oculars shifting to watch as the other Basilisk Fang mages moved tables and chairs out of the way. He'd take a step back and unhook the gourd from his hip, cocking an eyebrow at the poison dragon slayer. Quietly, the man would pop open the top of it and take a swig of it nonchalantly, waiting to see what Sol would do first.