Gil sat sideways in the plush chair, his legs kicked up on the arm, ankles crossed over each other as he leaned back to examine the pattern of the paint swirls on the ceiling.

"You should throw a garden party. " He said, turning his gaze from the ceiling to his friend. For the past few weeks Warren had spent every waking moment he had (and a few he hadn't) pouring over that Journal. He took meticulous notes, which did not seem that ominous at first until Gil realized that he was not writing in the common tongue, legible to anyone with an education.

"It's still too cold for a garden party, not to mention nothing's bloomed yet. It would just be a lot of people dressed up nice to stand in the cold amongst some dead trees," Warren retorted. His eyes never left the paper.

"Well, hold it in the parlor," Gil responded.

"Then it wouldn't be a garden party."

Gil frowned a little, swinging his feet forward and righting himself out of the arm chair. He walked over to Warren, placing his hands on Warren's shoulders as he looked over at the current page of scribblings. Some nonsense about flowing water and breathing through your fingertips. Absolute nonsense that was going to get the both of them killed sooner or later.

Warren frequently tried to explain what he learned from the Journal, but it was like a scholar speaking to an adolescent. Everything was just a little too dense for Gil to comprehend. It was as if Warren was transforming Theban into a spoken language. Where Gil struggled, Warren soaked in the Journal's jargon as naturally as a chat over lunch. Gil was almost jealous, for he was holding all the risk without reaping any of the reward.

"Warren, people are starting to talk. You're spending too much time in here. You've shirked your duties, you're not going to any social events, your other friends are starting to suspect you've gone mad," he said. "Which I suppose would be preferable to the truth." He added, letting his hands slide off Warren's shoulders as he sat against the edge of the writing desk.

Warren finally set down his pen, turning in the chair to face Gil. From Warren's expression, Gil could see him searching for a retort to prove he had, in fact, not holed himself up to focus on the shadow sciences. The longer Warren searched, the further his face fell and the truth became harder to deny. People were going to become suspicious if he did not return to society soon.

"I suppose I could feign a slight illness," he said, finally closing the journal. Gil felt like someone had picked a sack of flour off his chest, and he could breathe a little easier. A small smile came to his lips.

"It wouldn't be improbable. After that storm quite a few people found themselves in bed with a chill," Gil mused, leaning forward a bit to watch Warren collect his notes. His hands seemed paler after all, though Gil knew the ghosting of Warren's skin was due to his new-found habit to forgo supper and sleep in favor of this unhealthy study rather than sickness.

"Then, with that settled, the next step would be to find a party where I could make my wonderful and miraculous recovery from the clutches of death!" Warren laughed, leaning backwards and holding his hand to his forehead in a feign. "For I was too young and too charming for death to whisk away from this world. The heavens, in all their glory, saw it fit for my presence to grace these good people for just a while longer," he mocked in lament.

If Gil had rolled his eyes any harder, he might pull a muscle. "My world would be a right bit less stressful if you had actually been in bed ill," he snipped, standing up so that Warren could collect the rest of his papers.

A chuckle escaped Warren as he slipped the journal and the notes beneath the false bottom of his desk drawer and locked it, slipping the key into its comfortable resting place inside his breast pocket. A normal man might keep a handkerchief there, Gil thought, instead of the key to what could be his death in writing.

"Come then, I suppose I should make myself known again, lest my father catches wind of rumors I've disappeared to the forest to live the life of a hermit."

Warren seized the coat that hung on the back of his chair, slipping it on with a smooth flick and giving it a soft tug into place. In his usual fashion, Warren ran his fingers through his hair to brush it from his face. It was a reflexive motion, to the point Warren wasn't aware he did it and there shouldn't have been anything amiss about it. Though, as his slender hands pushed the hair from his face something caught Gil's eye. Right on his neck, below his jaw, was a small mark that he had never noticed before. A small beauty mark. Was Gil simply paying his Master's neck more mind than he had before... Or had that mark always been there?

As Gil pushed thoughts of the beauty marks aside, the two men ventured out of the library together. It felt foreign, after so many long days with Warren in the curtain drawn library, to walk the sunlit halls with him. Light flickered and bounced off the glass vases set on small green and gold stands scattered along the hall, casting flickering outlines of the winter flowers and the water in which they sat.

With long, confident strides Warren made his way down the hall and to the foyer. The great chandelier that hung from the ceiling glistened like the snow that still lightly dusted the lawn outside the windows. Young maids and house men scurried about tidying and dusting for the rapidly approaching turning of the seasons.

From the top of the stairs, Gil caught a glimpse of the housekeeper speaking to a group of men in the hall. None of them looked familiar. They weren't local, that was for sure. Most of them were scruffy, unkempt men. Definitely too rough to be from the Region of Kar. Their state was wealthy, and even those who were not fortunate enough to live in the laps of velvet and gold still weren't generally this brutish type.

In front of the motley lot stood several far more distinguished men. The simple white and yellow robes, slicked hair, and small sun pendants that hung from their necks spoke of their origins. These were men of the Temple, priests perhaps. Wait... Priests!

Gil's eyes shot to Warren as he felt his breath quicken in a coming panic. He tried to calm himself but no matter how hard he tried, the air refused to refresh his lungs. He found the young Lord's arm, squeezing harder than he intended too. Warren, however, did not seem fazed. He held his head high with the dignity of an official of his stature.

"Calm yourself, this is not unusual. Members of the Sun Temple visit from time to time. This is routine." He affirmed. Gil's nerves were not quelled. The housekeeper, who was generally a pleasant if not mildly over attentive woman, seemed flustered by the sudden appearance of the mismatched group.

There had been no message to prepare for their arrival. They had just shown up. This could not be good. Warren strode forward, and descended the staircase, Gil on his coattails.