Vanalya tugs at her armor in annoyance. What gave me the brilliant idea to wear this to the guild? she wonders briefly, glancing around, or rather, up, at the gathering crowd. Her lips twitch into a small smile as she recognizes the man with the stylized voice, curves and blocking and double bars coming together in a seamless whole. Not exactly blackletter, but close.

When the door opens, she enters without hesitation, the slight tension in her shoulders and back relaxing at the familiar scent of Grosh's pipe smoke, the ogre magi head and the attached memories, scribbling themselves happily over and around the magi's head, drifting like wisps of smoke, opaque, transparent, solid, non-existant. She spends a moment just reading and remembering, then rolls her eyes when Jensin mentions that Grosh wouldn't be back for another hour. What was I expecting, honestly? She pulls out a chair and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. She glances around at the crowd, trying to see if she recognizes anyone else. Her eyes are drawn to the silver elf and the ragged-looking human, though she is not sure why.

Then a rather unpleasant and frankly, painful, memory jumps to the front of her mind, and she flinches as words begin to write themselves over the fireplace and the echoing memories speak in her mind. Invasive requests made I need and denied will not, cutting words and orders tell me, quiet refusals and questions no right, both driven to growing anger do you and then a slam like an ink bottle thrown against the wall get out, the first and last time she'd considered not healing someone if they returned in need....Oh, right. That guy.

Her eyes are fixed in place, watching the angry words scrawl over themselves, half-legible white script on brown brick. She had learned long ago not to close her eyes when this happened, not to make the words any more clear than they were already. This is the price I pay. Memories in writing, obscured vision. It's worth it. My power will help me fix Perth. This place is worth it.