In which a mysterious and much-maligned magus is met at long last....
Even for those who have lived here a while, the White Lady doesn't feel like home. Its grounds are large and patched together with no apparent plan in mind. Strange buildings, created by magic with callous disregard for those around them, dot the entire valley. A small village of mundanes huddles on the central plateau of the valley, dwarfed by the abandoned towers and structures raised by magic. Now, it is said, most magi live in the central manor; a poorly maintained, dusty, and cavernous place if ever there was one.
The weather has been mercifully warm for the past week, but judging from the chill and light snow already falling this afternoon, that is about to change. Within hours, several parties of visitors arrive, piling into the small gatehouse near the entrace to the valley and huddling near whatever open flame or stove they can find. There is a single man there, middle aged and greying with no weapons or armor to speak of. He has but one answer for all who ask to be admitted: wait. He is differential to magi, but he is standoffish and clearly unused to the Gift. After a time cooling your heels - just long enough to be awkward but just short enough that you haven't had a chance to say anything of substance - the door leading into the covenant proper creaks open and a man enters.
Well, a man of sorts. His is not quite five feet tall, his hair is greasy and black, and his skin is pale as a corpse. Seeing you, he smiles humorlessly, showing long canines.
"Good day, visitors. You are the most we've seen in a long time. Pray, introduce yourselves I am Pyror, and I will be your guide here." His tone is curt, dismissive. He somehow he manages to look down his long white nose at all of you despite his small stature. He searches each magus in turn with his eyes, and then looks away dismissively.
"Don't stare, and don't complain about the wait. The Master has been expecting each of you, and you wait on his pleasure."