Logbook X784/12-?
'Time Will Get Us Too'
A quill rested on the left side of an old journey. The tip was clad in ink, the table which the journey laid upon was worn out. The frames barely held together; it had been an old desk. Since the tall figure returned, or rather was - welcomed - back into town; most of his time was hogged by his offspring, if not for his required help at the private practice - he would like to cultivate his creativity and time into his writing, and now he had found that time. Since his long absence of the Lamia Scale - his goal had been to witness those who had joined after his sudden disappearance to Crocus.
Maarschalk, within the guild, is described as an enigmatic person. His objectives and goals were never quite clear to those who only saw the surface of what he really is. There wasn't a single soul that understood the dark, and edgy emotion that roared within. If any soul knew him at all. Upon his entry to the guild, a foreign nick name greeted him. A nickname given those who considered themselves as his peers; whilst they were far off with that observation. His nickname was quite ominous to those outside the guild. It had become an inside joke to some.
'You need a shave, old man.'
The tall figure didn't consider talking to oneself as a mental issue. Thinking aloud wasn't very socially accepted to many. His reflection didn't distress him, even though he hadn't taken care of himself properly. At least he had the ability to channel his inner peace within the chambers of his room to gather the motivation to groom himself.
Between splashing his face with hot water, and using a double-edged knife to shave he wasn't sure whether today would be the day that he should end his life; or perhaps end the life of another. Unfortunately, he had been alone the entire time from the point of his entrance of the guild, to him standing in front of his mirror, changing into his proper dressing. And should someone interrupt his actions, his reactions would be appropriately placed based on those actions. The face of the morning was lazy; the dust in the corner of ones eye was still a sight for Maarschalk to behold. He certainly wasn't as much as a slob as other people, but he had his ways.
After leaving his room, he entered the guild hall- - trying to look around for a familiar face. Where was the guild master anyway? Maarschalks shadow met the shadow behind him. His garb didn't really classify under normal civilian clothes, his garb was mostly painted black. Some parts were made of leather, whilst others were elastic and made it easy for agile and flexible movement. In fact, some of it was highlighting his third leg. After descending from the central stairs, Maarschalk had noticed an absence of noise, perhaps he had been with his children for far too long. His focus was fixed on the main doors of Lamia Scale. Being fidgety certainly wasn't something that Maarschalk could be described as, but he was alert enough to notice anyone enter were they not cloaking their movement. His squinted eyes gazed over the bridge, since the doors were wide open... for whatever reason...