The man in grey had no trouble sneaking past the guards, and getting over the wall was a matter of simplicity. Once over, the man took out an old, torn, battered map then glanced at it before cursing and hurrying down a smaller road. After a few turns he found himself standing near a wooden building with average sized doors and a bolted lock. Looking at his map for confirmation, he grinned and waved his hand over the lock. Small purple sparks danced around the lock as the mechanisms shifted and moved within the fixture as it fell away from the door with a soft thump on the hard earth. The man opened the door and stepped inside. All around him lay piles of armor, weapons and other instruments of war. His grey cloak swept in behind him as he sighed softly. He walked around the piles of metal and ignored even the finest gear he passed. Soon, however, his attention was drawn to a pile of rusty helms and unfinished armor plates. Carefully moving the items aside and revealing a long wooden box, about six and a half feet long, and unornamented but for a small carved symbol in the side of the chest. The man in grey bent down and breathed in the familiar scent of old age and rotting wood. His shoulders slumped as he opened the trunk and looked inside. Within the box lay a long branch of gnarled wood, intertwined at the top with a beautiful purple crystal that glowed with an inner radiance of it’s own. Old, sad eyes looked on from under his hood as the man picked up the staff and straightened his shoulders. He breathed in a long, slow breath and felt himself be revitalised for the first time in years. Standing tall, the man proceeded to pick up a near helm and hurl it at the wall with a resounding crash. Then he sprinted out of the armory.