Room 322, Friday Night

It turned out that collecting the specific fungus Leland had asked for was not quite the easy task Anders had anticipated. He'd found only four rocks with the stuff in hours of scouring the cove, and one of them bore such a small patch he hardly expected the shopkeeper to accept it. His hands were scraped raw from digging up stone by the time the darkness drove him back to the dorms.

He sat on his bed, meaning to heal his bleeding palms but mostly staring into space. As a Tower apprentice, he'd often dreamed of breaking into the locked cellar where phylacteries were kept and stealing his own. Without the enchanted bit of his blood preserved in an amulet, Templars would never be able to track him again, and he'd never have to worry about being hunted down. If the phylactery had mysteriously turned up on the island, Anders felt it had to be a sign from the Maker. It was too clearly meant for him to be a coincidence.

And to come that close to freedom and have Cassandra snatch it away -- he couldn't bear it. He vowed to be back at the cove at first light, and not to leave until he had twenty respectable rocks to hand over.

[OOC: Cracked door, open post.]