Before Ryan can so much as proffer his spare ballpoint pen to sign off on the bizarre compass inspection, a gruff magistrate steps heavily into his path, blocking the narrow wooden barrier. The official slams a calloused hand onto the rough-hewn gatepost and demands a travel permit bearing the local lord's fresh, vermilion wax seal—treating Ryan's laminated corporate ID and crumpled event run-sheets with the absolute, unyielding suspicion of a senior compliance officer auditing an unvetted vendor.
Ryan lets out a quiet, bone-weary sigh, his shoulders sagging with the familiar exhaustion of an events coordinator dealing with an overly zealous venue inspector right before a live show. With the placid, deadpan patience of a man simply trying to close an administrative ticket so he can clear the gate, he unzips his canvas messenger bag just enough to reveal a spare plastic pen and a neatly folded schedule, offering the frowning magistrate a mild, diplomatic nod in hopes that a display of mundane paperwork will satisfy the arbitrary barrier check.