35th of Yaris, 2718
FIELD of PRACTICAL APPLICATION | MORNING CLASS
FIELD of PRACTICAL APPLICATION | MORNING CLASS
There was still a part of Nauleth Siordanti that wanted to relish the sight of tears shed over failure on the Lawn of Practical Application. It was some writhing beast deep in the dark recesses of his mind, burning against the base of his skull like the sun above them, insatiable for the weaknesses of others and wanting to crush their very bones with the gravity of his gloating. He felt it stir as he watched Madeleine's sweaty expression wilt in the heat, the young girl about the age he was when his anger had finally succeeded in consuming him so completely that he'd nearly tasted the end of his own life.
The professor licked dry lips. Salt on his tongue soured his already serious features further and his ginger brow furrowed, one side more than the other, when the fifth form shook her head, when her lip trembled, when tears welled. He stood before she spoke, stepping back to glance at his other students. Some of them were watching. Some of them were still clocking bickering. Some of them looked as though they weren't any more successful.
Reaching through his robes to find his pocket watch, he ran a thumb over the engraved stag out of comfortable habit while he pulled it from his vest pocket. Looking back to the youngest Gosselin next to him in time for her to whisper no, he made a little noise of surprise when she asked to be allowed to flee the sight of what she clearly saw as an inexcusable failure even though Naul had attempted to mitigate such pain with his academic honesties.
Empathy was not his strongest of teaching skills.
"No, Miss Gosselin. You may not be excused." He saw the first tear dribble down a flushed cheek and watched her reflexively reach up to stem the flow. His voice was stern, authoritative, and yet what gentleness had softened the edges of his honest attempt at offering an experienced perspective was still there, "What is my classroom rule about crying—"
"Backlash or bloodshed only, Professor!" Shouted Asher Dunhill from over his shoulder, the short, heavily freckled boy and his partner, Varnieas Hulwen, were within earshot, their simple lever system waiting for the professor's review.
"Precisely. Thank you, Mister Dunhill. And since neither of those two things have occurred, there—fo—"
SNAP!
Godsdamnit.
Something metal cracked and a crackle-whizzzzz of monic energy rippled through their section of the Lawn, washing over everyone like a tidal wave. A girl shouted in surprise. Her partner sniveled in sorrow. A metal sphere soared over Naul's shoulder, the professor already in motion once he realized he'd allowed himself to be too distracted by the normal, acceptable magical shortcomings of a single, far more successful than she allowed herself to feel student to keep track of the actual problem students who were more likely to cause issues. He flinched, dropping his pocket watch to have it sway and flash at his waist, open to the hour he'd wanted to check on in order to enforce that Madeleine had nowhere else to go, that she had no choice but to look at things objectively instead of emotionally.
He'd not wanted to discourage her. He'd wanted to expand her boundaries. It was difficult in the competitive galdori world to see the benefits of mistakes, it was true.
And here was just another example of why.
Hands raised with his voice as his bespectacled-gaze flicked toward other pieces of things soaring in all the wrong directions, Monite was quick on his tongue with his duelist's reflexes, field etherically expanding like a shimmering cloud outward and the hot, dry Yaris air seemed to grow thick and heavy, weighing down on everyone's shoulders like a firm hand.
Every stray project bit froze—one more metal sphere just within touching distance of Abigail Stewart's wide-eyed face—and Professor Siordanti fell quiet for a moment, holding everything in place with his concentration. He was, surprisingly, not frowning, sweat trailing down his freckled face, and there just twenty yards from a sniffling Miss Gosselin was a pair of equally sorrowful other students.
Naul was, in fact, smiling, "Greyson's version of the spell for reversing polarization does have a clause in it that if you don't get it just right—well, things happen with quite a bit of force."
Wide-eyed, he had his class' attention, and he looked toward the two magnets that were on the ground ten feet from each other, half in the dirt and grass where they'd pushed away too fast. Without dropping his upkeep, the eldest Siordanti's field once again drew inward and he spoke a similar but different spell in hopes of drawing the magnets back together again in attraction ... Only, perhaps his memory was a little fuzzy on the leybridge of this one, and even as he spoke it, one side of his face scrunched up in thought before the other almost comically, though his intonation did not waver. While he hardly hesitated, confident in his knowledge, too confident, and bravely putting on his most professional air of non-distraction, he realized too late that he was not getting anything quite right, either.
The very air around them felt like a sigh, and while the magnets quivered and began to turn, slowly, everything simply fizzled.
Someone giggled.
Someone else chuckled.
Miss Stewart gasped.
The professor smirked, and if he was at all embarrassed or frustrated by his own failure to cast successfully, it didn't at all show on his face. Inside, anger stirred again, gnawing against raw nerve endings, tingling up the side of his face, but here he was making an example of himself in front of impressionable young galdori about how to take disappointment in stride. Slowly, everything he'd held in place began to drop to the ground under normal gravity,
"Well, I think it's just about time we blame the Yaris heat on all of this—" He reached, finally, for his pocket watch, dangling uselessly as it was against the drapes of his robes, curling his fingers around it to shut it instead of checking the time, "—because it looks like we're all having a time of things, hmm? Who here can tell me what I misspoke? Anyone? Were you listening carefully?"
The professor licked dry lips. Salt on his tongue soured his already serious features further and his ginger brow furrowed, one side more than the other, when the fifth form shook her head, when her lip trembled, when tears welled. He stood before she spoke, stepping back to glance at his other students. Some of them were watching. Some of them were still clocking bickering. Some of them looked as though they weren't any more successful.
Reaching through his robes to find his pocket watch, he ran a thumb over the engraved stag out of comfortable habit while he pulled it from his vest pocket. Looking back to the youngest Gosselin next to him in time for her to whisper no, he made a little noise of surprise when she asked to be allowed to flee the sight of what she clearly saw as an inexcusable failure even though Naul had attempted to mitigate such pain with his academic honesties.
Empathy was not his strongest of teaching skills.
"No, Miss Gosselin. You may not be excused." He saw the first tear dribble down a flushed cheek and watched her reflexively reach up to stem the flow. His voice was stern, authoritative, and yet what gentleness had softened the edges of his honest attempt at offering an experienced perspective was still there, "What is my classroom rule about crying—"
"Backlash or bloodshed only, Professor!" Shouted Asher Dunhill from over his shoulder, the short, heavily freckled boy and his partner, Varnieas Hulwen, were within earshot, their simple lever system waiting for the professor's review.
"Precisely. Thank you, Mister Dunhill. And since neither of those two things have occurred, there—fo—"
SNAP!
Godsdamnit.
Something metal cracked and a crackle-whizzzzz of monic energy rippled through their section of the Lawn, washing over everyone like a tidal wave. A girl shouted in surprise. Her partner sniveled in sorrow. A metal sphere soared over Naul's shoulder, the professor already in motion once he realized he'd allowed himself to be too distracted by the normal, acceptable magical shortcomings of a single, far more successful than she allowed herself to feel student to keep track of the actual problem students who were more likely to cause issues. He flinched, dropping his pocket watch to have it sway and flash at his waist, open to the hour he'd wanted to check on in order to enforce that Madeleine had nowhere else to go, that she had no choice but to look at things objectively instead of emotionally.
He'd not wanted to discourage her. He'd wanted to expand her boundaries. It was difficult in the competitive galdori world to see the benefits of mistakes, it was true.
And here was just another example of why.
Hands raised with his voice as his bespectacled-gaze flicked toward other pieces of things soaring in all the wrong directions, Monite was quick on his tongue with his duelist's reflexes, field etherically expanding like a shimmering cloud outward and the hot, dry Yaris air seemed to grow thick and heavy, weighing down on everyone's shoulders like a firm hand.
Every stray project bit froze—one more metal sphere just within touching distance of Abigail Stewart's wide-eyed face—and Professor Siordanti fell quiet for a moment, holding everything in place with his concentration. He was, surprisingly, not frowning, sweat trailing down his freckled face, and there just twenty yards from a sniffling Miss Gosselin was a pair of equally sorrowful other students.
Naul was, in fact, smiling, "Greyson's version of the spell for reversing polarization does have a clause in it that if you don't get it just right—well, things happen with quite a bit of force."
Wide-eyed, he had his class' attention, and he looked toward the two magnets that were on the ground ten feet from each other, half in the dirt and grass where they'd pushed away too fast. Without dropping his upkeep, the eldest Siordanti's field once again drew inward and he spoke a similar but different spell in hopes of drawing the magnets back together again in attraction ... Only, perhaps his memory was a little fuzzy on the leybridge of this one, and even as he spoke it, one side of his face scrunched up in thought before the other almost comically, though his intonation did not waver. While he hardly hesitated, confident in his knowledge, too confident, and bravely putting on his most professional air of non-distraction, he realized too late that he was not getting anything quite right, either.
The very air around them felt like a sigh, and while the magnets quivered and began to turn, slowly, everything simply fizzled.
Someone giggled.
Someone else chuckled.
Miss Stewart gasped.
The professor smirked, and if he was at all embarrassed or frustrated by his own failure to cast successfully, it didn't at all show on his face. Inside, anger stirred again, gnawing against raw nerve endings, tingling up the side of his face, but here he was making an example of himself in front of impressionable young galdori about how to take disappointment in stride. Slowly, everything he'd held in place began to drop to the ground under normal gravity,
"Well, I think it's just about time we blame the Yaris heat on all of this—" He reached, finally, for his pocket watch, dangling uselessly as it was against the drapes of his robes, curling his fingers around it to shut it instead of checking the time, "—because it looks like we're all having a time of things, hmm? Who here can tell me what I misspoke? Anyone? Were you listening carefully?"
Welcome to Brunnhold. Now go home.
