5th of Vortas, 2718
FELDSPAR TAILORING | Early AFTERNOON
Nauleth wasn't entirely sure he needed any more clothing. What he needed was the clocking walk! The junior professor had dismissed his last class of the day early, locked his office door with his stack of papers to be graded and final revisions on his dissertation to re-write and fled Brunnhold's glorious autumn campus as if it had been on fire. Perhaps it clocking well should have been, given how much of his life had felt consumed by a misguided magma spell since mid-Dentis.
He'd hardly seen Athrym once they'd so ingloriously and loudly agreed to disagree, hardly sure if the Gioran Ambassador who happened to also be his fiancé was even still in the godsbedamned kingdom. Did it matter? Would it ever? The young Siordanti had spent eight years repairing his relationship with the mona to the detriment of ever really developing any skills at relating to galdorkind. Could he really repair a relationship with a young woman so bent on believing the magicless offspring of their people were worthy of the kind of value Giorans seemed to place upon them?
Gods, it felt impossible, and the very thought of such things brought a simmer to his weighty field as he made his way through the crisp streets bathed in the golden light of early afternoon. A few trees that lined the main thoroughfares of the Stacks still held onto their multicolored leaves and the chill on the breeze cut through his light dress jacket, Nauleth having forgotten his heavier coat all the way at home in his haste to get to class before any of his housemates awakened and asked for the millionth clocking time about Athrym.
Lifting his shoulders and hiding a bit more into his collar, the tall redhead hardly needed to think about where he was going. He'd spent well over half his life in Brunnhold now and there were only a few streets in the Stacks he was no longer familiar with, thanks to his biking enthusiasm. Walking felt so slow in comparison, and yet Naul struggled to remind himself that he just needed to slow down. His paperwork had come in approved from the Gioran Embassy and the Temple of Qrieth was looking forward to his esteemed visit in order to further his studies of Physical and Quantitative Conversation. Or, at least, that's what the secretary had so kindly penned into the letter—the young Siordanti was sure the truth was full of far less enthusiasm for a clocking Anaxi professor to step foot into their Kingdom, especially if Athrym's borderline ridiculously confused beliefs were any sign of the sorts of views held by her people.
But he didn't have to get involved in that. In any of it.
He was there to research, to continue to pursue monic perfection. He was there to share his understanding of electricity and to begin new, far more broad reaching experiments in partnership with faculty and staff who shared his magical passions and intellectual interests instead of getting tangled up in pseudo-religious beliefs and clocking complicated emotions.
That's what Nauleth told himself, anyway.
But the truth was, his heart still ached. He was still so clocking frustrated and angry and confused and had no real outlet for such impotent feelings as a professor. His student years would have found him on the Lawn, dueling, or in the gymnasium, still dueling. If he had more spare time, he'd still be active in his league, but his dissertation had sucked the time from his hands and he had to drop out for the season.
Perhaps he should have biked to this Feldspar Tailoring.
Perhaps the physical exertion would have done him some good.
Too late now, Nauleth exhaled a sigh of resignation in a cloud of hot breath, sea glass-colored eyes noting the street signs and turning down a well-manicured one, finally glancing upwards at business signage. He passed by windows decorated with autumn colors and harvest themes. He passed a young couple walking their dog together and a couple of students rushing past to get to Brunnhold in time for their next class. The red-walled city was all that he'd known for most of his life, most of his memory, and as excited as he was about moving on to pursue magical greatness, part of him was terrified to leave, even moreso now that he'd gone and ruined his only comfort, his only cultural reference, his only anchor by tarnishing his relationship with Athrym.
He'd been told to look for a crudely painted white miraan on the signage, but Naul had not expected to see a real one. Perched atop the tailor's sign, the feathered little draconic beast fetched an endearing image, and thankfully, his attention was grabbed just enough for the ginger professor to remember where he was even going. Pausing on the sidewalk, he realized someone was standing outside as if waiting for someone—certainly not himself since he hadn't made an appointment—and that someone had a field.
No, a glamour.
Nauleth's own aura felt heavy in comparison, as if the tall galdor produced his own gravitational pull. Still, contrary to a certain Gioran Ambassador's beliefs, he had some godsbedamned manners, and as much as he didn't entirely enjoy interacting with the lower races—gods, he hardly enjoyed interacting with his own kind!—he still offered the man and his coffee the flash of a brief smile,
"Good afternoon. Are you the tailor here? Or do you work for them? I didn't make arrangements, but, uh, Feldspar comes quite recommended and, uh, graduation is right around the corner so I'd best give you some business."
Welcome to Brunnhold, stop-clocker, now go home.