[Main Chapter] Keep a Candle Burning

Open to Gated Passives, Brunnhold Galdori PM to Join

Anaxas' oldest and most prestigious University of Sorcery, the de facto cultural capital of the kingdom and a city in its own right.
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Muse
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Fri Jan 11, 2019 2:38 pm

25th of Ophus, 2718
Brunnhold Cafeteria | The Lunch Hour
Fire may be represented as the destroyer of all sophistry, and as the image and demonstration of truth; because it is light and drives out darkness which conceals all subtle things.

Leonardo da Vinci
The Notebooks of Leonardo Da Vinci: Studies and Sketches for Pictures and Decorations
The halls of Brunnhold had fallen quiet weeks ago in Achtus, just shortly after graduation. Snow blanketed the campus and further hushed the once-fortress-turned-bastion of education upon the beginning of winter. Peace settled in like a fat hingle hibernating in the woods for a few precious tendays before, of course, everything would begin again anew after Clock's Eve. While many of the faculty and staff remained behind after the end of the school year as always, having made the red-walled fortress not only their place of employment but also their home, many students had returned to visit with their families elsewhere across the Six Kingdoms. Only a few hundred or so young galdori of various ages continued to live on campus during Winter Break simply because they had nowhere else to go or no interest in going back to wherever they'd once come from.

Those students still ate in the cafeteria and still produced plenty of laundry. Those students still required tidying up after, even if there was no structured support for them in terms of academics or programming—all of them were left to their own devices under the watch of a few responsible adults, required to check in every few hours if they were older than thirteen and under constant watch if they were thirteen and under. Many of the older students had found jobs in the Stacks or internships with professors anyway, and so it was mostly the youngest of students who needed the most care.

Today was no exception.

Pascual was slow in the lunch line again, the freckled ginger passive who could have looked so at home among the handful of Anaxi pre-teens passing by his station lost in his own little world like always. Meticulously-shaped mounds of mashed potatoes were artfully topped with beautiful drizzles of gravy that oozed so perfectly down the lumpy slopes and over the hunks of roasted garmon meat that were fragrant with herbs and spices. All of it was beautiful and Pascual shaped it for each student as if they were the only galdor in line.

Only they weren't.

"Hey, crimp, speed it up, would you. I'm hungry too."

"Yeah, so am I."

"Gods, he said just scoop it on there. What the clock?"

"Can't you even hear me?"

The young passive looked up, blinking as if he'd been asleep, his bright green eyes washing over the very impatient line of students who weren't at all shy about mocking him while they all called for him to stop attempting to make such deliciously tempting and utterly useless creative works out of their lunches.

"I'll take over here." an older male voice hummed from behind the boy, startling him into dropping the gravy ladle, much to the loud amusement of everyone on the other side of the cafeteria serving tables. Thick brown liquid went everywhere and the lanky ginger finally squeaked, his hands moving to make words along with his lips although no other sound escaped him,

I'm sorry.

"Too late now. Go on. Wash duty for you." Terrence shrugged, the older but shorter passive not at all concerned or ruffled by the continued catcalls of the students in line as Pascual picked up the ladle and wiped up his mess before fleeing further back into the kitchen. The brunette passive didn't even bother looking up at the teasing and sniggering, slopping their portions onto their trays without rhyme or reason—a far cry from the careful works of art that had been made out of their meals just moments before. The line began to move at a more reasonable pace and the complaints slowly faded into a more content sort of murmur, just the way it should be.

Off Topic
Welcome to the next installment of the Main Chapter in the Passive Plotline.

If you are a Gated passive, you are free to join this thread as it is Open to you. If you are a galdor, please DM Muse on Discord or send a PM to join us, as this will be a very passive-centered story. If you are a human or wick in The Stacks, this thread is Closed to you.

I will be posting in this story every 72 hours or less—my caveat being weekends, when I won't be posting because I have a family and such. You do not have to keep up with that time in order to be included in this story, just make a reasonable effort to keep up. Please be advised there are no penalties for not keeping up.

There may be consequences for all Gated passives for the choices you make in this thread, whether its for the good of your fellow scraps or not will be seen in the end.

While you are welcome to include whatever NPCs you'd like, please do not write about the actions of the NPCs I mention by name in your replies.

If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask!
word count: 961

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Renard Verene
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: patience, patience, patience
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Sun Jan 13, 2019 11:15 pm

brunnhold cafeteria ❋
25 of ophus, 2718; during the lunch hour
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He wondered if he would’ve been this messy.

Of course, it was a moot point; Alioe, in Her wisdom and watchfulness, had intended him to be a servant and not a student. At best, speculation as to how things might have been was foolish and pointless, and at worst, it was blasphemy. Still, he could hardly help the corridors his mind wandered down when his hands were occupied. In some other world, years ago, he saw a little Renard Vérène in the line, chattering with his peers – pestering the servants to move more quickly? Spilling gravy everywhere during some inane bit of horseplay? Perhaps even intentionally smearing a bit of potato here or there, knowing that there would be somebody to clean it up?

He had woken up tired that morning, the cold kneading itself into his bones underneath his poor bedclothes. The winter was his least favorite time of year. When he was younger, before he had come to Brunnhold, it had been a curiosity; he had loved the brusque bite of the wind, the flurry of snowflakes outside his window, the whisper of secret languages in the glass. No longer. In particular, this year’s preternatural cold stung at his sensitive scar tissue, and no amount of writhing or bundling his blankets around himself could keep the cold from numbing his fingers and toes at night. He barely slept, and his skin was on fire, and he had less of that endless patience for which he was known and appreciated.

Still, they were over halfway through Ophus, and Intas reared its head just over the hill, with Clock’s Eve and then the springtime, the bloom and all the world’s warm breaths. Each day he counted down, reminded himself of the year’s end’s closeness. Just over the hill, just around the bend. Busy the hands, busy the mind with prayer. Idleness, Renard had always thought, was what bred rebelliousness, violence, cruelty. So he’d redoubled his efforts – his shifts yielded spotless classrooms, halls with glistening-polished floorboards – and prayed twice as hard for some loosening of his tight-wound heart.

And then they gave him a shift in the cafeteria.

“What’s that?” he’d already heard a young voice crow, followed by a flurry of giggles. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a student point.

Patience, he thought. Benea grant me patience, light my path; gracious moon, look down upon the children of your waters; lady of time, lady of the tides, watchful eye…

He dipped the mop in the bucket, sighed, slopped it gently against the floor. They’re children. I would’ve been just like this. A student had dropped their tray – a genuine accident, thought Renard, the sort that could happen to even the most well-intentioned of fine, well-bred, mannerly galdori children – and mashed potatoes and gravy had gone everywhere. He had already gotten the tray up, along with most of the picked-apart garmon and the footprint-splodged potato (“mashed” was no longer an applicable descriptor). Now there remained a veritable sea of gravy and gravy-liquefied potato.

Just like this, he thought. I would’ve been just like this. Patience. I would’ve.

He pressed his lips tightly together, frowned so deeply that his jaw hurt. Mopped, round and round. Though he tried to keep his head down, he glanced up once, hearing some commotion in the line. When he noticed Pascual, his brow furrowed. He had always liked Pascual, but he had no doubt that the young red-head was the source of the conflict. He usually tried to have compassion for those passives that struggled with following basic instructions – adjusting to a life of servitude was not always easy – but this afternoon, his nerves frayed and jittering, the commotion only irritated him further. Why couldn’t they all just do their jobs as they were told?

It didn’t help that as soon as he looked up, he made eye contact with a dark-haired boy in a student uniform, who was passing with a tray. The boy promptly stuck out his tongue, raised up his cup of milk, and dashed a little on the tile near Renard’s mop. His closest peer, a rather short boy with flaming red hair, gave him congratulations by way of a cuff on the shoulder. It made him spatter a little more.

After they passed, Renard rolled his shoulders, feeling about a dozen little cracks. Then he drew in breath through his teeth, composed himself, and began mopping again.

Lady, grant me patience: I am grateful for the stream of my life…
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Muse
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Tue Jan 15, 2019 12:36 pm

25th of Ophus, 2718
Brunnhold Cafeteria | The Lunch Hour
Petulant that he'd been sent away from his creativity simply because a few students were impatient for well-crafted food, Pascual didn't slip back to the kitchens right away as he was told. He hovered just in the doorway, hazel eyes watching the students with the kind of angst only a teenager was capable of mustering until his gaze was drawn to someone else in his pale uniform. More than that, the young passive was drawn to the giggles and whispers. Fingers curled tighter around the ladle he still held in his hand, watching students who didn't need to be in uniform over winter break mock the taller, older man whose back was to him.

"I said wash duty." Terrence huffed, his words catching the attention of a couple of students with his very un-passive tone of voice.

Pascual's hand-signed motions of objection were visibly rude to look upon, emotion clear from the youth who couldn't speak but could definitely hear. He glanced one more time in Renard's direction, holding his gaze instead of staring at the marred visage that was impossible to forget. As if being magic-less wasn't enough, the older passive had been harmed by his own diablerie—or so the boy had heard from someone else who had heard from someone else who'd claimed to hear it from a professor or at least a student or maybe their osta for all he knew. He smiled—an expression of defiant camaraderie and genuine cheerfulness—before ducking his head back into the kitchens in reluctant obedience.

The turn into the warm, noisy cooking area nearly sent Pascual crashing into a couple of young women, hardly older than himself, cafeteria duty one of the rare times shifts of both genders mixed for even the briefest of moments. The girls with their large trays of fresh food to bring out to the servers squeaked and scattered, barely managing to avoid the red-headed boy as he ducked and scrambled further in.

Meanwhile, Professor Moore stood oblivious as usual behind a gaggle of other professors and faculty who had managed to crawl away from their research or curriculum writing or naps just in time for the last open hour of lunch, only a handful of them never leaving campus because, like Harper, they didn't have families of their own to spend time with. His mind was very far away, back in the lab, still lingering over notes he'd scribbled just half a house before, still lingering on data he had no idea what to do with.

All of it felt so alarming and strange and yet no one really wanted to hear about it. The bespectacled man frowned, focused on the back of Professor Jyo'zet's dark-haired head as empirical measurements drifted through his thoughts, the theory of ley lines slowly beginning to make sense—

The commotion of passives behind the counter caught his attention, dragging him reluctantly back to the present in time to watch Pascual rush away into the kitchens. He smirked, always interested in the interaction between the gated folk, if only because he was far more aware of them than the rest of galdorkind.

"Gods, only on winter break would Mrs. Rogers let things like that out into plain view." One of the junior professors chided while Terrence scooped potatoes and garmon and gravy onto her tray with tight-lipped indifference.

"Only on winter break would an esteemed member of Brunnhold's staff allow such talk to slip from their mouths in front of the handful of students still living on campus." Harper spoke up above the two other adult gadori in line, glancing toward Renard before he offered a stern, judgmental glare in the woman who objected to his scarred presence in the cafeteria.

The library secretary chuckled, unfazed by the strange views of Professor Moore, "Oh, Good Lady, I didn't realize you were in line. I'll keep my thoughts to myself then, Sir."

The dark-haired passive serving glanced up at the man who'd spoken up on behalf of one of his own, perhaps a bit more generous with the slow-roasted hunks of garmon than he had been with the other galdori, giving the monic theorist a wan smile before going back to his work as if nothing had happened.

"I have heard the Headmistress will be speaking about the treatment of passives in the new year, especially after that one that died a few months ago. I don't see why it concerns my students—the less they know the better." Professor Jyo'zet spoke up, the Hoxian with a deadpan expression, blatantly ignoring both Harper and the secretary's exchange as if it didn't matter at all to her. She was older than both of them, and her greying hair was pulled up in a tight up-do that revealed the well-aged features of her displeased face when she turned to Harper, "I'm sure you had something to do with it. You and Castor Devlin."

"You are correct, but the treatment of those we've taken responsibility for is a subject for even the youngest of minds to be taught about. Passives aren't a secret that should be hidden in the dark." He nodded, turning away with his tray of food before the conversation could turn to his experiments and his so-called sympathizing views. Disappointed that Professor Devlin was once again somewhere other than in Brunnhold proper, Harper made his way to sit by himself, aware of the eyes on his person from behind from the faculty who disapproved of his sense of decency and purpose. The bespectacled galdor made sure to take a circuitous route to a small table by the large cafeteria windows that let in a dreary light from the windy day outside. Clouds on the horizon were heavy and promised more snow, the ground crusty with icy white leftovers from a dusting earlier in the week.

"At least you're inside today. It's much more dreadful outside, even if it's quieter." Professor Moore flashed a brief smile in Renard's direction, stepping to cut off a few swift-moving students on their way to turn in their trays from passing too close to the passive and his mop. It was clearly purposeful, and he made his way to sit down once the youths had passed them both.
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Netheneale Rami-Savatier
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Wed Jan 16, 2019 11:39 pm

25th of Orphus, 2718
Brunnhold Cafeteria | Lunch Hour
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Netheneale silently stood with his fellow galdori as he awaited his food and observed the people around him. The silent traveler had only arrived at the snow covered campus a few nights ago, and was still settling himself and his animals in the apartment he had purchased in the Stacks. Netheneale tried to keep up with the conversation around him, but the only thing that seemed somewhat interesting in the cafeteria was a hold up in the line for food. The bored galdor stared at his shoes to pass the time, but quickly found himself marvelling at the floors of the room he found himself in. The university that Neth had attended in Hesse was nice and accomodating, but it failed to match the beauty of Brunnhold. The greatest minds around were here in Brunnhold, and for some reason, Neth had thought continuing his education in Hesse was a wise idea.

I was a fool for not transferring here. Neth's mind then drifted to his pets and his new home, and then his towards research. The raised voice of a woman next to Neth quickly awoke him back to reality. Staring up from his shoes, he quickly glanced over at the woman next to him who had spoken. Confused at the remark she had made, Neth followed her eyes and found himself staring at Renard. He had never seen the passive before and the unexpected facial burns shocked him. Neth nodded at the passive, and then slowly looked away in an attempt to not humiliate the man. Out of shock, Neth glanced over to the woman next to him in irritation.

"How much of a clocking idiot are you?" Neth had only grumbled the statement and hoped it had only been heard by himself. Being unprofessional with his colleagues would only make things worse. Feeling something fall onto his tray, as Neth looked downwards he found that his eyes were pleased with the food he had been given and his stomach as well. If only the people were as nice as the food here.

A voice from behind spoke up from behind Neth and scolded the woman for her remark on the passive. It didn't faze the woman at all, but the act alone was, in its own way, brave. Turning around and looking behind a man in line, Neth found himself staring at Professor Harper Moore. Neth had heard much about the professor and was very interested in learning from the man on his research with passives. Neth walked out of the line but stood close by, curious about where the conversation was going. After the galdori that were talking had dispersed, Harper passed by Renard and then made his way towards an empty table near a window. Neth took a step towards the man and then stopped. What would I even say to the man if I went over there?

Neth sighed to himself and began walking towards his own lone table, but his thoughts interrupted him once more. No, I can do this. How am I supposed to learn if I'm too afraid to even ask a single question? At that, he turned around and slowly walked his way towards Professor Moore. Once he was about five feet away from the man, he stopped himself and coughed to get the man's attention.

Netheneale quickly looked at his shoes after he knew he had the man's attention. "Professor Moore? My name is Nepheneale Rami-Savatier, and I've heard much about your work," it felt like he was out of breath, and Neth took a deep breath before speaking again. "Would you be interested in.... Some more.. help?"


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Orianna Aubellard
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Sun Jan 20, 2019 10:57 am

Brunnhold Cafeteria25 Orphus 2718: Lunchtime
Orianna was bone-tired. She was on the night shift cycle again but Demkaih, her brother, had written her and asked her to check with the Living Conversation professors that teach herbalism to see if there were any new treatments for the Mugrobi plague. Unfortunately, there hadn't been and Anna knew that Dem would be as disappointed as she was. "God, what in the hell are we going to do about this?" she wondered once again.

Anna made her way through the line, giving a tired, but genuine, smile and quiet thanks to each passive that served her. She heard a women making a cruel comment about one of the passives but, before she could say anything, Professor Moore called her out for her behavior. She heard an unfamiliar man grumble a comment before she was distracted by the beverages at the end of the line. She thanked Hulali when she saw a passive pouring out fresh coffee at the end of the line, gratefully grabbing a mug. It wouldn't be as strong as Mugrobi-style kofi har but, at this point, she didn't care. Caffeine was caffeine.

She looked for a place to sit, pleased to see that there was space at the table that Moore and the new man had sat down at. She made her way over, smiling at Moore. When she spoke, her ever-so-slight accent, one that no amount of living in Anaxas could get rid of, was evident. Anyone who knew her knew that meant she was really quite tired. "Hello, Professor Moore. Mind if I sit with you? I'm not in the mood to listen to erseholes bitch about the passives yet again. I'm too tired to deal with it and punching a fellow professor is probably not a good idea."

Anna smiled at the newcomer. "Dr. Orianna Aubellard," she said cheerfully, as she stood and respectfully waited for Moore's permission to sit. Mugrobi culture dictated that she wait until acknowledged and granted permission to sit, since Moore was above her in seniority. Yes, she was in Anaxas, but she saw no reason to change something that indicated respect. "I'm a surgery professor over at the hospital. Pleasure to meet you. You'll forgive me for not offering my hand, but I think I'd rather die than let go of this kofi," she laughed, using the Mugrobi pronunciation.
Last edited by Orianna Aubellard on Thu Jan 24, 2019 6:56 pm, edited 2 times in total. word count: 439
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Renard Verene
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: patience, patience, patience
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Sun Jan 20, 2019 3:22 pm

brunnhold cafeteria ❋
25 of ophus, 2718; during lunch hour
Passives aren’t a secret that should be hidden in the dark. Renard swallowed thickly, mopping and trying to keep his head down. He’d always felt that eavesdropping was one of the most distasteful things someone of his station could do, but he could hardly help overhearing what he did; and, although he knew the affairs of galdori were none of his business, he’d encountered the names Moore and Devlin more than once in the trickle-down of gossip among the other passives in his block. Out of the corner of his eye, he shot the bespectacled researcher in the line a curious glance. This, he supposed, was Moore.

He did not know whether or not he agreed with the professor’s assertion, but something about the way that the other faculty looked at him gave Renard a pang. The gating of passives, he knew, was a necessity; his own life and diablerie, the ultimate results of his mother’s sentimentality, proved that to him more clearly than any proverb. Nevertheless, he’d often thought (privately, of course) about how there seemed to be more to it than just necessity: he wondered if there were not better ways to shepherd passives. He wondered – guiltily – whether or not the treatment of gated passives had more to do with the convenience of unpaid labor, a sentiment that made its rounds among the younger passives frequently enough, but one to which he tried to pay little attention. Regardless, he always told himself, there was no changing it. Why waste time thinking about something you could never change?

Then he caught Pascual’s look as he disappeared into the kitchens, that silly, friendly smile, and paused. Renard didn’t quite smile in return, but his lip twitched. His frown lightened by just a hair.

Another scattering of snickering students caught his attention, and he drew in a quick breath, bracing himself; at that moment, Professor Moore moved to intercept them. He inclined his head to Moore, shooting a quick glance to the windows. “Thank you, sir,” he replied softly. “I am pleased to work anywhere, but it is quite chilly out today.”

It was true, of course. He didn’t envy the young passives in his block who’d forged out into the thick snow late last night and early that morning to clear and salt the walkways. On his way to the refectory, he’d seen a frail-looking blond in passive blue – couldn’t have been any older than twelve, if that – stumble and fall nearly thrice in the same snowdrift, caught up and urged along by the rough, more experienced hands of an older gardener. His nose was bright red, but his lips were pale blue. He wondered how many of his younger peers would catch fevers from early mornings outside in this nasty, preternatural cold, wearing the soles of their shoes to soggy threads.

He was nearly finished cleaning up the spill when he saw another two professors join Moore. A tatter of what the Mugrobi woman was saying drifted across the dining hall toward him, and he stiffened a little as he processed it: …not in the mood to listen to erseholes bitch about the passives… punching a fellow professor… He pursed his lips, blinking. What an odd little group. The other galdor, much more timid, had also caught his attention; he liked these professors, unconventional as they might have been.

Another gravy spill took him a bit nearer to the table, though he tried his best not to listen in, keeping his head down and his eyes on his mop.
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Muse
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Thu Jan 24, 2019 8:48 pm

25th of Ophus, 2718
Brunnhold Cafeteria | The Lunch Hour
Professor Moore smiled wanly, his bespectacled hazel gaze watching the small troop of young students gawk and glare, first at Renard and then at himself, before they flowed around the pair on their way to the lunch line. Glancing back up to study the passive without staring rudely, a curiosity in the quick flicker of attention as if he was attempting to place something familiar in his thoughts, vaguely aware of the scarred younger man and how he'd not been surrendered to Brunnhold until the destructive manifestation of his diablerie,

"Mister Verene, yes? Erm. Renard." Harper spoke his name as if he'd memorized it, as if he was reading it off a list of names, flat and distant, attempting to recall more details about the passive without appearing any more awkward about such forwardness as he already did, "I have, uh, well, I am actually glad to see you. You're in my queue of passives to ask, er, to ask if you'd be interested in a bit of volunteering—I know—it's an odd question coming from a professor to a gated passive, but—anyway. If you're interested, I promise my work doesn't involve anything painful. Just let Mrs. Rogers know it appeals to you, and you can be penciled right in. No pressure from me. I can explain if you get a moment in your sweeping. I'll be right over there."

He rambled before he made his way to his table, setting his tray down and pulling out his chair, beginning to seat himself. A cough and the brush of a field caught his attention as it was meant to and the monic theorist glanced up, awkwardly caught between standing and sitting. He heard the man say his name and his hazel eyes widened for a moment before Harper blinked,

"Well, hello. Did you say Savatier?" There was the weight of recognition in his voice, aware that more than one person was certainly allowed to share a last name, but as he took in the other man carefully, he noted that perhaps there was, indeed, Hessean in his lineage somewhere even if there was obviously also a mixture of Mugrobi, too. His thoughts strayed a moment toward Lars and he seemed to pause when he should have been greeting Netheneale, the brief moment of silence hanging in the air, "I'm sorry. Yes—what kind of help are you interested in offering? Are you asking about my research or my teaching?"

He smiled, not quite baiting the man but also cautious about his recognition of the other man's last name, unsure if it was a purposeful association or if his tired mind was just making too many connections. Opening his mouth to invite the other man to sit, another approaching figure flickered in the professor's field of vision and he nodded in necessary greeting to someone else wanting to sit at his table. Never in his life had he felt more popular than this moment, and thankfully Harper Moore hid his sudden flustered state well behind his spectacles and cravat,

"I'll admit I'm of the opinion that violence only begets more violence, Miss Aubellard, and I certainly don't think some people will learn any better through pain than privilege. Even if it would feel very satisfying." He waved a hand to invite everyone to sit before seating himself, completely unused to so much purposeful company, "Far from the hospital today, though I hear there's a bit of a friendly competition between cafeterias. Do you have a side in that?"

He grinned, glancing past both his tablemates toward the lunch line, watching as another group of teenaged students giggled and talked in line, this time more directed at a fellow student or two instead of at any of the passives for once.

Pascual emerged from the kitchen with a large steaming tray of fresh mashed potatoes, steaming and sprinkled with little bits of bacon and green onions, a bright smile on his face as he made his way toward Terrence with the heavy, hot load of deliciousness. Behind him, a young girl barely older than himself muscled a tray of roasted garmon bits, medium-rare and seasoned just spicy enough in an attempt to keep the cold of Ophus away from hungry stomachs for even a little while.

Pausing obediently behind the older, dark-haired passive as he told the students to wait a moment—please—and began to move the trays, the ginger youth's green eyes took in the teens across the serving table, noting how they were all similar height and lankiness to himself, noting how he'd had been in their class had he not been a passive—or at least had he not been unable to speak.

"There you go, get it in there." Terrence grunted, the girl setting her garmon down first before skittering back away into the depths of the kitchen. Pascual hovered for a moment too long, staring, until his older friend placed a hand on his shoulder and shook him from his bitter reverie. Moving to set the potatoes in place, he felt the other students' glances wash over him and he risked a look up, meeting their disapproving curiosity and feeling the sting of rejection in the brush of their fields and the speed of their gazes.

His fingers lingered on the rim of the tray and he flashed a quick, hopeful smile at the group of boys, ignoring the weird sensation of what he thought was the weird press of their fields so close to himself.

One of the boys offered a tense smile back, but the rest just sniggered, jostling for the best cubes of garmon meat and making loud requests for extra bacon on their potatoes, everyone in that moment entirely ignorant of the sudden shift in the mona around them, the sensation of the tide washing out at their ankles at the beach except against all of their senses at once. It was only the slightest of strange feelings, too far away from Professor Moore's table or Renard's work to be felt by anyone but the handful of people right there in the lunch line.

Perhaps they were imagining things—

Off Topic
Note, unless you go back to stand in the lunch line, gollies, you're not feeling anything. Renard, if you approach the lunch line, you will know exactly what's happening. Please withhold reactions until the next post by me—I wanted to give you all an extra round to get settled. I'm so nice like that. Mwuahahahaha.
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Netheneale Rami-Savatier
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Sun Jan 27, 2019 6:32 pm

25th of Ophus, 2718
Brunnhold Cafeteria | Lunch Hour
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Neth took another deep breath as Professor Moore turned around to speak to him. He hadn't known if the professor would speak to him, and used his family name, hoping the weight of it and having family members in Brunnhold would help him out; thank the circle that worked. The galdor immediately sensed the weight in Professor Moore's tone when he asked on his family name, and was curious. He hoped his name would give him some respect or some chance in talking to the professor, but he hadn't expected it to work so well. Maybe he knows Lionel or his wife. But then again, he seems too young to have graduated with him, maybe he knows Laurentius? At this point some time had passed between the two galdori, and Neth realized he should probably be talking to the man in front of him.

"Yes, Savatier. Maybe you've heard of my family, or... perhaps.. read my works?" Neth knew it would be a long shot, but other than making books on his collected knowledge on the wildlife of the areas he explored, he also tried his hand at making a few educational childrens books. He had brought a few along on his journey for his nieces and nephews, and hoped they would like them, "I am interested in both your teaching and research, actually. Passives have always interested me, but I've never had the chance to research or learn more about their... condition. I'm hoping that I can learn much more about passivity during my stay here."

Neth sensed a field approaching, and glanced over to see what he assumed was a fellow Mugroban walking towards the two. She was holding a cup of what he assumed to be coffee. Professor Moore and the woman exchanged words, talking on the fellow professors and how tiring they were. If only it was as easy as punching them to make them stop, if only. Moore offered for the two to sit with him, and Neth was all too happy to accept. The woman introduced herself as Dr. Orianna Aubellard, a surgery professor at the hospital. Neth smiled at the pronunciation used for her drink, he hadn't heard the Mugrobi term since he had last seen his mother, almost ten years ago.

"I'm Netheneale Rami-Savatier, traveling zoologist and researcher. I came here to look into the behaviors of animals in Anaxas, and found myself tasked with delivering a letter to a nephew of mine."

Neth took a moment to scan over the cafeteria once more. The passive with the mop had been moving closer to the table, and the galdor found himself watching the man curiously, out of the corner of his eye. The snow outside hadn't stopped falling, and one glance out the nearby window reminded him how fortunate he was to be inside.

Last edited by Netheneale Rami-Savatier on Sun Feb 03, 2019 10:45 pm, edited 1 time in total. word count: 504
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Orianna Aubellard
Posts: 23
Joined: Thu Nov 08, 2018 12:21 pm
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Race: Galdor
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Writer: jadeowl/Rachel
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Tue Jan 29, 2019 10:08 am

Brunnhold University cafeteria25 Ophus 2718: Lunchtime
Orianna laughed at Moore's comments as she sat down. "Yes, well, you do have a point. It just gets so tiring listening to Anaxi opinions of passives sometimes and it infuriates me to see them mistreating passives," she said, giving a half-shrug. It was clear that she knew Moore's opinions about passives and that she had no worries about being overheard. She knew she had a reputation as "one of those Mugrobi" but, as long as she just talked about her opinions, there was not much that anyone could do about it. She occasionally heard muttered comments about how she was too kind to passives that ended up in the hospital, but she ignored the comments with ease at this point.

Of course, she did much more than treat passives kindly, but that was just between her, her brother, and the handful of people who were trusted with protecting the passives she rescued.

"I had a meeting with a couple of the Living Conversationalists who focus on herbalism. My brother's trying to find better treatments for the plague and was hoping that they would have ideas. As to which cafeteria is best... Well, I suppose it depends on the hour of day," Anna laughed, pausing to take a sip of her coffee. "I suspect that the hospital cafeteria wins easily if you want a snack at 3 o'clock in the morning," she winked. "Usually, I eat over at the hospital, but I tend to work nights and, even if the university cafeteria is open, I'd rather not waste time walking over here. Juggling three jobs means I have to be as efficient as possible."

Anna smiled at Netheneale. "Zoology is interesting, but I can't say that I ever took to it the way I took to medicine. To be honest, the idea was always a bit overwhelming. There's already a couple lifetimes' worth of information about galdori, passives, and the lesser races. I can't imagine having to try to sort out information about even more species," she laughed. "Even if you choose to focus on one thing, like the mechanisms of flight, there are still so many species to compare."
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Renard Verene
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Joined: Wed Jan 09, 2019 4:56 pm
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Location: Brunnhold
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: patience, patience, patience
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Wed Jan 30, 2019 2:34 pm

brunnhold cafeteria ❋
25 of ophus, 2718; during the lunch hour
If Renard were to be perfectly honest, attracting the attention – even the positive attention – of a galdor professor did not seem prudent to him. He was polite, of course; he even paused for a moment in his mopping, offering Moore a deferent expression, not quite a smile, as he listened to the older man’s stumbling offer. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath, straightening his back a little. “Naturally, Professor Moore, thank you,” he replied, voice soft and cautious and meticulously enunciated. “I will be sure to consider the offer. Thank you again.”

As Moore moved away, Renard returned to cleaning; he considered what the galdor had said. He did not, on reflection, plan to ask any questions or discuss the offer further with Moore. He knew that the professor was rumored to be a sympathizer, and he had heard whispers of recent troubles – talk of a dead passive, of contention regarding the treatment of passives, of a great deal of contention in general. While things would pass as Alioe willed, Renard wanted no part in any trouble that Moore might bring him. As for ‘volunteering’ and ‘work’, Renard had work already, and this was good enough work for him. It was good, pious work, work that benefited the faculty and students of Brunnhold and therefore generation after generation of galdori. It was work that had been arranged for him and his kind a very long time ago, and there was no need to upset a balance that was already teetering because of careless meddling and idle hands.

Was it not said that we are often given the keys to doors we should not open? He knew of Moore’s work. It seemed to him that people like Moore wanted to take their keys and try any door they pleased, and Renard could think of nothing further from sanity and safety. Gods forbid, but if Renard hurt himself or anybody else again, it would not be his own fault. That, at least, he could promise.

Still, it wasn’t without some rue that he turned away, some bittersweet feeling that had burrowed its way into his heart just like the cold had bitten into his bones. Moore was polite to him, he thought, continuing to mop, eventually drifting away from the table full of strange, unorthodox professors. He had been polite, and he hadn’t stared. He had looked at Renard without staring.

Perhaps he would say something to Mrs. Rogers. Perhaps he wouldn’t. He didn’t know yet. He would pray about it.

Hey!” cried a young voice. There was a clatter. Renard looked up in time to see, much closer to the line, a freckled boy of about thirteen fumble his tray and scatter garmon cubes everywhere; it looked as if he’d just been leaving the line when another boy had intercepted him, neither of them watching where the other was going. They both scattered to the wind, and Renard gritted his teeth and sighed, heading over that way –

Wait.

As he neared the line, his skin began to crawl, his scars tingling and aching. He felt something shift in the air around him, something drawing and breathing in the press of bodies. It was familiar, and it was awful.

His fingers tightened around the handle of his mop and his bucket; he wanted to step back, to turn around – or maybe even to rush forward, to wade through the press of students, to shove bodies frantically out of the way in search of the source, to do something, anything – but his muscles had all gone to jelly. He couldn’t seem to move. His chest tightened, then his throat; he couldn’t seem to get air. He couldn’t shout, and if he did, what would he say? I feel – I’ve felt –

That he’d felt this before? That he had a sneaking, creeping sensation in those half-seconds that something was about to happen which he knew intimately? Something he still had nightmares about, still couldn’t shake the fear of? He would’ve made a fool of himself. What could he possibly do? What could any passive ever do?

He stood locked into place, holding his mop and bucket like an idiot, glancing around with wide, frantic eyes.
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