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brewbellwizardry · 4 years ago

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Wiztober Day 1 - Schools

“Welcome to Ravenwood!”

Emory swept a dramatic arm around the spacious room, particles of magic fluttering out of the way as they stepped through the spiral door. They glanced back to make sure their entourage was still in one piece.

Sure enough they were, Taane letting his jaw hang on its hinges as he lifted his eyes up, and up, and up, trying to drink in everything at once. His eyelids shuttered noisily a few times at the bright light filtering in through the highest parts of the canopies and he held Cecil’s slim hand a little closer. They were in a wide circular space filled with trees- and made of trees, for that matter. He could hear the distinctive buzz of magic in the air around them.

He’d never seen anything quite like it in Celestia, not even in the floating lands.

“I understand why it’s called Ravenwood now. There are so many trees!” He twisted around to look at them all, his hollow voice ringing unusually in the wide room.

“Oh, err, I guess!” Emory chuckled, shifting from foot to foot. “This is the spiral chamber, the school is outside that door there.” They pointed across the room, Taane and Cecil following their arm to a red door that stood out against the natural browns and greens. “Do you guys want to check out the schools right away?”

“Yes!” They answered together. Both their smooth faces, metal and wooden, were unchanging, but their voices had noticeably brightened.

“Okay, we’ll start with Professor Balestrom, cause uh, he’s least likely to yell at us for interrupting.” They grinned nervously, thinking about the scolding they were sure to get from Cyrus.

Well, they’d cross that bridge when they got to it.

They had led the two constructs to the storm school, Cecil staring openly at all the brightly robed wizards they passed on their way over. Cecil had tugged at the collar of their soft grey cloak self consciously, wondering how they could enjoy wearing robes in such deadly shades of yellow and red. They had to jog to catch up with Emory and Taane who were waiting for them in front of the classroom.

Once they were all there Emory swung the doors open wide, walked in and-

“Merlin’s fucking beard!”

Emory swore loudly and grabbed the fronts of Taane and Cecil’s robes to pull them down to the floor, Cecil making a loud garbled buzzing in surprise. A fizzing noise went over their heads and Emory flinched at the unmistakable crackle of lightning hitting wood behind them.

Looking up to make sure the coast was clear, Emory found a group of wide eyed Diviners staring back at them, Balestrom stood green and froggy on his desk with his cane still pointed where the trio’s heads had just been.

“Professor, I didn’t realise you were doing p-practicals today.” They managed to breathe shakily.

He finally lowered his cane with a flourish, beaming down at the three of them awkwardly sat on the classroom floor. “Every day is a practical day! You know the rule, young wizard, always knock on a diviner’s door before entering!”

“No I- I didn’t know that, actually.”

“Hmm? Oh, that is a bit of a problem, isn’t it?”

“Maybe you should make a sign, professor?”

“A marvelous idea young Erin!” Balestrom leapt off the desk and padded his way down the runner rug until he was face to face with Cecil, who pulled their knees up to their chest in discomfort. “Fascinating, simply fascinating! And why might these constructs be here, young Emory? Are they in need of repairs?”

“Oh, no! Not at all. That’s Cecil, and this is Taane. They’re from Celestia, we’re doing the rounds.”

“Hi Taane! Hi Cecil!” A bouncy voice Emory recognised as Keelan’s called out from behind the crowd. “You didn’t get shocked, did ya?”

“No!” Taane chuffed, tapping his fingers against the floor happily. “Not this time!”

With a terse chuckle Emory climbed to their feet and extended a hand to their friends on the floor. They didn’t particularly want there to be a next time.

When they arrived at the ice school Emory knocked once, twice, thrice before entering. “Professor Greyrose? Any spells we should be minding?”

“No no, come in, dear!”

They gave a relieved look to their companions, and though neither could mirror the expression Taane placed a hand on their shoulder while Cecil nodded sagely. They understood.

Already acquainted with the unholy chill of the ice classroom Emory pulled their cloak tighter around themselves as they pulled open the door. The air from inside spilled out as a dense fog, and already the atmosphere of the class was in stark contrast to the one they’d visited prior. All the students were sitting in neat rows, Greyrose at the blackboard, and the sound of pencils scratching at paper seemed endless. It didn’t halt or change as they walked into the classroom, most students too focused on copying an amount of writing that would bring Emory to tears if they saw it in their own classes.

They saw one student turn blatantly in their chair only to be elbowed by the one sitting next to them, and with a grumble they’d returned to their work.

“Professor, these two are visiting the schools to learn about them, do you think you could tell them about thaumaturgy?”

Greyrose hovered in place, tipping her hat to her visitors with a warm smile. “Oh, but of course! Now, where to begin? You see when the spiral was first sung into existence-”

Oh dear, Emory thought, they were going to be here a while, weren’t they?

“Next up is the fire school with Professor Falmea, you’re gonna want to mind your feet, the floor can get kinda uh, temperamental.” Emory pulled one of the doors open and got hit by a wave of hot air immediately, blinking fast as their eyes started to water.

Taane took one look at the red hot floors and the fire based decorations and opened and closed his mouth with an audible ‘clack’.

No. He wasn’t walking into that death trap. It just wasn’t happening.

Without a word he turned and walked away, sitting down on the curb opposite the building and neatly tucking his coat over his folded up legs.

Emory watched him with curiosity. “Err, Taane? Is something wrong?”

Cecil tugged on their shirt sleeve and they turned to them, very aware of the fact they were loitering in the doorway and that the pyromancers in the room had started to turn and stare. “Being made of wood means he’s not exactly fireproof. Less than you or I, anyway.” They murmured.

Emory’s mouth formed an ‘o’, slightly misshapen by their fangs, and they nodded. “Right, no, yeah, I don’t want anyone catching on fire. Are you interested, Cecil?”

They eyed the bright robes, the mustard yellows and fire reds they’d seen before outside.

“No, not particularly.”

“Alright. Sorry, professor!”

“Just close the door already!”

Emory tried not to seem too eager, or embarrassed, about the crater of the sunken death school. On the one hand it was their own school and they took a great deal of pride in it, unconventional though it may be, but on the other they knew not everyone viewed it with the same endearment.

But despite their efforts they couldn’t help their long ears pricking up as they spotted the small circle of black and red surrounding a standing figure. “Hey, Malorn!”

Malorn turned his head left and right before spotting them. “Oh! Emory! You bringing more students for me to ruin?”

Laughing nervously Emory looked back at Cecil and Taane. “Ahaha, he’s joking, I swear he’s joking.”

Taane clicked his fingers together with a stilted laugh, pressing past Emory straight towards the circle of students where he took a seat on the edges. This young teacher had good humour and this was the first class he had seen outdoors- how dreadful it would be to stay cooped inside all day, he wasn’t sure he could bear it.

Cecil wandered over more hesitantly, a bit put off by the wicked grin of the student teacher, and sat down next to Taane.

“Welcome to our flock of black sheep, haha! Get it?”

“Gods, Malorn.” Emory groaned.

The myth classroom was one they had been particularly dreading, and Cecil seemed to have picked up on that if the way they were standing a good foot from the door was anything to go by.

And given body language was just about all Emory had to go off when they weren’t speaking, they figured it must be so.

“So uhh, the teacher for the myth school is Professor Cyrus Drake, and he can be… difficult.” They paused, took a deep breath, then knocked on the door. “Professor?”

“Class is in session. Go. Away.”

“Professor, there’s some new students here, we’re having a look at the different schools and-”

“I am busy with my present students, I don’t need any more. Go. Away.”

“Hmm.” Emory pulled a face. “So uh, this is not ideal, but I can probably tell you a bit about conjuring? Unless you guys really want to see the classroom, then we can! But I uh,” They cast a dubious look at the door, “I don’t think it’ll go over well.”

Taane shrugged and looked to Cecil, who shrugged and looked to Emory. “You’re the tour guide.”

“Alrighty, so conjuring-”

Taane had been taken by the life school the minute they’d approached it, head on swivel looking at all the flora and fauna that always flocked wherever theurgists gathered. He held a hand up to the sky and Emory had watched in awe as a sparrow landed on one of his outstretched fingers, delicate toes curled around the smooth wood like it was just another branch.

“I like this one.” He spoke, enamoured with the way the small bird hopped around the digits of his hand. Cecil leaned forward to look, having to stand right on the tips of their toes to see properly.

“You have always liked small creatures and plants, Taane.”

While they lingered in the yard outside the life school students started spilling out the doors, books and wands in hand. A lady in green, Professor Wu, was the last out of the classroom and the trio watched with interest as the group of students arranged themselves around the trees outside. One student with a deer’s lower body stayed standing, but the rest sat on the ground.

“Oh, I really like this one.” Taane made a beeline for the other students, settling himself in like he already belonged there. A few students gave him odd looks, but he paid them no mind. Cecil hung back with Emory, making a small laugh-like sound at their friend’s enthusiasm. This definitely suited him.

“And lucky last, this is where the balance students stay. The actual school is in another world, but we still have a teacher here too for the beginner students. I always found balance magic really difficult, honestly. The sand is too hard to keep together.” Cecil had latched on to Emory’s hand the minute they’d split off from Taane, who had been eager to sit in on the rest of the lesson Professor Wu was teaching, so they noticed right away when Cecil stopped walking in the middle of the balance campgrounds. Emory looked down at them, concerned. “What’s up?”

“This magic… it’s not the kind I was looking for either.” Their tone was morose, and Emory frowned.

“No? Not this one either?”

They shook their head, pulling their cloak up around their mouth so their voice was muffled. “It's not the right one. The one I was looking for… it’s not any of these. I was hoping to see those shadows again, the ones that moved like mist. They were so pretty.”

Oh! Emory hit their hand against their palm with a smile “Cecil, I think I know what you’re looking for! That’s Shadow magic!”

“It is? Where is it taught?”

Oh. Emory shifted uncomfortably, knowing they were going to let them down again. “Err, well, it’s not exactly taught here in Ravenwood. Ambrose thinks it’s too dangerous.”

“But… all schools of magic are dangerous.” Cecil tilted their head questioningly.

“Well, yeah, that’s true, but... I’m sorry, Cecil. Were there any other schools that you liked?”

They made a low buzzing hum, considering for a few moments. “I liked some of them, but none of them felt right. If there’s no shadow magic here, I think…”

“...I think I’m going to find my own school.”

#wizard101 #w101 #OCs #wiztober2020 #writing #Cecil #whEW #this is really just self indulgent #but i hope yall enjoy it too!#i love these kids so much ahbdshjb #emory earthwhisper #Taane

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zafaria · 4 years ago

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The After-life

every good intention is interpolation, a line we drew in the array, clinging to the faces, clinging to the shapes in the silence // study in joy, study in grief working with the aftermath of the events in dragonspyre // read it on ao3

There was an oak coat hanger by the door, with a tall knobby top and three spokes sticking out at right angles from each other. The one side without the spoke went up against the wall. The piece stood as tall as its owner, and it was perfect. It was regal, deep wood with swirling grain, art nouveau flourish and curves, and, it so happened, that in the days of its use, three spokes was exactly the number needed for everyone to have a spot for their things.

The spoke closest to the hallway was hung with a golden key on a ring, the only one on the lonesome hoop. Sometimes he’d leave his shoes under it, lined up toe to toe as he stood in his kitchen with the narrow countertops and boiled a kettle on a burner covered in piping. The spoke next to it would have, in the past, held another key ring and a black staff as short as a cane would be propped up against the legs of the coathanger. And the one closest to the door would have a cloak on it. She hung her cloak there and took her shoes off as soon as she could upon entering because she never wanted to drag the dirt from gardening throughout the house.

They’d visit, they’d say for an hour, but it dragged into two and three and sometimes four. Sylvia would ask about the shriveling little garden in the back, and whether the tea was ever picked from the garden, but it never was. He bought it from the Bazaar. It was always imported, from some unimportant and unheard of place; the Aeriel Jungle or Cloudburst Forest. They didn’t know where these places were, and settled for imagining little farm beds of tea leaves growing in a space between the trees where the sunlight broke through the roof of the forest. That was good enough. They’d imagine some orange flowers and bright rocks and critters when they tasted the spice in the tea.

His brother always listened attentively in these conversations, but it was clear he didn’t know much about gardening, or growing one’s own tea plants, or even different tea varieties. He didn’t really take to testing different flavors and always did the same thing with the tea Cyrus made for him: two sugar cubes, a spoonful of honey, and a quarter-cup of milk, whether the tea was minty, spicy, lavender, or already dizzyingly sweet.

He would keep the low table in front of the sofa clear for all the fixings to be laid out back then. Now, it was covered over in books and newspaper clippings. He hadn’t had the time to keep up with his collections and sift through them all. They just languished and waited for him, year after year, covering over the coffee table. There wasn’t any need for it anyways, there were never any guests, no shared tea, no need for fixings. Sometimes Cyrus’s orthrus Harry would get onto the table, but quickly found it to be unnavigable with the stacks of books and hopped off after leaving a little pile of drool on a page. He’d turn one of his posy-red heads to Cyrus and bark a shrill cry like he was proud of what he had done. Cyrus would pat him on both heads and continue working at his desk.

Sometimes he wondered if he should ever have tried to start tea up with some others, if there were other professors or former students he could try catching up with but, no, that was their thing together. He longed for the days where he had little incentive to clean up his squat little two-story house, shoved in between others and narrowed down. He wondered if other students looked at him and knew this was the kind of house he might have kept, or if they even wondered at all. Sometimes the professors would invite the more accomplished students for tea, to show them gardens or loan them rare books and then gush about those very texts. Cyrus never invited students for holiday feasts like Balestrom, never hung around his office after classes as long as Falmea, never tried to recommend his more gifted students books from his own personal collection. He packed up at the end of every day of classes and left. And he wondered if that ever seemed to bother any of the students, or if they were so naive they never did pick up why he hadn’t.

A few of the older myth and storm students and one of the theurgists were riding around Golem Court one day in a giant pumpkin they had carved out and enchanted as a carriage for them all; it ended up looking a bit like an overburdened wagon with oversized toddlers clinging to it. They raced up and down the street for fun, laughing, wild, boisterous and loud, too many of them clinging to the giant gourd, catching angry glares from the adults sweeping up at their porches. They giggled and giggled and nearly flopped over when they caught the toes of their feet on the sidewalk, and they paced back and forth up and down the street with skinned knees and rosy cheeks and wide, toothy grins.

And then they saw him.

They saw him hobble over to the post-box, the flag partially raised, as is it had been full, really full, for a long while but no one checked on it and it got tired of raising the little red widget. And then they saw him take a stack, almost as big as the ones for all the exams he’d bring into them everyday, from that little mailbox with the rust clinging on the edges, and they wondered for a moment if professors just got a lot of mail or if they were just too busy to check for it often or something else of the sort. And while they wondered about the nature of professors and mail, Cyrus in his lemon yellow robes and a pair of plan brown sandals hobbled back to the door and closed it. And the light in the front windows went out.

The house sat in stark greyness; the bricks, the shingles, the window panes with the drawn and heavy curtains, all grey, all muted, all unassuming.

Those students, in the way that students usually do, knew that there was something deeply wrong happening. But it was an implacable, intangible wrong. They would watch Cyrus carefully in the classroom and as he came and went and how he walked and how tall he stood and whether he handed exams back with more force or fearsomeness or fatigue than the last time. Every little thing, they would pick it apart for clues. They looked even to the other students, even to the ones who slunk silently in their seats in the back, hoping, probing, maybe they knew something. It filled their lunchtime chatter in the commons, the kind of chatter that was ever-present, scheduled even, but had to die down and turned into hushes and whispers whenever others walked by. For the sake of preserving whatever dignity or grief their professor was struggling with.

And Cyrus knew but also didn’t quite know this was what was happening. He hadn’t seen the students that day on the street, but he saw them watching more peerlessly, eyes wider, fewer people nodding off and more contemplative faces. He knew that these weren’t about the lessons though, no one's grades were changing, and there was a difference in their eyes and their posture and even the way they fidgeted when they listened to what he was saying and when they listened to everything else about the room in those moments.

Of course, he also saw one of his students, prosperous, quiet, and just as grief-stricken as him, sitting in the back. Sometimes she slept, or, at least, pretended to. She used to doze off, the way someone does when they get lost in a daydream and then tired by way of imagining. She instead never seemed like she wanted to be looked at. She kept her head down because she was tired. Tired of being. And Cyrus knew why, and also, didn’t really know why.

The classroom, despite his lecturing, was always so still in those moments when he saw his students, her, slinking into their seats, like breath that was being held in, like the wind rushing in through the windows and taking all the sound out through the two double doors. Sometimes he thought he saw them wobble or heard them creak. He thought he’d see her in the back of the classroom lift her head a little, or maybe the wind rustle her hair. He looked at the windows to see if he had left the open, but they never were. He wondered if this was the same feeling the students had when they had to hush their conversations about him in the Commons as the other professors and respectable adults walked by. If this was the same feeling that the younger wizard had when she clambored out of bed every day or tried to sleep finally at night, amidst haunts and fright.

That stillness followed him back to the house, although a bit quieter, more relieved, the wind gone for the night and nothing but stale dust in the air. People had said that pets sometimes knew grief, and even loud little Harry would rush up to him, but stop short and stare in a wincing, disappointed way at Cyrus’s shoes. Harry turned corner and returned back to the living room and his favorite coffee table and wormed his way under it, while Cyrus moved phantom-like through to the kitchen to start dinner for the night.

One night he did his routine, came into the house with his head in a mire and hanging low, watched as Harry hopped off to the table again, and floated back through the long, narrow hallway with the tattered green runner and creaking floorboards. He found himself in his kitchen. He always did. And many times before he would wash his hands in the sink before starting dinner, let the water run a little longer as he thought. He’d bend down, pull open the cupboard under the sink, check to see his tea kettle was still there as the water above it continued running. Then he’d close the door again. Maybe tea wouldn’t ever be ready again.

The next day was a holiday, as Professor Balstrom had some telegraphing business to attend to and Professor Falmea needed time to work on an exchange program. Ravenwood was moving on, growing, weblike, and Cyrus was still there, teaching in his usual way and hoping that the students never noticed, or at least never cared, that he kept assigning them work that was more and more droning and brainless than the last time; that his lessons from before with rigor and sly questionings of “Are you sure?” and “Is that right?” weren’t missed, or even noticed as missing.

The students, they do notice these things. They were thankful for the easier work, but worried about the Myth Professor, their Myth Professor. After their calculated observations over the course of a few days, and rigorous planning during those hushed lunches, they finally had time during the holiday to begin their work. One of the older students, the same one that slumped in the back of the classroom, had a nice, if old, barnhouse with a square iron stove that had a large, flat top the size of a bed, and smoothed out and light pine cabinets ringing all the way around the main room. She saw her chance to do, well, something, anything. She invited everyone from her class over. She had been gone a while, out on some errands or something important, but they never got to talk to her about these things, just observe her pale, drooping face afterwards. She moved so swiftly through worlds, there was never a stable postbox to reach her at. So she relished in the ability to finally be among friends, not people who grabbed her wrists to drag her to dark crevices, or reach for her guts to pull out, but people who used their hands to knead dough and pick vegetables from the garden and hold perfect apples up to the sun, who used their hands to hold and hug and hope. And they would make fine guests, a light of their own, surrounding the large woodblock island in her kitchen, doing all those things: kneading and sorting vegetables, and holding, and hoping. Like a beacon, like a great altar, the kitchen was where one of the oldest rituals could be done: cooking.

And it was a ritual, of sorts. It was an unspoken community, the people who cared enough for the professor to rise early and come to a foreign house that stood all big and vacant and dusty, and make themselves at home in that open, echoey place. Their chatter filled the wide and lofty spaces of the old house, their voices almost as yellow and light as the sun coming through the windowpanes. They had wicker baskets of eggs white and brown and splotchy and smooth, bags of flour and sugar sitting at the ends of the counter in buckets, and little brown-bottles of vanilla extract. Somewhere around there on that island, by the sink, there was also a jar of Marleymite, and some of the other foods more subjective to taste. They emitted a warmth hotter than the oven.

So they wiped down their hands, the more than a dozen standing around the kitchen, forming a line at the sink like they would have to when younger, taking turns passing the soap holder back to take a dollop of it, then give it to the next person as they stepped forward to the running water. And the first person went to the flour with a big glass mixing bowl. They grabbed the little iron shovel scoop from one of the drawers and started filling in the bowl with the flour, like someone frantic but determined filling a sandbag before a sea storm. And then a hand reached from the side and pushed the eggs in front of the person scooping flour, and they looked up to the girl who had passed the eggs, and they both smiled at each other and laughed. The whole scene was a little thing, absurd and momentous. Strategic and chaotic and clustered and free and loud but unified in the silent language of dedication, of work. Strange. It was all very strange indeed. The older student’s time at the school hadn’t been anything but strange either. It was fitting in a hodge-podge, freakish way.

Within an hour, they pulled out wooden trays from the oven that had full loaves of bread with some seeds speckled on them. And they were perfect; they were kind of round, a little lopsided and flat on the left, with a darkened crust and a little char on the bottom and some flour and sesame seeds balanced on top. And they were just perfect. Someone else popped a pan into the oven as soon as the bread left, and someone else tossed lettuce and peppers and tomatoes in a big dish then hurriedly poured a bottle of vinegar and olive oil on the whole thing. Behind them, someone snagged one of the full, yet unused peppers as he reached around the salad chef, and bit into it with a satisfied crunch. They talked about the garden and the girl who owned the house drew them over to the window to see it, plucked of anything devourable but still tangled with green vines and wide, unfazed leaves.

When they were done, they loaded everything into baskets and draped old blankets on their shoulders. They set out into Wizard City once more, crawling their way through the late summer heat through the Shopping District and towards Golem Court. They moved at an admirable pace for a handful of students with skinny arms overburdened by ten pounds of food each with their pets bobbling along beside them and sometimes between their feet.

They knew exactly which house they were going to.

And they got there and stood, in something part cluster and something part line, trying to fit on the stoop of the doorstep, and then giving up and spilling onto the walkway. And they sat there for a moment, looking all around at each other, sucking in a deep breath. The wizard, the girl in a purple robe and white stockings, the one who owned the house and the sorrow all the same, knocked at the door. It was silent and silent and silent, no scurrying or creaking of anyone moving across the floorboards inside. They wondered if they had maybe just missed Cyrus, right until the moment the door popped open a wedge and his face looked out onto them.

“Hi, Professor Drake. I know...things have been tough. We thought we, well, you see...we know, and we’re, we’re very sorry for, for what happened, and because it’s holiday, we had some time to get some stuff together for you to show our thanks…”

The students behind her cradled the baskets nervously and pulled at the old blankets on their shoulders. Even though she held her head up, interested, stiff, while the other students bobbled theirs and scuffed their boots, she couldn’t have been more afraid. She was the most scared of all of them.

Cyrus peered back. He wasn’t upset they bothered him on his off day; he wasn’t even really worried how they knew which door to knock at. He wasn’t even upset at his student before him, who may or may not have been why his brother died. He never wanted to think too deeply on it anyways. His brother just died. He just did. And that was it, and sometimes not knowing why was all the better. Sometimes it was best to pretend like he really didn’t remember any Malistaire other than his thoughtful, peaceful, literature-loving brother; and he tried to find a place in his mind where that brother could stay awake forever. And he wished he could carve out a little space for his younger, sleepier prodigy too, before she became like Malistaire, something empty and craven and driven to ends for things she didn’t want to be.

He looked at their feet and all the little pets running about them; an egg, a hydra, a cerberus scratching behind one of his ears, a fat happy piggle resting on the ground. Harry peeked out from around the corner and let out a yip when he saw the other critters.

Cyrus was only curious how much food they had made, and had they really done it all just that morning? It was only one o’clock. The thought of his students waking up so early, even his tired and grief-stricken one, just to orchestrate all of that was almost enough to make him cry. He swallowed hard and looked back to them.

And then, he did cry. He started in, a shaky, weak, and quiet “...thank you,” that fell apart at the end as his eyes watered. And some of the students looked away or down, and the girl at the front, now with wet eyes too, curled her lip a little and gave a tiny nod. Cyrus wiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

“So, are you leaving this all here, for me?” he said, looking between all the baskets. “It seems like a lot and I can’t keep it all.”

The students looked between each other. As if deciding who would say what. Two people started to speak at the same time, both voices predicting each other.

“We--”

“We…” they glanced at each other and one held his mouth open a moment. The other smiled back and finished the thought for them. “We wanted to see if maybe we could sit with you? Well, for one, everything we made actually looks really good. Second is that, you know, we just can’t go a single day in our lives without spending time listening to Professor Drake,” he said, drawing out the can’t in a joking way. He knew the entire idea was odd, a long shot, but he tried to lighten up the place, make the air less suffocating, less hushed and held in.

“Oh…”

“No, uh, to be honest, we noticed you seem...grumpier than usual and worried about you. We...want to know how you’re doing, if that’s okay?”

“Well.”

They waited and shuffled their feet a moment. Cyrus thought back about his house, his coffee table, how unprepared his house was for guests.

“You made everything yourselves?” he asked.

“Yes!” they said in proud unison.

“You grew everything?”

“Yeah, I have a nice farm going, lots of different things this year...” the one in the front said, falling off, thinking of those vibrant, lively, hopeful things.

Maybe the only good place to eat was in the garden. They were clearly prepared for a picnic, since they had blankets. But he thought of his garden, and the state of disrepair that that too had fallen into, and let out a lengthy, deep breath that was not quite loud enough to be a sigh.

They sensed the tension, and they could see just from the little wedge of the door that was open, that there were stacks of things and the lights were off and the floors dusty.

“It’s okay, you should see our dorms,” someone said.

They all smiled a little, sheepish smile.

“Oh, well you went through all this work. Alright. But please stay just on the bottom floor,” he instructed. They all nodded and let out some quiet “okay”s.

They trodded through the house with their baskets, following in a line, like ducklings being led around, and they tiptoed behind Cyrus’s sure steps like they were treading on sacred and holy ground. The one student from the front picked up some of the pets. She held her breath. She tried not to stare at the back of Cyrus’s head and imagine what sweltering pain he must’ve felt in his brain, the rubber-bands strung around his heart, the crushing weight on his lungs. She wondered if he was ever as tired as she was. No, more so. That was his brother, not mine.

And she made it through the longest journey she had ever taken, through the darkest tunnel she knew, in that house where she felt so unwelcomed not because of Cyrus, but because of transgression. Maybe being here is a transgression all it’s own, she thought.

They set up a patchwork of blankets in the back that covered nearly the entire yard, and the little overgrown garden under the window sat up against the house, at the head of it. And some of the students sat precipitously near it, including the girl in the purple robes, and they sat in such a way that their hands fell over the edges of the blankets and brushed the overgrown grass and laid at their sides there. They began divvying out food, everyone pulling a large, round roll of bread with flour on their hands.

Cyrus couldn’t help but notice occasionally between timid bites of the role that the two students nearest the garden would turn and look over their shoulders. Their arms would rustle behind them for a moment, out of sight, then they’d brush their hands off and take another bite when they noticed he was watching them. When the one finally shifted and leaned forward to grab the big salad-bowl as it was being passed towards them, he finally saw what they were up to. A little pile of weeds sat behind them, out of view.

He pointed to the garden and shook his head a little as he leaned it to the side. “You don’t have to do that.”

They looked at him with blank eyes. They’d been caught, but they weren’t exactly trying to hide what they were up to. They didn’t even mean it with intent; they saw weeds, they pulled. She’d gotten use to that, seeing problems, and then just fixing, wordlessly.

“I know it’s a mess,” he continued, “but it’s not your job; you’re guests, it’s everyone’s day off.”

They continued with their blank looks. They didn’t even look like they were breathing, they were so still.

“Sorry.”

“It’s...it’s fine. It’s fine.” He didn’t know why it had bothered him so much. Yes, they were his guests, but something more made him hesitant to see them move anything from the garden. They weren’t Sylvia. That was it. Only two pairs of hands ever worked on that garden, and maybe he wanted to keep it like that.

But how foolish he thought that was, at the same time. Why keep an overgrown garden in honor of someone? Didn’t that show that he actually didn’t care about the memories there, since their time together had been tending to the garden, helping things grow. Helping.

And now it was an overgrown tangle with thistles and prickly things and unpleasant things vying for space, climbing over one another. Little smothering death after little smothering death. Nothing new in years, no color other than a widespread sagey green, no butterflies or rabbits or small, complex communities snuggled between the leaves.

Helping. That was all this was, he thought, the students helping. He was sure one of the students he recognized as a life wizard would have been old enough to have Sylvia for a few years. He wondered if she existed the same way in her memory too.

“Sorry,” he said back. “Sylvia used to help me with it.” As if that somehow would make it crystal clear to them all. He let the words sit for a minute, then thought maybe he had misspoke. It was when he opened his mouth again to try and add something, what exactly he did not know, when the theurgist offered her thoughts.

“That’s nice. She tended to all the gardens in the school yard too. Did she ever spend her free time doing anything other than caring for plants? She spent all her time at work caring for students, and then all her time outside of it caring for plants. And sometimes students too.”

He paused. He swallowed hard. He cried again. Someone remembered his sister-in-law just like he had. In that little moment, in those few words, she was alive again; a perfect image of her, just as she had been, kneeling by a stone planter-bed, patting soil, holding a little brown rabbit or waving at a student across the courtyard with her glasses slipping down her short, turned nose.

He regained himself. She did. She did do some things outside of gardening. She had tea. He would never forget that they all had tea together. And so he told them that, and they all nodded little polite nods, and waited a moment.

“I had Professor Drake, uhm, your brother for many years. But I never did find out, I guess, before everything; someone said he wrote poetry. Is that true?” the boy asked.

“Yes. Yes!” He said emphatically. The words were full, they were a cry, but of the ancient sort, summoning something back to life, to wholeness. Cyrus started laughing. “Yes he did, and he wasn’t too bad at it!” And in that moment too, Malistaire, his perceptive and empathetic brother was alive as well. And they spent the afternoon asking questions about Sylvia and Malistaire, and how they met, which the theurgist knew well, for Sylvia was always gushing over her husband, and the necromancers knew little of, since Malistaire had always gotten so wayward and sidetracked with all his stories about their adventures whenever anyone asked how they met. And they asked about Cyrus too.

He answered. He gardened, obviously, though not of late. And he painted sometimes too, but he had also put the brush down for a while. The students gave mystified gasps of “really?” as if they never imagined their teacher having fun, and certainly not in his current state.

“Really,” he said. He stood and waved them up. “Come on, I can show you all. And I can show you some of my brother’s poems too.”

So they went back into that house, that now felt bigger; the stacks of papers everywhere weren’t junk, but archives, some less important and some jewels. They could tell which were which. Old student papers were probably among the less important items, but in the drawers or the very bottom layers of things, or the few pieces left neatly uncovered on his desk, all the photos and letters and poems and old packets from the seeds planted in the garden years ago. Those were the precious jewels of Cyrus’s entire life. He would hold a photo of them together carefully in his hand, and the students would gather around and look, in fascination, at a time when their professors were all only a decade older than themselves. And the girl in the purple didn’t quite make it into the semi-circle and peered cautiously over one of her friend’s heads; then moved to the bathroom without anyone noticing.

In there, she wiped her eyes and ran the water cold to keep the redness of her cheeks down. The photo, Cyrus’s stories, all let her know she had destroyed nothing. That he was sincere, his brother, his real brother, had been dead for a long time by the time she ran into Malistaire. And if she had or hadn’t destroyed him, she hadn’t really destroyed anything at all. Which perhaps was worse. To travel all that way and through all those places for all those people, to end a man who was so miserable and so lonely and small and weak at his end, that it was all just unnecessary.

She thought of Cyrus then, at that moment, at the end of his brother’s life. She thought of how he stood tall, proud, maybe of her, maybe that his brother could finally rest, but sad and weeping. Full of anguish and resolution that bit at each other’s edges, that refused to coexist. She looked at the bathroom counter around her. It was cluttered with dirty handtowels, soaps out of their dishes, a crinkled toothpaste tube, and soap slime from all the places the bars had been left out.

The bathroom was small. She grabbed one of the few clean hand towels and wet a corner of it, then started to scrape the soap residue away. And she didn’t know exactly where everything laid out on the counter went, but tried by putting the toothbrush and the toothpaste upright in a cup, and neatly set the bottle of eyedrops in the corner and then added cotton swabs upright to the cup with the toothbrush and toothpaste. She stacked the dirty towels from the counter on the floor together. She thought of Cyrus being the only person there for Malistaire when he died, gently placing him into the open bed of a tomb, as she pried the soap up from the counter and laid it to rest in the soap dish. She rinsed her hands one last time of it, then walked out to rejoin her friends.

Cyrus was just finishing showing them the photo and telling stories around it. He placed it on top of one of the stacks, although haphazardly as he began to turn towards something else. The stack teetered. The life student was there, and while Cyrus was turned and walking away, she moved the photo from the top, lifted all of the papers in her hands at once, gave them a quick tap on the table, and pressed them into line with her palms flat, the edges pressing back into her brown palms as she straightened them up. She placed the photo back on top, delicately, keeping her fingers from touching the surface. The photo was centered on the papers. Then she went through the rest of the papers on the coffee table, making little piles in rapid speed, so there were only three stacks of things next to each other and the rest of the coffee table was visible. The students straggled behind Cyrus, picking up their pets and keeping them from the rest of the house, not knowing what precious things might be housed in them.

He led them over to a wall where a landscape hung. He admired it for a second, then turned to them and let them know he had painted it, once, when he was almost their age.

“Whoa,” they said.

“Yes. It’s the Grand Chasm. Beautiful place. I haven’t been there since, but I do miss it.” He delved into a little history of the place, pointing at the pillars and bricks of the buildings in the landscape as he talked, and the world was rebuilt for him as he told the story. They all nodded enthusiastically, and even the girl in the purple nodded, although a little more wistfully, lost.

When it early evening and the sun was not setting but was slinking lower in the sky, the students filed out of the house, pets in hand again, and he stood by the door and waved them off with Harry drooling and wagging his tail, sitting at his feet with interest as the figures of the students got smaller and smaller. The girl in the purple at the back turned with her round piggle cradled in her arm, and waved with a single motion, her arm skyward, her palm open and flat, honest, her face solemn.

And he waved back at her, wrist loose, hand held at his chest, face solemn. When they were gone, he closed the door, and took that hand to his chest. The pain was back, like it hadn’t been in months. He couldn’t fathom how joy could be followed so closely in step by grief.

And he thought of these things for a little while, as he cleaned up the house and tried to shove all the many dishes of leftovers into his fridge, and left some scraps on a plate on the floor for Harry and scratched Harry behind his ears. And he continued to think of these things, until he passed by his coffee table again, and saw the photo of him and his brother and his sister-in-law. Then, he realized that the coffee table was visible again. And the photo was at the top of the pile, proudly displayed.

Those students, he thought.

And he went to the bathroom to take a shower before bed, and after he did so and dressed he stood over the mirror a minute. Cyrus noticed the counter was clean too. The soap was tucked into the soap dish. And all he could think, again, was those students. He went to sit at his desk and organize some more papers. Maybe he would try to find his lecture plan a few days early. He opened a drawer and found an old packet of seeds, the top of it ripped open, the torn edge rolled down over the rest of the packet to keep the seeds in. The label was faded, but he could see from the image that they were seeds for tomatoes, red, round, and resilient. He unfurled the pack and peeked inside. They looked like they might still grow. And then he shuffled in his drawer more and found a pressed packet of bean seeds, sunflower seeds, seeds for oxeye daisies and old pressings of some from a previous garden he had grown. He thought of planting them in the past, taking his finger and poking gently at the dirt to make a little space for them, and how Sylvia just crouched down, took her index finger, and jabbed it into the dirt confidently, like she knew exactly where each seed needed to be without measuring the soil depth or spacing. And she did. He thought about the little pile of weeds the students had snuck out of the garden. It’s worth a shot, he thought, as he grabbed a sticky note and began to sketch a layout for some new plants. He had the day off tomorrow. He could finish pulling weeds, like those students had started.

Those students. They were meek, and they tried. Most of them didn’t know grief like he did yet. Maybe setting papers straight and plucking weeds and making lunch felt significant for them to do. He thought of his student, who had been there, who spoke at the front door at first, but not after, he realized. Who lived with grief, a different kind. Just as much as those students couldn’t get to him past his grief, he didn’t know how to get to her. And maybe none of the other students knew about that or how to get to her either.

It struck him. Sometimes she said in passing she’d be around during long weekends or holiday breaks and would finally try to catch up on her missing work. Lydia mentioned her having an older sister once during the downtime before a meeting, but she never spoke of her sister herself. And she was never seen outside of class, or lunch that day, or occasionally scurrying to the Headmaster’s tower, or running her hasty speechless errands to the Shopping District, efficient, unwavering, in matters of minutes. She was never with anyone, he thought. Not here and not in all those places Ambrose sent her to. She was alone. She was totally alone.

And he was also alone. He was alone, in his bed, his covers pulled up and his hands resting gently across the top, curled over the hem of the sheets. In that indominatrable darkness, he realized that although the other students did little things like pluck weeds and cook lunch, and they didn’t know how little it was in the scheme of things, surely she knew how absolutely finitismal those things were. And yet, she did them anyways. She made room from her overburdening grief, pushed the crushing guilt back long enough, carved out a little moment in time, to flour the breadboard and coordinate her kitchen, and tend to her garden, and right the soap and pinch the weeds out of the garden. After seeing the worlds, and death, and fire; and an eternal sadness for the place he called home after she saw what it was in the Grand Chasm, after she met the ghosts of students who looked just like her, who died to things bigger than themselves that they never wanted to be a part of.

That last bit got him choked up again. He and his brother had never been very interested in the war. Sylvia had been a good tactician, but also certainly wasn’t interested. That’s why they moved to Ravenwood. And they all were accepted as professors, and had many great students, and gardens and photos, and paintings, and tea; and despite sickness and madness, which now maybe he was falling prone to, they survived the war and the initial heartbreak and had had their happy ending, if only for a few decades that seemed all too quick and distant now.

He was starting to lull sleep after fighting back tears all day.

He hoped that girl in the purple robes got that too.

#wizard101 #w101 #wizzy #wizart #torn between naming this the after-life and the saints so the title on ao3 might be different but it's the same story #anyways this is it! this is the one #finally!#au revoir #au revoir!#noooooooooooo more guessing and questioning noooooooooo more endlessly wrestling!#no more doubt! you're not missing out!#noooooooooo more meaningless wandering nooooooooooo more undeserved suffering!#you're enough! you will measure up!

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quinn-firethief · 5 years ago

Text

Moving Out (but not on)

Quinn can’t stand being in his dorm anymore. Professor Felmea offers a way out for him.

TW: Drinking near the very end, and a mild panic attack(?)

“Quinn!”

Quinn snapped awake as a wand struck the surface of his desk. He jolted back into his seat as he looked around with a wild look in his rapidly blinking eyes. Professor Greyrose was flying in front of his desk, a frown on her lips as her wings beat furiously behind her. “Are my lessons boring you, Mr. Firethief?” He rubbed at his eye roughly.

“N— No, no ma’am,” he muttered. “I’m sorry. I had a late night, I was… I was studying.” That was partly the truth. He studied at the local tavern until it was happy hour, which was always an hour behind closing, and then stumbled home. At least, he tried to stumble home, but he couldn’t handle the thought of going back to his dorm. It was so cold, dark, and lonely, even with his pets. He had fed them before he went out, so he knew they weren’t going hungry. That had sealed the deal for him, and he curled up on a bench in the commons and passed right out. He woke up as the sun was rising, had gone to the dorms to shower so he didn’t look like he had just slept outside—which he had—and then went to his classes. But sleeping on a bench had given him a very fitful sleep, and he found it difficult to stay awake during the classes.

Professor Greyrose’s eyes softened for a moment before she sighed. “Take better care of yourself, Quinn. Now, as I was saying, the properties of the snow serpent…” Quinn rubbed his face and blinked a few times. He was glad he wasn’t in an undergrad class because the room would be full of snickers if it was. It had been a startling awakening, but he quite deserved it. Professor Greyrose was a kind spirit, but she absolutely hated it when people slacked off in her class. She didn’t like taking in people who weren’t maining in her school, as she felt like ice couldn’t be mastered if you didn’t have your full attention on it. She still taught those of course, but she could be a bit more strict with those classes. She had limited class time with them, they often only met three times a week, and she didn’t like that. So she allowed for absolutely no distractions so everyone could learn as much as possible. Ice was difficult, Quinn would admit, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. When he had a good night's rest, anyway. He had made it through Professor Falmea morning classes, and after this, he would have a Myth class, and then he could go home and…

And do what? He hated going to his dorm. Last night hadn’t been the last time he had slept somewhere else. He had fallen asleep in the tavern quite a few times, and the owner, an older woman who always seemed to look at him as if she understood but with no pity which was why he liked going there, always let him stay. She often put a blanket on him so he wouldn’t be cold. It would leave a crick in his neck and his sleep would be fitful, especially if he had drunk a lot prior, but it was better than going to his dorm. The bed was too comfortable. There were too many memories, god, too many. They were all good memories, but they had been tainted so much by the events of the past few months that he couldn’t handle it. It choked him sometimes, and the only way he could breathe would be to drink or to leave. He had stopped drinking on school grounds after he finished the bottle he had kept in the floorboards and made a fool of himself in front of Professor Cyrus and Professor Wu, so he usually had to leave just to get some sort of reprise from it all. That meant that more often than not, he wasn’t sleeping in his bed, which meant he wasn’t sleeping that well.

The rest of the lesson was a blur. He did his best to pay attention, but he knew he was going to have to study this section by himself at home, or… Just… Somewhere. Probably the tavern, maybe a bench. He could take Amber to some more training and study as she ran a few courses. She needed the training, it had been awhile. Even if neither of them was going to be questing for a while, they needed to keep in shape. He was doing that just fine with Professor Cyrus, though. They kept meeting every Saturday, though it was much earlier now. They started at six, and often stopped at nine, sometimes ten. No matter what time they stopped, though, Quinn was always exhausted. It was one of the few times he actually slept in his dorm because he was too exhausted to go anywhere else. Quinn really wasn’t seeing any improvement in himself just yet, but considering Professor Cyrus hadn’t dropped him just yet, he assumed he was making some progress. That was hard to believe sometimes.

The day was a blur. He went to Myth school and was able to keep himself from falling asleep. Professor Cyrus’s droning voice was just so… boring though. It was quite difficult to keep from nodding off. He rested his eyes every now and then, but never more than a few seconds. The Professor wasn’t afraid to shell out extra homework to those who weren’t paying attention in his class. That was the last thing he needed. Then again, if it kept him at the tavern longer, or even got him to go to the library…

“Mr. Firethief, while I’m sure you enjoy my lessons, class ended several minutes ago.”

Quinn jumped and looked up. Professor Cyrus had his back to him as he was writing on the chalkboard, preparing for the next class. Quinn looked around as he sat up taller, uncrossing his arms. All of the other desks were empty, and the door was open. Fresh spring air blew in and woke him up a bit more. The place didn’t seem so stuffy, now.

“Uh, right. Right. S— Sorry, Professor.”

“If you love the subject so much, I could give you a packet of work.”

“I’ll, uh… Let's do a raincheck on that.”

Quinn knew more than he saw Professor Cyrus roll his eyes. As Quinn stood and quickly began packing away his books, the door creaked open a bit more as someone stepped inside. Professor Cyrus glanced over his shoulder and then paused. “Mrs. Falmea, what a surprise.” Quinn looked up, startled, to find that the Fire Professor was indeed standing in the doorway to the Myth classroom. The curled ends of her long red dress danced in the wind. Her red hair bounced with every step she took, and her chocolate brown eyes smiled more than her lips did.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Drake. I was looking for a student.” She glanced at Quinn. “I wasn’t sure of what to make of the rumors saying you were minoring in Myth, but I’m glad I entertained them long enough to check.” Quinn blinked at her.

“Is— Is something the matter?” He asked, picking up his bag. He slung it over his shoulder and Professor Cyrus scoffed.

“Use the strap like a civilized person, Mr. Firethief.” Quinn resisted the urge to roll his eyes as Professor Falmea chuckled.

“I want to talk to you if you have the time?” Quinn broke out into a sweat, a hard feat for a fire wizard like him.

“Um, well… Professor— Professor Cyrus was about to tell me about this packet he was going to give me.”

“It can wait.”

Quinn glared at the back of his head. Seriously? Any other time he was more than happy to talk his head off and give him more work to do. That was all he did during their dueling practices, though the work was more physical during those. Professor Falmea’s lips, painted red from her lipstick, drew up in a smile. “Perfect! Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Drake, but this really can’t wait.” Professor Cyrus only flicked his wrist dismissively before he continued writing things on the chalkboard, glancing down at his notes that he had gripped in his other hand.

“Go on then.” Quinn glared at him for a moment longer before he huffed and resisted the urge to stomp as he walked away from his desk, over to the door where his Professor waited. She held the door open for him as he went past, then shut it behind them, closing the Myth classroom off from the world.

“Am I in trouble?” The words slipped out before Quinn even thought of them. He felt like he was ten years old again, and he had been caught slacking by his tutor. Professor Falmea wasn’t anything like his tutor, though. He had always been such a serious man, with quite the grim face. Quinn couldn’t imagine he had ever smiled once in his life. But Professor Falmea was warm, and while she had a sharp edge, she had a gentle side she only showed to her students. She was quite the mother, though she never had any intentions of having children of her own. She always said her students were enough as her children. Quinn tried to remember that as Falmea smiled down at him. They were walking along the path in Ravenwood. He wasn’t sure where they were going, he was just following her.

“Professor Greyrose came to me two hours ago to inform me that you were falling asleep in her classes.” Quinn winced. “She also told me that today hadn’t been the first time; she had let the other times go because she felt sorry for you.”

“I…” Quinn’s cheeks flushed. He felt so ashamed. He was able to keep everything together during Professor Falmea’s classes. He respected her so much—and he respected the other teachers too!—that he never wanted to disappoint her. Even with something as simple as falling asleep in her classes.

“She’s afraid you’re losing interest in her element.” Quinn shook his head so quickly he was afraid he was going to get a headache.

“No, no! That’s, that’s not it at all!” Professor Falmea raised a perfectly styled red eyebrow.

“Then what is it?” Her tone was soft and gentle. She was worried, and that made Quinn feel worse. She had better things to do than worry about him and the wreck that he was making of his life.

“I’m…” What could he say? That he was so pathetic that he couldn’t even stand to sleep in his dorm, because of the memories he had made in there with two people that were long gone? “I’m tired.”

“Are you having difficulty sleeping?” Quinn shuffled his feet. He stopped and Falmea blinked before she paused, turning towards him to keep him in her view. He stared up at her and debated on telling her. If anyone would listen, if anyone would never judge him, it’d be her. She knew him, knew him better than all of the other Professors in Ravenwood. He doubted even Professor Cyrus would understand him as well as Falmea did. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her so bad.

“The dorm, it's…”

But he couldn’t.

“It’s really loud.” Falmea blinked and Quinn gripped his bag tighter. He still had it slung over his shoulder, mainly just to spite Professor Cyrus for his comment earlier. What he had said wasn’t wrong, per se. It was loud. The memories that rang in that room and bounced off the four walls could get so loud. “The— The dorms as a whole. The other students, they’re up and talking to friends, or studying. Upperclassmen are constantly coming and going at all hours of the night. The walls are really thin, and…” He looked down at his feet and kicked at a rock. It bounced away from them, into the grass. They had stopped outside the Storm school. “It’s just really loud. It’s hard to sleep. I haven’t made a noise complaint because I don’t wanna be that guy, you know? Everyone’s just having fun or trying to get better. I don’t… I don’t wanna be a jerk.” He didn’t see because his eyes were still on his feet, but Professor Falmea pursed her lips in thought as she stared down at him. She towered over him, but she towered over most.

“Well… Why don’t you move?” Quinn blinked and looked up at her.

“Huh?”

“You’re twenty-two. You don’t have to live in the dorms anymore. In fact, you could have bought a home after you turned eighteen!”

Quinn… Hadn’t thought of that. Honestly. He had never bought a house before because he just didn’t see the point. He wanted to experience the campus life, and have his classes at his doorstep in case he was ever running late. But he was much better with teleportation than he used to be when he first started here, and he was quite done with campus life. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to stand sleeping on benches and in taverns. Spring wasn’t going to be around forever, and he hated being cold. Having a place to himself could be nice, too. But there was one problem.

“I don’t have the money.” Professor Falmea raised her eyebrows.

“Really! With how much you quested, well, I assumed…” Quinn felt something in him shrivel up and die. Yeah, she was right. Questing used to bring him a lot of money. But he was draining his bank account with his habit of Fireball. It never came cheap. But he couldn’t tell her that. He— He couldn’t. He could only imagine the disappointment that would well in her eyes, and, and he didn’t even want to imagine that. He stared up at her before he swallowed and looked away. He didn’t have a lie to wiggle himself out of that. So he opted for silence, and he hoped she wouldn’t push.

She didn’t, but what she said next made him wish she had.

“Well, you could always ask your parents. I know you’re a very proud man and you don’t like asking for help, but you can always pay them back.” He looked up at her with wide eyes. He knew she was right. But he hadn’t spoken to his family in nearly three months. Not since… He died. He couldn’t. He had gotten a few letters, but he had stuffed them into his desk and never opened that drawer again. They stopped coming after a month. They had given up on him too, and he couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t just ask them for money. Especially for so much. Most houses ran at nearly one hundred thousand coins…

“I can’t... I can’t do that.” He muttered. “That’s too much, it’s…” He shook his head. “I can’t, Professor. I’m sorry. It’s a good idea, but I just…” He sighed. “I can’t afford it.” Professor Falmea hummed.

“Well, then, I will lend you the money.”

Professor Falmea was really going to give Quinn a heart attack. He stared up at her with wide eyes. “W… What?” He whispered, then shook his head. “No. N— No, I can’t. You’re— I’ll never be able to pay you back!”

“You will go on many quests, my dear. If you truly feel the need to pay me back, then you can certainly do it in time. But I don’t want you to fail. I know you’re capable of it.” He stared at her. He felt like he was going to cry. Her face softened and he rubbed at his eyes angrily before he turned his head away.

“I-I…”

“Here. You may try to pay it back. But even if you don’t, that’s fine. I will give you the money to buy the house, but I will leave you to furnish it.”

He stared at the cobblestone walkway under their feet. He wanted to melt into the floor and never return. He was so tired, and so, so ashamed. A year ago, he’d be able to buy his own place and furnish it all on the same trip. He was pathetic. He was a shell of the once great prince, and he had never wanted the ground to swallow him up as badly as he did now. A warm hand clasped his shoulder and jolted him from his thoughts. He didn’t have to look up to know it was his Professor.

“Please, Quinn. Allow me to help you.”

He swallowed. He knew if he said no, she’d back off and never speak of this again. But he couldn’t stay in that dorm anymore. The memories, the scents dulled by time, it was just too much. Every time he slept there without being utterly wasted or exhausted, which both were always great feats, his sleep was racked by horrible nightmares and dreams that damned him. He couldn’t keep going like this. His grades were going to suffer, his spellcasting would be much more sloppy, sloppier than Professor Cyrus already said it was. He swallowed and his mouth felt dry.

“Okay.”

It didn’t take longer than one day for Quinn to decide on the house.

“This is called the Fire Tower! I know the landscaping is a bit of an eyesore, but the ground got burnt pretty quickly after the tower was set on fire! There are four floors, not including the attic. The attic has a fire core suspended from the ceiling, it keeps the flames around the tower going! The only way to go to it is through a teleporter down in the attic. The basement would be a very good study area, as the outer walls are made of glass and you get a great view of the lava that surrounds the tower. There is plumbing in the side room on the second floor, so you could always turn that into the bathroom. There are two entrances; the door that's in front of us, and then if you head to the lower level, there’s a door that that leads into the third floor, right above the basement—”

“I’ll take it.”

“P- Pardon?”

“I’ll take it.”

Handing the real estate agent the bag of coins didn’t feel nice. His heart was heavy, as none of the coins inside were his own. He wondered if he would be ashamed for the rest of his life.

After Quinn had the bathroom installed on the second-floor side room, just as the agent had mentioned, he didn’t have room for any furniture afterward. He enlisted the help of his neighbors, who seemed sad to see him go, to get all of the furniture he had now into the house. That didn’t consist of much. He had his Fire School banner, the Ravenwood banner, his desk and chair, the desk pad, all of his books, some scrolls he had picked up in Krok, a carpet runner, his crafting bench, and a few vials, jars, and burners that he needed for that. As he carried the crafting table with one of the neighbors, he realized how long it had been since he had crafted something.

It made him sad.

They took a trip to what the school called their ‘attic.’ It was essentially a storage space for all of the students in the dorms. They each got their own limited area so they could store things that they couldn’t fit in their dorms. Quinn hadn’t been up there in a while, but he knew he had some things in there. He had been right, of course. A wooden skeleton key, some gardening pots, and a large object hidden by a sheet. He was confused about what that was until he tugged it down, and as dust flew up and made his eyes water and his nose itch, the blanket fluttered to the ground and revealed a huge tablet. It reached the ceiling, and it was old and weathered down from time. There were symbols painted on it, symbols he didn’t understand.

“What’s that?” One of the neighbors, a storm wizard whose name escaped him at the moment, asked as her friend sneezed from the dust. Quinn stared up at the tablet, eyebrows furrowed downwards as he racked his brain.

“I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “Looks like it’s been here a while, but…”

“Well… Do you wanna just sell it off?” She asked. Quinn opened his mouth, then closed it. He furrowed his eyebrows further before he sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“No. Let’s take it.”

The two glanced at each other before they just shrugged and moved forward to help him move it.

His now ex-neighbors bid him farewell after the last object had been placed down, a couch in his living room. A few of them commented on how empty it looked, but he waved off their concerns by saying he was going to go shopping tomorrow. But for tonight, he was beat, and he needed to sleep. But after they had left, he didn’t sleep. Instead, he wandered through his new house. On the top floor, he had made it into a living room and a kitchen. The living room had the one carpet runner he had going from the door to the middle of the room. Right across from the door was a couch he had gotten as thanks for defeating some boss. It hadn’t been the weirdest reward he had gotten so far. The kitchen wasn’t much either. It was just a bowl of tomatoes and two pumpkins, one tall and thin and the other quite stout. He had nothing in the room below that, the second floor, but the bathroom was set up in its side room. All there was was a sink, a toilet, and a bathtub, which was in the very center of the small room. The bathtub was wooden and fireproof. It was where most of his money for the bathroom had gone, but he was from Dragonspyre. He knew how important it was for the bathtub to be fireproof.

On the floor below that, with the second door, he had made it into his bedroom. He didn’t have much money after installing the bathroom, and he obviously couldn’t take the dorm bed. But he wanted to move out as soon as possible, so he sold off some old wands of his to afford a cheap, twin bed that he pushed into the corner. He hung up the wands he didn’t sell along the wall across from the door, and put his Fire School plague—it looked a lot like a shield, the edges were lined in iron and made of wood with a red flame painted in the middle—the very center of the wall. And below that was the basement, which he had made into the study. His desk was near the center of the room, so he was surrounded by the glass walls holding the lava back. It was a bit unnerving, but he was already beginning to get used to it. The study was already a mess, but he quite liked the charm of it. There were scrolls from Krok, piles of books from his three classes, and his crafting table was beside his desk, facing left so he could move back and forth rather easily with his chair. He had his quills and bottles of ink. He had also put that tablet down here too, because while the rooms were very open and wide—which had been a big reason for his purchase—the basement had the tallest ceiling. He put it in front of his study, so he could look at it easily. He didn’t know what it was, but he had a feeling it was from Krokotopia. He had some jars of… Things. He couldn’t quite remember what they were, honestly. He really needed to get back into crafting, he used to love it so much…

The silence in the rooms was deafening. It was the first time he had ever had a quiet house. He grew up in a household with one younger brother and younger triplet sisters, and even after that, he had moved into the dorms where there was always someone in the hallways, always friends visiting and laughing. Most of the time, he was one of those visiting or being visited. But here in this tower, where he was separated by the school by his very own World Door, it was so quiet. It was so… isolated. He had his pets, sure, but they didn’t talk back to him. He felt a bit uncomfortable talking to them now. He was afraid he’d start to feel like he was crazy, and that feeling would become a reality. He was beginning to wonder if this was a mistake, and he decided it was time for bed. He had another day of Fire, Ice, and Myth classes, and he knew it was going to be exhausting. He knew Professor Falmea would want to hear all about his new place too, and even if he didn’t like it, he’d have to put on a front for her. That was going to take a lot of energy.

As he walked to his new bed, he passed by a calendar he had hung up on the wall. He paused and then backed up and turned, picking up a quill from a crate he was using as a temporary nightstand. One of the neighbors had given to him after carrying all of the smaller things inside of it. He dipped it into the bottle of ink and marked off another day. He had gotten into a habit of doing that lately. If he didn’t, the days would become a blur and he’d lose track of time. He hated that feeling. As he crossed out the square, his eyes fell on the date. His breath caught in his throat and he dropped the quill. Drops of ink stained the wooden floors under his feet but he barely noticed. He stumbled away from the calendar as if it had burned him. He suddenly wished he hadn’t looked at the date. He wished he had just gone to bed, and dealt with this tomorrow. Or maybe just never. But he had looked at the date, and now he was about to scream.

It was the fifth.

He died on the fifth. Four months ago. Tonight was the horrible anniversary of the night that had ruined his entire life.

Quinn retched, feeling physically sick at the thought. His eyes were watering as he turned and sprinted out the door in his bedroom, and he stumbled outside. He fought the urge to vomit as he moved right to the World Door, with one destination in mind. He was not going to be able to sleep now. Not while he was sober. He needed some alcohol, Fireball or not, and he needed it yesterday.

He had three hundred coins left in his bank account. When he woke up the next morning, he had zero. The next morning, he had a pounding headache and puffy eyes from all of the crying he had done. The next morning, he wished he hadn’t woken up.

#tw: PTSD #tw: swearing #tw: character death mentioned #tw: alcholism #tw: panic attack #wizzy101 #wizard101 #wizard101 oc: Quinn Firethief #OC: Quinn Firethief #wizard101 oc #moving out #cyrus drake #dalia falmea #lydia greyrose

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dykewizards · 6 years ago

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Jasmine Nightflame’s Backstory

Jasmine Nightflame originally came from Avalon. Raised by the foxes Mariota and Caera, Jasmine grew up thinking that lesbian couples were the norm. She was in for a huge shock when she came to Wizard City and met her first heterosexual couple. But that comes later. Dubbed originally Aanor, Jasmine chose her first and last name at the age of 8. When she was 8, Jasmine was told that in two years time, she’d be sent to Wizard City. Instead of keeping her Avalonian name (the name her mothers gave her), Jasmine decided to dub herself after two things. Jasmine (the flowering bush that grew above the trellis in her backyard) and Nightflame, her room was lit at night by her very own flame. Of course, the Night part of her taken name would turn out to be disturbingly apt.

The reason Jasmine was sent away from a loving home at age 10? Easy. You see, Mariota was a more Balance inclined fox, worshipping her own goddess of Adrestia. She excelled at keeping the peace in her home, giving Jasmine a happy, if rowdy, childhood. Caera took after a more myth based magic style. Allowing minions to appear and help her child in whatever Jasmine so desired. But of course, as happy as she was (and as great parents as Mariota and Caera were), Jasmine was a pyromancer by nature. Even at the tender age of 5, she was accidentally starting fires on an almost monthly basis. After 3 years of dealing with fireproofing an entire cottage, the two agreed that it would be best for all of them if Jasmine took a tutelage in Wizard City to master her natural talents.

When she turned 10, Jasmine was sent away to a (thankfully fireproof) dorm. Since her mothers were (in comparison to Wizard City prices) very well off, Jasmine could dip down into the Shopping District. There she bonded with a fire breathing dragon named Max, (which made her roommates glad that the dorm was fireproof), and showed him off to her friends: Calamity Drakebringer (a lovely necromancer from Wysteria), Rowan Mythhunter (a Marlybonian conjurer), and Calamity Legendwhisper (a Krokotopian Theurgist).

When she began her formal (as formal as Wizard City provides) schooling under Dalia Falmea, Jasmine grew to have better control of her powers. The second she could, Jasmine learned her secondary school of Life under the teachings of Moolinda Wu (dead set on keeping her teammates alive from a fear of hurting others). Slowly, she began to climb the ranks, finishing up with Wizard City as a whole. Firecat Alley was difficult and frustrating for her, but she shouldered through it with the help of Calamity^2 and Rown. Helping out Rowan with Cyclops Lane, the four became fast friends and adventuring partners.

Krokotopia was the beginning of the beginning of the end for our lovely Pyromancer. On the more harmless side, Jasmine was a fanatic when it came to decorating her new castle with the loot she...pillaged from the pyramids. But the bad thing? With Krokotopia, came the Krokonomicon and all of its necromantic secrets. Now Jasmine’s a fire wizard (with a life secondary to keep her teammates alive), so she'd be the last expected person to get into necromancy (even with the fact that one of the Calamity’s is a necromancer). But during a solo dungeon (one her friends couldn't follow her in), she found a book. A book that allowed her to learn her first necromancy spell: Deer Knight. This was the first step onto a downward slope of learning necromancy (much to the chagrin of Drakebringer).

Grizzleheim came next, learning the runestones and their meanings. Defeating Grendels and Spiders and learning the Bigger Picture. It only fueled her fear of death, of what comes after, and whether or not someone is pulling her strings. She never liked Grandmother Raven, never enjoyed how she was made to obey a raven who wouldn’t move. Fighting bosses and almost dying over and over again. It brought her face to face with death over and over. Jasmine visited the Hall of the Ice Forge, looking up at the frozen giant, and she realized something: she would last forever no matter the cost. She made a small circle of runes behind her house, a circle for preparation.

Marylebone came after, and it was boring. All except for one part: electricity. Watching the inanimate golems walk around and even talk, not to mention Dr. Katzenstein's attempt to create life from dead body parts. But that was too storm-centered (not one of her strong suits, she’s too brash), and the only reason she enjoyed the world was meeting Rowan’s parents. A rather nice couple, if vaguely disapproving of the Necromantic Calamity and the darker leaning Jasmine.

Mooshu was unremarkable, for the most part. None of her friends came from this world, but it did gift her a perfect house for her pets to live. Of course, there were the spirits. Buried and then unburied and Jasmine realized how finicky death is. Such a simple thing to ruin and unearth. She made another promise to herself, for her body (if she ever did die) to be burned (what comes from fire must return to fire) and her ashes scattered. She wasn't going to risk losing herself to a necromancer who needed a body.

Dragonspyre solidified her ideals. The ghosts (tormented) tried to warn her away, but the crystals (trapping energies trapping memories) were her goal. So she gained them. Gained a sash of crystals (different sizes but multiplying and growing like a belt), and there was where she put animus. Trapping minor (level 5 and below) enemies into smaller crystals, and boss energies in main crystals, Jasmine’s new sash had all the lights of the Aurora Borealis. Animus became almost an obsession of hers.

Celestia brought mainly two new revelations: astral schools and Morganthe. But not all of the schools did Jasmine enjoy; moon spells bored her, star spells never lasted long enough for her plans (once quick tempered and rash, now terrifyingly strategic, she gets the job done fast, leaving her teammates staring at her in muted horror). But sun spells? She learned the damage ones, the accuracy ones, but never bothered with the healing ones. Healing comes second to dealing the most damage. With more damage, the battle ends sooner and the sooner she can get more animus.

But of course, I did mention two developments that were happened to her. The most damaging one was named Morganthe. Jasmine first realized something was wrong when Morganthe showed up and she found herself agreeing with the spider queen. This led to her shutting herself away in the bowels of her Balance house, and it was a chaotic house afterwards. You see, Jasmine (throughout her trails through the Spiral) was a collector of pets, and put them in separate rooms according to what school they belonged to. And let's just say all seven rooms of her underground Balance house (her mother was a Balance leaning woman, and she chose this house because the statue of Lady Justice reminded Jaz of Caera and home), were fucked up in response to Jasmine's emotions.

Ruled by her emotions, that's the best way to define Jasmine post learning Deer Knight. So when she realized she was slowly turning to the dark side, her house reacted in kind. The life room began to grow vines, coiling up and choking everything that wasn't the pets. The ice room was in a constant state of blizzard and frostbite. The death room stunk like a freshly robbed grave and made her sick to even enter. The storm was a monsoon and the myth room blinked in and out of existence. The fire room was an inferno. The only room left safe? Balance. There Jasmine stayed, whispering reverent prayers in the tongue of her mothers in front of Lady Judgement to save her. But of course, as she feared, no one answered.

From Celestia (and the freak out that was caused there), things went in a slow (almost unnoticeable until it was too late) downward spiral. Wysteria (though it was the home of Calamity) only served to fuel her competitiveness, anger at the stuck up Pigwick students and the cheating natures there. Tower of the Helephant made her vicious, prepared to do anything to defeat her enemies. There was very few undead enemies there, which was good. Jasmine didn’t think she could deal with the idea of her inevitable mortality so soon after realizing she was now working against her school.

Zafaria taught her the ways of political power, how to say just the right things to get people on your side. She had to play safe there though, after all Merle was watching her closer after rumors of what Morganthe had told her spread. Jasmine successfully got him off of her back, after all she did rescue an entire field trip worth of students, that was certainly heroic of her. But really, after seeing the skeletal body of an old king shake itself back to life, Jasmine thought again on what will happen when she dies. ...If she dies.

Avalon...hurt. Her mothers were alive, of course I'm a dyke I don't kill my lesbians, and they still loved her. But there was a darkness that her Balance mother and her Storm mom could see, and it worried them. But they welcomed their daughter back into their home with open arms, and just had to pray to their goddess that she would turn out alright. Avalon hurt in another way as well, in the backstory of Morganthe and what exactly she did to gain her power. The tangled crown of roses put upon King Artorius’s head made her decide on buying a life house.

In the basement of the lifehouse, Jasmine created her shrine. A tapestry of the Spider Queen flanked by swords, with an obsidian chest placed down in front of it. Grinding and fighting for hours upon hours upon days, Jasmine eventually siphoned enough animus from Lord Nightshade to trade his spirit inside of her house. Now he and his Field Guard minion guard her chest.

Azteca taught her consequences. Taught her how fragile a world could be and how it could end. Of course, there was also more Morganthe. More honey soaked lies that Jasmine was eager to believe. It was lucky she wasn't doing the dungeons alone, as her traveling companions pulled her back from the brink time and time again. (Jasmine feared the solo dungeon that would tip the scales). Or did she anticipate it eagerly? It’s been too long for her to remember or care to try to.

Aquila gave her pride, she defeated gods themselves and did it over and over again just for the fun of it. Her traveling companions worry about the gleam in her orange eyes as she struck down Hades himself. She struck down countless gods, uncaring about how ruthless she had become. As she donned the gear of the gods, her hands came ablaze with blue fire, and she burned her handprint into the throne of Hades himself. A marker for all those who follow in her footsteps to defeat the gods.

Khrysalis...changed her. She learned shadow magic. She learned how to take advantage of what drove Morganthe to the cliff's edge and she took the bull by the horns. Her eyes gleamed and her freckles turned stark white against her dark skin. Shadows (blacker than the natural tone of her skin) curled around her arms and legs and torso like the shadow of a light source that wasn't there. And there...she defeated Morganthe, and she became Morganthe. And she no longer cared.

#my oc #Jasmine Nightflame #wizzy fandom #wizzy101 #w101 #wizard101 #Mariota nightflame #Caera nightflame #Calamity Drakebringer #Rowan Mythhunter #Calamity Legendwhisper

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rainbowfist-hour · 3 years ago

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OOOO I have some ideas

Elemental Schools:

❄️: Lydia Greyrose would summon a snowball and throw it at the student for get them to wake up. It’s a bit of an inside joke between the students and Mrs. Greyrose.

🔥: Falmea would go up to the sleeping students and stand next to them, arms crossed, patiently until they woke up. She’s like “No one wake them up, us pyromancers must learn patience”

Sometimes it takes an entire class for a student to wake up

⚡️: To be honest, Prof. Balestrom would be too focused explaining a subject to even notice anyone sleeping. When he starts explaining something he’s super into the lil frog man will not stop.

Spirit Schools:

🍃: When Sylvia was alive she would walk up to the student, wake them up, and lecture them on the horrible effects of sleep deprivation, and that they should get a better sleeping schedule so they don’t interrupt the class.

Moolinda would probably just let them sleep. She knows how sleep is healthy for growing students! Though she’s not gonna update the student on the subject of that class cause they should’ve been sleeping properly in their dorms as she always reminds them to do so.

👁: Cyrus would be an absolute asshat about it. First he’d let out the LOUDEST whistle he learnt to do in his time in the DSpyre military to scare the class and wake up the poor student.

Then, he’d punish the entire class by making them write an essay on Aquilan history on the spot. That sure wakes everyone up instantly.

☠️: When Malistaire was around he would do the same as Cyrus with the loud ass whistle, but wouldn’t shove an essay onto the students’ like his twin. No, he’d give the extra homework specifically to the student who fell asleep in his class.

Marlorn would literally just be like “Man, same” and then the entire class gets a free period while Marlorn grades/does his own homework.

Dworgyn would get a student to wake them up and continue the class as normal!

Balance:

“There is no sleep when there’s sand up your ass 24/7”

-Balance students probably

how do you think each wizard101 teacher would handle a student sleeping in class?

#wizard101 #w101 #headcanons #just some random ass hcs becausw yes

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saviorofthespiral · 7 years ago

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More Wizard Headcanons Nobody Asked For: Ravenwood Classes

#wizard101 #headcanons #w101 #w101 fandom #w101 headcanons

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blade-the-demon-fangirl · 7 years ago

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How to be a wizard chapter two: Ravenwood

just a warning, this is NOT beta read, so... manage your expectations.

Chapter two: Ravenwood school of magical arts Kane Wolftail opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through a stained-glass window above his bed. He lifted an arm out of the warm blankets and glanced at his attire. Blue robes with gold trim. “So much for hoping last night was a dream,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Hey, up and at ‘em, hot shot!” the loud, giggly voice of Calamity Moonhunter rang out, resulting in unanimous groans of annoyance.

“Ay caramba, how can such a loud noise come from someone so small…?” Antonio Suncatcher grumbled and put his pillow over his ears.

“If someone doesn’t shut her up, I will personally burn her alive,” Iridian Flamerunner growled out, throwing her blanket over her head.

“Good morning everyone,” Angela Darkcaller yawned, “thank you for waking us up, Calamity,” she smiled and retrieved her black pointed hat from the table by her bed, placing it on her head. “Does anyone know what’s for breakfast?” “How are we supposed to know if we’ve just woken up, Ange?” Rowan Dragonblood rubbed her eyes and blindly grabbed for her cloak.

“Hey, why don’t we go find out? That sounds like a good idea!” Calamity asked and answered herself, the others, with the exception of Iridian, giving her odd looks.

Just then, the door to their room opened, revealing Gamma, who held several scrolls in his talons. “Ah, good morning, new students!” he flew around the room, dropping a scroll in each wizard’s hands. Or head, in Iridian’s case, who shot up quickly, swatting at the grey owl.

“Hmph! How rude,” the owl perched on the headboard of Kane’s bed, “these are your schedules and timetables. I suggest you follow them well, otherwise, you might not fare well here in Ravenwood.” Gamma bowed and flew out the door.

It was at this time that the group decided to open their scrolls. “I’ve got Basic Life Skills with Professor...Moolinda Wu?” Blake questioned himself.

“Huh. I’ve got Thaumaturgy And You with Lydia Greyrose,” Rowan said, reading from her scroll.

“Mythical Beasts And How To Conjure Them with Professor Cyrus Drake. Whew, that’s a mouthful!” Kane said, sitting up on his bed and reading from his scroll.

“Are these just our first period?” Iridian questioned, turning her scroll around to read the back, which was simply blank. “‘Cause that’s all that’s on my scroll, along with the time it starts,”

“I think that’s our ONLY class,” Antonio observed. “I mean, we all control one element of our own, si?”

“I...guess that makes sense,” Kane slid out of his bed and stretched his arms over his head. “That also explains why it’s like, two hours long.”

“Hey, Angela,” Rowan spoke up, “where’s your scroll? What class do you have?”

The death mage ducked her head in embarrassment. “I...did not get one,” she mumbled, “I mean, Gamma just didn’t give me one,”

“What?” Iridian had a glare set on her pretty face. “How are you supposed to learn death magic to defeat this bad guy if you don’t even have any classes? That’s just messed up!” the fire mage crossed her arms over her chest and glared at her own scroll as if it had offended her.

“Guys, I’m sure it’s just a mistake,” Kane said, trying to relieve some of the tension that had gathered in the room. “I’m sure Angela has classes, just...not like the rest of us do.”

It was silent for a solid minute.

“Hey, guess what you guys?” Calamity said, raising her hand as if she was in a classroom, “I think classes start in thirty minutes.”

“They what?!” resounded across the room. Sure enough, one glance at the clock was enough to send them into a panic as the wizards scrambled to finish getting ready for their respective classes.

Soon enough, seven wizards fell through the door, down the flight of stairs, and landed in a heap on the ground, still scrambling to get up and going. Rowan peeked her head out of the top of the pile. “Hey, wait a second…” she stood and the rest of the group copied her motions. “If we have class in thirty minutes, how come no one’s rushing to get to class?”

Indeed, as they looked around the commons, all the students were bustling about, talking to classmates, playing with their pets, some even splashing in the lake.

“Huh. guess I was mistaken. Oopsie oopsie!” Calamity giggled innocently as the other six glared at her.

“Calamity…” Iridian stormed to the Balance mage. “Did you mess with the clock or something?”

“Yup!” was the immediate response. “I was tinkering with it last night while you guys were asleep, because I LOVE tinkering, and I accidentally stopped the clock, so I tinkered some more and got the clock working again, and to make sure we got to class on time, I set it ahead! A pretty neat idea, right?” The fire mage simply facepalmed at Calamity’s stupidity. “Let’s...just get to class…” she said, turning on her heel and walking towards the tunnel to Ravenwood. Ravenwood was exciting, to say the least. There were five buildings stationed in a circle around a large tree, cobblestone pathways leading to each one.

There was more than enough time before classes started, thanks to Calamity, so the new students decided to get to know their teachers. “So which one should we visit first?” Blake questioned.

“I say we go to the Myth building first,” Kane said, “All in favor?”

The answer he received was a resounding “meh,” so, with a shrug, Kane led the group to the gold-trimmed marble building.

As they walked up the stone path, a booming voice alerted them. “Greetings, new students!”

“Whoa! Quien Dijo Eso?!” Antonio whirled around, trying to locate the source of the voice. “Who said that?!”

“Why, I said that,” the voice said again. The latino turned to where he heard the voice coming from but only saw a giant willow tree sitting next to the Myth building.

“Okay, buddy. Where’d you go?!” Antonio's hands started sparking.

“I’m right here, buddy,” the voice said once more. Only this time, it came from the tree! The tree was the one speaking!

“Madre de Dios!” Antonio screamed and fell on his butt.

“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t harm you. I don’t have the arms to do so, anyway!” the willow tree laughed as if he found that funny. “My name is Ivan. I represent the School of Myth,”

Kane stepped forward, helping Antonio to his feet in the process. “um...I’m Kane Wolftail. I’m a new student in the Myth school, I guess,”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wolftail,” the tree lowered a sagging branch down for Kane to shake.

He did, hesitantly, and the branch retreated. “So, do the other trees here...talk?” he asked.

“Of course,” Ivan replied, “we are representatives of the schools of Ravenwood, here to offer assistance and advice to the students who require it.”

“Whoa,” Blake muttered.

“I suggest you meet with the rest of your teachers and their trees. You might gain some useful insight,” the old tree recommended.

“Uh, will do. Thanks, Ivan,” Kane slowly rejoined the group.

“Soo...that happened,” Angela noted.

“That didn’t just happen, ese!” Antonio spoke up, “that just freaked me out!”

“We’re in a wizarding world where anything could happen, and a talking tree freaks you out?” Iridian snarked.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Rowan said, stepping through the threshold of the building.

The inside was just as magnificent as the outside, with gold-colored tapestries displaying the Myth symbol, smooth marble desks, and standing at the pulpit at the front of the room, was a middle-aged man with no hair, a wispy blond beard on his chin and familiar beady black eyes.

“Who are you?” he sneered. Kane gulped and stepped forward, the rest of the group hanging back in nervousness.

“I-I’m Kane Wolftail. I’ll be attending your school, sir,” he tried his best not to sound like a mouse standing before a vicious cat.

The Myth professor glared at the brunet down his nose, as if deciding if he would be worth the trouble. After a few minutes of silence that seemed like hours, he sniffed in distaste, turning away from the teenager.

“You would do well to show some spine, boy. Otherwise, I suggest finding a new school,” he turned his back on Kane and the rest of the group. “Now leave me be, I have a class to prepare for.”

“Uh, yes sir,” Kane said and backed away from the pulpit, joining his fellow students outside. “Okay, it’s official,” he breathed out, “that guy scares me,”

“Well, let’s just hope that the rest of the teachers aren’t as cold as Drake is,” Blake said, leading the group to the forest-themed Life building.

Upon entering, the first thing they noticed was the anthropomorphic cow woman standing at the front of the room, which was decorated similarly to the Myth building, only there were plants growing everywhere, the desks seemed to be made from tree roots, and the tapestries were green with light brown Life symbols on them.

Blake took in a deep breath and approached the cow woman, who by then, had noticed him coming.

“Why, hello, young wizard! Are you my newest student?” she seemed to smile sweetly.

“Yes, I am Blake Ironheart, and I’m looking forward to learning in your school.” he bowed respectfully.

The bow was returned by the Asian-dressed cow. “Likewise, young Blake. I’m sure you will excel here at the school of life,”

Professor Moolinda Wu was the polar opposite of Cyrus Drake, it seemed. While Drake was cold and ruthless, Wu was kind and motherly.

“I think I’m gonna like this school,” Blake said as he rejoined the group.

The hour continued on with everyone meeting their respective professors. Iridian thought professor Dalia Falmea was a bit...flamboyant, professor Lydia Greyrose was somewhat scatterbrained in Rowan’s opinion, Antonio found he got along well with his professor, Halston Balestrom, even though he was a frog.

“I have to say, ese,” the Latino said, a grin on his face, “that wasn’t so bad.”

“Yeah, but we still have two more professors to meet before classes start,” Angela said, gently tugging at her ponytail in worry, “and that’s death and balance, and we haven’t even seen their school buildings!”

Blake put a reassuring arm around her shoulders, “hey, maybe we just missed them or something?”

“Yeah! Hey, why don’t we go talk to that walking, talking dog man?” calamity, who had surprisingly remained quiet for the duration of the trip, suddenly spoke up, pointing to their left. Sure enough, to everyone’s surprise, there was an anthropomorphic dog-man standing near the entrance of the Ravenwood tunnel, holding a leather briefcase, dressed in a Victorian-era style suit. Calamity bounded over to the canine man while the others just stood still with slack jaws.

“Honestly…” Rowan started with a raised eyebrow, “...I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

The Balance wizard placed herself in front of the dog-man’s way and waved enthusiastically. “Hi! I’m Calamity, and I’m a new student! Those guys over there are my bestest besties EVER and they’re pretty shy so I’m saying hello for them!” she finished off her long-winded greeting with a bright grin.

And after a moment of utter silence, the man burst out laughing. “Well! Jolly good you meet you, miss Calamity!” he spoke in a posh accent, “Allow me to introduce myself,” he removed his top hat and bowed deeply, “ I am Arthur Wethersfield. I am originally from Marylebone, which is a much different world than this, I must say.” he stood up straight and replaced his hat.

“You’re from another world?” Calamity gasped, “so are we! We’re from a place called Earth, and--”

Before she could say another word, Kane rushed up and placed a hand over her mouth, effectively shutting her up.

“Ah, haha, yes, we are from another world as well!” the brunet nervously chuckled, “speaking of worlds, you were telling us about yours?”

Arthur’s ears perked up in excitement. “I’ll do you one better, lad, I’ll tell you my personal story!” he laughed, setting down his briefcase and taking a seat on it. “As a lad, I was always interested in magic, but they don’t practice it in Marylebone. So when I got older, I took the first chance I could and started studying here, in Ravenwood! For many years I’ve studied all sorts of magic, and was always thirsty for more!” he sighed wistfully, “ah, good times. Good times, indeed.” he returned this attention to the seven wizards who had all gathered in front of him by now and jumped in surprise. “Goodness me, it appears I’ve drawn in a bit of a crowd!” he laughed. “Ahem, now, where was I…?”

“You were telling us about your time in Ravenwood,” Iridian said impatiently.

“Yes yes, of course. I’ve always had a love for Wizard City, but for the past ten years I’ve been in Krokotopia, and I’ve come back to train students in a form of magic that is called Sorcery, that deals with the Balance of All Things.”

The Balance of All Things? Kane thought to himself. That sounds like the magic Calamity is supposed to learn! He continued listening with rapt attention, Calamity following his example.

“Now, it is more advanced than the other schools, and the most difficult to master,” Arthur--although “professor Wethersfield” would be more appropriate, given the situation, Kane thought--continued with his story, briefly retrieving a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing his forehead with it. “But its power is unbelievable! Not only can one learn to understand the world around them, but with this magic, they will be able to manipulate it as well! How extraordinary is that!” he then pulled out a gold pocket watch and looked at the time. “Oh, goodness me. Forgive me, students, but I’m afraid I must cut this short! I've got a class to prepare for, and I’d like to make a good first impression on the students who would like to learn this elusive magic,” he stood up and brushed off his trousers. “However, if you’d like to come by and learn a bit yourself, that would be delightful,”

“Thanks, but we’ve already got our own classes to attend,” Angela apologized sweetly. “But…” she then pushed Calamity forward a step and stood beside her, “Calamity here is really interested in this magic! Would it be alright if she…”

She was interrupted by the canine professor, “but of course! I’ve still got a bit to prepare, but I look forward to seeing you in my class, miss Calamity!”

“Same here, sir” the bouncy girl saluted with a giggle, “you can count on me to be here!”

“Very good, lass! Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he popped open his briefcase and it magically unfolded into a large desk with a green chalkboard behind it. “I must continue to prepare for my lesson. Cheers!”

Everyone waved as they left the professor to himself.

“I like him!” Calamity said, skipping ahead of her friends, “he’s got a funny accent and he’s a teacher AND he’s a doggy! Best! Teacher! Ever!”

Due to her excitement, Calamity wasn’t looking where she was going.

“Calamity, look out!” Iridian shouted in a panic, reaching out and grabbing the front of the freckled girl’s robes and pulling her back from almost falling into a deep chasm.

For the first time since they arrived in Wizard City, Calamity looked petrified with terror. “Whoa…” she said shakily, hesitantly peering over the edge. The giant crevice seemed bottomless, and no one was eager to find out if it was true.

“Watch where you’re going, dust-for-brains!” Iridian growled, gripping the smaller girl’s arms tightly. “You could’ve been hurt, or worse!” Calamity was so shaken that she didn’t even say anything for once and simply hugged Iridian tightly, still shaking.

While Iridian was dealing with a shell-shocked Calamity, Angela noticed some strange-looking rocks on the ground beside the edge of the giant chasm. She kneeled, careful of her skirts, and upon closer inspection realized that they weren’t rocks at all. They were bones.

“Okay, I have a lot of questions,” Antonio scratched his head. “First off, why the hell is this I’m guessing thirty-foot wide hole in the middle of the pathway? And two…” he picked up one of the bones and dropped it down the hole. “How deep does it go?” no one heard anything that sounded like the bone hit the bottom.

“Maybe it’s bottomless?” rowan supplied.

“That’s impossible,” Kane interjected, “theoretically, a bottomless pit couldn’t even exist. The closest thing to that would be if you dug from Ontario all the way through the earth’s core, and came up on the other side. Which is of course, impossible.”

“Uh, Kane? I think I have one reason that could throw all that out the window,” Rowan snarked.

“And that is?”

Rowan simply held her arms out wide, gesturing to their environment. “Magic wizard world,” she said simply.

Kane flushed and looked at his boots. “Touche.”

“Still doesn’t explain why this pit, bottomless or not, is here in the first place,” Angela stood, holding one of the bones. “Or why there are these bones scattered everywhere.”

Everyone was silent for a moment before Blake shoved an elbow into Antonio’s stomach. “Hey, dare you to spit over the edge,” he taunted.

“You’re on, amigo!” both storm and life mages ran to the edge of the pit while Angela rolled her eyes. She didn’t know why, but for some reason, she felt something...dark around this pit.

“Oh, have you guys come looking for the Death School?” a voice asked, startling all seven of the new wizards.

Behind them stood a boy with dark skin and hair, wearing a two-pointed black hat and long black robes. He was holding several scrolls and a staff topped with a crystal skull in his arms. A look crossed his face like he just remembered something. “Ah, yes, sorry,” he shifted his items so he could hold out his hand. “Malorn Ashthorn, it’s nice to meet you all.”

Angela walked up and shook his hand. “It’s nice to meet you too. I’m Angela Darkcaller, and these are my…” she looked behind her in time to see blake hock a loogie into the dark pit, “...acquaintances.” she said in slight disgust.

Malorn frowned. “Those Life wizards.” he shook his head, the points on his hat flopping with the motion. “They’ve always had it out for us Death wizards. If I were you, I’d stay away from them. They’ll only cause you nothing but trouble,” he said in a low voice, probably to keep the other wizards from hearing.

“Right…” said death wizard nervously before clearing her throat. “You said something about the death school?”

“Oh, yes!” Malorn’s bright expression immediately returned. “Well, if you were looking for it, you certainly found where it used to be.” he gestured behind her. “This gaping chasm is all that is left after it was torn from Ravenwood.”

“Why was it...torn?” Angela questioned.

Malorn shrugged. “It is said that Malistaire, the death professor, caused it to disappear. I’m not sure what happened to the school, but you’ll find many rumors around town about it.” the boy set down his scrolls and staff and walked to the edge of the pit, gazing forlornly down at it. He chuckled bitterly. “I don’t mean to boast, but I was one of Malistaire’s top pupils. Now though, I’m all that’s left of the death school, so I try to teach the new students the best I can.” he looked up at Angela. “You know, if you want, I can teach you some death spells. Necromancy really isn’t that hard once you get used to it.” he smiled and Angela returned it.

“I’d really appreciate it, thank you!” before she could walk away though, he grabbed her shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Just be careful around Life students, like I said before,” he looked over to where Rowan was scolding Antonio and Blake, both of them looking ashamed, “the other schools are okay, but Life students have had it out for Death students since who knows how long.” he looked at her meaningfully. “They just don’t realize that not all death students are so inherently...evil. Watch yourself, okay?”

Angela nodded and went to join the rest of the group.

“What did he say?” Iridian said, finally having gotten Calamity off of her and back to her bubbly bouncy self.

“He said he’d be willing to teach me Necromancy and other death magic,” the death mage said simply, with a shrug of her shoulders. She left out the part about not trusting Life wizards since she felt like it wouldn’t go over well with Blake, whom she was starting to see as a friend.

“Cool,” Rowan said, clapping her hands together, “what say we get something to eat? I’m so hungry, I could eat a horse,” just as she was turning around to the Ravenwood tunnel exit, a fluffy feathered gray mass shot into her knocking her off her feet with a loud “OOF!” and landing her on her rear end. “But not an owl,” she wheezed.

Gamma the owl shook himself off and flew above their heads. “Oh dear, forgive me, my dear, but Headmaster Ambrose needs to see you all in his office posthaste! There’s been some trouble in the city!” just as quickly as he arrived, he flew off towards the Ravenwood tunnel.

“Well, he sure left in a hurry,” Antonio muttered, helping Rowan to her feet.

“What kinda trouble do you think it is?” calamity wondered, “maybe a rampaging elephant? Or a cookie thief? Or a rampaging cookie-thieving elephant in a tutu!” calamity gasped dramatically and made a beeline for the tunnel. “Not on my watch, you pastry-stealing pachyderm!”

“I didn’t think she knew what that meant,” Iridian said under her breath before following the overexcited sorcerer.

“Guess we’d better go see what the headmaster wants,” Blake shrugged and led the rest of the group out of the tunnel. Kane strayed a few feet behind though, his stomach all tied into knots. When Antonio called out to ask if he was okay, he simply nodded. Something didn’t feel right to him. For some reason, he knew that whatever it was that headmaster Ambrose wanted to see them about, it was really, really bad.

#Wizard101 #how to be a wizard #blade writes #no beta #we die like men

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