Wearing Power Armor to a Magic School (117/?) WiP 1

Hey everyone! Here is the Work in Progress for Chapter 117 I hope you guys enjoy! :D

Grand Concourse of Learning. Betreyan’s Hall. Local Time: 1155 Hours.

Professor Vanavan

Music blared behind the hall’s heavy-set doors, marking the end to a class that felt as if it had barely even begun.

So sudden was this passage in time, that I could even attribute its anomalous pace to the involvement of chronomancy.

The involvement of which… wouldn’t have been so out of place, given the weeks’ preceding events. 

My eyes turned to the source of the past week’s blights.

The purveyor of crisis upon crisis.

The very reason why this morning’s class had felt so… brisk.

The Blue Knight.

It was her lack of involvement in today’s class that had restored a sense of equilibrium and balance, a state of normalcy to the morning’s lecture.

And it was likewise her incessant involvement that had brought about a week of veritable chaos, and the scrutiny of both forces and interests outside of our control.

A silent war waged in the crossroads of academia and noble intrigue was well underway.

A war, which while ostensibly started by the earthrealmer, was one which she was not privy to.

As the battles were fought not with steel nor fists, but with words and ink.

A battle which I would continue to fight. If only to fulfil my oaths and promises, to a being I had both successfully managed to analyze yet woefully failed to predict.

My eyes quickly glanced down at the unfinished letter sitting beneath the pile of homework, a nearly-finished rebuttal to the Inner Guard Captain Anoyaruous Frital, as she continued to push forth for an investigation which was soon to proceed into its next phase.

A phase which would necessitate the involvement of an indisposed party.

A party which was now in the process of—

TOO-TOO-TOOOOT!

CLINK-CLINK-CLINK!

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Grand Concourse of Learning. Betreyan’s Hall. Local Time: 1200 Hours.

Qiv

“Class is dismissed! You may all be excused for lunch in the grand dining hall.” The professor spoke softly, or at least, that’s what it always felt like when the man was up against anything marginally louder than a stray whisper. 

I silenced those thoughts as quickly as they arose however.

As in spite of my… personal reservations on the man’s character, this did not detract from his place within the de-facto hierarchy, and his natural position as a Crownlands-born elf.

Authority and rank. Title and birthright. Both inalienable aspects of the greater game which one simply could not ignore, not even for a character as weak as his own.

As character alone hardly spoke much for an individual’s capacity if Ping and Booker were of any indication.

The former of which now stood up promptly, corralling his own cohort, as I did my own, as we slowly filed out of the hall.

Though irrelevant to the growing games of Academy intrigue, I couldn’t help but to focus on the newrealmer’s… strangeness on this day.

A strangeness which began the moment I laid my eyes upon her homework, and one which continued on throughout the course of the morning’s lecture.

I could however attribute the latter to the newrealmer’s gradual attunement to the social decorum of Nexian academia. As even beings with the thickest of skulls had the capacity to learn and adapt, if only to survive within hostile new environments.

Though it was the former that had truly lodged itself within the back of my mind.

And not for any real concern over the content nor quality of her homework. 

No. 

Instead… my concerns lay with the medium through which they were delivered.

Her words.

Or more specifically, her handwriting.

And her apparent mastery over Nexian calligraphy. 

Utilizing high script, sans abbreviations, sans simplistic reduction, with not one apparent use of shorthand even when it was socially appropriate.

When combined with her newrealmer status, and the purposeful lack of meaningful time to prepare what would otherwise take the most gifted of scribes decades to master — her few pages of homework just became all the more remarkable.

The simplest solution to this debacle — that she merely used a bespoke enchanted pen — was preposterous.

As even ignoring her apparent shielding of her manafield — thus relinquishing any and all ability to interact with enchanted items — there was still the matter of intent behind her script.

Yes, each and every letter was perfect.

But the fact that each and every letter, of each and every word was written in highscript? With all of the flourishes and serifs that came with it?

This… was near obsessive degrees of penmanship.

Which could only mean she’d either trained, or had honed a sort of… iron-willed discipline, the likes of which could only be comparable to the zealousness of Ping’s kind.

Perhaps I was merely overthinking things.

Perhaps this was well and truly just a practiced skill.

Perhaps there really wasn’t anything more to ponder.

But when one factors in the newrealmer’s proclivities for the eccentric… it became merely another aspect of her being to be wary of.

As… whatever it was that lay beneath that armor, was a dormant threat lying in waiting.

A sleeping dragon whose capacity for the impossible was only rivalled by their discipline.

Even if that discipline seemed lacking in much of their social interactions.

“Lord Ratom?” A voice suddenly brought me out of my reverie, a soft, high-pitched, purposefully inoffensive voice.

“Yes, Lord Rostarion?” I replied politely.

“Are you feeling well?”

“Why yes, I was merely…” I paused, my eyes locking onto the newrealmer’s sudden jolt in the midst of her stride, as if she was suddenly taken over by a ghost or a spirit. “... pondering a few matters.” 

The small furry mage shot a look towards the ragtag group in question, his eyes leveling if only for a moment, relaying the true thoughts behind that inoffensive facade.

“They are no threat to us, Lord Ratom. I can guarantee you this.” He stated in no uncertain terms beneath a veil of secrecy.

“Practically? Yes. They seem to be learning their place. Refusing to compete in the accumulation of points even when they very well could. However, it is not the matter of practical competition which concerns me.” 

This answer brought about the raised brow of Airit and Uven, the latter of which seemed to have woken through their perpetual daze if only for this subject matter.

“It is the… unpredictable and enigmatic nature of their newrealmer compatriot that I am most concerned with.” I stated in no uncertain terms.

“A weakfielder who works primarily with parlor tricks.” Airit responded with a dismissive chuff. “Believe me, Lord Qiv, even the enigmatic have their limits. We have already witnessed her limits during the House Choosing Ceremony. She barely participated even when she had the chance to! This newrealmer is a fire that burns bright, but just as with any bright flame, it will soon burn itself out soon enough.”

“I suppose so.” I acknowledged with a nod, not willingly dismissing the fiery response of the Shatorealmer just yet.

“I know so.” She followed up with a sly grin, her eyes locking not on the newrealmer, but on her tainted partner.