Flashback [Arkale] Brave, Who charge within the bosom

[Philomena]

Spring 12, 507 AV
Late morning
The Office Dr. Philomena Lefting, Zeltiva University
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It was the sort of semi-gale that in a different city might have been considered a storm - in Zeltiva it was simply a spring day in which one need not water one's plants. The wind blew irritably down the streets, catching loose shutters, spitting rain at the pillars of the university. It crowed in a wet crackle across the roof of Minnie's office.

Minnie herself was bent over a desk, scribbling in a cramped hand, so minuscule she could have written her full name on the space of her narrow pinkie-nail. She hated the desk - it was a great wooden monstrosity from days before yore, with piles of wooden filing materials, and a roll-top over it, all of which ended up getting in her way. If the beast were not so blasted huge, she would have had it removed, but looking at it, she felt a pity for whatever porters they commandeered to move it, and simply dealt with her annoyance.

None of this, though, inhibited her now, for Minnie Lefting was, today, burying herself. There are three ways, perhaps, to be intent upon one's work: there is simple passion, there is fear of a deadline, and then there is fear of thought. This third is the most destructive, for it means that work must continue, because if it stops, the mind will collapse into other rooms, rooms with monsters in them that must not be faced. It exhausts the worker in the name of protecting them, and eventually, leaves them in the same position, but exhausted. Nonetheless, it is this third that was ground into the lines of Minnie's face: the taut lip, the clench-ached jaw, the hyperfocused eye, the tightly sprung fingers on the quill, the way she impaled the ink pot instead of simply dipping into it.

The bells rang leaden in the rain, and her mind, without requesting the consent of her consciousness, counted them. It started her out of herself: class-time. The spring term had begun the week before, and now she had her first session with a new student. She sat, unmoored, and set her pen aside, moving her papers to look at the schedule that would reveal who it was that she would be sharing an hour's conversation with. He would likely knock momentarily: they were always on time at the beginning, until they grew disdainful of her.

//'Arkale Benaeford'… how does one even pronounce that? Rich name, that one, I know I've heard o' the clan on the circuit before… I'll have to watch my accent. Damnit, why don't I look these damned names up ahead of time? What is he taking? Survey of Zeltivan Literature - ugh. The choice of them what don't care to think of something specific.//

She sighed, and tidied up the desk. She stood then - the action, denying her the benefit of the chair her legs had swung freely from before, made her just slightly shorter. She pulled her heap of books from the armchair she kept for students, then a stale mug of Kelp-tea from the table she kept beside it. She opened a drawer, to look for her outlines, and waited for the door to knock.

[Arkale]

The boy's cloak did hardly a thing to prevent the rain from driving a cold dagger to his bones. Running only caused the rain to hit him harder, and strike him deeper than if he simply walked, but sadly the latter was not an option, as he found himself on the brink of being late. He silently cursed himself, for if there was one thing he learned from both his father and grandfather, it was to always be on time. More specifically: To be on-time is to be late. To be early is to be on-time. It was a mantra he had adopted and spent most of his years repeating, be it the night before an appointment, the morning of a class, or the evening dinner of his family. A Benaeford never arrived late, but it was starting to look like he might sully that record, and by extent, the family name. The bells began to ring, a metallic call across the university grounds that summoned forth students and masters, each heading towards appointments, classes, and meals alike, but very few of them in the rush Arkale found himself in. Once more he cursed himself, this time for his workload. Even when the boy was not in class, he was studying something, wether it be a book about the evolution of weaponary through the ages, or a biography about some pig-farmer turned Knight in an attempt to save his family...it was always something. Last night it was a text called 'Zeltivian Literature - An Introduction. He was up until the first signs of daylight reading and learning, and when he finally noticed the number of bells that had passed, he tried to get some rest. Sleep, as it were, is a very fickle and seductive mistress, and once Arkale finally drifted into her sweet, warm embrace, it was reluctant to let him go. A rather deep puddle inturrpted his thoughts when he inadvertantly sent a heel to its depths. The puddle, easy compared to a mild lake, lashed against the intrustion, and sprayed beneath Arkale's cloak with the bitter bite of cold rain-water. With an annoyed sigh, the boy didn't stop his hurried pace, and infact started into a brisk jog. Finally, his bright amber eyes fell upon the office of Dr. Lefting, the professor that would be teaching him all she knew about Zeltivan Literature. A swirling cloud of mixed emotions billowed within him as he approached the door, and gave a gentle, but assertive knock. This was a class his father signed him up for...in fact ALL his classes were classes his father signed him up for. As he waited for a response from within, he looked off into the rain laden clouds, his mind flashed back a few years ago, when he travled to Syliras with his grandfather. Sorely he wished he was thirteen again...travelling down the road on horse back. With a deep breath he turned his attention back to the door and prayed he was on time.

[Philomena]

Minnie sighed, sourly. Her sourness, in reality had not a thing to do with the mysterious Arkale, but its true target she could not face up to safely. So, she redirected it to this boy. She had no clock - a luxury like that was not the sort of thing she worried about. One gets used to knowing the time without one. But she was sure he was late, by now - it was close anyway.

She sighed, and stirred her tea with a wooden teaspoon, then sipped it. The room stank of the kelp in it, now - she was used to it, but it crawled into her subsconscious nonetheless, making her think of the sea.

She frowned irritably, standing again, plumped the armchair cushions, and sat again. Unsettled she stood again, went to the door, and turned the knob to crack it open. Perhaps the boy was too timid to knock?

[Arkale]

"Good morning professor, my name is Arkale Benaeford." His surname was pronounced Beh-nay-ford, or so that was how he pronounced. It was impossible to determine where the name originated or even what the original spelling should have been, but over the years and generations this is what it had become. All in all the boy was proud of it, and introduced himself with a smile that said such. "I'm here for class, ma'am." In his hands he clutched a rather large book, and presented it to her as though that was proof of his enrollment. OOCSorry for the short turn. I seem to be facing a brick wall of writer's block today :/

[Philomena]

Dr. Lefting finding he was outside the door just as she pulled it, stepped back with a start, and put a hand to her chest. "Mr. Bunnyford. Yes, I... yes... I'm sorry, you startled me." She curtsied - clumsily, unattractively but properly, "Dr. Lefting. The book, what is the book? For my class?"

She frowned, staring at it. It was the standard text alright. She turned a bit red, "Oh dear... oh, we won't be using this. How much did you pay for it? This is my own, bloody fault," the bit of profanity slipped out quiet naturally, but perhaps without her noticing it. "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I forget they put that in the syllabi. I shall.. I shall buy it off of you, Mr. Bennyford, its my own fault, it is. Tell me how much it was. Oh, and do come in and sit down! Sit, sit... yes, I'm sorry, sit... tea? Do you drink tea?"

She bumbled backwards to her own desk. IT faced the wall, so (sadly) she could not use it as a shield, but she turned her chair, a touch, and backed up as close to the desk as she could as she sat, her legs, again swinging sillily from the seat, like a child on a pier-post at the docks.

[Arkale]

Arkale clutched his book to his chest and stepped into the office. He looked about at the office, and specifically the large desk lined with papers and other academic materials. A smiled crossed his face, partly because he was out of the rain, and partly beacause he was surrounded by knowledge. He loved learning, even though his father had dominated his entire life by forcing him to study. There was an invoulentary twitch at the thought of his father, and Arkale shook away the memory of the man. He was not at home, he was at the University. The professor offered him tea, as well as butchered his name. He ignored the mispronunciation and accepted her offer of tea. He had tried the hot, herbal drink before, back when he was on the road with his grandfather, but has not had the chance since he has been back in the port city. As soon as the hot drink was offered, Arkale was able to smell it. Another smile crossed his face, and he wondered what it tasted like. Tea had endless possibilities, or so his grandfather once said. "Don't worry about the book, ma'am. It was actually my Fathers, and I am afraid it may even be outdated." He flushed a little, the appearance of the book seemed to confuse and slightly upset the woman, and Arkale didn't want her to have to concern herself with such a thing. Besides, the boy figured his father would be rather upset if he sold it...

[Philomena]

She frowned, "You are sure? If you change your mind, leave the book, and I will slip some mizas in your bag the next time you come. I remember being a student, I..." she realizes how stupid this particular line of reasoning is, what a gulf, all of a sudden, there is between her experiences of university, and this son of privilege. She looks at him queerly - not jealousness, not dislike, but not admiration either. Confusion, perhaps. Staring upon the inscrutable. "Yes... yes. Well. Yes."

She pours a cup of the tea the smell is... acceptable. The taste to the untrained palette is awful - it is the flavor of the poor, the flavor of the inexpensive imitation of the great teas of the wealthy. It is bitter, and exceptionally salty. She sits, then, again, and sips her own tea with quiet thought.

"Yes. Well... to begin, then, Master Bunnyford. What brings you to this class? What is it that you are studying, at large, and how does it connect to our mutual work?"

[Arkale]

Arkale finally took a seat, and before responding, took a small sip of the tea. It was a shock to his system to be sure, for it was nothing like the fragrant and floral tea his grandfather had given him...this was the polar opposite, but for the office in the middle of the stormy weather it seemed....fitting. He set the tea aside and placed the book on the table before him. Dr. Lefting has asked him a very fair question, what was he studying? Sure his father had decided on all his classes and told him what to expect; sure he had been prepped for this his entire childhood, and in fact, was still very much a child in the eyes of the world. What was he doing here? This was the world of academia and the learned mind. People here had a goal; to become masters, to expand their craft, or to become teachers themselves. What was his goal? To please his family? In the eyes of his professor, what did that even mean? Arkale would wager that she was no hear by her family's terms. She wanted to be here... The boy sat there a moment, mulling over the question form his professor as well as the question he faced himself with. The rain outside provided a rather claustrophobic sensation to the atmosphere, as though the small walls of the office were all that the universe consisted of, and everything beyond was a wall of water and wind. Arkale reached for his tea, but quickly withdrew his hand as he remembered the flavor. "My field of study is general...nothing specific at all really. Pure learning for pure knowledge...at least that is what my family believes is right." There was a small amount of disdain in his voice, and a subtle tone that told anyone able to pick up on it, that he would rather not be associated with his family...or rather what his family had become. For all intents and purposes, the Benaeford name has been turned from the hard-working farmers and land workers they founded the family name on, to a small clan of students who spent their days inside, reading and writing, with no greater goal than to never have to step foot in a field and pick up a spade... At that moment, Arkale would have been happily known as "Bunnyford" for it would have no longer associated him with his father. Sadly he didn't have that choice, so there he sat, in the academic office of Dr. Lefting, and was prepared to learn all she had to offer. "I simply come to learn, ma'am." Arkale reiterated, trying to sound more confident and excited, while maintaining an air of appreciation and respect. As he answered, he absently reached a hand into his cloak and fingered the small glass vial that hung around his neck.

[Philomena]

Her face falls a bit - she intends, of course to suppress this, but then, Minnie is not a great deceiver, in the best of circumstances. //Nothing specific, just learning for its own sake. Ye gods. How strange it must be to be so needless.// She forces a smile - it comes out less unconvincing than incomplete. //I almost feel sorry for the little creature.//

"Literature is not... it is not like Magic or the Sciences. To learn, oh, Herbalism is to learn the herbs. There is a body of work one must know. There is this in literature as well, to be sure. There are things one may learn, to begin to understand the structure of the Zeltivan world, there are things one may learn to have a lexicon to speak about a poem or a tale. We will have some of this. But an introduction to literature, I think, is more than this, a chance to learn how to think - specifically, perhaps, how to learn the symbols that our minds speak to us in. Or other minds speak to us in. To understand it, then, one must know where to begin. One must know what symbols one is most likely to identify with, to recognize. What is it, then, that you know best? Or... that is wrong. What is it, child, that you are most passionate about? No need to be shy."

[Paragon]

Philomena

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Organisation	1
Writing	1
Philosophy	1
Rhetoric	1
Teaching	1

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	Keeping up Appearances
•	The Virtues of Literature

Legend Becomes Reality

Let me know if you return Arkale. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can work from there.