Freshman Year--2011

[pantalimon]

January 1st, 2011

A cold wind gusted over Syrica's head as she brought the wooden paddles down into the water again. The boat moved forward another few feet, and she repeated her action. The young woman with long, white hair and a brown cloak was making her way across the Ponkapoag Brook, her mind dead set on docking at The Harbor.

Even in this horrible weather, the water was glassy--she could see down into the depths like she was looking through a pair of eyeglasses. There were a cacophony of boats and ships that traveled around in these seas, and as such a Sailing shop had been erected a few miles to the west of the Academy.

As Syrica neared the dock, she did her best to slow the boat down and turn it sideways. She accomplished this task only just as the tip of the boat was brushing into the wooden planks of the dock, and so scraped along it with a terrible crunching noise that made her cringe.

Thunder grumbled, and lightning lit up the sky. Within moments, it was raining.

Syrica's hands fumbled for one of the ropes hanging into the water, and when she finally got a good hold on one she tied her small water vessel to a post and haphazardly climbed out and onto the wooden platform. She pulled her hood over her head and grabbed both of her small suitcases out of the boat before she began to swiftly make her way towards the main road that led to the school. She knew she had a long walk ahead of her.

The young woman had, thankfully, started her journey long before sunrise, and so was only greeted with the top of the shining orb rising over the mountains in the distance as she marched determinedly along the soggy ground. She couldn't imagine what the earth would be like the next morning, if it was already as bad as this.

She passed by shops with lights on the inside, and every now and then she would see a home and be able to watch the people who had jobs slowly move about in the dim light that came from the outside. She chuckled, though she was soaking wet and freezing cold, and continued along her way. The faces some people make when they're tired she thought to herself, planting her foot directly in a puddle and splashing herself with muddy water.

The sun was a quarter of the way across the sky when Syrica finally reached the campus grounds. She ran under cover of the large gate surrounding the school, and showed her somewhat moist identification papers to the guards that manned the doors. She was admitted without trouble, and ran as fast as she could across the schoolyard and into the main lecture hall. She dripped onto the tile floors, leaving puddles in her wake, as she walked to the registration desk nestled in the corner of the room where she wouldn't have noticed it if there hadn't been a sign.

"Good morning," she smiled cheerily, smoothing a lock of wet hair away from her face.
The woman behind the desk raised an eyebrow at her, but cautiously replied "And good morning to you," as she took a quill from the side of her desk and dipped it into an ink well. "Your name would be what, and what year are you?"
"Syrica Hart, Freshman."
The woman nodded, promptly as she finished writing down that information. "What house will you be in?"
"It was my understanding that you would tell me."
"Oh, you've not gotten that information yet," the rather large, round woman sighed, and pushed her chair back in order to rise to her feet. "It'll be a while. Take a seat." She gestured a small, pudgy hand towards a row of chairs against the wall. Syrica sat.

After about twenty minutes the woman emerged from the back, and waved a stack of papers at Syrica. "This is all of your information, don't lose it or get it" she paused, again looking at how drenched the young woman was "wet."
"Thank you, ma'am." She smiled at the woman. The woman looked at her dully. "Yes, now go on your way, child. Dorm room C2."

[Faustus]

They ran into one another, in a most literal and unfortunate fashion. Donovan, though, was not a young woman wearied by the harsh hand of Mother Nature and tired by her arduous trek to the school grounds. No, rather he was a robust, lively specimen of the homo sapiens sapiens, imbued with all the more vigor due to an unlikely chain of vocations and tribulations. Despite being a young man of only nearly 16 years of age, running against him felt like running against a wall, tree or a man twice his size.

"Whoops. Sorry about that." By the grace of good fortune they crashed while still inside the building, for had they met but moments later the papers would be strewn about mud rather than dry marble. He managed to catch a few stray papers before they fell to the ground. It was not a great display of speed or dexterity as he still managed to miss a few. "My fault. Completely and one-hundred percent my fault."

The young man held the papers out against her arm, rather than shoving them into her hands, and when he turned to her, looked more in her general direction rather than directly at her. Even when he corrected his line of sight by touching her arm, he still didn't look at her, but rather seemed to be peering at some distant bluff and the young woman merely stood in his way.

"You're new here." He did not say this with the air of a man throwing wild, uneducated guesses into thin air. He spoke those three words with conviction. With certainty. Taking a step back, so as to no longer intrude on the woman's personal space, the teen shoved his hands into his pockets and tossed a vacant glance this way and that.

"Those papers. They're the thick-fiber papers they use in the office, like for newspapers and letterheads and junk. And you're carrying an awful lotta them to be a returning student. So was I right? Are you new here?"

[pantalimon]

Somewhat downed by the sullen attitude of the woman (who seemed to be a secretary, of some sort) Syrica had turned away, muttering under her breath the bold headings on the papers, and flipping through them slowly as she took her sweet time getting to the doors. She had no desire to go back out into the cold and the rain, and wasn't sure what to do with what she held. She remembered, at the last minute, about her suitcases--which she had left beside her seat--and looked up, about to turn and direct her course back to the chairs. However, without warning, she collided with a very dense-seeming young man, and was rebuffed backwards. The sheets she carried flew up into the air, and came cascading back down rather like they stood in a snowglobe. The man managed to catch most of them, but many floated to the ground like feathers and slid out on the marble. Syrica managed to catch herself on a hand before she, too, hit the floor, and pushed herself up and back into a standing position.

For a few moments, she looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, unsure of why he was looking simply in her general direction, instead of directly at her. She wondered if he might be blind, but said nothing of it. She took the papers he offered her, and made a point to state "I am indeed new here, but your powers of observation are not quite so impressive as you might like to think," she chuckled, a grin turning the corners of her mouth upwards and bearing her white teeth. "I come from a home of very attentive people."

She bent, gathering those papers that happened to be in her vicinity, and patted their edges so they aligned. "I suppose you must be a second year, at least--or older," her gaze briefly traveled over him, and she decided she was right. He was probably only in his second year.

Over her shoulder, Syrica heard the woman call "I told you not to let those get wet!"

Syrica decided to ignore her, and went back to giving the young man that questioning look she had always been so notorious for.

[Faustus]

"Tut-tut- m'lady!" The young man managed an effected, lofty tone. After she had spoken, his eyes found firm anchor to her face and it looked almost natural. Almost. "There are three things that make a great detective and observation is just one of them. Why, it takes deductive ability and knowledge as well. That your household was attentive, I grant you. But put to the test, could they compete?"

He cocked an 'as if' brow but let it subside as easily as it had been born into being, dismissed by an easy-going and jovial smile. "I'm sure they'd get the better of me."

Her look did not phase him. He didn't even seem to be aware of it. Instead, just as he parted lips to answer her question, the woman in the back office called out. The young man cocked his head to one side like a dog might when the loud-mouthed and ornery secretarial type, safe and snug from the weather behind her warm desk, called out in that shrewish manner that the returning students of the academy knew her best for.

"Oh don't worry about her too much. Once you get a dorm assigned, you're in the system. Whatever it is they can ask of you, they can make more of if you end up misplacing it." With that said, the young man felt it appropriate to do two things. One, to help her gather her materials, papers and suitcase and all as was the duty of a young knight, before leading her away from the main office. And the other to put to rest her inquiry.

"Which dorm?" And at her response, and a moment's deliberation, he headed off on the right track. "So. You guessed right. About me being second year I mean. After this semester I begin my third year. I would have been able to start a bit earlier but I've been interning at Artifacture as a Cartographer, and it's taken some of my attention away from my studies. But I'm back in full force. It's been too long since I've opened a good book.

"Tell me missus. Who's the better detective out of your whole family?"

[pantalimon]

She smirked, tucking the papers under her coat to keep them from getting wet as they began to walk out towards the dorms. She cocked an eyebrow, and asked another question in reply to his: "Who's the one attending the school?" She seemed to have a genial attitude about it all--a happy-go-lucky outward appearance, pulled over her inward emotions like sheets over the furniture pieces of a long-abandoned house. Syrica did not know, herself, what she was--though she wasn't normal, and that was obvious from one glance. She was a genius, in her own right, and with a bit of prodding wasn't afraid to show it.

Syrica belonged in a place like this, with peers just as knowledgeable as her and almost as driven.

Her clothing was mud-spattered, her hair wind-torn and her face red from the chill. All she really wanted, right then, was to get inside to a warm shower and then go to sleep. She was happy this young man had come out of the woodwork to help her, even if it meant that he'd made her drop her things. "I don't really have a plan for myself, to be quite honest. I've worked quite frequently in the realm of mystery and intrigue, shall I call it, but I've not explored any other areas of study and think that it may be best for my own mental development to do so. What is your name, then?" She injected the question randomly at the end of her sentence, as though she expected him to answer out of pure surprise.

[Faustus]

In his demonstrably short life, Donovan had learned a great many precious lessons that most men were unfortunate enough to do without until age crippled their better senses and faculties, so that they could draw no significant boon from a lesson learned.

For instance he learned that if someone told him that he 'must', then he should always ask 'why'. He learned, too, never to buy anything from someone that talked to fast to let you think. So when she blurted out her inquiry, attempting to put the thumbscrews to him in the middle of her pouring out of tidbits of who she was and what drove her here, Donovan responded with a calm smile and a few moment's pause.

"I'm Donovan." Donovan responded. "And yourself?"

As he awaited a reply from the curious enigma, Donovan led her further and further westward. He navigated around common obstacles deftly, but in an awkward manner, taking corners sharply as if he had counted out the steps rather than responded to the protrusion by sight. When they finally reached the interior of the dorm housing, it was now only a matter of time of going to the one side where the girls' dorm lay, detached and opposite the boys' dormitory, and navigate to her room in specific. Each room was large enough, and properly equipped, to house four bodies.

They had some ten minutes or so left in one another's company before reaching Syrica's room, and Donovan was more than content to fill this time with pleasant conversation.

"I hope exposure hasn't jaded you. Mystery and intrigue will never lose their charm with me. Every year that I've spent here at the academy I make sure to divide my time wisely and spend at least some portion, no matter how small, delving into the mysteries of the school and surrounding area. I've found some interesting things, but what I've yet to find is a schoolmate with the drive to keep at it alongside me.

"I dunno. I guess even though I have to be silent in the library, it doesn't mean that I like to be alone."

[pantalimon]

Syrica pulled her hood up over her mane of hair, which was blowing wildly in the wind, and stumbled a bit as the breeze picked up and caught onto the loose sleeves of her coat. "It's not so much the exposure I find problematic," she shouted over the gust "but the things it might cause. For example, were I to become sick in the next day or so," she held the papers tighter against herself, afraid they might blow away "I would be less likely to come outside again for a while. I'm terribly afraid of catching cold." The sound around her had died down, and so she was left awkwardly shouting the last few words of her sentence when they really needn't have been shouted at all.

"I suppose I'm more of a problem-solving person," she muttered, rubbing her arms. "I like to figure things out for myself, though I've not worked anything out with others before. I wasn't ever made to do so, and have become a largely independent person as a result." She paused a moment to scuff the side of her shoe in some grass, in an attempt to clean off the mud splattered along the leather. "It's been a while since I've been on a school campus," once again, Syrica did a complete about-face in subject matter "I was taught mostly at home since I was a child. It'll be an entirely different feel of learning, I assume."

[Faustus]

"Ah yes, I see." Donovan responded in calm and even tones to Syrica's qualms. Taking a moment to compose his thoughts and order his words, Donovan adjusted a sheaf of paper pinned under his arm and the grip he hand on one of Syrica's suitcases.

"Well, detecting is not for the weak of heart or constitution. If you are not willing to weather the brunt of any storm, the cut of any dagger, in the search for the answer, for the truth, then one is better off at home, alone with their thoughts where danger leaves them alone, but so does greatness."

The young man contemplated for a few moments more, gently nibbling on his lower lip in thought as he, like in leading Syrica to the dormitories, took precise turns in the hallways.

"But I suppose the world needs librarians. That is . . . that is what you mean, right? You are the kind to stay behind, content instead to see the world through the words of others and what powerful images your own imagination can conjure. And you will amass a great deal of knowledge, none of which you choose to apply yourself, but which can be made readily available to the one that asks.

"Yes. Maybe a partnership is still possible. At the very least, what harm could come from another mind to help me break the puzzle apart and put it back together?"

He stopped at the room next to hers. Donovan could be seen mussitating, lips moving with no sound, as if counting something to himself. Then with a wide stride, he moved them one door over, and placed them both directly in front of dorm C2.

"Are you going to the gala this evening? Oh you wouldn't know about it. It's the welcoming ball to the students of the new semester, it's great. Grand. Lots of food and you get to see all the teachers.

"You wanna go? And you know I won't let you get away without telling me your name at least."

[pantalimon]

She paused, for a moment, drawing in her breath and folding her arms against herself. "I'm Syrica," she muttered, without much frivolity added to her words "I don't suppose there's any dancing involved at this gala of yours, is there?" She'd lived nearly isolated from the rest of society for much of her life. In fact, the woman in the office had probably been one in only a handful of people she'd spoken to that wasn't a member of her family or caretaker. She didn't know what went on at social events. The prospect gave her a bit of a fright.

The rain that had been pounding down so deftly before was now soft, and floated around the two of them in a sort of mist that opened Syrica's eyes to how gorgeous nature had always been, and how silly she was to never have noticed it. "I'll study wildlife with you," she spoked to her feet, eyes downcast, rubbing her arm and seeming as though she was reluctant to agree. "It will be good for me and my" she paused for a bit of time, biting her lip "constitution." She looked up with a slight smile. "Those who wander are--more than ever--bound to find that which they live for."

[Faustus]

Current Events:

"Syrica." Donovan repeated the name softly to himself, shaping the contour of each letter on the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. A shy smile, like a secret he did not intend to divulge, played across the stage of his lips.

"That's a pretty name. I don't think I've heard one like it. Yes, there's plenty of dancing, and some singing, and those who dabble in the arts easily shared with others might display their talents for our benefit as well. But nothing is demanded of anyone but that they have a good time. The beginning of each semester is a celebration, saying so long to friends as they move on to greener pastures and hello to new ones as they come in until it's your turn to be said good-bye to.

"Not to mention you get to meet the teachers too. You play your cards right you can get a good feel of what you might have to look forward to in a class. You get a guy sounds like he's trying to hold back from vomiting every time he talks, you get the feeling maybe he's a bit too tense."

Donovan settled up. He placed her suitcases and extraneous luggage near the door, laid the papers neatly across the top, then turned in the general direction where he had last left Syrica. If she had snuck into a different position among the commotion of movement, he'd wait for her to respond before adjusting his body.

"They clear out the whole main lecture hall and outlying area for the celebration, so expect things to make a transformation. A lot more . . . festive. Very bright, I'm told. Well alright then Syrica. It starts at twilight, leading into sunset. I'll let you get settled in now. See you there! I can't wait, can't believe I got myself a date! Bye!"

And off he ran, taking the exact same turns that brought them here but at an incredible pace.

[pantalimon]

Syrica opened the door to her dorm room, which didn't seem to have a lock, and dropped her belongings inside the door just in front of the foot of the bed. There was nobody else in the room, and the belongings that ought to have been placed on the bed across the room from hers were absent. She supposed she was the only one currently occupying the flat, which was fine with her--she was much too withdrawn to be wishing for a roommate when she'd found herself in perfectly quiet, peaceful circumstances. The weather made her think of the young man she'd met, and the young man made her think of the dance--which in turn led her to thinking about what attire she'd be wearing. It just so happened that she had, indeed, brought a dress with her; it mightn't have been the kind that this Donovan she'd met was expecting, but it was a dress.

She pushed open the closet door, and took out the hangers that hung there. The next hour of Syrica's life was dedicated to unpacking. When she'd hung all of her clothing up and stored her delicates in a drawer of the nightstand, she was able to flop down onto the cover-less bed and stare up at the white ceiling for a little while. She thought she might open a window so as to let the light in, a smile blooming on her face as she did this and the sun's rays cascaded over her face and into the room. It might've been raining, but that only meant that it made it easier for her to see the rainbow folded neatly over one of the distant mountains--because she was looking for it.

Syrica looked to her watch, frowning a bit in curiosity. "I wonder what time he'll pick me up," she muttered to herself, noting that it was only about nine in the morning and she had quite a long wait, if the gala was to be held this evening. "Will he even be picking me up? Or should I walk there myself? And am I supposed to get him some sort offlower thing?" In her solitude, she knew what she was talking about, and didn't need to think any further than that to come up with the proper word. She thunked back down onto the bed, rolled onto her side, and blew a hair out of her face. "Bollocks," she mumbled.

[Faustus]

To be continued in: http://www.valucre.com/showthread.ph...l=1#post177802.