Gaian Cosmology 1101-2.

[desolate]

A basic syllabus, written in black ink on expensive parchment, is delivered by courier to the students a week prior to the first meeting:

Class: Gaian Cosmology 1101-2.
Professor: Vaile Trasimene.
Students: Donovan Amadeus Cutler, Esben es Aetheim III, Oldstone.
Meeting: Every Sunday, noon until midnight at the campus church.
Requirements: Box filled with chalk of every color. Bring a mirror to each class. Its size should not disadvantage your mobility.
Expectations: Demonstrate progress in investigative skills and foundational knowledge pertaining to spirits of the Wyld, the Weaver, and the Wyrm. Assignments will be scored depending on creative and effective use of sympathetic and ritual magic.

Vaile sat on the steps which led up from the nave to the pulpit. Next to him was his own box of chalk and a pocket mirror, no larger than his hand. Dressed casually in green board shorts and a white tank top, it would be easy to mistake him for a student if it weren't for the name tag he'd stuck on the center of his chest.

HELLO,
my name is
VAILE!

Except for him, the church was deserted. Ten rows of pews flanked both sides of the aisle, devoid of people. The church itself was fairly new, therefore plain, hewn from a block of stone by earth bending like most Gaian establishments. It was squat and shaped like a square, its only intrigue the domed apse and its tall windows. The place definitely needed some livening up. At least it was sunny.

Since it was lunch time, he had the baptismal font, from which he was unceremoniously munching, emptied of holy water and filled with tortilla chips and salsa. There was plenty for everyone, assuming his students weren't too persnickety to take a seat on the floor.

[Faustus]

His first day back in the real world had gone so well that Donovan thought that was the end of it. Unfortunately, that all changed when he slept in his dorm for the first night that semester and dreamed the most disturbing dreams his mind could coherently process.

He had seen worse in real life, but his mind blotted out those unnatural angles and shapes for sanity's sake. He had been waking up in cold sweat so frequently that Donovan had learned to keep a bottle of water nearby, otherwise dehydration threatened to set in.

Memories, when potent enough, are exactly as bad as the real thing.

But behind those dull, tired eyes Donovan was in full-stride. In fact, he couldn't remember a time when he could think clearer (the irony of which he found slightly amusing), and devoted himself to pushing through the pain and seeing this experiment through for two reasons, only one of which was motivated by near-paralyzing fear.

Donovan recalled a time when he felt naked without his sword and the templar garb Nicodemus gifted him with. Now, without the armor he had spent an infinite three weeks inside of, Donovan felt like an alien.

He wore simple attire. Shorts instead of pants, given the season and the length of the class. A simple shirt and simple shoes. As he walked down the aisle, pews flanking him on either side, his accoutrements became evident. A small box, in which he carried the listed essential supplies. Plus a notebook with a pen.

"Mr. Vaile?" Donovan came to a rest at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the font. "I don't really know how to pronounce your last name, I'm sorry." His eyes fell on the chips and salsa. "You wouldn't . . . mind, would you? I . . . !" A grumbling from his stomach interrupted him and Donovan patted it until it calmed down. "I sorta skipped breakfast."

[soulbrand]

It was a first day of classes, a first day to experience the school for what it was worth. Esben had the misfortunate of arriving to the Academy almost an entire week prior, a misfortune indeed! It was time spent napping, time spent reading and time spent patrolling the grounds to ensure a slight familiarity with both the layout and the classmates.

Ah, the warm air, and oh those classmates. It was the ticks of watches that usually tucked on his lips, but seeing the Academy come to life, each gear twisting another, that gear manipulating a single hand and twisting that towards a bigger goal? It had nothing on his love of the summer attire of Gaian girls; it is what he would write home about.

Unfortunately he wasn’t as well prepared for the warm weather as his classmates, his attire a basic and simple uniform, long sleeved and slacks kept his hands feverously seeking out a canteen he kept on him, tucked away in a small sack upon his backside. Following only a few short strides and moments behind Donovan, he would arrive with the required items in hand:

• A box of chalk, multicolored.
• A mirror, hand held.

With a smile, he would likewise stumble in saying a namesake as he took seat alongside the hungry student.

“Hello, Mister Vaile, I am Esben.”

[cartographer]

In garb and manner Oldstone was already starting to imitate the priests that he hoped to one day worship and practice alongside. The massive boy wore linen, sleeveless robes of a soft cream color today and that was it. Clothing was adorned more as a concession to the society Oldstone now inhabited than out of any real desire or need for it. The thick stone armor that served as his second skin more than served to protect against the elements.

His day before the class had been spent simply and enjoyably - a hearty breakfast of strawberries and the crystals that grew on the shelf above his bed followed by a few hours of quiet reading on the grounds. There was nothing quite like warming in the summer sun with a good book.

Oldstone strode into the familiar church accompanied by the soft grating sounds followed his movement everywhere. The empty church only seemed to amplify the sounds and behind the mask of earth that covered most of his face the young Gaianist was embarrassed. As he approached the font he shrugged the rucksack that held his supplies from one shoulder into a waiting hand.

"I apologize if I am late, such a fine day made me lose track of the time," he said. His voice was rumbling and deep. "My name is Oldstone, it is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Vaile."

Oldstone bowed his head in respect to the man with the name tag and then seated himself on the floor. Wide, brown eyes took in the food set up for them and he almost began to reach for the bowl. An image came to him in a flash, his clumsy and earthen fingertips trying to grab the chips and crushing them into fine crumbs.

He would eat after class.

[desolate]

"Go ahead," Vaile nodded to Donovan. "Eat away, but don't skip breakfast anymore, especially on Sundays. It's the most important meal of the day and you'll definitely be needing the energy for this class."

The rest of his students arrived. What was it with people calling him mister? It made him laugh.

"Uh, hi, yeah, that's me. Mister Vaile, but let's just call me Vaile instead, alright? Oldstone, Esben, Donovan," he pointed at them, one at a time, as he said their names. "Funny thing about names: the Weaver is responsible for them. Back when the Weaver was structuring this thing we call reality out of the elemental chaos of the Wyld, it needed a way to organize all of this cool new stuff it was making, so it came up with names. We come up with names, too—it's the Weaver in us.

"I like to keep my lectures short, so it's assignment time. We're going to summon and bind a spirit of the Weaver using a fun little ritual, but every ritual needs objects to tie what effect we want to whatever it is we're trying to affect. If the Weaver is structure and order, its spirits go around structuring, ordering, classifying, naming, and, of course, weaving things together. For the ritual to work, you'll each need one object which represents an aspect of the Weaver. We can go anywhere in the general Ponkapoag Lake area to look, so do any of you have any ideas or questions before we're off?"

Vaile stood up, already feeling like he had done enough talking, but there was a lot of subject matter to cover. Playing with spirits and the Triad wasn't exactly the safest class he could have taught.

[Faustus]

"Excellent."

Donovan unloaded his pack and placed down his wooden box almost haphazardly. Certainly with a certain air of desperation he rushed forward to the rim of the bowl and, with hastily erected restraint surging through his fingertips and up his shoulder, reached out with his right hand, grabbed a handful of nachos, and stuffed them in his mouth.

Donovan chewed thoughtfully. He paused, cheeks puffed out with dry nacho content, and then chewed some more. A dry swallow later, Donovan waited only for his tongue to work over in his mouth, slide against his teeth, and generate more saliva before he got back to work on that bowl.

Whether he'd been aware of Esben clipping closely behind him remained unseen and was not revealed by his expression. Donovan merely turned to Esben when he announced himself, smiled, but had little to say as his mouth was already stuffed with nacho and salsa by then. He just nodded in recognition and then motioned to the bowl with his eyes.

"This is delicious. I haven't eaten in a while so it might just be the hunger talking, but there's some part of me that suspects that these are more delicious than usual." Their remaining classmate then made his introductions. He'd taken notice of the grinding prior, but the sound was common in an academy shaped and constantly re-shaped by earth-benders. He'd taken it for granted, and now a behemoth stood to his side.

"You, sir, are just fantastic." Donovan looked on to Oldstone's impressive form wide-eyed with awe, negligent to the idea that he could have been swatted like a fly were Oldstone ill-willed. He noticed the play with the chips and Donovan reacted swiftly. "Open up!"

If Oldstone reacted amiably, yawning that cavern of a mouth of his, Donovan would lug chips into Oldstone's mouth. Thus was born a friendship. If he didn't, the boy had no problem feeding himself a third helping.

Vaile spoke and Donovan instantly fell quiet, falling to a cross-legged sitting position on the floor next to Oldstone and gathering all of his materials in his lap. The child absorbed readily, dictating information verbatim and then passing it through the sieve of personal interpretation and linkage.

The teacher posed a question and Donovan cleared his throat, preparing to speak.

"Would a conch-shell apply? The spiral of the shell I mean . . . cause of the golden section . . ."

Donovan cleared his throat, a little nervous this time around. The information wasn't swimming as easily to the front of his mind as he was accustomed.

"Cause of the numbers . . . the ratio it follows. You know, order and structure and all . . ."

[' La Trinité]

Bulbous and animated, the single eye on the book of flesh dilated as it stared at me and I stared at it.
Although it started this staring contest, I was going to finish it.

If both her eyes were focused on the book and a single brown eye focused on the girl. Who was keeping track of the time? Being late was something that the girl wasn't fond of even though her brother had a knack for being just that. Being casually late he'd say always kept people on their toes and added a dash of appreciation to the otherwise bland hello from someone who expected you to show. But if you make it as if you weren't going to show and then suddenly appeared--they'd be glad you made it. What Bishop didn't understand was, not every situation worked like that, especially if it included strict professors and not love struck girls. Inhaling slowly, nostrils flared as her lips twisted and her brow wrinkled with frustration as she struggled to keep her eye lids peeled apart. With every second, it was getting harder and harder because her eyes were becoming dryer and dryer. What she didn't know was that with every minute that passed, she was becoming exceptionally late for class.

"Blink, damn you."

It refused offering her an unchanged stare.

"Blink."

Again, she was denied.

"You, I'm your master and I command you to blink."

Although it didn't do as it was instructed, the expression that filled that single brown eye was worth a million words but could easily be summarized in two. "Bitch please.” Frowning, her eyes were narrowed, scribbled with red veins, and tinted in a tickle me pink to finish it off. Grunting because of the discomfort she was causing herself by continuing this childish game, a light bulb finally flicked on in that brain of hers. A wolfish grin curled the ends of her lips and for a moment the book could have sworn she had fangs as anxiety replaced the rebellious expression it once had. Shaking, her hands were shaking as she forced her gloved index fingers against the line of each lid trying to force the book to blink. 'Nasty' was the unimportant thing that crossed her mind and not the notion that she was already a good five minutes late for class. Brown eyes locked in a stare as both sets of eyes were narrowed. Struggling to remain open, a great effort was being made by both parties to resist the natural urge and forced urge to blink. Then something unexpected happened, the book blinked but so did she. So there you have it, six minutes she could have spent in class wasted on childish games. Coming back to her senses it was then that she realized that--as I've been saying--that she was tardy.

Her features were drenched in bright red as she propped her mattress up with haste and tossed the book under it with a thud. Rushing around the room looking for her text books and all that was required of her for the class this afternoon, she stumbled about cursing the air she breathed. Within minutes she was rushing out the door, only to end up rushing back to retrieve her overcoat. Although she did bind her breasts to her chest with a thick layer of bandages and wore a shirt beneath the dress shirt, she didn't want to risk it. If anything, this was the only point in her life that she didn't curse her small appendages in term of things above and below her waist. As Isabella ran around the school grounds in search of her classroom, perspiration formed on her brow. When she had finally made it, she swallowed the dry lump that formed within her throat, ceased her gasping, slowed her breaths, straightened her back and cleared her throat before pushing the door open and stepping into the church. Allowing her features to melt over and take the arrogant smirk Bishop was known for, she shut the door blinking at the sight of the size of the class itself. The church was pretty large but the amount of people that inhabited it could be counted on one hand—was she in the right place? Maybe everyone else was late too?

She wasn’t sure. Brown eyes lowered in thought if only for a moment before she peered over at the three people here. She didn’t see a professor first glance but with a second one she noticed the name tag--how eccentric. Clearing her throat again, her expression grew blank as both brows raised whilst she trotted down the aisle catching what seemed to be the end of the instructions for their first assignment and a question.

"Vaile?” She’d wait for the boy to finish before speaking. “If I may, I caught the last bit of your instructions—and since my classmate is asking your opinion of what he could use. I would like to do the same to make sure I’m on the same page as everyone else.” Brown eyes lowered in thought, analyzing half the information she was able to catch. “If I could find a spider, may I use its web? “ Glancing around she’d noticed that everyone here happened to be sitting on the floor eating nachos…out of a…. “ I’m Bishop Phoenix De’Armor the sixth and I apologize for being late—I was distracted.” She’d explain in a voice that carried a feminine yet masculine charm to it. Luckily for her, her brother’s voice wasn't a very masculine tone to begin with and was easy to copy. Almost taking a seat on the ground beside who she guessed were her classmates, she stopped herself—what would Bishop do? Gentlemen don’t sit on the floor and so Isabella seated herself on a pew beside the two.

[Sorry for the random rhymes and length, it won't be that long next time 'round.
And I'm a little rusty, so sorry about the shit writing.]]

[cartographer]

The laugh that emanated from Oldstone at Donovan's reaction to him and subsequent offer was one of the booming variety. Stealth was not this boy's specialty. He responded to Donovan with smile, his mouth the only part of his face that was truly emotive, and then a wide opening of that orifice. As his jaws ground the tortilla chips down he felt himself having to agree with the friendly young man that they were unequivocally delicious.

He was opening his mouth to express gratitude towards Donovan when their teacher began speaking. Oldstone fell silent, his entire body stiffening so that even the soft grating that was his hallmark disappeared while Vaile lectured them. As he listened to their teacher's words a small part of the boy noted with approval the way that Donovan fell into a similarly quiet and receptive state. The stone-skinned boy decided then that he would talk to the other boy after class sometime soon, imagined that a friendship loomed in the near the future.

Oldstone turned his head to look at the late arrival to the class, another boy but slighter than the other males in the class. The Stonefolken boy never ceased to be amazed by the incredible variety of the human form. The differences amongst his own kin were more subtle, the coloration of one's stoneskin (Oldstone's own was a pleasant tan remniscient of wet sand) or as one aged the shaping of that same stoneskin's extraneous growths into more decorative shapes. But humans, such strange things, they came in seemingly unlimited combinations of color, shape, and size.

"Excuse me, sir." Oldstone had listened to the previous questions and felt a little outclassed. He did not have an idea for what object he was going to gather for this ritual. He did, however, have a question regarding the substance of the previous lecture. "Does language come from the Weaver, sir?" It was not related to the task at hand, necessarily, but it was a question Oldstone was eager to know the answer to.

[desolate]

Vaile's left eye twitched when the fourth student wandered in. Four? There was only supposed to be three. One of them didn't belong. One of them was trying to leech knowledge off of the others. Vaile stood up while his students asked him their questions and wandered to the pulpit, pulling out a sheet of paper. He glanced it over and set it back down, then silently meandered toward the only student who didn't speak up: Esben.

"Go to the registrar's office," he commanded in an authoritative tone that suggested he was used to being followed without question. It was the voice of a man who had led soldiers. Esben, as if struck by a trance, followed his order immediately and quietly left the church.

Back to class.

"No biggie, but no more being late for class. We have twelve hours a period and you'll need all of them. Anyway! Back to the assignment," Vaile sat down in the same spot and continued snacking, unfazed by the brief play time Donovan enjoyed by. . . feeding the stony one.

"A conch shell," he repeated. "It could work, but there's something else I want you to think about now. The same will go for the web, and whatever else you pick. Let's say we go collect these ritual objects, but they still need to be used in the ritual. A ritual is like a performance. You're putting on a show to, say, entice the spirit to come to you, or to at least illustrate the effect you want to create. You can force spirits to heed your call, but since I don't want you all to die horrible deaths, the spirit we'll tempt is going to be weak, but awesomely useful. More on that later, though. With this in mind, I want you three to think about how you'll preform together. What symbolic acts can you do with a conch shell and a spider's web?"

Vaile took a breather, giving Oldstone time to ask his question about language.

"Yeah, the Weaver is responsible for language, since language itself is a system. There's even a spirit for each language, and a spirit for the concept of language itself. In fact, all of the spirits of the Weaver are driven to do their jobs by the very first language, which the Weaver itself sings. Don't ever try to tune into the One Song, though, or something really unpleasant will happen." He shuddered for emphasis.

[Faustus]

Donovan was pleased that Oldstone turned out to be quite amiable, for a man-creature of his size and correlative strength was no doubt dangerous when enraged. But all of that fell away as soon as it was time to flip the switch of academia and active learning. Donovan, usually amiable and one of the friendlier and extroverted kids one could find, barley roused when the new student came in a few minutes late.

Customarily, he would have risen and shook his hand and patted him on the shoulder, perhaps asked the stranger's name and favorite color, favorite fruit as hunger still clung on to his stomach and reached into his mind, but either way exhibited pleasant demeanor. Currently, he merely regarded Bishop indifferently and nodded recognition.

Mechanically, Donovan turned to Oldstone when he spoke. He showed much interest. Almost too much. He didn't stare or scrutinize, he blinked at proper times and didn't alienate with his gaze, but undoubtedly he probed and paid attention and stored.

Vaile addressed Oldstone's question. He had a question to ask of his own, but thought it'd be rude to completely skirt to one side of the professor's inquiry and so insolently pose one of his own in return. What audacity such a thing would have been!

"I could make music with the conch shell, I think. It'd take me longer then the class period to learn enough to make a passable and organized piece. Unless I spent a lot of class time practicing it, and I don't want to do that.

"Vaile, I have a question. The One Song, the very first language, what is it like when compared to Oldspeak? I don't know much about Oldspeak myself but I think I can get a better handle on it if it's compared to that. Is Oldspeak like the second language maybe?"

[' La Trinité]

Acknowledging Vaile’s remark about being tardy with a nod, Isabella struggled to hide her excitement. If their first assignment had something to do with the weaver, would this mean they would discuss the wyrm and maybe the wyrld? (Oops, she should have paid attention to the class description.) Anyways, if that were the case, she would need to dig deeper and delve into the entities some more. Although she did have an understanding of each entity, there was so much more that could be learned during class and free time. If anything though, she was going to have to use that pesky book, too bad she wasn’t supposed to have it, it would have definitely come into handy here. Tapping her foot, she was restless as she listened to all that the professor and classmates were conversing about. When listening to the bigger boy she rubbed her lips together, tempted to speak out and answer the question even though it wasn’t directed to her.

But, being a gentleman, she wasn’t supposed to be rude and so she held her tongue. Edging her eyes toward the nachos and the hands that reached for them, she pondered. ‘What can a conch shell and spider web do together? Better yet, what can we do with those?’ Crossing her arms over her chest, she shifted, forcing her gaze to the ground. She knew the weaver had a knack for naming things, of course, or wait, was that an old wives tale? Maybe she’d ask Vaile about it. Anyways, Back to thinking. Isabella had once heard that the Weaver was always there when the birth of a new species or form of technology was in prospect because of its desire and need to organize. Maybe if they produced something in the ritual, it would come? ‘Denied.’ She thought about it again. ‘Well, I’ll keep in this mind, maybe I should mention it now?’ She didn’t, she didn’t want to voice that question, not just yet. She needed to know if she had her facts straight.

Honestly at that moment, she had a couple more questions herself but she’d bide her time and ask once they were finished. “I”, she cleared her throat rubbing her chin. “I apologize for the long winded question—but I’m really curious… are we going to learn how to force spirits to heed our call too? Also, what spirit are we going to be summoning from the web? Maybe if we knew what its specialty was—then we’d have an easier time knowing what items to pull and what to do? That is, if my understanding of the weaver is correct, Vaile.” ‘I hope I'm not barking up the wrong tree, I thought they ranged in rank and specialties--gaaahhh, I wish I had that stupid book right about now.’ She fidgeted, before fingering at her knee and continuing as that thought crossed her mind. “I don’t want to step over you and assume I know what I’m talking about and you know, do something to cause chaos and accidentally summon up something else from the triat. So that’s why I ask.”

[cartographer]

The concept of the Triad was something that Oldstone had learned about only vaguely in his youth. The Earthmother had been a core tenet of his people's beliefs as long as they had existed but the three elemental forces and their various aspects were newer concepts to the Stonefolk. The mountain creatures embraced them as they did all of the Saint's teachings but they had yet to be integrated into the oral teaching traditions of the Stonefolk as fully as Oldstone now felt they should be.

But, of course, that was the whole reason he was here wasn't it? To learn himself and then bring Gaia's enlightenment to his people.

The boy was still unsure about how he felt about Vaile. It might take another lesson or two to really decide if he liked the man and more importantly, if he could learn effectively from him. So far, though, he had seen little to draw complaint. He had long since accepted the fact that instructors at the academy tenders towards the unorthodox. Oldstone himself was hardly typical in these settings, anyway.

"I am unclear on one thing, sir." Oldstone's voice was not timid but it was respectful and there was a note in it that indicated the common fear of asking a stupid question in front of a crowd. "Are we each performing this ritual individually? Or are we performing it together?"

[desolate]

They were all so. . . polite. Vaile stared blankly at his students as they took turns speaking. His vacant look and the reflective pause that followed might have given the impression he was incompetent and struggling to find answers to their questions—three in a row! at least they were interested—, but in truth he was taken aback. With no prior experience with children, he thought they would be a rowdy bunch of lazy ruffians and he would have to beat them near death with the serrated ruler attention seeking to cajole them to responsible behavior. Nope! By the Wyrm's balefire dribbling jowls, they were so much more mature than his colleagues. Kinda sad. Then again. . . his education had been more like summer camp; it wasn't much of a surprise all of the PeaceKeepers acted bratty from time to time. Truth be told, he was a little jealous of his students and their reliable peers.

"You'll be preforming the ritual together," Vaile answered Oldstone first, finding it to be the most important clarification to be made. "I expect you all to work with each other. However, this is the only assignment where it'll be required. I would suggest against doing anything dangerous alone in general, though." He smiled away the promise of danger and turned his head to Bishop, which is where his expression became grim. "If you all do well enough, I'll show you how to force spirits to you. It's not much different, but the consequences are worse if you mess up.

As for the type of spirit. . . if you think it matters, you'll be summoning a geomid. It's an information spirit. If you were to summon a geomid which collects information from the library, for instance, it could provide you with anything that has to do with the library. Visual and auditory recordings from the past, all of the books in the library, and so on. We're going to bind a weak one, though, so it won't be that epic. It's why the ritual is fairly generic. After you do it once, though, you should be able to do it again—assuming you practice what you learn today until the next class, right?" Vaile winked, as if he doubted they would do so on their own without the impetus of his suggestion to drive them.

"The music doesn't have to be passable, unless you were trying to summon, for instance, a geomid with a vast collection of classical music as data, then it might behoove you to play a a passable composition in piano. . . assuming that particular spirit is persnickety. More often than not, acts are symbolic; spirits of the Triat don't care about what we silly world-dwellers care for.

Now, Oldspeak. . . is the first language of Valucre. The Weaver's Song is the first language; it doesn't communicate feelings, like joy or sorrow, because until people came into the picture there were no such things. The One Song only compels what hears it to fulfill the Weaver's purpose: bring order and structure to existence. Oldspeak, on the other hand, has no structure or rules; it's purely pathos. When someone explains something to you in Oldspeak, you feel what they feel about what it is they're explaining. Some people find it wonderful, but I think it's invasive." Vaile abruptly sneezed, turning his head in the nick of time so his students wouldn't get achooed on. "Not to mention every Wyrm-spawn would just love to eat someone who can express emotions that way. Might be why so few remain with knowledge of Oldspeak."

[Faustus]

Donovan turned his attention to Bishop as he spoke, and then turned his eyes as Oldstone when the Stonefolk took his turn. Staying true to his established demeanor, Donovan paid close attention to everything each boy had to say but displayed no visceral reaction. Not blank, but attentive. Vaile spoke, and Donovan turned back towards their teacher, nodding as Vaile gently put to rest each question told.

"Geomid."

Donovan repeated to himself once aloud, and seven times in his head. Now he was sure to never forget. Vaile went on to explain Oldspeak. The answer Donovan found to be comprehensive and pleasant, not nearly as dry, boring, or tedious as Donovan had first expected.

"Oh, that's really interesting actually. Language is a really interesting thing too. So Oldspeak and the One Song are basically diametrically opposed. Right? And most languages follow some kind of order. Some kind of standard that everyone accepts the sounds to mean so that they can communicate.

"So, instead of a song, I could make a chant, couldn’t I? With the conch to lay the foundation and periodically punctuate points."

He paused for a moment to look pointedly at Bishop and then at Oldstone.

"I don't really know what we could do with a spiderweb, but it sounds like we have us the beginning of a ritual. Are we summoning the geomid for any specific kind of reason or do details like that not even matter in the actual act of summoning?"

[' La Trinité]

Blinking, once, twice, three times, Isabella focused her gaze ‘pon Vaile’s features. Why? Well, the man looked pretty confused and that wasn’t a particularly good thing. For a moment, the idea that they were asking too many questions at once popped into her analytical little mind and for a moment she agreed. Then the, ‘Nah’ came and she was pretty sure that he just looked like that—how unfortunate. Did adults, better yet teachers always look this dumbfounded when their students asked questions? She wasn’t sure, although there were schools where she came from, she just never attended. It wasn’t that she was uneducated per say, no, the education herself and Bishop had gone through was nothing a normal child would sit through. She looked under weight, as did Bishop but whatever strength their bodies lacked—their minds made up for. Allowing a quizzical expression to take her features, her jaw almost slacked whenever she heard Vaile answer the bigger boy’s question first. ‘Working together—I don’t know these people, how can I work with them?’ She thought, complaining within the threshold of her mind.

Although her mind was filled with her true thoughts on the matter, she smiled peering at each one of her classmates before shifting her gaze back to Vaile as he answered her question. Catching his grim expression, her brows furrowed curiously as an awkward smile curled her jaw—why? Well, the more dangerous something was…the more inquisitive Isabella was about it. But, as usual she held her tongue and decided not to speak as she listened to their questions being answered, one by one. Soaking up all the information their professor spilled upon request, she tapped her foot listening to the smaller boy. He had made a valid point and before she could comment, his attention was on her and then the bigger one before he spoke. Deciding against speaking this time around she sat in silence contemplating to herself. Maybe she’d be able to follow the trend and create another instrument? Panpipes were a possibility, but then again, she didn’t think she’d like spending all that time looking for perfects twigs and digging out stick centers. But, there was also gourds—gourds could be used to create different types of instruments that weaved objects together per say. But could you find a gourd at the lake?

This was going to be a little more difficult than Isabella had expected—but she liked that. Using obvious items for obvious reasons wasn't enough, if she was going to work with these people...she wanted to at least offer the best up to par.