RPG Grove

The trip back through East Gate is, thankfully, simple. The crowds are still concentrated at the main entrance and the Shining Guard has kept spillover from reaching this side. As they were told to expect this particular group, getting through the cordoned-off area and into campus isn't impeded significantly. The group splits soon after reviewing their tasks at hand, with promises to keep in touch. Finch mentions that she'll see about getting news from Georg and Eldarin when possible, but all agree that it might well require Georg contacting them for safety reasons.

As Iana and Garnyn turn to head toward Obsidian House and the Bin, the Jade scholar does an... interesting job of maintaining small talk. None of this is particularly unfamiliar to Iana; they have shared classes after all. Garnyn is very much the person who will sit in the front row of the class and enthusiastically chat with the instructor in a voice pitched particularly to carry nearby. That voice that screams, 'Look, I am talking to the instructor as a near-equal!'. He is very much the person who won't hesitate to introduce himself to the new person next to him and maintain a polite but carefully curated conversation, as though he is working from a small set of scripts he relies on, rather than a genuine ability for interpersonal communication. It extends to his appearance, carefully coiffed and well-dressed, over the edge of casual and everyday, inching up on but not crossing the 'too formal' line. He knows where the 'too much' line is, he just isn't sure how close to get to it. To someone more comfortable in their own skin and abilities to interact with other people, he comes across as too calculated. A pleasant person, certainly, but not always an easy one to be around.

Garnyn seems to have found some measure of realization that his methods aren't as effective as he once believed, though. His manner with Iana is more hesitant, less false confidence. More genuine, in the sense that he's not trying to portray some moldy textbook's ideal of Good Conversationalist... but he certainly hasn't figured out who to portray instead. It's a little exhausting and a little endearing all at the same time.

Obsidian House isn't the sort of place that non-Obsidians come very often. It's not that they're not welcome, not officially anyway. Like most buildings on campus, anyone affiliated with the School can come in. There are parts of it that are off-limits of course, but again, that's like most buildings on campus. Obsidian's reputation, though, gives a lot of people pause about casually hanging around, as though spending too much time inside the walls will cause their personal secrets to leak out their ears unbidden. Which of course is silly. The real worry is -- or should be -- that some Obsidians will actually bid personal secrets to leak out of you.

So as Iana and Garnyn approach Obsidian House, Garnyn starts to fall back just a step or two. "Are you sure it's okay for me to come in? No... state secrets posted on the walls?" he asks, adding a little nervous half-laugh, wanting it to be a joke but not certain that it is. "No damaging exposes of city officials lying around the waiting room, things like that?"

"No, you only get those with the paid membership," sounds a voice from behind them before Iana can answer.

It's deep and wry, and Iana knows who it is without even having to turn around. For such a big man, it's always a surprise how quietly Ishan Veriti moves. He's not quite as big as Georg, but he's one of the few people Iana knows who could be mentioned in the same breath. The box of books he carries with him looks positively tiny in his massive hands, but he carries it with the same grace and care that he moves with. Ishan is the epitome of the gentle giant -- if he were better able to blend into a crowd, he'd be a master sneak.

A point he's made to Iana more than once over drinks at the Eighth Stone after a long day in the Bin together. A point he always makes with self-deprecating charm.

"If you really want the juicy stuff, they run a sale on the executive tier next month."

He pauses just long enough for his words to sink in before his bearded face spreads in a smile. "Kidding. Really. Who's your friend, Iana?"

For the first time in... how long has it been? It feels like weeks, but all of this business only started a few days ago (and doesn't that make the mind reel)...

It's been a while, anyway, since Asra has found herself alone during the waking hours.

She could tell that Finch certainly wasn't happy about this arrangement, Asra going off to report to the Headmaster alone. There had been cajoling, there had been guilt, there had been bargaining, there had been refusal. For someone who professes to only really care about hitting things (largely people) that may or may not actually need hitting, Finch certainly did have a dramatic streak. It wouldn't be surprising if, on another page, she had ended up in the theater department in Opal. But in the end, she had agreed. They'd had their little debate in a quiet corner around the side of one of the groundskeepers' buildings, ideally to keep away from prying eyes. It had also been convenient in that it allowed Finch to say goodbye with a rather serious kiss and a reminder that Asra did not want to go and get herself killed, turned into a frog, thrown onto another page or other similar fates, because she did not want that to be the last of those serious kisses.

Upon which Finch left without looking back. Stomped a little maybe.

After necessary preparations, Asra heads toward the building that houses the administrative army that runs the day-to-day operations of the School of Seven Stones. It also houses the Headmaster's office. It is officially known as Agenas House to honor the third headmaster of the School, who oversaw its construction, but it's more commonly referred to as Central. It's a needlessly fancy building, with spires and arches and gargoyles and carvings and... well, it works very hard at being impressive and inspiring but it's widely considered to be rather tacky in this day and age. Every once in a while there's an abortive movement to replace it, but love of tradition always ends up winning out over love of sensible architecture.

The main entry hall is equally grandiose, the ceiling arching dozens of feet overhead, painted with melodramatic scenes of great feats of magic, armored warriors, deep forests, something from every College of the School. The marble floor tiles echo the footsteps of what seem like hundreds of people, all headed in different directions and many of them looking like they're on mission-critical business. There is a central reception desk just inside the front doors where information can be requested. As Asra first enters, it's already crowded with petitioners. It might be a bit of a wait, but as she looks around for other signs that might lead her where she intends to go, she hears a voice call out.

"Can I help you find something?"

It's a weary male voice. Asra turns back to the desk and realizes that the crowds of information seekers have miraculously parted, leaving her in direct view of the only receptionist not currently helping anyone. Not only does he sound weary, he looks weary. He's not much older than she is, tall but stoop-shouldered, his dark hair parted severely, his brown eyes drooping in a pale face. When Asra looks his way, he says again, "Can I help you find something?"

Finch's goodbye had been... difficult. Mostly because Asra really was scared to go alone when its entirely possible that the Headmaster could do one or more of those awful things to her. But that also meant that leaving Finch behind kept her safe. Asra was good at improvising, especially in situations with high-ranking individuals. Such interactions were in her blood, after all.

She was reminded of that fact as she traipsed through Central. The opulence surrounding them reminded her of home to such a point that she actually felt a little home-sick again. The nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach only compounded that feeling. Truly, the unfriendly nature of her palatial home-life might have prepared her perfectly for situations such as these.

"Can I help you find something?"

It's a weary male voice. Asra turns back to the desk and realizes that the crowds of information seekers have miraculously parted, leaving her in direct view of the only receptionist not currently helping anyone. Not only does he sound weary, he looks weary. He's not much older than she is, tall but stoop-shouldered, his dark hair parted severely, his brown eyes drooping in a pale face. When Asra looks his way, he says again, "Can I help you find something?"

Asra's mask of self-importance slipped back into place as she approached the desk, topped off with an understanding and sympathetic smile towards the receptionist.

"I need to speak with Headmaster Rothenend, as soon as he is able," she informed him succinctly. No need to beat around the bush, nor offer more information than requested. She wasn't entirely sure how covert the Headmaster wanted this meeting to be.

Asralynn Beauchaud wrote: ↑Mon Sep 09, 2024 6:13 pm "I need to speak with Headmaster Rothenend, as soon as he is able," she informed him succinctly. No need to beat around the bush, nor offer more information than requested. She wasn't entirely sure how covert the Headmaster wanted this meeting to be.

The receptionist, writing stylus in hand, is bending to write out a pass when Asra starts her sentence. He's only half-listening at this point, the drudgery of directing people throughout the building for hours upon hours in a day keeping him from getting too interested in any one particular request.

Then he hears 'Headmaster Rothenend' and the stylus tumbles out of his hand and rolls beneath the desk. He bends down to pick it up, but can't quite reach it without bumping into one of the other receptionists. Giving up, he goes to stand and clips his head on the edge of the desk with an audible thump.

His face is pinched with pain as he surfaces and he rubs at the back of his head. "I'm sorry, did you say... the Headmaster?"

When Asra assures him that yes, that's indeed what she said, he opens one eye to stare at her for a long moment. "Er... the Headmaster's office is on the fourth floor. Let me see... um... yes... you'll need to speak to the Headmaster's assistant. Room 400. The lift platform is out of order today. You'll need to take the stairs."

He turns and points toward a wide staircase behind him that winds upward. And upward. And upward.


The Headmaster's office is found at the very top of the stairs, the fourth floor being as far as one can climb, each floor just as tall as the main one. For the most part, after one leaves the main floor the level of stubborn opulence fades quickly the farther one gets from the staircase. The exception is the Headmaster's office. The massive double doors are elegantly Shaped wood from the Vaelt depicting the view of the city as one approaches by water from the east, with the towers of Central emphasized. Overemphasized, if one stops to think about it, since there's no way they could be so prominent and visible from that direction. A moment's reflection gives the answer: this is a view from the earliest days after Meriava split from the nation of Kasial, before the city grew up around the School to the extent it has now.

As Asra approaches, she notices two things about the door. One, the depiction of the city is animated. Tiny boats on the lake ripple the surface of the wood and tiny tendrils of smoke rise from chimneys. The sun is at the exact position one would expect of the actual time of day, giving the impression that it too would move across the surface. Two, there is no handle or latch to open the doors, suggesting that one merely needs to push them open. Once Asra puts her hands near the door, however, the wood flows outward to meet them, taking on the shape of an elegantly carved handle.

The time and effort and energy it must have taken to create these would be enormous. Not to mention the vanity. Relics of a time when magic not only flowed like water from an endless well, but worked reliably too. The doors swing open as though they were weightless, despite their apparent bulk.

Inside is a room unlike any other to be found, at least in the parts of campus Asra has frequented. It seems to have no walls other than the one holding the doors, but given the cool, dry air it must be partitioned from the warm, humid outside by some invisible magical barrier. The view of the campus, the city and the lake beyond is panoramic and astonishing. The floor is polished planks of rich golden hardwood, holding up a single desk in a semicircular shape, behind which is a human man so slender as to be emaciated. His hair is deep blond with red highlights, worn long and tied back in a simple knot at the back of the neck. He is dressed in an impeccably tailored shirt of midnight blue with an Opal Scholar's pin at the collar. His face is lined enough that he must be approaching late middle age, well past the age by which nearly every Scholar has left the School or moved into the faculty.

As Asra enters, he sets aside a memory glass, a handheld panel of enchanted glass that records images for long-term archival storage.

"Good day," he says in a precisely prim and proper voice lacking any identifying accent. "May I help you?"

Iana matches Garnyn's pace, in both the length of his strides and the cadence of his conversation. In those moments when he falters, she is patient; when his unaccustomed openness gets a bit too much, she does not try to push him back behind his shields. She's dealt with people like him before - not just in her Jade classes with Garnyn's polished smooth classmates, but all through Obsidian. So many of her fieldwork colleagues become so accustomed to playing other roles that they struggle to adjust to moments when they don't need to do that. Iana, closed up in the Bin, at least has the luxury of being able to be herself most of the time.

And so when he offers that anxious half-joke, she gives genuine reassurance in return: "You're fine." But her light voice is overlapped by a familiar gentle rumble, one that brings a grin to Iana's face even before she turns around.

"Ishan! Good to see you again," she says, with a warm, genuine smile. Ishan is one of the few people around the Bin that she has to look _up_ to, and she does - although she glances quickly back to Garnyn again, to offer another, "Really, you're fine." She figures that Garnyn can almost certainly tell that Ishan is joking - but after the exhausting day they've had, and Garnyn's slightly shaky emotional state, she won't take any chances on anything that could add to his anxiety.

"This is Garnyn," Iana continues, motioning back and forth with one hand as she makes the introductions. "From Jade. He's helping me with some research." And that is all that she says about that: for all that she and Ishan can toss friendly jokes and conversation around, they follow the Obsidian rule of not telling any more than they absolutely need to. "Garnyn, this is Ishan, a fellow Obsidian. Ishan, did you happen to notice if my favorite desk by that window on the east wall is free? I might be here for a while," she explains, with an echo of his wry tone and a small wrinkle of her nose to match.

78rpmlife wrote: ↑Wed Sep 04, 2024 10:32 pm"Talk to Risine Barimond. I can't think of anyone who would love a challenge such as this more than her. She is a veritable force of nature and justice. The stories say that she used to be a Dawnstone faculty member years and years ago, but resigned in protest over something no one seems to remember any more... and then refused to vacate her office. Found some loophole in the School's bylaws that allowed her to stay. If anyone would be interested in taking something like that on, it would be her."

Finch chimes in quickly. "Be careful, Per. Someone could be trying to lure you out of the shadows. And yeah, you can call me overly paranoid, but only after you make sure you don't end up in custody too, all right? And stay in touch or I'll have your bal--" She bites her lip, glancing about at the people she doesn't know well, not sure just how much of her usual vulgarity she can call on in the moment. "I'll be upset."

"Point well taken," Georg says. Even if he was able to get out of advocating later, revealing that he is working with Adaye against Rothenend is a bell he can't unring. The question is how much he will have to tell Risine to convince her to take on Adaye's case.

He fills Elda in on Morwenna's recommendation. "We need to go to the Dawnstone offices and get a read on Barimond, convince her to help. In the meantime, is there anything we can do from out here to relieve Adaye's isolation?"

Ishan shifts his box of books under his left arm, holding it easily against his body, and extends a thick hand out toward Garnyn. "Ishan Veriti," he says. "Pleasure to meet you." His accent bears the rolling cadences of southern Kasial and the inflections of one of the northern desert duchies of Rhamia, and hearing him talk brings a smile to Garnyn's face.

The Naucan takes Ishan's hand with his much smaller one and says, "Aalan and well met. I am Garnyn of Cyr."

The big man shakes with a rumbling laugh. "Aalan indeed. You know old Esayo, Garnyn of Cyr?" It's an old greeting from Duchy Esayo that implies a friendship to come, though over the hundreds of years since the Rhamian duchies were unified (many would say subjugated), regional languages such as this have been largely pushed far away from the public ear.

Garnyn's shoulders relax visibly at the response and his smile broadens. "I'm sort of a collector of languages. I thought I heard it in your accent and took a chance," he admits.

Ishan turns to Iana, leaning down to stage whisper. "We can keep this one. He seems all right." He shifts the box back to both hands. "As for the desk," His eyes raise to look for the answer somewhere overhead. "I do not know. I have been stuck in the library for seventeen days. Or a couple of hours. It's hard to tell sometimes, mm? Tell you what, for friends old and new, I will go make sure it's clear, yeah? If you're going to dig in the archives, you go do that first, by the time you need the desk, it will be all yours."

Garnyn looks to Iana for her response. The mention of archives certainly piques his interest.

A hint of warmth comes into Iana's eyes - looking like her own once more, thankfully, now that the the city-required illusion has been dismissed! - as she watches Ishan send out that friendly aura to set Garnyn at ease.

78rpmlife wrote: ↑Tue Sep 10, 2024 5:53 pm Ishan turns to Iana, leaning down to stage whisper. "We can keep this one. He seems all right."

Iana lets out a quick laugh. "Yes, I thought so."

He shifts the box back to both hands. "As for the desk," His eyes raise to look for the answer somewhere overhead. "I do not know. I have been stuck in the library for seventeen days. Or a couple of hours. It's hard to tell sometimes, mm? Tell you what, for friends old and new, I will go make sure it's clear, yeah? If you're going to dig in the archives, you go do that first, by the time you need the desk, it will be all yours."

"I know that feeling," Iana agrees, her laugh ruefully sympathetic this time. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that. It shouldn't take us too long to find what we're looking for." She starts to lead the way deeper into the Bin, tilting her head to indicate where Garnyn should follow. "Over this way."

His face is pinched with pain as he surfaces and he rubs at the back of his head. "I'm sorry, did you say... the Headmaster?"

When Asra assures him that yes, that's indeed what she said, he opens one eye to stare at her for a long moment. "Er... the Headmaster's office is on the fourth floor. Let me see... um... yes... you'll need to speak to the Headmaster's assistant. Room 400. The lift platform is out of order today. You'll need to take the stairs."

He turns and points toward a wide staircase behind him that winds upward. And upward. And upward.

Of course the list platform is out of order. Nothing ever works that would be a convenience to her lately. She chooses not to let her displeasure at the news show on her face as she thanks the receptionist and begins to make the climb.

Inside is a room unlike any other to be found, at least in the parts of campus Asra has frequented. It seems to have no walls other than the one holding the doors, but given the cool, dry air it must be partitioned from the warm, humid outside by some invisible magical barrier. The view of the campus, the city and the lake beyond is panoramic and astonishing. The floor is polished planks of rich golden hardwood, holding up a single desk in a semicircular shape, behind which is a human man so slender as to be emaciated. His hair is deep blond with red highlights, worn long and tied back in a simple knot at the back of the neck. He is dressed in an impeccably tailored shirt of midnight blue with an Opal Scholar's pin at the collar. His face is lined enough that he must be approaching late middle age, well past the age by which nearly every Scholar has left the School or moved into the faculty.

As Asra enters, he sets aside a memory glass, a handheld panel of enchanted glass that records images for long-term archival storage.

"Good day," he says in a precisely prim and proper voice lacking any identifying accent. "May I help you?"

Asra pauses for a moment, taking in a deep breath as she takes in the environment. Not only was it a stunning display of magic, but the view itself was spectacular. It was fitting for such a place to be under the Headmaster. However, that pang of anxiety still gripped her heart as she kept in mind the things that Rothenend had done up until now, and how wary she should be of him.

"Good day to you," she returned with a polite smile, approaching the desk. "I was hoping to see the Headmaster in regards to the rioting. I have a report for him," she explains.

Georg Elsebethson wrote: ↑Tue Sep 10, 2024 5:32 pm "Point well taken," Georg says. Even if he was able to get out of advocating later, revealing that he is working with Adaye against Rothenend is a bell he can't unring. The question is how much he will have to tell Risine to convince her to take on Adaye's case.

He fills Elda in on Morwenna's recommendation. "We need to go to the Dawnstone offices and get a read on Barimond, convince her to help. In the meantime, is there anything we can do from out here to relieve Adaye's isolation?"

Elda runs the tip of her tongue over her dry lips as she nods. "If we get close enough, I know how to find my way through the barrier. At least to let her know we're aware and working on it. Anything to feel less alone," she says. "If there can be something good to come out of that period of my life, then..."

Her slim shoulders rise and fall. She looks up at Georg, the markings on her face turning a warm golden color he's learned to recognize as being grateful. She says nothing, aloud or mentally, just tilts her head toward a hallway and leads on.

As they walk, Elda sends, If she is being held captive and we don't want to draw attention, we'll have to approach from a different direction. I should be able to get close enough without us being seen, but it will take a few moments for me to break through from a farther distance.

They reach a hallway of small rooms: study carrels, practice areas and the like. There are a couple of Scholars and Novices about, moving into and out of the rooms. None of them seem to take note of Elda and Georg in particular -- Whitestone is big enough that not everyone knows each other. One fellow, reading a slim book open in his hands as he walks, does do a double-take when he looks up and finds the towering Granite Scholar a few feet away, but he just murmurs an apology and changes his path to avoid a collision. Last room on the right ought to work.

They settle inside the room and close the door behind them. Elda goes to put a hand on the back wall and closes her eyes. She makes no movement other than breathing for a long while, long enough that Georg starts to wonder if she's not able to make contact. Suddenly she breathes in sharply and her shoulders relax. "I have her," she whispers.

Whatever telepathic conversation they may be having, Elda doesn't clue Georg in immediately. It isn't until she lets her fingers slide down the wall and withdraws her hand that she turns to explain. I was able to communicate to her, but I couldn't make a big enough break in the barrier for her to communicate back beyond emotions. She is furious and tired and grateful and lonely and... I couldn't untangle them all. When I told her we were going to talk to this Risine Barimond, I felt as though she approved. But at least she knows we're working on her behalf. I would have said more, but it was difficult enough to break through. Any longer and I fear I may have alerted someone. There's no guarantee that I didn't set off alarms anyway, but I don't believe that I did.


Risine Barimond may not have given up an office in the Dawnstone faculty area, but it's clearly not because she had a great view or a short walk from her residence. Her office is in a weather-beaten converted residence whose better days passed decades ago, on the ground floor, in the back corner of a back hallway next to what appears to be a maintenance closet judging from the mops and brooms visible through the door that seems to be missing a latch.

There is a nameplate on her half-ajar door that attributes the room beyond to her with a small brass sun sigil of Orien beneath it. Before Elda and Georg can approach and knock, however, she appears in the doorway. She is quite tall and angular in build, dressed in a tailored green jacket and matching necktie over a wide-collared white shirt and a slim skirt that reaches to mid-calf. Her silver hair is a bit wild and unfocused, but her gaze is anything but as she discovers visitors out in the hallway. Her features around a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses are sharp and handsome, with strong eyebrows on a lined forehead, suggesting she's prone to raising those brows in skeptical disapproval. When she speaks, her voice is deeper than perhaps expected and smoky, rough around the edges from long use.

"You are no janitors and few get so lost as to find their way here by accident, so I am forced to deduce that for reasons I hope are fascinating you have come looking for me specifically," she says, leaning against the doorframe with one outstretched arm, other hand resting on a cocked hip. "Well, you have found me and I beg of you, regardless of whether I am right or wrong, please tell me a good story. If not, I will be forced to attend an interminable and pointless meeting likely to result in my premature death due to boredom."