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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:19:21 GMT -5
Thanks for joining us, Shinko! Sleep well! @natthewriter, want to go again? |
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Post by Shinko on Mar 27, 2014 23:19:33 GMT -5
Ahaha, faerie teacher captures what it is to have to grade stuff pretty accurately. Teaching is the job where you have as much homework as the students.
And Isengrim is hilarious. I enjoy his frankness.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:19:48 GMT -5
Yeah!  How long? And someday I have GOT to get back to that story I've got about this one translator/teacher lady. @__@ I gotta let loose my language nerdery somehow. |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:25:14 GMT -5
Aaaaahhhhh I love Isengrim. He indeed has absolutely no tact. It's rather refreshing to write.
@natthewriter, do you feel like going for a half hour again, or do you want to do 15-minute ones? I'm good for either. And your story looks really interesting! I just got done reading what you posted. I love all of the detail you go into, it's quite lovely. That poor teacher. xD
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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:30:39 GMT -5
Hehe, thanks! Poor teacher indeed.  She's also easy gossip for the student body--lots of 'em can't stand her. @surfersquid, I could go for another half hour! |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:31:46 GMT -5
Excellent! Want to start at :35 and go until :05, then?
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Post by Deleted on Mar 27, 2014 23:32:26 GMT -5
Sounds good! |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 0:07:21 GMT -5
553! Whoo! He tilted his head. “Do you not smell the way to the laundry?”
“Human noses don’t work nearly as well as Lupe noses.”
“Really?” He tilted her chin upward and studied her nose. “Bizarre. I don’t know how you find your way around with that tiny thing. How crippling to not be able to smell properly.”
Terra shrugged. “We manage somehow.”
Isengrim gripped her shoulder tighter and led her onward. “That is another reason why you must stay with me at all times. It is too easy for you to get lost in here, especially if you cannot smell your way. I won’t have you falling down a hole.”
Terra gulped. “Sounds good to me.” Between being stuck with him and meeting an untimely subterranean demise, she knew what she preferred.
The laundry was a spacious grotto filled with baskets of clothes. At one end of the cave was a large pool rimmed with rocks. A Werelupe crouched there, rinsing a pair of pants and scrubbing them on a rock. He sniffed the air and turned around with a bow. “Greetings, milord!” he barked, watching Terra curiously.
“As you were, Kirven,” Isengrim returned. He led Terra to the baskets and began to rifle through them. “Hmmm… no, no… maybe…” He held up various articles of clothing and examined them before looking over his shoulder. “You are too small, Terra.” In spite of his deadpan tone, his eyes held a glint of amusement.
She held out her hands and chuckled. “Hey, just be glad I’m not a Jubjub.”
Finally he returned to her with a pile of clothes that he deposited in her arms. He steered her out of the room and further down the tunnel, until he reached an opening that was partitioned off with cloth hung over the entrance. “The springs are in there,” he pointed out. “Go wash and change.”
Terra looked up at him, feeling a twinge of irritation build in the back of her neck. “I find it just a tiny bit ironic that I’m your owner, but you’re ordering me around.” Would it kill him to ask her to do things instead of phrase everything as a command?
He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
She massaged the bridge of her nose. “Hoo boy. This is going to be a long indeterminate period of time.”
The springs were warm and refreshing, and Isengrim had provided Terra with a tunic and breeches made of skins. Despite being a little on the large side, they fit her rather well, and were marvelously soft.
When she came back out, Isengrim was in the same position as when she had left him. She held up her pile of old clothes. “Let me guess, these go to the laundry?”
“Of course they do,” he replied, giving her a look like he was confused that she had to guess such a thing. “Your footwear, too,” he added, pointing to her socks and hiking boots.
“But what am I going to wear on my feet in the meantime?” Terra asked, wriggling her bare toes. “My soles aren’t as thick as your paw pads.”
Isengrim’s eyes narrowed. “These cavern floors are not made of gravel. You’ll cope.”
“Thanks,” Terra muttered. “You’re a real nice guy.” |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 0:09:51 GMT -5
So, here's what I already had: “And to all of you, a delightful spring break!”
Glasses clinked together; sparkling golden cider swished around inside. Paws, fins, and hands clapped together and shook forcefully as professors and students alike wished one another good health. Friends collected in the various corners of the oddly-shaped cafeteria, whispering over their glass flutes and paper plates, the latter covered with such delicacies as cold cuts, plain bagels, and vegetable platters. Such banquets were common at Brightvale State University, often used to compensate for especially rough exams. Of course, nothing could soothe the sting of a failing grade.
Professor F. Palida in particular subjected many students to low C’s, D’s, and at one point the dreaded F. Renowned for scathing marginalia and a history devoid of curved grades, the faerie Buzz managed to draw the ire of hundreds of students—even ones she had never taught. Those willing to take her words in stride, however, would find her endearing and well-intentioned. Unlike several faculty members, she would never berate or abuse her students, for she knew such behavior would only harm them in the long run. She merely did what she found both effective and ethical.
In the final hours of the banquet, Palida already found herself back at her desk. Before her was a mountain of dissertations, all in desperate need of grading. At the top of the snowy heap sat a distinct light blue paper, one she did not recall being there when she was last in her office. How strange, thought the professor, plucking the paper from the pile. Didn’t I lock the door? Perhaps she had left the window open—and indeed, she had! With an exasperated sigh, the Buzz flew over to the end of the office and slid the offending window shut. She scanned the room for missing items, carefully opening and closing the drawers. At last, with the dissertation in hand, she sat down, whipped out a bright red pen, and began to read.
Towards a contextual understanding of modern Altadorian philosophy.
Beneath the title lay no name; in its place was a single bolded “M”. Contrary to Brightvale’s academic customs, there was no signature, either. A quick flip to the final page: none there, either. Did the student really expect her to grade an anonymous paper? But perhaps there had been a mistake. Perhaps she could, through process of elimination, track down this student and request a meeting. And then, of course, she would deduct ten points. Never mind the anonymity—she would read the paper through. She had, after all, written her own dissertation on modern Altadorian philosophy.
It opened with a resounding declaration that grew ever more dramatic as it spoke of antiquated hierarchies. From there it bounced from argument to argument, apparently having forgotten its introduction—and from there it only went downhill. Poorly linked clauses here, passive voice there, and the redundancies…oh, dear Fyora, the redundancies! With a groan, Professor Palida put her face in her hands.
And so I set out to …………..QEWIOPJKLADS…!!!___..
And so you set out to …………..QEWIOPJKLADS…!!!___..
And so we set out to …………..QEWIOPJKLADS…!!!___..
“Good grief,” muttered the Buzz. “Is this a joke?” That would explain the lack of a name, at least. And yet she continued reading, her rose-colored gaze skimming the gibberish in search of some meaning, some train of thought as she began flipping through the pages in frustration.
QUROIWUPOIRQWUPOIQWRIUOPQRWUPOIQRWUPOIUPRQOWIUPIOQRWUPIROWQUPIOQ……………………………..
………………………………………………….
………………………………………………….
And so I set out to write my confession.
Curiosity crept across Professor Palida’s face, then settled to amusement. She set her pen down on the desk and, with a flutter of her wings, she began to read. New part (285 words): Dearest reader, which would you say came first: the Draik or the egg? Which is of greater value? Is it the existence of the former or the potential of the latter? Oh, Fyora, you must be crying out, need this author bore me with pseudo-philosophical ramblings? Selfishness overwhelms you as you struggle to cope with a work that is written not for you. Truly, who am I writing this for? I shan’t prioritize the comfort of a distant reader over my own craving for catharsis, the necessity of this message. I insist, “professor”, that you endure my every digression. Do not skim those condemned tangents for the sake of your literary standards, for this confession—this defense, my defense—is beyond such things. You need not regulate the rushing stream of consciousness that is my mind. I deserve far better than that, “professor”!
My troubles and riches alike stem from a stint in the Thieves’ Guild. As a humble neopet from the middle economic strata, I could scarcely comprehend the life of a rogue. Despite or perhaps because of this posh upbringing, I found myself drawn to it like a veespa to honey. With hidden daggers I walked the cobbled roads of Brightvale, and with heaving sacks of gold I greeted my comrades.
It was not long before I graduated beyond such petty crimes, as Kanrik himself noticed my predisposition towards alchemy and finance. Thus I pioneered a new realm of crime for this guild: counterfeit stamps.
[…]
My time, you see, is running out. Before me stands that grand hourglass, its silver sands descending with agonizing slowness, each grain representing one moment closer, closer—good Fyora, how close it seems! This is my attempt to experiment with unreliable narrators and stream of consciousness. Also a bit of an homage to Nabokov. |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 0:15:56 GMT -5
Haha, interesting! xD Counterfeit stamps. Palida sounds like a teacher I had. <.<
Did you want to go again? I might go do something else in a bit, but I seem to still be open for now.
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 0:18:30 GMT -5
I haven't gotten to it yet, but "M" also gets into the business of trafficking Draik eggs. Which in this version of Brightvale is ridiculously illegal, because you need a super-regulated permit just to own one. Also involves a lot of bribery. And I think I'm good for now. |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 0:24:51 GMT -5
Oooh. Interesting. xD All right. Thanks for warring! I hope it helped! I know it did for me! |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 12:46:04 GMT -5
I am ready and raring to go for some warring today, folks! Who's up for it?
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 12:51:16 GMT -5
I might be! 2:00?
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Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2014 12:54:20 GMT -5
Aaaahhh excellent!
So on the hour, then? How long do you want to go for?
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How long?
She's also easy gossip for the student body--lots of 'em can't stand her.