assembly. [snowspire event one]
Jan 12, 2023 20:07:23 GMT -5
Post by rook on Jan 12, 2023 20:07:23 GMT -5
manny
You are uncomfortable in these crowded halls, a deep unease weighing you to the cafeteria bench. Your throat swells thick beneath a tight white collar that your index finger pulls nervouly at. The heavy air smells of sweat and boiled potatoes, reaching every far corner of this, the largest of rooms in the quarter.
The talk is mundane. Heresay and gossiping that feels juvenile in the face of an unscheduled summoning by the Headmaster. It has unsettled you, this break in schedule. Winter break has passed, and now you must readjust back to routine of studying, training, socialising. You cannot avoid people forever.
Beyond the chatterings of your classmates you can faintly hear the whistling of the wind between rocks; the mountain calls to you still. Your benched ambitions eat away at you as you're forced to partake in things you have begun to deem as trivial. They'd call you narrow minded, but you see it as focus. Is there a difference anymore?
When Headmaster Walters speaks, the whole room falls silent and still, like fresh snowfall on an azure morning.
There is as warm a welcome as you could hope for in a place as bleak as this, and yet you loosely lean into his words, your tired eyes drifting around the room. You can see her hair in the corner of your vision, and that's where your head moves in the opposite direction.
The words catch in the old man's throat, the dusty air and dry stone walls have him tripping over words and swapping one name for another, like they were playing cards in his hands. Bronte's name burns a hole in the middle of the room. The other students do not know where to look, or what to say, Walters' mix up leaving the vast majority in an awkward discomfort.
At least you are not alone in that, now.
The moment you are dismissed you are up to your feet, your stool squeaks loudly at the sudden movement. Before anyone can react you are pushing past the bodies that don't move out of the way, and you are striding down the hallways, away from everyone and everything. You don't have time for petty drama, over-reactions, crocodile tears and the false comfortings of people who deep down care as little as you do.
It would be far easier if everyone followed your lead and went back to focusing on that one thing that they're good at - forget the emotion, the stress, the uncertainty, and look ahead. You don't have the energy for people anymore.
You're a storm chaser.
The talk is mundane. Heresay and gossiping that feels juvenile in the face of an unscheduled summoning by the Headmaster. It has unsettled you, this break in schedule. Winter break has passed, and now you must readjust back to routine of studying, training, socialising. You cannot avoid people forever.
Beyond the chatterings of your classmates you can faintly hear the whistling of the wind between rocks; the mountain calls to you still. Your benched ambitions eat away at you as you're forced to partake in things you have begun to deem as trivial. They'd call you narrow minded, but you see it as focus. Is there a difference anymore?
When Headmaster Walters speaks, the whole room falls silent and still, like fresh snowfall on an azure morning.
There is as warm a welcome as you could hope for in a place as bleak as this, and yet you loosely lean into his words, your tired eyes drifting around the room. You can see her hair in the corner of your vision, and that's where your head moves in the opposite direction.
The words catch in the old man's throat, the dusty air and dry stone walls have him tripping over words and swapping one name for another, like they were playing cards in his hands. Bronte's name burns a hole in the middle of the room. The other students do not know where to look, or what to say, Walters' mix up leaving the vast majority in an awkward discomfort.
At least you are not alone in that, now.
The moment you are dismissed you are up to your feet, your stool squeaks loudly at the sudden movement. Before anyone can react you are pushing past the bodies that don't move out of the way, and you are striding down the hallways, away from everyone and everything. You don't have time for petty drama, over-reactions, crocodile tears and the false comfortings of people who deep down care as little as you do.
It would be far easier if everyone followed your lead and went back to focusing on that one thing that they're good at - forget the emotion, the stress, the uncertainty, and look ahead. You don't have the energy for people anymore.
You're a storm chaser.
