[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/yd3I9z2.png[/img][/center] Alistair paced up and down the length of the students in the front row of the classroom, despite this particular classroom being a mix between a gym and an actual classroom. The lesson had been an introduction to basic offensive action and defensive reactions that could occur in a fight between Mages. He covered the basic intrinsic properties of the most common combat magic, Contritio. It was his area of expertise after all. His arms were surrounded in crackling sparks of energy, which for the most part were for show. He had also just shown a student that was brave enough to come up for a demonstration about how to manipulate and redirect energy that was thrown at you. “[colour=firebrick]Ok, allow me to show you this once more[/colour]” he lifted the student who was sitting on the gym floor. He held his hand up, gesturing for the student to follow along. “[colour=firebrick] The most common of Contritio magic is energy given a design in the caster’s mind and projected out through the magic circuitry in the body and out through generally the hand or something very similar, yes?[/colour]” The class nodded along “[colour=firebrick]so a defensive strategy is to pull the energy from the spell into your own circuitry and redirect it elsewhere[/colour]” his hand made a sigil in the air and the runes on his arms glowed briefly. He gestured for a student to attack him. The student threw a bolt of green energy. The energy hit Alistair’s palm, the runes on his arm flashing green. He spun and threw his other hand out towards the wall. The green bolt came out through his hand. He looked up to the students. Most were writing down the things that he had said. He nodded and smiled to himself. This was what he loved. When students were attentive to him, learning from him and growing under his tutelage. He ran his fingers through his hair. ------After Class------ He was smiling, though it was partly obscured by the cigarette in his mouth. He never really smiled so much in one day. But today was a particularly good day. He was roaming through the library which was slowly being converted for his own purposes into what could realistically look like a kind of upscale coffee shop. The student members of the Literature Club were scurrying around the library to move shelves and place tables around a small stage. He couldn’t help but feel a large sense of nostalgia for the past years that he had been in the position of the very same students that were running about. He stepped up on to the stage and sat on the stool behind the solitary mic stand. He dragged in on his smoke. Students of the Literature Club stopped and immediately looked towards him. He had dressed down rather far for the occasion. Gone was the usual dress shirt/pants combo with a vest. Instead, the teacher wore a black raglan tee, ripped jean and pair of scuffed red converse. He looked the part of a modern day poet. He pulled the smoke from his mouth. His lips touched the microphone. [hider=Alistair’s First Poem][i][center] Hold Hold your breath Stumble and fumble with the dress Your pulse rise Beneath my eyes And you will fall in line I'll take you Break you Recreate you Bite Bite your lip Pout out the sorrow And contemplate your grip On the neck Of the man you love I will make you Forsake you Recreate you Nod Nod your head Comply to me And each one of my demands Despite your mind Screaming no. [/center][/i][/hider] There were suddenly cheers, Alistair smiled. He loved this. He loved emboldening students to think about their passions as well as their own education. He stood and bowed, allowing the students to return to their work.