After wiping off the remaining residue of the frozen projectile, Varren found his own place in the disorganized river of students. Although he would have gladly stuck a conversation with those he had already labeled as fellow first years, time was of the essence, and the boy had not the slightest second to spare. The outside of the building was capped with a circular roof, supported by finely and artistically grooved pillars, fleshed out by carved etchings of masterpieces embedded within portions of the building. At the base where the entrance lied, staff members were busy ushering in while attempt to control the flow of students. After all, having a student trampled to death on the first day was not an ordeal they would like on their hands. The academy itself was a homage to a few thousand students, small in comparison to most, and thus had to establish a building large enough to house their youthful souls in one confined space. The boy gritted his death while dragging along his luggage, wincing at the occasional bump or nudge he would receive from others. He would rather get into a close quarters quarrel with the devil himself in the lowest circle of hell rather than have his frail figure endure such a ruffling. If he was able to do so, Varren would have held his suitcases at each side and attempted to clear a path for himself with a tornado maneuver. Yet he was surely no superhuman or average orc, so that was all but a distant dream.
The decor of the hallway leading to the main room was definitely glamorous, but its luster dwindled in comparison to the breathtaking appearance of where all of the students were residing, a sight even more awe-inspiring than the griffin flight he had just been on a few minutes prior. The room itself distinctly resembled an auditorium, with rows upon rows of seating leading down to a stage, the focus of the spectators’ attention. Rather than being organized vertically, year sitting was set horizontally, with the first years in the front and the fifths in the back. Already it was apparent that some sort of a hierarchy system had been established, given the older years presiding position over the first years. Yet this tact wasn’t an attempt at denouncing of the youngsters’ worth. Instead it was to motivate them to manifest a mountain reaching the clouds out of a chasmic molehill. Varren pulled his luggage into a mostly empty row and shuffled his way into his seat. The boy leaned forward as the spotlights on the stage suddenly flashed light in unison at a central point. Almost instantly had all of the veteran years ceased their chatter, leaving the first years still in the middle of their conversations. Soon enough they picked up on the sudden change in volume within the room and ended quieting themselves up. Perhaps it was time for the headmaster to make his appearance?
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It was not a manly, grizzled war veteran-esque person that walked up onto the stage.
Nor was it a sexy, bespectacled, well-endowed mistress that stood at the pedestal.
It wasn’t even a normal, homely older gentleman that strode onto the stage.
Instead, it was a child, with hair so light that it was only a shade away from white. Much shorter than the majority of students present, the little boy, dressed in a black, plain uniform, took the steps two at a time. Each step resounded heavily throughout out the auditorium, the wood creaking under his footsteps. Yet there was no other indication that there was anything abnormal about the boy, and he continued toward the pedestal unobstructed, before finally facing the masses of students seated in the main hall. The golden light that shone down on him made his blue eyes sparkle with boyish innocence, before he took the mike in his delicate, unmarred hands.
Then, without any change in expression, he crushed it with his grip, turning it into scrap metal in a screeching, violent instant.
“Sup, you meatsacks! And good morning to all those who aren’t flesh-based as well! Glad to have you back, old years! How does it feel, having spent more years in the Academy than I have spent consciously existing? Oh yeah, I’d say something to you greenhorns as well, but seeing how none of you have made yourself worthy of my attention yet, sucks to suck, eh?”
Brushing his pale gold hair to the side with a flourish, the boy’s black uniform expanded in size, before changing its shape into that of a massive suit of armor, complete with thick gauntlets and spikes jutting out every which direction. With a proud smirk, he said in a booming voice, “As you probably coulda guessed by now, if you had actually been listening to Mailov’s introduction, I’m the Headmaster of the school! I’m also your primary combat instructor, as well as examiner? How can I do all these things without succumbing to sleep or exhaustion? Because I’m a Gemstone, and I don’t need that weak shit.”
“Now, if you’re here to half-ass your way through school, or use your talent as a crutch, consider yourself expelled. You’ll probably die like a bitch if you think like that, and I’d rather not soak in the tears of your parents, so get your ass in gear or get your ass out. Really though, I’ll say this straight-out.”
In an instant, all of his arrogant flamboyance faded, his blue eyes becoming chips of permafrost.
“If you’re not going to fight, leave. Now.”
In that same instance, all that disappeared, and he said, in a friendly, yet still superior tone, “Anyways, my name’s Ier-Briar Thorn-of-the-Shield, my assistant is Mailov Rice-Tan, and we’ll be starting a fun little icebreaker now, so go check underneath your seat, yeah? You should find yourself a number there!”
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Under Varren’s seat was a bolded twenty-three scrawled onto a blank piece of paper. He glanced at the other students surrounding him, unable to peer at the numbers on their sheets in the dim lighting.
