The One Eyed Bandit
rotworm
Under an erstwhile moon, ancient starlight dances. The century is numbered fourteen, and at its turn, three stars convene.
The night had been long. Long, and awfully dark. At its core burned a star, one that burned with a brightness that was brilliant and then more brilliant still. So bright and terrible was its radiance, so all-consumingly blinding, that even its own light was drowned out. Brightness unto brightness turns onto itself, and so the deepest of darkness is born.
It fell hard and fast over the lands of Europa, spreading out vast and fast across its innumerable nations. So long was the light-turned-shadow's breadth that it even threatened the shores of mighty Albion, where the wild folk peddled in their ways of yore, undisturbed for centuries untold. Only then did the old world retaliate. The West Star bloomed, and her bird-headed guard crowed and cawed at the oncoming blackness with all their fervour, but it was for nought. Even in their valiance, their feathers were stained with death, and so the shadow trudged onwards.
Next rose the South Star. Within the darkness, it naturally thrived, but so deep had the shadow's ocean grown that even a whale would drown in it. Blood ran thick and heavy on that day. Rivers of red snaked out across Europa, and where they convened their minds meshed and melded, but it too was not enough. To stain black, after all, is a fool's errand, and even that most essential ichor of life is little but dust in the wind in the face of death itself.
Finally, the East stirred, shaken from her seclusion by the ruckus of a child that fancied itself a god. The East neither shone nor rose, for it was always there, distant and twinkling. With a snap of its wizened fingers, the stars West, South and East stood side by side, and then the Star-Turned-Shadow was no more.
"At least, that's how the story goes."
The ferry pulled into its dock under a sky dyed with a sickly shade of grey. To your eyes, that grey stretched as far as the eye could see, a sign of doubtlessly bad weather to come, and literal rain on a not so literal parade. Strange, then, it might have seemed that only minutes earlier the sky shone blue, a picture of pure, beautiful clarity stretching from horizon to horizon. The engine ran silent, only the gentle washing of tides upon old cobblestone walls could be heard as the island's shadow fell over the ferry's metal canopy.
Fortress Dour. That, once, had been the name of the structure that loomed above the ferry and the batch of transfer students nestled within, but much like the island it sat upon, that name had become forgotten. Now it was branded with a name much blander: The Baltic Isolated United Curse Academy.
Along the dock's breadth, a number of figures bustled back and forth. Some were old, others young, but each hurried about to put the final touches of their preparation into order, and by the time the ferry met with the dock proper, most of them had already scurried away.
"Hello there!" It wasn't long after the ferry's gangway dropped that a booming, yet cherry greeting filled the ferry's cabin. It had only taken him a few strides, which rang out heavy and loud, to clear the twenty-something steps that separated the cabin from the world below, and as he stands before you it isn't hard to see why. The greeter, as it were, is an absolute monolith of a man. His legs were like tree-trunks, his frame bulky, and his height towering enough to where he needed to bend over to even stand within the ferry's rather spacious cabin.
"You're the new blood of the year then, eh?" As he spoke, the man's eyes lazily scanned over the room, pausing for a moment whenever they found an occupied seat, making some invisible assessment, and then moving on. "It's good to be havin' ya!" A light accent was audible in his words, which while hard to place exactly, clearly came from at least one of the British Isles. "If you'd all do us a favour and follow me, that'd be grand."
With that, he flashes you all a grin, gives you a moment to collect your things, and then leads you from the vessel. At his heel, you're led along the docks, up a weathered path, and through the gates of the Fortress-Once-Called-Dour. All the while, he speaks over his shoulder, pointing out a path to the student-village, which splits off from the one you stand upon about halfway to the gate, and then another path which burrows into the island's soil, apparently leading to a great system of caverns below.
It isn't long before he's led you inside. It's not hard to tell how ancient the halls you're standing within really are. Its walls are either decorated by raw stone or dreadfully overcomplicated wallpapers, and you can even spot a few ancient, sun-stained tapestries decorating them on occasion. The place is not totally absent of modernity; electric lights hang from the ceilings, and power ports are thankfully a more common sight than the tapestries, but those comforts of the modern age have been quite obviously retrofitted onto the building, and stick out like a sore thumb as a result.
"Now then. Take a seat where ever you're feelin' like. This ain't a kindergarten, so there's no need for arrangement or what-like." As you enter the room, the man's tone shifts. A hint of his previous joviality is still there, but it's clear that the time for ramblings and tourism is over, and it'd be in your best interest to pay attention. The room he addresses you in is quite clearly a classroom. A chalkboard stands at the head of the room, and several desks are splayed out before it, each of them very clearly worn away at by years of use.
"I ain't much for meetin' and greetin' so I'll keep this quick. The specimen speaking to you right now is one Alastair Sarka, you can call me whatever you like so long as it ain't Sir." He grumbles as he spits out that last word, a brief frown flashing across his features. "Can't stand that pommy shit."
"Anyway! On to business!" Alastair's previous cheer is quick to return to his voice, his momentary bother at the proverbial man clearly already passed. "I'm glad to be the one welcoming you all to our little slice of nowheresville. Usually, they don't let me do these on account of me 'poor grooming', but it looks like I made the cut this year!" He parrots out the quote about his grooming in childish imitation of an unknown party. It's not hard to see why this is his first time getting the job. The man isn't dishevelled exactly, but there's something about his combo of ripped jeans and biker jacket that doesn't exactly scream "Professional Educator".
"I know the place might seem like a bit of a let down compared to those big fancy schools you all came from, but you'll warm up to it eventually. Everyone else has, at least." Alastair's voice trailed off as his attention clearly did the same. With no degree of subtlety whatsoever, he took several moments to produce a pocket watch from the depths of his jacket, eyeball it, stare out the window, and then look at the watch again.
"So, uh, if I recall correctly, next on the schedule is talking amongst yourselves to build bonds and team spirit. Personally, I think that's a bit of cock, so let's just give it five minutes, huh?" To punctuate that, he snaps his pocket watch shut, and returns it to his jacket. "Let's pop to it then, eh?"
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