Renowned and Revered: The Academy

Darius turned his attention away from Aidan to watch the seemingly endless waves of academy students filter out of the Mess Hall for their first classes of the day.

"Fencing II...man I just wanna go back to bed," He grumbled, and submerged himself into the wave of students. The sea of adolescents seemed to part slightly for the young Darius, and groups of girls giggled a bit as they whispered and pointed.

The young man yawned a bit nonchalantly, as if he was used to being revered as a pseudo god at the Sparsian Academy. He would occasionally toss a charming grin or wink to the girls, and chuckled with amusement as they swooned.

"Yeah. That's right. Jump through the hoop," He mumbled, dragging himself to his Fencing II class.

Raziel noticed something patently odd this morning; the teacher was nowhere in sight. Generally he was in the class half an hour before anyone else, this morning however he wasn't present even with half the class already in the room. It was a perversion from the norm, though it hardly worried him. At the least, it indicated that maybe Mr. Vainwright was less than...spirited on this day. However, it could also be an omen of freedom in the form of a substitute. If this was the case then maybe the man could last throughout the first part of the day without finding himself held in contention by some teacher or another. Indeed, if he had any sort of luck at all the old man had fell and broke a hip and would be out of commission for an extended period of time.

With a discernible look of concentration on the man's face, he brought his attention to the door waiting in anxiety for the moment when his ancient nemesis would destroy the day's hopes and dreams by trudging in through that open portal. Fortunately, moments came and went but there was no sign of his query, with that he relaxed noticeably. He was still tense but now he was almost certain today would be a good day; definitely much better at not sucking than the previous.

Zangetsu put his book down and left the pen in the page he was on. "Okay something definatley is NOT right!" He peered down the hall in both directions "Usually even a sub is here by now." He walked back inside of the room and sat in his place as a worried look on his face slowly took form . "No teacher has ever been this late."

Darius seemed to be traveling at a snail's pace towards the class he dreaded venturing to every day. In fact, his pace was so slow, that the hallway had already been cleared of students. There were a few stragglers stuffing bits of biscuit into their mouth as they carried numerous books into their arms.

The young Velhart glanced into one of the classrooms as he walked by, and his eyes widened a bit as his feet grinded to a halt. That's Darlan Deltross! He must be filling in for Vainwright.

Darius glanced down the hallway leading outside to his Fencing II class, and then glanced back into the classroom at Darlan. He once more shot his gaze back to the doors leading outside, and then once more to Darlan Deltross!

"I think Fencing II won't miss me much today. I have perfect attendance in all my classes," Darius said with a crafty smile, and confidently walked into the classroom that Darlan was now about to teach.

He found a seat next to Aidan, smiled up at the shy scholar, gave a subtle wave, and journeyed over to sit next to him.

Zied realized at a time that it was too late that class had already begun. Immediately audible clicks of his egyptian footings smacked against the hard marble surface, emanating throughout the area, quickly dashing to class with the utmost speed. "If I don't get there in time I'll ruin my great school record."

He nearly tripped over himself as he latched his hand onto the door-way bringing his body to a complete halt, although he loved doing acrobatics and crazy stunts now was definitely not the time for him to be messing around in a situation of this stature.

He walked into the room drenched in sweat, tightening his cobalt bandana around his head, calmly maneuvering his way through the desks until he finally found one of suitable preference only perhaps five feet away from the one Darius, popping his head up in a friendly greet.

Flicking his wrist up in the process, attempting to show the teacher he wasn't absent. "Good day to you young'ns, ready to get beat down by me again?" Attempting to recompose himself.

Everyone around him seemed to hold the aged man at the front of the class in high-esteem. He hardly saw what the fuss was about. Sure Darlan hardly showed himself but that doesn't make his appearance some kind of miracle. Raiziel figured it was something to relish but these people were acting like Ezekial had jumped around the corner and asked for a quarter.

He decided to give up on rationalizing their odd behavior and instead try to keep himself from being chewed out by the most respected man at the academy. Raziel hardly thought he would be able to make it through the class without at least one incident. Chances are it would be a big incident, that would be just his luck. Then again lady luck is fickle, or so they say. His only hope was that "they" were right and he would be repaid in full for so may years of being disdained by fortune.

Elsewhere, a symposium was being held in the honor of Arcea Salis, who had come to the Academy in response to a request made by Sadij Bedra, one of its most profound philosophers, having nutured young minds for generations yet never coming across someone with such tremendous potential for joy; joy in its truest form, stemming from the knowledge of one's surroundings and one's self. Sadij was resting atop one of many cushions that were scattered about the room, reclining against a divan where two of his students sat, entranced by the foreigner their teacher had invited.

Arcea stood in the very center of the circular room, sunlight streaming down from the high windows that encircled it, the panes of glass caught between the ceiling and the wall. The angle of his waistline was slanting faintly against the light that appeared to emanate from him and not some external source. The movement of his mouth was captivating and the words that flowed forth rose and fell in musical cadence, the outline of a smile visible in the corner of his lips.

The manner in which he held himself made even the fairest and brightest of the Sparsians seem boorish. Not much was known about him, other than the fact that he could master anything he undertook and chose to undertake only those tasks that served a purpose. Even though he wore nothing more than a chiton of a subtle gray cloth while a heavier himation of black was wrapped about his torso once before being allowed to drape over his shoulder. Never to be defined, Arcea wore a pair of kothumus. The thick, leather boots ran up his slender legs and under the hem of his chiton, his choice in attire meant to convey a portion of what he was. Both philosopher and hunter, sooth-sayer and harbinger of pain.

"When I first began my diatribe, I had been asked to define myself as a cognizant being. But, in order to do so, we all must begin from something of lesser importance and move onto something as magnificent as you believe me to be. Do not mistake my words with modesty, for I know my worth far greater than you do, but you shall come to that conclusion on your own.

"What is there which is known by many yet is not great, and is yet is capable of definition as any larger thing? Shall I say an angler? We are all familiar with him, and he is not a very interesting or important person.

"Yet I suspect that he will furnish us with the sort of definition and line of enquiry which we want.

"Let us begin by asking whether he is or is not a man of art, but some other power."

"He is clearly a man of art." Sadij contributed to the conversation in an attempt to break his students from Arcea's spell.

"And of arts there are two kinds?"

"They are?"

"There is the agricultural; the tending of mortal creatures, and the art of constructing or molding vessels. Then there is the art of imitation-all these may be appropriately called by a single name."

"What do you mean? And what is the name?"

"He who brings into existence something that did not exist before is said to be a producer, and that which is brought into existence is said to be produced."

"This is true," Sadij suppressed a smile as he began to guess at the line of thoughts his guest was beginning to take, "Very true."

"And all the arts which were just now mentioned are characterized by this power of producing that which was not in existence before?"

"That they are."

"Then let us sum them up under the name of productive or creative art. Next follows the whole class of learning and cognition; then comes trade, fighting, hunting. And since none of these produces anything, but is only engaged in conquering by word or action, or in preventing others from conquering those things which exist and have been already produced. In each and all of these branches there appears to be an art which may be called acquisitive or the art of acquiring."

"Yes, that is the proper name."

"Seeing, then, that all arts are either acquisitive or creative, in which class shall we place the art of the angler?"

"Clearly in the acquisitive class."

"The acquisitive may be subdivided into two parts: there is exchange, which is voluntary and is effected by gifts, hire, purchase; and the other part of acquisitive, which takes by force of word or deed, may be termed conquest?"

"That has been implied in what has been said."

"And may not conquest be again subdivided?"

"How, Arcea?"

"Open force may be called fighting, and force in secret may have the general name of hunting?"

"Hmm... I see."

"And there is no reason why the art of hunting should not be further divided."

"How would you make the division?"

"Into the hunting of living and of lifeless prey." At these words, Arcea smiled and looked upon the students that had drawn closer with every word; some with mouths agape as they witnessed a man performing a task that he both enjoyed and was proficient at, a rarity indeed. Combing his fingers through the livid locks upon his head, he smiled briefly before beginning anew, only to be stopped as his mouth formed the first syllable.

"Our informants have told us that Ghalerion makes war upon the Vyken of the North!"