Consciousness comes back quickly, a harsh blink into reality as he processes the knee to his face. The force is enough that Gibet feels his teeth crack and groan in protest, and his neck tenses as it’s stretched against its will, head moving back faster than the body can follow. The rain makes the ground slick, and he skids back; rolling once, twice, three times before coming to a stop against a nearby tree.

The blurry figure standing before him chambers her knee back into the black trench coat. Though he can feel his teeth breaking into pieces in his mouth, Gibet still smiles as the smell of sizzling flesh reaches his nostrils. Miss Tall, Dark, and Evil sniffs haughtily, as if the acid he splashed onto her leg is no big deal, but he can hear the sound of a hand hastily patting off the remaining liquid.

'Your potion came out too slow. An extendable knife attached to my knee would have ended you.'

'And you’d also be dead, had I used something like Stickweed instead of Rebincant.'

'Death matters not to trained assassins. A dead pawn is worth it if it comes with the successful assassination of a high value target.'

She walks up to him and leans down, an arm coming out of the coat holding a small vial of liquid.

'And you, young master Tudor, are an extremely high value target.'

Drops of bitter herbal water touch his bloodied lips, and the healing potion starts to mend his disfigured mouth back into place. Gibet sits up, grimacing as he feels his dislocated jaw force itself back into its proper position. His teeth scream and grind in protest as they grow back into their original state. He looks up at the woman, vision clearing, and sees the sigil of a flowering plant on her shoulder. She traces his vision and takes a bow.

'I am Bedivere, my lord. The matriarch has sent me to act as your bodyguard for the duration of your stay at the University.'

So it was his grandmother who sent this woman, likely as punishment for his actions earlier today. He stands up groaning, his body still sore after healing.

'Right, I’m guessing grandmother also wants to see me?'

'Indeed, my lord. Allow me to-'

'No need to escort me, I know my own way.'

She could easily follow him hidden away from behind, but he took what satisfaction he could from voicing his dislike of her upfront.

----------------------------------------

The matriarch’s quarter is a dark and ornate room filled with the scent of herbs. Various alchemical plants adorn the walls, and the taste of medicine in the air is cloying, like a sweet fruit that has gone slightly off. A long dining table sits in the living room, and Gibet sits at one end like a prisoner awaiting execution. His grandmother circles the table, a wrinkled snake seeking out prey. When she speaks, her voice crackles like the crusty dried plants kept at the back of the greenhouse. Ancient and weathered, yet still dangerous enough to kill at the drop of a hat.

'Talk through your actions with me. Justify the choice you’ve made today.'

'The Tor family ranks the highest amongst the elder families. Currying favor with them is strictly better-'

'Traditionally, the Tors do rank highest, yes, but hierarchy doesn’t particularly matter when we’re part of something as high up as the elder families. Now think carefully, and explain your error.'

Anger and injustice flushes his insides, the broken dam in his mind allowing it to flood his body and cloud his vision. This wasn’t a real trial, and he was never intended to win the defense. That said, he wasn’t about to submit either. His grandmother wanted an admission of fault, but she would only get silence instead. The two of them watched one another for what felt like an eternity, with golden streaks of sunset light occasionally breaking in through the gaps of the black window curtains. Like always, Gibet says nothing, and like always, the Matriarch eventually relents, breathing out a sigh of disappointment.

'Very well, I suppose I will explain it to you. Like always.'

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She takes a seat across from him and lights a pipe. The herbs she smokes are bitter and make his eyes water. When she puffs the pipe, the smoke always seems to perfectly trail into his face.

'The Tors are indeed the highest ranking of the elder families, but they specialize in combat magics. Politically speaking, they have relatively little influence, as many of their ilk are too busy playing bodyguards or generals to commit significant amounts of time in the city. We Tudor are potion makers, and combat only makes up one aspect of our repertoire. In contrast to the Tors, the Colios specialize in trade, and are significantly more active in the political scene. In the long run, it makes more sense for us to foster relations with them.'

The lecture fades into the background, words running past him like water as the Matriarch continues her lecture. At some point, she tires of speaking to a brick wall, and sends him back to his room. Bedivere passes him in the hallway. She nods to him, but he doesn’t give her the satisfaction of acknowledgement. He later falls asleep in his room to the smell of herbs and magic, having needed to brew replacements for the potions he used prior to getting his face kicked in.

The next morning marks his first day of classes at the academy, though the first two weeks are mostly one orientation after another, tours of the academy grounds, and similar trivialities. He dresses himself in the black and blue shades of the royal house Tudor and leaves his estate on the first day, doing his absolute best to ignore Bedivere following close behind all the while. He manages to last until the end of the class, as it becomes impossible to continue ignoring her when she decides to drop down in front of his desk from the ceiling holding his lunch. He ignores the bag, storming off to the astronomy tower to spend the rest of his break brooding in peace.

For the next few days, Bedivere continues to deliver lunches to him. Everyday at noon, almost exactly 5 minutes after the end of class, she drops from the ceiling above to deliver a bag. Everyday, he leaves 4 minutes after class so that the box is always delivered to an empty table. Curiously enough, he eventually starts coming back to see the bag’s contents having been eaten. He initially suspects Bedivere of eating the lunch, but quickly discards the notion. Tudor bodyguards subsist almost entirely on potions in order to minimize the amount of time spent not guarding their charges. She likely hasn’t eaten physical food in years, and probably wouldn’t even be able to stomach it had she tried. The only other possibility is that another student is eating his lunch, which fills him more with curiosity than anger towards the person who would have enough gall to actually steal food from a member of an elder family.

One day, he drinks a bark soul potion at the end of class. He leaves at his usual time, and then walks out to the courtyard of his classroom before circling around to the back of the building. Allowing the potion to take over, his body gradually turns itself into wood, his arms and fingers extending into branches as they begin crawling up the walls. The entire process is sluggish, and his lack of experience with the potion almost causes him to fall when he relaxes his lower branches before the upper ones have a proper grip on the windowsill above him, but he does eventually make it up to his classroom.

He hears the culprit before he sees them. Even with the window in his way, he can make out the faint sounds of what appears to be a very messy eater. He never actually saw what Bedivere prepares for him, but evidently today it’s some kind of soup based on the sloshing he’s hearing in between the gulping and chewing. He peaks a flower through the gap in the window.

The lunch thief was an orc, albeit an unusually well dressed one. His school uniform was a white button-up decorated with a single embroidered golden flower on the right breast pocket. It was an outfit given specifically to the top performing students of each given year, and it allowed the wearer to stand out as a stark contrast against the standard black robes of the rest of the student body.

Wearers of the Tri-Flora were meant to set an example for the rest of the school, and were typically acting representatives during events. Such a reputation demanded the utmost diligence, and seeing one apparently stealing his lunch was enough to leave him momentarily stunned.

That being said, thief or not, it was still impressive how messy of an eater they were while at the same time managing to keep their outfit clean. A big array of paper towels and napkins was overlaid on his desk, catching the residue that was dripping from the lunch bag as it got devoured. He drags his branches in through the opening in the window, purposely allowing a few twigs to scrape against the walls. The orc looks up and tenses slightly, but his lack of experience with such a body quickly gives him away as a clunky first time potion drinker instead of a wood elemental gone rogue. The only thing he’s greeted with is silence along with a raised eyebrow before the eating of his lunch resumes.

'You… don’t look particularly startled at having been caught, thief.'

The words come out awkward and hesitant instead of commanding. The lack of reaction has thrown him off, and he isn’t used to people ignoring his presence. A part of him deep down seethes at his own inadequacy, and is kept in check only at his own determination to not let the matriarch be right. The Orc finishes up the last of the food before plopping the bag back on his desk. When he speaks, his voice is a deep baritone, squashing down the residual authority placed by Gibet’s own.

'Didn’t look like you planned to ever eat it, so I took my liberties by the third day of you leaving the thing behind.'

'So you just… stole it?'

'Well, were you going to eat it?'

'No, but I-'

'Then what’s the point of keeping it around? Not like you noble types eat leftovers anyway. Might as well let someone who’s actually going to eat it have it.'

'Listen here, it’s not about using it or not, its-'

'By the way, class starts in 5 minutes. You should probably leave to go prepare.'

'Why the hell would I need to prepare for? My bag’s right here. I didn’t bring anything with me when I left.'

'Bark Soul only affects the body, you idiot. Your clothes are still back at wherever the hell you left them when you first drank the potion. Considering how shaky you look while using it, I can’t imagine you’d be able to hold the transformation for much longer, so unless you want to run back outside naked?'

'…Shit.'

'By the way, that potion is something that’s supposed to be only granted to the Teh’vah. Something about family secrets and traditions and other stuff I'm sure you know more about than I do. I’m also sure you’d get yourself into some really hot water if someone found out you used a bottle for yourself, Tudor or not, so how about we both agree to look the other way?'

Gibet finds this sassy, extremely large, and extremely green individual infuriating, but falls asleep that night with mixed emotions, as this is the first individual in years that has spoken to him in such a casual manner. He finds it weirdly charming, though he’d never admit it to anyone.