Amos Arnaud
There were seldom few things pleasurable about admission week at the Crystal Ring Academy. Contrary to popular belief, the ancient master of the stacks did not actually relish the suffering of children, nor did he have any specific grudge against his fellow scribes. Amos simply had little to no tolerance for simple errors. It was incredible, that at one of- if not the premier location for the celebration and decadent joy of academia in the world, bedazzled by high knowledge elementals, beings of replete intelligence, and some of the wisest individuals to have ever emblazoned their names on the face of the world- could somehow manage to try passing off simple forms with spelling mistakes.
Amos himself was never one for the tall towers of high academic accomplishment, as it was all too political for his tastes. Being the 7th son of a minor noble, having bounced between the silver and gold rings for his younger years, he was more than happy to have spent the last hundred and fifty years settled neatly into his post as [High Scribe of the Files]. His occupation, being so in line with his chosen class, having long since abandoned the path of true magic, had acquired a bit of personality as he progressed through the ranks. These days, he had little need for offensive magics, so he devoted himself utterly to the art of scrivening, mastering the printing presses, inks, pictorials, esoteric numbering systems, and other such visceral crafts of the written word.
His system, a perverse mirror of his own embittered psyche, forced him to find comfort in naught but crystalline perfection. Amos, having leveled his intellect and [Error Sense], could smell, taste, and feel errors. A complete form sung in perfect harmony, but a missed checkbox stunk as only spoiled meat could, a rancor note of insidious ineptitude, defiling the demesne of his desk. All day, he redirected pompous children and their misguided chaperones.
I don’t care if you’re the mistress of the damn crown prince, or the queen herself. You can go back to the waiting area and fix your mistakes on your own time. The line is long, and we’ve thousands of students waiting to waste my time today. Thank the crystals that I have competent assistants.
Amos’ vanguard comprised several young librarians, scribes and orderlies, all hurriedly at work filing away the completed forms that they had worked through already. As usual, the gates for matriculation opened an entire unreasonable hour early, and as usual, it did nothing to help make the process go any smoother. Swiping out his non-writing arm, a satisfying click called out as the master of the stack summoned forth the next contender. Taking a deep breath, Amos smelled… nothing. An unattended, tall young man strode forth. Not confidently, but rather resigned, likely having seen the amount of people sent to the back of the line previously. Wordlessly, Amos issued forth his slender, bony hand in a grasping motion, barely looking up from his ledgers. The manilla folder that was produced was a surprise.
This Parchment isn’t a make I recognize from the Gilded City. I know every supplier within the next three rings over. The fiber quality leaves something to be desired, but… passable. Unwrinkled, unsoiled, sturdy. A bold choice of opening moves. And what’s this? A lavender tassel to seal you shut. Quaint.
Three loops to the left, and a laminate sheaf undone, and he had CRA forms 17Epsilon, A-77, and a signed and notarized copy of the code of student ethics. Simple. Reasonable. Complete. Three very simple forms, less than 15 pages, not including the bulk of the code of student ethics. Laser-focused, Amos’s gaze alighted towards his usual hotspots. No missing details. No missing numbers.
A full-ride student? But that would mean he would nee- oh, the requisite acceptance of liability form is included as well. How didn’t I see that? Is this… this vellum is thinner than the rest of them. Custom vellum? How… daring. And this ink… it’s black as per regulation, but it feels like it might have a purple sheen. In years of doing this, I don’t recall the copper ring issuing the liability form without being prompted for it a single time. Someone knows how to dance! Very well.
Tearing through the requirements in no time flat, he took the signatures off the pages with his skill, sending ink and pages flying separately as he performed all of the filings necessary in moments, flat. The orderlies stifled a gasp, looking up for the barest fraction of a moment upon seeing the head scribe able to complete the necessary filings without sending a student back multiple times. Delicate magics weaved in and out of several filing cabinets, producing ornate wax seals and colorful stamps.
Looking up, Amos regarded a student for the first time this morning without having a correction to make. “You had help filling this out.” he flatly stated. “Yes sir, my mother is good with paperwork. I hope that’s fine,” the boy responded.
Not too much spine, respectful in tone. Not a pushover. Let us see if the dance continues.
“Fine it is indeed. Normally, at this point, I would send you through that door to your left to have your documents copied because it’s uncommon to have someone provide multiple copies of their paperwork without being prompted to do so beforehand. What are the chances that you came here with multiple copies of your paperwork?” Amos inquired.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Oh! Yes, my mother insisted that I had multiple copies just in case one of them got lost. One moment please!” The boy, having rifled through his belongings produced not one, but three additional copies of his paperwork. Amos took two of them, opening them delicately and laying the contents side by side.
Completely identical. No feathering in the signatures. Not a drop out of place, spacing equal. Artwork.
“Very well, come with me,” Amos stated, his aged form unfurling from his comfortable-looking chair with more vigor than Gio expected. This time, one of Amos’ assistants did gasp. Earning her a sly arch of an eyebrow from Amos, and a barely audible chuckle from the man, notwithstanding.
Gio
The aged man took Gio past several rooms full of waiting students, handing off copies of his paperwork to several clerks in other chambers, earning surprised looks from the staff there, and harsh gazes from other students in those lines.
How are there this many people here already?! I was nearly a whole hour early, and there was a line outside!
Gio heard some mumbles from students in the lines but was entirely too nervous to look at anything except the back of the man in front of him. Gio was led to an office where he was asked to wait in a comfortable room, next to a young woman doing some sort of needlework in an embroidery hoop. “Mister deGloria, what was your mother’s name? Call it an old man’s curiosity.” Said the stern-looking figure. “Oh, my mother’s name is Divina. Divina deGloria.” Gio replied. The secretary at the side of the room looked like she was about to pass out, but recovered quickly. The tall man nodded, saying “She has good handwriting. Good luck this school year, young man. Study hard.” he walked back through the door, ducking slightly. Gio turned to regard the person sitting next to him, only to find her, bag in hand, approaching the desk of the secretary. Turning around, the secretary started “ Miss Chak-oh! You surprised me!, perfect timing, the Inquisitor is ready for you.”
Inquisitor? Are we about to be interrogated or something? Maybe this is about the unsealing of our classes?
Moments later, Gio was called into a comfortable room with dimmed lighting. A figure wearing a featureless golden mask sat at a stately wooden table, with an unfamiliar set of files in front of them. A somewhat nondescript, somewhat masculine tone emanated out from the figure, unmoving. “Mister deGloria, please take a seat,” they said. Gio sat down, feeling unnerved.
“This won’t take very long. I am going to ask you a series of yes or no questions, after which you will be sent forward to the Manse. Are you ready?” Gio’s heart quickened. The Manse. The teleportation nexus for the Crystal Ring Academy.
Gio blurted out “Yes si, uh- Yes.”
The figure chuckled, sounding mechanical. “You may refer to me as inquisitor. Officially speaking, those of us who wear these masks are devoid of identity, and as you seem to have noted, gender. It’s for anonymity, freedom from reprisal, that sort of thing. Let’s begin. Have you unsealed your class prematurely?”
“No.” Gio replied.
“Do you practice necromancy on nonconsenting souls?”
“Uhh-no.”
“Are you currently in possession of any undisclosed artifacts, relics, or otherwise items of unusual potency?”
“No.”
“And lastly, have you in any way, shape or form enrolled in this academy under false pretenses?”
“No.”
“Wonderful. Thank you for your time, and welcome to Crystal Ring Academy. Here’s your badge. You won’t be able to get rid of it, so don’t worry about misplacing it. Good luck, and make good choices.”
The inquisitor handed Gio a button-sized piece of crystal, round and flat. A sharp metal spike erupted from the back and went straight into Gio’s thumb.
“Ow!” he exclaimed, dropping the pin. The gold-masked inquisitor chuckled as they and their desk seemed to melt away, as the chair Gio was sitting in dissolved out from under him slowly. Taking the hint, he stood up, finding that his belongings were the only thing in his surroundings not fading away into nothingness.
Slightly awestruck at the theatrics, Gio looked around at the black void around him, finding that twinkling stars began appearing in the nothingness. One particular star shined brighter than the rest, growing with intensity as it appeared to approach him quickly. A shimmering set of transparent doors, carved seemingly out of some sort of ice or glass, with ghostly shapes and surreal landscapes beyond appeared in front of him.
The crystalline badge shimmered into existence, affixed to his lapel. The badge shone with a pinpoint of light, toward the door. Beyond the door was a room with a plush rug, an escritoire-styled desk, a closet, and a massive bed. Slightly confused, Gio walked forward. A strange texture caressed his skin, somewhere between a pliable rubber and like emerging from underwater, as he stepped through the doorway. Looking behind him, he was greeted with his own reflection- as he stared into a floor-length mirror. Sidestepping to the bed, he looked around.
“This… is this my room?!” Gio plopped down onto the bed, which engulfed him.