Post by Gaia on Jul 29, 2008 21:02:20 GMT -5
(Class will be taught by Gaia until we can find magisters.)
At the front of the room sat the woman who was supposed to be the 'magister,' in the uncomfortable wooden chair behind the ancient wooden desk. She thought to herself that she ought to complain about the school's positively horrid furniture, or at least bring a cute cushion to alleviate her excruciating pain if she decided that teaching a second day was worth her time.
Ms. Charlotte Vale was one of those people who did not like her job. In fact, she hated it. She never wanted to become a teacher. In her eyes, children were whiny, selfish, clingy beings. Teenagers? The same, but bigger. She wanted to be a journalist.
However, as the case often was when one was forced into a profession they despised, her dream did not quite work out for her. Nowhere local was interested in hiring, not because she was incompetent, but because they already had full teams draining their money. Teams that consisted of older, and thus more experienced individuals than herself. She didn't have the aturs to travel and seek happy employment elsewhere, and was forced to reading The Islander's help-wanted section every day, looking for means to stay afloat. And then she saw it: an ad asking for a magister of charms and curses. It promised good pay.
She wasn't extraordinarily good at charms or curses, but she could hold her own. She'd know more than the clueless brats she was to instruct, anyhow. At her interview, she asked many questions, so as to seem very interested. She kept her eyes wide and bright, laughed often, and insisted that she wanted nothing more than to teach. It got her the job, alright.
She was almost regretful. It was clear from how she sat - hot pink high-heels criss-crossed over the top of the desk - that she would rather be anywhere else in the world than preparing to teach a lesson. Her clothing was less than professional, consisting of a cute denim miniskirt and a white tank top. Her underwear was pink like her shoes, and she didn't seem to care that kicking her feet up on the table was giving the class a nice view of her undergarments. She had her cinnamon hair down, touching her shoulders, with that fake, tousled look that women had when they spent hours making their hair look 'naturally' messed. Her lips were a soft pink pout, as her heavily-mascaraed blue eyes focused intently on the nail file she was using. She didn't bother checking the time. She didn't even bother to write her name on the board. Weren't kids supposed to know her name before class started?
At the front of the room sat the woman who was supposed to be the 'magister,' in the uncomfortable wooden chair behind the ancient wooden desk. She thought to herself that she ought to complain about the school's positively horrid furniture, or at least bring a cute cushion to alleviate her excruciating pain if she decided that teaching a second day was worth her time.
Ms. Charlotte Vale was one of those people who did not like her job. In fact, she hated it. She never wanted to become a teacher. In her eyes, children were whiny, selfish, clingy beings. Teenagers? The same, but bigger. She wanted to be a journalist.
However, as the case often was when one was forced into a profession they despised, her dream did not quite work out for her. Nowhere local was interested in hiring, not because she was incompetent, but because they already had full teams draining their money. Teams that consisted of older, and thus more experienced individuals than herself. She didn't have the aturs to travel and seek happy employment elsewhere, and was forced to reading The Islander's help-wanted section every day, looking for means to stay afloat. And then she saw it: an ad asking for a magister of charms and curses. It promised good pay.
She wasn't extraordinarily good at charms or curses, but she could hold her own. She'd know more than the clueless brats she was to instruct, anyhow. At her interview, she asked many questions, so as to seem very interested. She kept her eyes wide and bright, laughed often, and insisted that she wanted nothing more than to teach. It got her the job, alright.
She was almost regretful. It was clear from how she sat - hot pink high-heels criss-crossed over the top of the desk - that she would rather be anywhere else in the world than preparing to teach a lesson. Her clothing was less than professional, consisting of a cute denim miniskirt and a white tank top. Her underwear was pink like her shoes, and she didn't seem to care that kicking her feet up on the table was giving the class a nice view of her undergarments. She had her cinnamon hair down, touching her shoulders, with that fake, tousled look that women had when they spent hours making their hair look 'naturally' messed. Her lips were a soft pink pout, as her heavily-mascaraed blue eyes focused intently on the nail file she was using. She didn't bother checking the time. She didn't even bother to write her name on the board. Weren't kids supposed to know her name before class started?
