Prologue: A Crude Introduction
Wanted to share the prologue to my first fantasy academia book! Hope y'all enjoy! Also added a narrated version to the end!
Prologue: A Crude Introduction
“Hello! Nice to meet you!”
A timeless phrase that seems to have no end for Roscoro Dire, hearing it from many sources all wanting his attention. Hearing it from yet another stranger, this time on a marble balcony within the Dire family mansion. Ignoring the source of the greeting which he finds monotonous, his gaze turns to people watching. There are many eager guests tonight, crowded below within the chandelier lit ballroom, to observe, to listen, to gather the latest gossip within the Witch community. Roscoro never found this to be a problem, or any of the Dire family for that matter. Their riches and fame within the wealthier wand-wielding social circles allow rumors and newsworthy situations to be fed to their ears on a silver platter with a matching spoon.
Roscoro leaves the unwelcomed conversation with a soft and swift, “Places for me to be, sir,”.
He exits the balcony toward the ivory colored staircase to the packed dance floor below. Before descending too far, just out of sight of any wandering eye, he pulls out a palm sized mirror from his suit jacket’s breast pocket. His other hand pulls out his sleek and slender white oak wand from the thin leather holster on his hip. With a simple tap of wood on glass, a minor expense of silver magic, the reflective material floats in front of his face.
Hair slicked, collar neatly folded, thank goodness Canterbury ironed these clothes this morning.
He comforts himself in thought, thanking his butler quietly while at it. It has been a long while since he picked up an iron himself, he may have even forgotten how to use one.
He rationalizes with himself as he continues down the staircase, sliding his hands on the polished wooden railing, musing over how much its smoothness matches his own clean-shaven face. His mind takes a detour once more, counting his steps. As eager as he is to hear some interesting topics, he mentally groans at the thought of hearing about the new school for magical children.
Our traditions, so respected and established, challenged by that establishment. An establishment cloaked in absolute lunacy. Even its location, the Bermuda Triangle, ludicrous. As is the reason why this was even green lit by the American Witch Administrations (A.W.A), my beloved Witch government.
That Havetsavain Academy of Arcane.
Since he was a little boy growing up in the very mansion he stood in now, with his relatives of numerous generations, there is only one North American Witch Academy residing in the beautiful Salem, Massachusetts; Glishstar School of Sorcery. Prestigious, integral to the reputation of any distinguished North American Wand Wielder, extending its pedigree of fine Scholars, Spelltheorists, Riders, Jousters, and Tinkerers. Even the current president of the A.W.A., Mordecai Renwick, graduated from Glishstar with flying colors that make the greatest dragon riders envy his heights.
Roscoro’s steps begin to have more pep due to the fond memories at his time at Glishstar. The bubbling potions he brewed, filled with a plethora of scents that made many question the limits of nostrils. The grand times he gave buffalo shaped water balloons more velocity for a few precious seconds to be tossed at some unsuspecting classmates. He ponders now how heavy the dean’s pockets were, weighed by the Dire’s money to keep Roscoro and his relatives there. It was many years ago though, fifteen to be exact, since he graduated. The old headmaster probably retired happily. Even the dean that replaced him, Walter Winkleweave, has since retired.
A prideful smirk spreads across Roscoro Dire’s face, gazing up above at a celebratory banner that hangs over the ballroom; ‘Congratulations Roscoro’. Knowing at the beginning of September, he is to take up the mantle of the Dean of Glishstar. The once lone magical school of North America.
Now, there is also the other school. There is also Havetsavain.
Finally stepping into the ballroom, his ears fill with what he fears. Roscoro hides a sigh masqueraded as a cough. He begins to make his way to the refreshment table on the opposite side of the room, its various beverages practically parching his mouth, and its alcoholic contents beckoning to ease his frustrations.
Just have to get to the other side, no worries, just wave, make it seem like I’m in a hurry, maybe say I’m fetching a glass of wine for someone. Yes, they will believe that, they all usually do, or at least never dare take up too much time. Great Great Grandad wouldn’t allow these folks to do so, so why should I?
Roscoro formulates his game plan to get through the maze of people, keeping his ears ready to ignore the fluff of mooching voices and preparing them to eavesdrop on anything worthwhile. He sets off on his trek to the towering glass punchbowl, faucets sticking out in a circle at the base, pouring the blue liquid itself into the wine glasses of thirsty patrons. His hearing just as peckish as them, he begins to satisfy the hunger for gossip.
“I know! I know! I hear that eccentric man, what was the dean’s name? Mooskava? Moojava? Mukava! Yes! I heard he was going to be bringing in Gemfeys! And Elfenheims!” An elderly woman quietly pesters into her husband’s ear, her facial expression harmonizing with Roscoro’s internalized, disgusted reaction.
Gemfeys and Elfenheims? Of course they would be included. They seem to pop up whenever it is the most inconvenient. As far as I know, those cultures chose to stay away from us even when the War on Witches raged a decade ago. They should remain tucked away out of sight, away from our children’s educational ambitions. Particularly the Elfenheims, those tricksters, wielding magic like it is something nefarious. Their white hair always appearing and disappearing, constantly jumping around from one place to the next. Directionless toddlers, running about, just like Dmitri always said.
Roscoro almost has to contain a chuckle recalling those comparisons.
Though, it is odd that the Gemfey would want to be employed at this poor excuse of a school. Loners who would rather grow rocks in seclusion than hold a decent conversation. Socially incompetent, no one just informs someone what they are feeling. But, alas, I have to be charitable to those who do not understand real basic customs.
Continuing halfway into the room, he turns away many conversations in favor of listening to more about this rival to Glishstar.
“They may even try to get rid of wands!”
“Replacing them with what?! Happy jazz hands?”
This conversation strikes a nerve in Roscoro, his face must be radiating a sour mood as guests seem to avoid his very presence. He continues to keep his ears open.
“They not only employ other cultures, but are also bringing in some as students.”
“Are they going to teach Witch children, our children, other types of magic, as well?”
“Unfortunately, that may be the case”
“And the A.W.A. is allowing this?! How do they decide who enrolls?!”
“Apparently, they are splitting the First-Years who would have been going to Glishstar with some of the older kids willingly choosing to go on their own accord.”
“Well! I am certainly happy this ‘Havetsavain’ operates like natural selection. Take out the weak, let's keep the strong!” An overdressed man, even for this party’s standards, chortles to his group.
A partygoer shakes his head in response, “I’m afraid not all ‘the strong’ are staying, I heard the Glishstar 3-4 are abandoning us for this…place.”
The dean of Glishstar catches himself midstep.
That certainly can’t be true, the Glishstar 3-4 has been a monumental group in our school’s illustrious halls, and they are just ripping them from us? That group has help built our school into what it is today! We have Alumni dating back all the way to 1960’s, every one of them carrying those proud titles far passed their graduations. Are they just going to change the name? How’s that even going to work? If I have any say, they won’t get any perks from their new bastardized ‘3-4’.
Roscoro scoffs aloud, not even hiding his disdain from anyone around as he approaches the punchbowl’s table. Yanking a fine glass off the tablecloth, he thrusts it under one of the faucets, almost hitting it into the fountain itself.
A cheerful voice calls out next to Roscoro, making him almost jump at the familiarity. “It's a faucet, Roscoro, not a force-it! Gently will do!”
As the punch bowl fills his glass, Roscoro looks over to see a man wearing a smile as wide as he is stocky. Short gray and blond hairs combed upward, going the opposite direction of his beard, which hangs down to his chest. His crimson red velveteen suit shimmers slightly under the light of the chandelier above. The shine annunciates even more when he spreads his arms out, wrapping them around Roscoro for a tight hug.
The former dean of Glishstar, Walter Winkleweave.
“It's been awhile! My goodness! The last time I saw you…” The man’s words trail off as he lifts his hand to the top of Roscoro’s head, “You were this tall!”
A familiar joke Roscoro does not fancy from Winkleweave, having made the same jest at a gathering where the latter announced his entry into the A.W.A.
“Salutations, Mr. Winkleweave. Salutations.” Roscoro forces a lukewarm smile, wiping his jacket not so subtly. He reaches out a hand, expecting Walter to return it.
“I just gave you a hug! What are you doing?” Walter chipperly shakes his hand, regardless.
The chittering and chattering of voices serve as background noise for the young Dire, focusing his attention onto Walter. The former dean seems to be in a good mood, despite the fact that Glishstar has developed a rival school out of the blue.
“Yes, my apologies, I usually open up most conversations with a handshake. Family policy.”
“Ah! I respect that, a big fan of tradition myself. That's why we have Christmas, Halloween, all the holidays really. Tradition!”
“Indeed. Speaking of traditions, Mr. Winklewe–”
“Just call me Walter, it's fine Roscoro, I won’t tattle on you.”
“Right…Mr. Winkleweave, I was curious to get your opinions on the new school. Have you heard of it?”
Refilling his glass, Walter casually says, “Heard of it? I was one of the ones to approve it.”
Roscoro forces himself not to recoil from shock, nor stare at Senator Winkleweave in an equally flabbergasted way.
Why would he do that? I get the authority of being in the A.W.A.; he is respected, as is his opinion. Yet, why would he approve such a thing?
Roscoro Dire’s thoughts reel but he is able to keep a facade of a smile on his face. “Oh? Did you now? Why…did you do that?”
“I find the concept quite admirable, bringing in a bigger pool of knowledge from a vast amount of cultures. Heck, I was even considering enrolling one of my daughters. They could…what's the motto? ‘Have it so fine, at Havetsavain.’ Quite charming, is it not?”
A thick British accent arises from the opposite side of the gigantic punch bowl. “I second that notion, Mr. Winkleweave.”
The voice that fills his ears with such malarkey pulls Roscoro’s attention. The nonsense makes more sense when he realizes who it belongs to.
A near elderly man stands sipping from a wineglass. He lowers it from his mouth which is surrounded by a curly mustache and pointed beard. The darker hairs no longer take dominance in the wildly kempt hair. His dark green suit with matching tie signifies that his wealth is just a little under, if not equal, to the Dire family. Riddled with controversy, this man who stood against his own kind during the War on Witches, now stands in front of Roscoro.
“Oh, Asher Hickories, pleasant seeing you again,” Roscoro tries to hide the dishonesty of his words but the look on the other man’s face shows this is to no avail, an equally sarcastic smeared smile looks back at him.
“It would be more pleasant seeing you, if it wasn’t for that annoyed expression you've been wearing since you got that glass of wine, Roscoro.” Asher Hickories comments nonchalantly, taking a sip from his own glass.
Roscoro returns the sarcastic smile, not being happy about the company he is sharing his time with. Both of these men are the polar opposite of what his family strives to uphold; dignity, poise, and the pride of what it means to be a part of the Witch culture.
Even now, looking at their differing smiles makes him irritated.
How dare they act this way in my house, to my face, a Dire? Have we fallen this low where Asher Hickories of all people can be smug in my presence?
The insufferable jolly voice of Winkleweave interrupts Roscoro’s thoughts, ”Hey now everyone, why don’t we change this attitude around. What's bothering you with this school exactly?”
“Well, for starters, who even proposed this idea?” The young Dire turns to Winkleweave, making it obvious his back faces Hickories. “You may have approved it but who is this dean? Who is this Mukava Skrybeard? We know little of this man, we know next to nothing of his credentials. What gives him the right to run a school?”
“What gives him the right to run a school?! It's Mukava Skrybeard! He has a decent repertoire. Heard he sailed the whole world at some point. Visiting every culture, learning the ins and outs of magic as a whole,” Winkleweave twirls his wine glass fondly, ”I think he is a fine–”
Asher asserts his way into the conversation, his tone lowers. “What is he?”
Roscoro scoffs. He was hoping for Winkleweave to answer but of course, Asher Hickories interrupts.
Do not treat me like a child. This is my family’s house. You are unfortunately my guest. I will ask the questions I want.
Composing himself, Roscoro reiterates, “I apologize. I may have misspoken there. I heard rumors about his style of magic wielding.”
“Do you mean–do you mean him being a Jinn?” Winkleweave asks, blinking several times in the host’s direction.
Roscoro immediately capitalizes on the question, “Jinn! Is that not dangerous? After all, we have very little information about them. As far as I am aware, there are barely any of them left in the entire world. There has to be a reason for this.”
“What makes you think they are dangerous? You just said you don’t know a lot about them. Why would you think that?”
“Well-Well–you’ve heard the stories.”
“No.” Winkleweave’s expression remains glowing, even with a blunt curious voice, waiting for Roscoro to elaborate.
The young Dire quickly sips his wine, miffed by the drops that spill onto his suit.
Like hell he hasn’t heard the stories. That damn Genie should have stayed in his lamp. Instead, he wished himself a whole school to flaunt in Glishstar’s face. A freeloader to his own magic, unlike us actual people who have to work hard, busting our brows everyday. If I could ask for any wish, any one at all, it would be for him to stay in his lamp forever.
Roscoro begrudgingly shifts his eyes from Winkleweave to Asher, muttering, “You must know a tale or two about the Jinn?”
Roscoro clenches his glass tightly as he watches Asher raise his own glass to his smirk, backing out of the conversation. The newly appointed dean of Glishstar tenses his shoulders as he looks at Winkleweave without a word.
“Well, Roscoro, if you are that concerned, I am happy to inform you that we have a couple members of the A.W.A. attending as supervision.” Winkleweave addresses the host, looking between him and Asher who finally lowers his drink, raising his eyebrows. “Yup! Rousikas Shaw and Lorenzo Taggart, two fine officers, you may be familiar with those jolly folk.”
Ah perfect, two more traitors. This school is just one cesspool of treason it seems. Fine, best keep them away from my school. Maybe it is natural selection after all.
Roscoro’s sneer forces his chin upward toward the two men. Once feeling their eyes focus in on his demeanor, he morphs his expression into the famous Dire smile. “Indeed.”
“Rousikas is back? I wasn’t aware.” Asher’s surprised tone catches Roscoro’s attention. This is the first time he does not feel the man’s eyes judging him.
Nodding in acknowledgement, Winkleweave confirms, “Yup! He and his daughter have returned to America, employed to be a part of the government’s role at Havetsavain.”
“Ah…” Asher furrows his brows while bringing his freehand to his beard, scratching quizzically.
Roscoro narrows his eyes at him.
Why is Rousikas being back that odd? Why do I even care? This conversation is exactly what I was trying to avoid.
Roscoro’s expression must have tipped the short man off on his very thoughts as Winkleweave hurriedly says, “Needless to say, this school has a lot of promise, and it’s wrong for us to judge before anything is concrete. Let’s have hope, and a cheers to a new beginning.”
The former dean of Glishstar raises his glass up, joined shortly by Asher who seems to have snapped himself out of whatever thought he was having.
Then perhaps I should make it concrete. He said the A.W.A. has representatives, perhaps I should call in a few favors, get someone in there. Yes, a grand idea. I’m sure Mathias Matthews would love a chance in the limelight.
Roscoro, while refilling his half empty glass, comments in a dismissive tone, “We shall see.”
