Post by chait pivane on Nov 11, 2013 10:23:30 GMT -5
Chait stretched his arms up over his head, grabbing onto one elbow and feeling the muscles pull slightly, a couple of small cracks rippling through his shoulder blades. Ah. Perfect. His position against the bench arm rail had been kinking up his back, but little surprise there with how long he had been sitting there. With his back pressed against one arm rail, he had his legs stretched out across the rest of the bench, filling the space with his height. His bag laid on the grass beside him, filled to the brim with books and covered with a stack of papers. Certainly this work would have been much easier inside his own room, but this weather was too hard to resist.
With such a beautiful day—the weather surprisingly warm and perfect for a long sleeve collared shirt, sleeves rolled midway and tie carelessly tossed over his bag—he could hardly imagine sitting inside for a second longer. There was a gentle breeze billowing about, racing through the treetops with a playful ferocity but trickling down through the courtyard with more of a lazed halfheartedness as though the wind itself was being lulled to sleep by the warm sun.
He paused to enjoy the weather for a moment, a smile playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the parchment and book on his lap. Building a syllabus had been an exciting and enriching endeavor, keeping him up late and waking him early with countless ideas that he would never be able to fit into one school year. Here was to hoping they kept him on staff for more than that. His room was littered with stacks of parchment, draft after draft of a syllabus with a wide variety of needed books and topics to cover. But finally he was sure he had it. Something doable for the different class levels while still being engaging and ethical. The last of which was a tricky task for a Dark Arts teacher. But still, this position had renewed Chait with a deep excitement he hadn't felt since he had returned from the bayous. It was the simple fact that fate had worked life out right for once. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime and he was determined to make the best of it.
Absentmindedly, Chait found one of his calloused hands rubbing against his neck. It was an old familiar habit that he had yet to kick, and truthfully it was unlikely he ever would. The scar crept out from his shirt, trailing from his left shoulder blade up across his neck to just under his right ear. It was an ugly thing, all red and pink and mangled with multiple markings scattered throughout the larger single cut—suggesting either a far-from clean initial cut or a botched sew-up job afterwards. Perhaps both. His hand left his neck and ran through his hair, unintentionally fluffing his hair into a brown toppled mess.
It had been a hard decision, deciding whether to hide the scar when he started or just get it over and done with. The decision had been ultimately based in laziness since the idea of wearing a scarf or a turtleneck and keeping up a façade day in a day out sounded absolutely exhausting. Better to start in the school year as “that weird teacher with the creepy scar” and let them get it out of their system as opposed to making some dramatic unveiling. Even the idea of such a gossip-driven catastrophic event made him shudder. Teenagers and their drama, whew.
Still, he had to admit its other perks. Certainly it gave him an advantage in the classroom. What student would dare question the Dark Arts experience of a man who looks like he had his head sewn back onto his neck? The thought made him chuckle aloud, able to dwell in the more shallow aspects of the scar and its somewhat delightful properties. Better that then think too far into its history and let it lull him back into its sweet grasp. He needed to make sure he had that under control this time—none of those relapses like before. He couldn’t deal with clamming up here. It wouldn’t work for his job and soon he’d be right back out where he was before.
The syllabus, Chait, he reminded himself, once again drawing himself back to his work. Just to decide on the final textbook for the sixth and seventh years and he would be finished. His list of potential books was rolls of parchment long (it never seemed that there was a shortage of edgy authors who wanted to write about the scary and terrifying Dark Arts) but it was only one he needed to pick out. His quill ran down the list, marking off choices with a soft scratchy noise and adding another sound to the soothing orchestra of the day’s already peaceful tune.
With such a beautiful day—the weather surprisingly warm and perfect for a long sleeve collared shirt, sleeves rolled midway and tie carelessly tossed over his bag—he could hardly imagine sitting inside for a second longer. There was a gentle breeze billowing about, racing through the treetops with a playful ferocity but trickling down through the courtyard with more of a lazed halfheartedness as though the wind itself was being lulled to sleep by the warm sun.
He paused to enjoy the weather for a moment, a smile playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the parchment and book on his lap. Building a syllabus had been an exciting and enriching endeavor, keeping him up late and waking him early with countless ideas that he would never be able to fit into one school year. Here was to hoping they kept him on staff for more than that. His room was littered with stacks of parchment, draft after draft of a syllabus with a wide variety of needed books and topics to cover. But finally he was sure he had it. Something doable for the different class levels while still being engaging and ethical. The last of which was a tricky task for a Dark Arts teacher. But still, this position had renewed Chait with a deep excitement he hadn't felt since he had returned from the bayous. It was the simple fact that fate had worked life out right for once. Here was the opportunity of a lifetime and he was determined to make the best of it.
Absentmindedly, Chait found one of his calloused hands rubbing against his neck. It was an old familiar habit that he had yet to kick, and truthfully it was unlikely he ever would. The scar crept out from his shirt, trailing from his left shoulder blade up across his neck to just under his right ear. It was an ugly thing, all red and pink and mangled with multiple markings scattered throughout the larger single cut—suggesting either a far-from clean initial cut or a botched sew-up job afterwards. Perhaps both. His hand left his neck and ran through his hair, unintentionally fluffing his hair into a brown toppled mess.
It had been a hard decision, deciding whether to hide the scar when he started or just get it over and done with. The decision had been ultimately based in laziness since the idea of wearing a scarf or a turtleneck and keeping up a façade day in a day out sounded absolutely exhausting. Better to start in the school year as “that weird teacher with the creepy scar” and let them get it out of their system as opposed to making some dramatic unveiling. Even the idea of such a gossip-driven catastrophic event made him shudder. Teenagers and their drama, whew.
Still, he had to admit its other perks. Certainly it gave him an advantage in the classroom. What student would dare question the Dark Arts experience of a man who looks like he had his head sewn back onto his neck? The thought made him chuckle aloud, able to dwell in the more shallow aspects of the scar and its somewhat delightful properties. Better that then think too far into its history and let it lull him back into its sweet grasp. He needed to make sure he had that under control this time—none of those relapses like before. He couldn’t deal with clamming up here. It wouldn’t work for his job and soon he’d be right back out where he was before.
The syllabus, Chait, he reminded himself, once again drawing himself back to his work. Just to decide on the final textbook for the sixth and seventh years and he would be finished. His list of potential books was rolls of parchment long (it never seemed that there was a shortage of edgy authors who wanted to write about the scary and terrifying Dark Arts) but it was only one he needed to pick out. His quill ran down the list, marking off choices with a soft scratchy noise and adding another sound to the soothing orchestra of the day’s already peaceful tune.
