Chapter 1: Scholus Brutum
Austral Heights Higher Scholastic Education Campus. It was your typical outer suburbia, American country high-school. With more emphasis on the generation of ideal conformist individuals (namely strong, dumb and hardworking), then on leaders of tomorrow who will actually lead the people somewhere, not rob them blind. The school is famous for producing average football players. The town of Austral Heights is famous for its ugly, old clock tower, and its slightly pinkish snow.
Austral Heights is situated on a snowy mountain range, bordering America and Canada. With short springs and long winters, there were hardly any settlers willing to live there. That explains why, in the present day, there are still less than nine hundred people living in Austral Heights.
The school. The bell rings. Crowds of casually dressed students amble to their classes. There is a strict dress code enforced by the school admin, "Wear whatever you want." There are students in the halls wearing brightly colored shirts, to half tops; to leather pants, to mid-calf short jeans. There is a noticeable hierarchy among the students. Boys in green and yellow track jumpers look benignly down upon those around them, flirting openly with girls in green and yellow cheerleader attire. Groups of pimpled, glasses wearing geeks huddle close together, hoping for strength in numbers, but scatter like a dandelion when another, higher up on the food chain, comes to 'ask' for something from some unfortunate group member. The junkies hang around near the soda vendors, thoroughly wiped out, even early in the morning, barely moving even when the bell sounds. A small group of young men dressed in baggy labeled sports pants and Nike tank-tops shout rudely to a group of green and gold dressed jocks, starting a small riot in the hallways.
Inside the history classroom, Mr. Claron, dressed in a loose white shirt which didn't do much to hide his protruding beer belly, and pants held up with elastic shoulder straps, head history teacher, as well as disciplinarian addresses his class.
"Good morning class," he spat as the last of his class enters his classroom, "or should I say afternoon?" he asked them sarcastically, tilting his head like a bird; a ferocious half smile, half sneer on his face; his eyes glaring. "Now, this happens again, I will put you all," he stopped and pointed at all the students seated in his classroom, "yes, all of you, into detention, and supervise it myself." With a meaningful gaze at his classroom, he sat on the edge of his desk and picked up a thick text book. Before he could start, a secretary dressed in grey business skirt and coat comes in and whispers something into his ear. Running his hand over his balding scalp, he watches the secretary leave the room.
"Well, class," he said through his teeth, adopting his fierce smile once more, "It seems that you have a new class mate." As he finished his sentence, he turned back to the door expectantly, whereas a teenager, around seventeen, walked slowly into the classroom. He had messy brown hair, a pale complexion and a haggard look. His clothes were all black. His shirt, untucked, was so long it seemed to be flowing like a tunic. His pants were of a hard cloth, like jeans; not tight, nor baggy, just a funny in-between. He wore black boots. Not fashion boots, but good, serviceable boots. He had a black canvas bag slung over his shoulder, not large enough to carry all of his books in, but full nonetheless. He carried another bag in his hand, this one obviously his school bag. His eyes were dark brown. Ordinarily, they would have been nice to look at, but the rings around his eyes detracted greatly from their appeal. He seemed thin, yet wide shouldered. He did not appear to be overly muscular, or muscular at all.
"Well," Mr. Claron muttered unkindly, "Introduce yourself so we can start the goddamn lesson."
The boy looked at Mr. Claron levelly, then turned his gaze to the class. "My name is Karl Jehenstren," he introduced himself in a level, unaccented voice. Quiet, yet penetrating. "I come from out of town. I shall be joining you indefinitely." With that, he walked to the nearest empty desk, which was at the centre right of the class, and dropped his bag next to it, yet not taking off the shoulder bag. He sat down, and waited without expression for the class to begin. With a raised eyebrow, Mr. Claron eyed the new student, then, shrugging, finally started his class.
A few hours later finds Karl in a back corner of the cafeteria, a platter of food before him, yet he only sips on a hot cup of some herbal concoction. Slowly sipping the brew, he eyes the crowd in the cafeteria, his brown eyes alert. At the far side of the room, sits the jocks, making crude and loud jokes, not caring who they offend. A bit closer sits the basketballers, doing much the same as the jocks but in a different lingo. Closer still sits the skaters and the junkies, then the hard rockers and their entourages. Furthest away from the jocks sit the geeks, the dweebs, the lower caste. And furthest still, are the unmentionables. Freaks. Neither geek nor rocker, jock nor skater; they fit into none of the conformist labels, and are therefore termed as something that may not be named.
From this table, a girl stands. The girl is a thin brunette, with wild, wavy hair. She is dressed in earthy greens and browns and wears little jewelry. Her shoes are dutiful leather, unfashionable, inexpensive; operational. Picking up a shoulder bag that gives out a faint click of metal, a slight thud of wood, an inaudible rasp of fabric, she walks over to Karl in an unassuming, neutral manner.
"Hey," was all she said before taking a seat. Karl watched her for a moment, then went back to looking over the throng. Without seeming to mind, the girl dipped her hands into her bag and pulled out a few items, laying them out on the table.
Karl looked momentarily at each of the items. A knife, a candle, incense, a chalice. "Wiccan," he stated, not really a question, but more of an accusation. He snorted slightly.
"You have something against Wicca?" she challenged.
Karl looked her straight in the eyes. "It only has limited results," he said. "I know."
The girl put the items back into her bag, muttering as she did so. "So you used to be Wiccan or something, but now you've found something 'better'," she smirked sarcastically.
Karl looked at her once more, then went back to watching the crowd. "Yes," was all he said.
The girl looked at him for a moment, anger clearly showing on her face, then shrugged. "Marianne Fieldson," she introduced herself neutrally, as if she wasn't even angry before. "What's your name?"
Karl looked at her quizzically for a moment, then put down his mug of herbs. "Karl Jehenstren," he replied. Nodding absentmindedly, Marianne dug once again into her bag, this time pulling out a bulky leather-bound book, with light metal celtic decoration on the covers, and an inscription on the cover. Karl's eyes opened with surprise when he read the inscription. Marianne noticed this.
"You know what it means?" she asked, genuinely interested. "No one, not even the guy who gave me this book, knew what it meant. It uses a weird alphabet, sorta runic or something."
Karl looked at her for a moment, his eyes still wide, then looked away quickly and, picking up his mug, got up and hurriedly pushed his way out of the cafeteria. Just when he neared the door, a green and gold jacketed jock took a step back and ran straight into the rushing Karl. Without stopping to apologize or say a word, Karl kept on, as if he hadn't felt the jarring collision. Not wanting to lose the chance to find out the meaning of the inscription, Marianne follwed Karl, behind a small group of angry jocks.
Karl finally stopped walking by the edge of an old oak tree, muttering curses, holding his head in his hands, occasionally punching the unobtrusive oak tree.
"Hey you," came a voice behind him. Without thinking, Karl turned impulsively, and looked up to see a massive fist closing in on his face.
Karl fell against the tree, his lip bleeding, his expression fierce. The jocks stood around him, laughing nastily. Jerkily getting up, he brushed himself off and, looked straight at the jocks, his face still fierce, tried to talk calmly and evenly.
Marianne watched from a corner, hidden. Close enough to see, yet too far away to hear them talk. She heard the jocks suddenly start laughing, and gasped when they all started to attack Karl mercilessly. She rushed forward to stop them, but halted in her tracks halfway. She didn't really halt, it was more like her feet were bolted to the ground with fifteen inch nails.
Karl stood in the midst of a group of screaming jocks. They were screaming because they were being methodically picked up and thrown by some invisible force. One jock tried running away. He got halfway to Marianne, before he was suddenly tripped over, turned around, then savagely beaten into unconciousness. Another was set upon by a man-thick oak branch. Yet another's head was being bashed into the thick trunk of the oak. Karl watched the gruesome proceedings angrily, then, muttering something and making a small gesture, he turned around and walked into the forest. Looking around her cautiously, Marianne hitched her bag, then hesitantly followed Karl into the forest.