Louise Summons a Jedi Master
Chapter 5: This is Outrageous
It is midnight.
From the Academy's Earth Tower, a mage had awoken, her bladder deciding that sleep is low priority. Rising from her bed, she rubbed her eyes trying to banish exhaustion, her feet meeting warmth-enchanted flooring. The mage's steps were delicate as she moved.
When Stephanie removed her fists, a faint light caught her eye. Beyond her window, some sort of fire emitted, fluttering like a spent candle.
She stopped, peering through the glass panes. "Who in the hells?"
The light was clearly from a campfire, not a wildfire for it was too contained, and the weather would not allow one.
"Brigands!?" she hushed to herself. It was a distinct possibility that ogres or orcs were culprits, but they were usually far removed from any village or estate that the thought did not cross her. It had to be rouges. "Osmond ought to hear of this."
At the camp, two waning moons basked the surrounding grove in a gentle glow. It was nothing to behold, having only a sleeping mat along with a leather bag filled with Yoda's gathered food. At its center a fireplace had been lit, burning leaves, sticks, and dried wood. His fire had been trivial to light, the master using a Force 'technique' with two stones. It was a spartan place, and he couldn't ask for more.
The master could taste the air like fresh, scented flowers; its breeze chilled to the tridactyl's skin. Heat from his robes and the fire kept him warm as he stirred the contents of a 'borrowed' cauldron, a 'soup' made with left-overs, plants, and herbs.
Steam wafted from the boiling broth, a smell of burnt rubber and sulfur reaching his nose, for which he found appetizing. The brown-gray stew looked to have little chunks of raw animal fat and spackled with the scales of small reptiles, sprinkled with shavings of a bark for extra 'flavor.'
Yoda, bringing a spoon full to his lips, consumed the contents like a death stick addict to his luna weed, savoring the taste before swallowing. His eyes rolled to the back of his head in ecstasy. "Hmmmmmmm…" While lacking the actual ingredients for an authentic gumbo dish, his 'substitute' was close enough.
Jean Colbert had been up earlier than usual. The fervor of last night's study, and the year-long project he had been working on, had him excited. His imagination was running high, as though on the cusp of discovering a new class of magic or a new medicine. Not since being accepted into the Queen's service had he felt this way.
The man was heading to the headmaster's office to share his findings, a bundle of notes and a large book of their Founder's 'teachings' wrapped under his robes. It was a shame that he couldn't confirm several details with the Not-Elf. The matter simply couldn't wait with what he found. Osmond needed to know.
It was just outside of his office, at the highest point in the tower and after a flight-assisted lift to its top, where Jean arrived. In his rush, the professor failed to notice the secretary's voice from inside: "Why… you… perverted… OLD MAN…!"
He also failed to recognize another: "Ow! Ow! Augh!"
Jean barged through the set of double doors, doing so in a way that a bard would applaud for comedic timing. "Excuse me, Headmaster!"
Before him, the old man lay prone against the stone floor, Loungville's foot stomping down hard on his back and rear repeatedly. It was a scene which only the naive would think little of, and something which sadists and masochists would understand.
"Ermm, am I… interrupting anything?" Jean asked.
Both took notice of him, the green-haired secretary holding her foot mid stomp before placing it off the side, embarrassment taking her. The old man was the first to respond, "Oh, nothing at all! She was… hrmmm–helping with a crick in my hip. Goodness, it was giving me a great amount of pain-Ahhh!"
Loungville had stomped on his back again, then quickly added, "Yes! Yes… All because you refuse to stand once in a while. Hold on–" She gave another, solid stomp Osmond's back.
"Oooof-Better!" he moaned.
She bore the subtlest of vengeful looks, which neither the Headmaster nor Jean noticed. "Better, now then…" she trailed, striding back to her desk and returning to her work.
Osmond stood, brushing off dust and dirt from his robes and beard. "Well… I suppose–"
Crackpop!*
The man stopped, having walked several paces when something popped.
"Ahhhhhh… Ahmm…" he groaned.
"Headmaster?" Jean asked in concern.
Osmond continued, reaching his chair on the other side of the grand desk. "Just a hip joint finding its place… Right then, what is it?"
The professor eyed the green-haired secretary. "It is a… sensitive matter."
"Just how sensitive?"
"Sensitive… It's regarding a particular summon, you know which I am referring to."
He gave Jean a questioning look, then ordered, "Longueville, if you could… leave us for a moment?"
She eyed the pair, then bowed her head, standing up and making her way to the double set of doors.
"And be sure to close the door!" the old man added.
Passing through, Longueville gingerly closed and latched it.
Osmond cleared his throat, then said, "Well, you have my attention. I trust this is worth the rumors which will, no doubt, circulate?"
"Let the rumors say what they will." He withdrew a page from his notes, that of retraced markings from the Not-Elf.
On the other side of the double-set doors, Longueville had the side of her head against it, right over where both ends met. She listened carefully, the conversation being mostly inaudible. She could make out certain words, those being 'markings,' 'adorned,' 'familiar,' 'his,' 'elf,' and others. The one which stood out the most was 'Void,' as well as the name of 'Valliére.'
Half of the context was lost to her, mostly around 'markings' and the 'Void,' even as she had been able to make certain deductions. "Interesting…" the woman mused.
"Ahm."
The green-haired secretary whirled around, eyes wide as though a deer caught in a lantern's light. Before her a modest woman of aged features, wearing a black robe of earth-brown highlights, stood straight, hands on her hips as though to project authority.
"Ah! Professor Gartie, I'm afraid Osmond is preoccupied at the moment."
Stephanie gazed at the door, then back to her. "Clearly," she said with clear condescension, mimicking a tone of a noble speaking down to plebeians.
"Yes, clearly," Longueville snided back, much to the professor's disdain. "Perhaps I can pass along whatever it is you plan to share?"
"I think not. The matter requires a certain deliverance for the attention and alarm it needs. A lowborn secretary, such as yourself, is unlikely to understand fully. Now–" the earth mage adjusted her robes to look more presentable, "–if you would be so kind as to step aside."
She had been about to open the doors when the secretary stepped in her way. "I wouldn't advise it… Osmond's meeting–"
"Can wait. Step aside."
Feigning reluctance, Longueville gave Stephanie enough space to pass. She certainly could have stood her ground, but the disgraced noble wasn't about to create conflict where it wasn't needed, specifically when her job is to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Plus, the secretary felt that whatever fallout would occur would be to her amusement… and to Osmond's pain.
Stephanie walked past, shoving the doors open in dramatic fashion, catching the attention of both Osmond and Jean. The latter, upon seeing the dark-haired woman, scrambled to collect all of his notes from the Headmaster's desk, hastily covering or shuffling them into his bag.
Osmond's expression quickly became neutral, but his thoughts grew frustrated. It is well known, among staff and students, that Stephanie Von Gartie is a 'difficult' woman, especially since she took policy and procedure to the very written letter. There were many female staff and colleagues which the headmaster would fantasize on and on about, yet for her it was very infrequent (and he planned to keep it that way). It was nothing against her looks per se, that for a woman of 54 her features remained refined like aged wine; her hair and skin smooth with some aging features, blessed with a face and body of someone in their 30s. Her personality left more to be desired, unfortunately.
"Ahhh, Stephanie," he managed, "did my secretary not–"
"We have a situation, Headmaster," she interrupted.
The old man managed to stifle a sigh. "And… what might that be?" Perhaps another student had set another fire in the fire tower's bathrooms? he thought. It wasn't the first incident which Stephanie took as 'grave.'
"Brigans have taken residence on Academy grounds," she finished 'gravelly.'
Guiche averted his eyes as he shook his head, guilt playing across his features. "No… No… I can't Louise."
With an expression of a dignified, innocent look that a fairy would criticize, the young Valliére sat with her arms folded and rested on the table. "How come? I'm not asking much. Your golems wouldn't need to do anything."
The Gramont looked away, eyeing the courtyard of trimmed grass, flowering gardens, and an adjacent archway of limestone. He grew nervous that his beloved Montmorency would spot him and get the wrong impression, what with meeting with Louise 'the Zero' in such a non-clandestine way.
With his own dignified look, he held his rose-shaped wand up, "A knight does not withdraw his blade as a show of intimidation, he only does so to intend harm. My Valkyries are not an exception. What kind of Noble would you or anyone take me for if I summoned them for a small matter? What of for any small matter?"
"Really?" she asked incredulously.
The boy feigned offence. "Really."
"Do you not remember last Winter's Fall?"
"Remember what?"
"The servant, and that 4th year."
He again grew nervous. "... Vaguely."
"Everyone saw you, Guiche."
The boy quickly composed himself. "... I've learned since then… and that was no small matter."
"He was hospitalized for a week, Guiche."
"That was… an overreaction," lowered his head in defeat.
Behind Louise, at a good distance away, one of several 2nd-year, female students which Guiche briefly dated strided along, giving the two a glare. Neither barely noticed her.
The Valliere sighed before continuing, "This isn't a small matter. It means too much to me."
It was the boy's turn to sigh, though he did so internally. The things I do for ladies, he thought. "Just how much?"
"A lot, enough to put my reputation on the line." It was not an admission Louise would make lightly, not to most of her peers, not even to Guiche Chevalier de Gramont under 'normal' circumstances. Even approaching the blond flirt with her request was already difficult. Using her own magic would be too disastrous, too harmful. She needed someone else's.
Most of the teachers did not want to assist her, either having the excuse of preparing lectures, course work, or simply trying to spin her struggle as some sort of 'bonding' exercise. Even Jean seemed too preoccupied to help her 'tame' the strange creature, even when he himself desired to see it. That left only her peers, and that list was even shorter.
Guiche was (to her) the only peer she would consider willing to help her. The boy was the kindest to her, being one of the reluctant few to even call her 'Zero' as so many others have. (Whether or not it was for… ulterior motives mattered little to her, at least for now.) It also helped that he was among the most talented in her grade, having achieved triangle status earlier in the year.
Louise continued, "And it isn't that you would need to use your golems. It's not that I would ask that the… sword be withdrawn, just that the blade shine."
His fingers tapped on the stone table, mulling. "How is it that your… familiar is so rebellious? Had you not bound it?"
"I don't know." Part of her suspected that her magic somehow 'failed' her again, though she would not share that. "It has a mind of its own."
Guiche's eyes again fell on her. "Interesting… that explains–"
Another girl of the blond-boy's recent past also gave the pair another, short stare, bumping into another student and his familiar–a large wolf of brown fur–, which spurred some arguing. Guiche took notice, if for a brief second. Due to the small size of the Academy, it was not uncommon for his past dates to happen upon him.
"'Explains' what?" Louise pressed.
"It's nothing."
"Guiche, what 'explains?'"
"... I had a… confrontation with your summon."
Nooooooo… the girl internally bemoaned. She felt like slumping her head into her hands as embarrassment overcame her. "I'm–"
"I wouldn't fret too much. It was… educational." He didn't need, nor want, to discuss the fact that the Not-Elf was involved in his… relational conflict with his 'beloved Mon Mon' and 'dearest Katie.' Word of that debacle had spread like news of a fire sale around a noble's foreclosed estate. Louise had heard the whispers, and like all others she conjectured that it wouldn't be the last.
"Stupid familiar," she softly murmured.
Hardly, Guiche thought, then said, "Really, I would not concern yourself with it."
Louise said nothing, averting her gaze.
Off to their side, within the arched hallway next to them, a girl of striking velvet hair and tall form passed by. She too took notice of him, her gaze a mix of longing and hatred. Like a clumsy, drunken actor, she crashed into a 3rd year, who also happened to give the Gramont a good stare. The ensuing cat fight grabbed their attention, but only for a second. Louise was hardly a stranger to the drama which the blond boy seemed to conjure, being accustomed to his antics for close to a year. Guiche had also learned, long ago, to take such events in stride.
The boy again met her eyes. "I can't help you, Louise. I'm sorry."
The girl became frustrated, spreading her arms out in a gesture. "Why not!? I'm not asking that it should be bludgeoned or stabbed! The last thing I want is for him to be maimed!"
He said nothing, maintaining his gaze, even as the nearby fight became an exchange of water and air. It was hard for him not to look.
"I could talk to Montmorency," she quickly added.
His expression subtly changed. "No, you don't— I would prefer it if you didn't. Everyone knows she doesn't like you."
Louise's appearance grew terse at the suggestion. Guiche did not catch this, even as he continued, "You'll make things only worse. I've hardly ever heard kind words shared between the two of you. She'll get the wrong idea, and possibly assume–"
The sound of crashing glassware and trays could be heard in the background, the result of an ice spell colliding into an unfortunate servant taking plates back to the kitchen. But that was not why the blond boy stopped himself.
"Assume. What?" the pinkette asked with a very calm tone.
He shook his head, bringing his rose-wand up to cover his mouth. "What is it exactly that you have against your familiar?" he quickly deflected with the skill of a silly cobbler. "Has it threatened to poison your grandmother or promised something just as ill?"
The girl maintained her silent stare, still angry.
It might have been a twitch of her features, or the dragging silence which gave him the wrong conclusion, horror grabbing him. "Oh my Founder, has it really!?"
Another, loud crash could be heard as a servant and a cart went tumbling from the impact of another spell, one which drenched both in water.
"What? No!" Louise quickly denied.
Awkward silence again fell between them. In the span of several minutes, the background exchange of hands and spells ceased when a passing teacher threatened expulsion. Both Guiche's exes were soon removed, taken to the center tower's administrative wing where they would receive a tongue lashing. Both him and Louise took notice, using the scene as a distraction.
"I don't think the solution you're looking for is in force, Louise," the Gramont said. "It seems to me that you should make peace with your familiar."
"You think I haven't tried?" she countered.
He suddenly stood, grabbing his bag and holstering his rose-wand. His giant mole, Verdante, who had been resting on the grass beside him, also stood to attention. Should he keep conversing, he would miss his next class. He had to leave. "I don't doubt that, but I can tell there's undue conflict, more than needed." He looked away in contemplation, "My father once said that some battles are not worth fighting. Perhaps this is one of them?"
The pinkette was no stranger to such 'surface-level' wisdom. "And did he also say that doing nothing is a sure way to lose?"
He remained composed, taking the sarcasm in stride. "Something along those lines. A good day to you." The boy quickly bowed.
Guiche left, the giant mole pattering not far behind. Louise, now left to her thoughts, slumped into her chair. She felt almost completely abandoned. What am I to do?
The 'campsite,' as far as Jean Colbert could tell, was very recent. Embers and burnt wood were clearly doused liberally with water, soaked to the point that no residual fire would have a chance to ignite. Besides ash and charred wood, only shuffled grass and odd footprints in the soil remained. He could guess that there was at least one to three which occupied the space. But whom? he thought.
"The trail seems to lead toward the north-most wall," one of the other professors commented.
"Yes… it would seem that way," agreed Stephanie.
Jean eyed his two other companions, seeing them crouch and examine the ground. The earth mage, for being a woman of cartography, seemed to know something of tracking, though not enough to be impressive. It was a shame she did not take to her current task with more diligence.
Even as Osmond 'suggested' that she and the other professor investigate with Jean, Stephanie had tried to weasel her way out (as she tends to do with anything requiring physical labor). It was only fitting that she would lead the investigation, what with having 'made the discovery.' The Headmaster (nor he) would not dare challenge her claims of their being 'brigands,' just as much as he would not want to see her soil her clothes and makeup. It was hard for him not to take enjoyment from her suffering, after all of the headaches she caused during his entire tenure. He had the old mage to thank for this.
Stephanie swatted and cursed at another bug, the things swarming even in the damp and chilled afternoon air. Perhaps I can stall for just a little longer, he thought with amusement.
It was then he noticed something shine in the soil, something slightly buried. Kneeling down, he uncovered the piece, brushing away dirt with his gloved hand.
A knife?
Jean brought the utensil close for inspection, identifying an all too familiar marking on its handle.
"What is it that you have there?" the earth mage asked.
He held up the silver piece. "See for yourself."
Of course, she did not bother to take the utensil, choosing to eye it.
"Ahhh… isn't that… one of ours?" the other professor added, coming from behind.
"Yes," the woman seemed to hiss, "it seems we have ill mannered servants on our hands."
And how can you possibly know that? Jean internally chided, not feeling like arguing.
3 days later
The top of the Academy's central tower was a dangerous place for any creature without wings. For Yoda, it was simply another spot for meditation, even as he sat on an edge where the roof met the eave, perilously close to certain fall should he shift or make one wrong step. For a creature attuned to the Force, it is a refuge.
This morning remained overcast since yesterday. There were few breaks in the cloud stream that allowed rays of morning light to pierce through. The air was wet, filled with a subtle mist that subdued the usual scents of 'magical' discharge and fresh air, replaced by musty odors and something akin to metal… and a burning herb. Around, the roof was soaked, droplets of water coalescing into small puddles and tiny streams, sliding down shingles and falling freely off stone edges. His skin and robes were damp, the clothes recently cleaned of stains and dirt by his own hands. For several hours, before dawn broke, he had remained here with closed eyes and an empty mind.
Over the span of the last several days, the tridactyl found himself worrying, his thoughts of his refuge on Dagobah, and it was not because he missed it. The slimy, mudhole of a planet is (or was) a means to hide himself from the Empire, the Emperor, and his agents. Its abundance of life and of the Living Force were capable of overshadowing any signature, a cover rarely repeated on most worlds. Here, on 'Erda,' he shone brightly. Anyone with a modicum of training and sensitivity could easily 'see' him planet side, unless the grand master was actively suppressing himself, which he found himself doing more or less out of concern.
Yet, he couldn't sense the Emperor, not as he had back on the swamp world. The Sith Lord's dark presence was much more subdued, more like a distant light in a great, dark forest. The signature hadn't changed or acted any differently since his arrival. Yoda wasn't certain if this was due to the odd nature of this world's Living Force, or if it was simply a matter of distance. It could be both, for all he knew.
Worrying, this is, he thought. If he could still sense him, it was possible that Darth Sidious could as well. Why the lord acted yet was a mystery.
With open eyes, he gazed upon the Academy's front entrance, a simple archway that cleanly bisected a wall at its center, one that bridged over a paved road that slithered between hills and distant villages.
On that same road, a rather extravagant horse-drawn carriage caught the grandmaster's eye. It approached at a leisurely pace, the tridactyl calculating its velocity with uncanny accuracy, determining that it would arrive in less than half an hour. Whoever it was, they were a stranger to the grandmaster (just as everyone else is in this world).
Yoda took another deep breath, again catching the whiff of that burning herb. It was a smell that any sentient creature of the galaxy would associate with the practice of smoking. Most would discourage such a thing, but for the master it is the addiction itself which he looked down upon (for it was to 'give in'), and for obvious health reasons, he rarely allowed himself a smoke. Today would be an exception.
Unfolding his legs, he inched closer to the edge, peering his head over and catching sight of an open window, where the smoke wafted out. 30 minutes, give myself, then perhaps enjoy a smoke, I shall, he promised himself.
The headmaster's office was as built as a well-off merchant's, with subtle details invoking authority into servants and unruly students, and inspiring order among the staff. It is semicircular with a stone floor as grey as the current morning sky, spackled with smooth bits of limestone and calcite. White-plastered walls and a wooden ceiling decorated the interior like an expensive coat of paint. Grand pieces of furniture were functionally arranged with several arrays of shelving hosting books, parchments, and other office supplies.
In this office, Osmond sat at his desk, preoccupied with a well-dressed man opposite of him–Count Mont. The headmaster's concentration remained on a quill and parchment, writing a sensitive message to the Palace, a response to their request:
'To the Palace and Her servants,
We take great care in safeguarding all our students, faculty, and servants, for it is the duties of our education that we make our academy safe and harmless. By extension, it means we also take great care in the security of all things magical and of value–for we know their potential danger to be certain–, and we–as it always has been since the days of Headmaster Dumblemore–employ enchantments of a most secure kind. The vault retains such enchantments–'
The rest he had yet to finish writing. In summary, the letter should read, 'don't worry, we're not stupid. We've got this.'
Recent robberies and break-ins have made the Tristainian Government weary of artifacts of great power going 'missing.' Officially, the Royal Family and their loyal nobles, would never admit to such items as being stolen, for it would tarnish the sense of security and nationalism they wished to cultivate. Since the Academy held such artifacts, it was deemed appropriate that a royal messenger–Jules de Mont, or Count Mont, in this instance–be dispatched to remind the academy of certain duties.
As he finished writing, Osmond commanded his floating quill to sign at the bottom of the page. With another gesture and expense of will power, a hand-shaped bronze weight floated up and off the parchment, followed by the paper rolling itself and gliding to Count Mont; which the man read over with a smug expression.
"I'm grateful for the institution's understanding and full cooperation."
The headmaster waved a dismissive hand. "Understanding and cooperation are irrelevant with an order from the palace."
"Yes…" the messenger again eyed the parchment. "Perhaps make certain that those 'enchantments' do not wane. Our Queen would be displeased should anything happen."
"We would not want to upset her," he agreed neutrally. "Now, do see yourself out, unless you intend to badger me for the rest of the morning."
A sour look overtook the Count. "There is a matter of lodging. The road has left me weary, and my steeds and servants could use rest."
The headmaster's attention fell on the stacks of paper taking up a third of his grand desk. "Then go speak to the steward," he answered as he began the arduous task of administrative work.
"Hmph, I see your hospitality hasn't changed."
"We are an institution, not a inn–"
"Is it not the host's duty to see to their royal guest's needs?" the count said with as much charm as a womp rat. "Or do you intend to insult me?"
Seeing no way to remove himself of his unfortunate 'guest,' Osmond resorted to plan B. He eyed his secretary (first at her firm bottom), seeing the green-haired woman shuffle documents in one of the standing pieces of furniture. "Miss Longueville, would you see that our guest is escorted to his bedchamber?"
She eyed both of them. "Of course… Which room?"
The Count interjected before Osmond could assign him a less-than-ideal living space. "The royal quarters, Just below yours."
Setting the rest of her documents on her desk, she ushered to Count Mont. "Of course! If you would follow me," the secretary said with insincerity.
His smug look returned as he stepped to her side. "Might I say that you look refined, miss Loungeville?"
Both stepped out and into the adjoining stairway. "My Count, you flatter me!"
Now by himself, he stood, withdrawing his pipe and a generous amount of a Romalian weed from his pocket stash. With a quick gesture of his staff, he ignited the pipe, taking a generous inhale. Pure bliss escaped his lips. "AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh… Does it have to be such a morning?"
Osmond turned around intent on moving to the window. He jumped in surprise. "Brimir's bollocks!"
A small, green creature sat cross legged at the edge of the window, wearing what he thought was an amused expression. How it managed to scale the tower, much less reach his window, made it appear queer. It took Osmond no more than a second to realize what it was… or rather who it belonged to.
"Ah… Louise's familiar," he stated aloud.
"Yoda," it said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yoda, my name is."
"Well… Yuudah…"
The creature twisted its head to the side, then eyed his pipe. It outstretched its three-digit hand. "A smoke, might I have?"
Osmond eyed his pipe, the mouthpiece pinched between his fingers as smoke wafted from it, then back to the Not-Elf. Eh, why not?
Casually, he walked toward the window, letting 'Yudah' grab his pipe and stuff it between its lips; the creature taking a long, experienced drag. The display left the headmaster oddly fascinated, his perturbed attitude forgotten. By principle, he ought to have the creature tossed out of his office for such blatant breach of conduct (that for which he saw of it had convinced Osmond 'Yudah' had greater intelligence than a mere dog, enough to comprehend common courtesy), yet its innocent nature had him reserved.
The Not-Elf blew a generous amount of smoke, twisting its head so that it flew outside rather than in. It passed the pipe back to Osmond. "Curious thing you are. Jean and the students have had much to say about you."
He took a drag from his pipe as it spoke. "A great mind, he has. A scholar and warrior, he is also. But troubled, Jean seems."
It was Osmond's turn to exhale, leaning his head out the window as 'Yudah' scooted to the side. "How do you reckon that?"
"Taught many, I have. To know these things, my job, it is."
"You've… taught?" he asked with confusion. It was beyond him that a creature of 'Yudah's' size and mannerisms would know anything worthwhile to teach… perhaps except on things obscure and only known to its kind. Osmond, as open minded of a mage as he is, is not one to easily accept new things as they are. Then again, (as he acknowledged to himself) even he knew nothing of Yoda's race nor capabilities.
Rather than laugh at the man's confusion (as Yoda usually would), he kept himself poised. "For most of my life, yes."
The headmaster took a long drag from his pipe. "And… what did you teach?"
"The Force," the creature said casually.
There was a moment of silence as Osmond's mind raced. "I see… magic then?" he asked, eyeing the twisted stick it had with it, now assuming it to be some sort of focus.
It shook its head. "Not the same, different it is… Magic, a mutation of it, is."
Without putting much thought into its answer, the man took another long drag, then handed the pipe to 'Yudah,' which it refused. "Suit yourself," he muttered.
The doors to his office suddenly came open, and the familiar tapping of Longueville's step came to his ears. "I don't understand how the Palace tolerates such a man," she complained. "And what sort of–"
She stopped, taking sight of Osmond and a green creature beside the window, the former with his pipe stuck to his lips and fingers, the latter holding a short stick, sitting with its feet dangling off the edge with a neutral expression. The old man looked like a toydarian caught in a speeder's headlights.
"Am I… interrupting something?" she asked.
"... No, of course not," he answered.
The secretary gave the creature another odd stare. "Is that the creature the Academy has been so worked up over?"
Osmond took a brief glance at the Not-Elf. "I can't see why." Moving to grab one of its ears in gesture, the creature smacked his hand with the bulbous end of its stick. "Ow!"
Longeville couldn't help but internally glee at the headmaster's pain, taking note of 'Yudah's' innocent look. "Yes, I also can't see why."
Shaking his hand, the professor remembered a request of Jean Colbert's, something about questioning Louise's familiar, that of its runes (which he caught a brief sight of). "Well… my small familiar friend, if you would be so kind as to step inside, one of us wanted to question you on some matters."
The Not-Elf suddenly stood, grunting as it did so. "Later. Go now, I must."
"I–" Before Osmond could object, the creature stepped back and fell out of the window. "What–NO!"
He quickly shoved his head past the frame, leaning so far out in an attempt to save it. Yet, to his amazement, the creature glided smoothly toward one of the walkway's roofs, landing with as much grace as an experienced wind mage.
"By Brimir's foot fungus," he muttered.
"Headmaster, is it…?" the secretary trailed, having also been caught off by 'Yudah's' stunt.
"No…" he answered.
"Sir?"
"It's nothing, Miss Longeville. Our familiar landed safely."