Sleeping was an endeavor better suited for one far less, well, wound up, as he was. Professor Furnell was not known for his bright eyed and bushy tailed demeanor, however, so it was just as well. His face had grown so accustomed to bruise-colored, owly shadows that these had likely become physical features as imbued to him as genetics themselves.
Scratching his neck, afflicted with the faintest trace of hives (curable only with Morris's knotgrass and mugwort potion - he'd have to request a new brew after dismissal today) the instructor made his way into the classroom. From the brief flight of stairs (bane of his mornings) he'd limp impatiently, tapping his walking stick with each lopsided step before propping himself up on his desk. Urgently, he sipped the hot contents of his mug, making a face of strain as one might when downing heavy liquor.
"No one here, old chap, right well. Assume it is merely ... A dress rehearsal. One that nobody has shown up to." He rolled one shoulder to crack before pausing, whitening. "Not even your own mother."
Now, it was not a matter of tardy students, but of the professor being quite early. One brief consultation of the time confirmed one or more of his typical "morning rituals" had not been fulfilled, because here he was, thirty minutes early. This spurred a fresh batch of red, rising skin under his collar and he practiced his usual breathing techniques.
Oh, hell. What might have he forgotten? He performed his morning stocking exercise (if he took one pair from the color coordinated sock drawer, it was protocol that he rearrange all of them), and locked the door behind him five times for good measure. His hygienic rituals, including showering, dressing, and breakfast were set to take him exactly 74 minutes each morning. And here he had arrived with 30 minutes to spare, rather than his typical 23. An entire 7 minutes were not accounted for!
"... Bullocks."
Scratching his neck, afflicted with the faintest trace of hives (curable only with Morris's knotgrass and mugwort potion - he'd have to request a new brew after dismissal today) the instructor made his way into the classroom. From the brief flight of stairs (bane of his mornings) he'd limp impatiently, tapping his walking stick with each lopsided step before propping himself up on his desk. Urgently, he sipped the hot contents of his mug, making a face of strain as one might when downing heavy liquor.
"No one here, old chap, right well. Assume it is merely ... A dress rehearsal. One that nobody has shown up to." He rolled one shoulder to crack before pausing, whitening. "Not even your own mother."
Now, it was not a matter of tardy students, but of the professor being quite early. One brief consultation of the time confirmed one or more of his typical "morning rituals" had not been fulfilled, because here he was, thirty minutes early. This spurred a fresh batch of red, rising skin under his collar and he practiced his usual breathing techniques.
Oh, hell. What might have he forgotten? He performed his morning stocking exercise (if he took one pair from the color coordinated sock drawer, it was protocol that he rearrange all of them), and locked the door behind him five times for good measure. His hygienic rituals, including showering, dressing, and breakfast were set to take him exactly 74 minutes each morning. And here he had arrived with 30 minutes to spare, rather than his typical 23. An entire 7 minutes were not accounted for!
"... Bullocks."