"When I was foolish and young, I wished for knowledge. Time and effort granted my wish, and now? I am no longer young. Yet, I am knowledgeable enough to regret that I did not wish for wisdom."
- Mandamus, First Century Tethian Poet-Judge
Eyes twitching in excitement as he scanned the letter, Reynault swallowed dryly against the emotion welling up in his throat. His application had been accepted. He had been granted the official position of Head Antiquarian at the University of Tethis. The letter, laden with standard, flowery effutiation a person of dignity might expect to accompany congratulations on surviving the gauntlet of candidacy selection, made the position seem glorious. Reynault, however, had known how lowly the position among the faculty had been, long before he'd sought the opening. The prior Head Antiquarian had gone missing after leaving the city in a hurry two years ago. Whether it had something to do with a peculiar archaeological trip he had taken not long before his sudden departure was a matter of speculation.
It wasn't that he disliked the prevalence of art and art classes within the school. For those who taught or pursued it, he held very little disdain. For goodness sake, even the High Magistrate of the Bastion was known for her prowess with a paintbrush, perhaps even before her prowess with a blade was mentioned. It just seemed that ever since that dear, sweet, beautiful Lady Trenissar had made it known she was open to the idea of "inking another tattoo on her back," the demand for artists and their related tutelage had reached levels of important disproportionate to other fields of education. It didn't seem to matter anymore that she had already accepted a timorous dwarf under her wing.
Reynault's own wings were quite vacant. He boasted a fine education, an empty office, a tight budget, and a vacant syllabus which had enjoyed neither interest nor presence in the University for two years. The previous Head Antiquarian garnered a bad reputation, whether warranted or no, and had frightened off all but the last assistant he had. That slackjawed young lad had followed him off to wherever they had headed, and had similarly not been heard of again. Reynault felt that having relatively unfettered access to the University's library and the dubious ability to submit certain expenses for reimbursement would substantially further his personal goals, but he had a very, very long way to go to justify his continued existence on their payroll. Even though he had only just now received the position, he needed to do something drastic and notable, and he needed to do it soon. He could feel the stress of it all eating away at him. Why was it that all the artists always seemed so young and beautiful? Even the High Magistrate, who was already an adult when Reynault was but a child, seemed as young and beautiful as he'd ever recalled. Maybe they had the right idea. Then again, he'd scarcely aged a day since he had begun studying at the University ten years ago, having 'always' looked the ripe old age of thirtysomething. He set the letter down on his desk, breathing in deeply, and ran a hand through his messy hair. He couldn't afford to waste much time in finding eligible staff, or at the very least hiring outside experts. Tethis was an ancient place, surrounded by places just as ancient but considerably worse for the passage of time. He grabbed up the little bundle of flyers he had written - mostly by hand - over the last two weeks while he was awaiting consideration of his candidacy, and headed out the door. Yes, he had been fairly certain of his prospects, but more than that he needed something to do in order to calm his nerves while he waited the official decision.
It didn't rain often in Tethis, given the chill in the mountains, but a cold, miserable drizzle plagued the streets today. He pulled his hood over his head, puffing out a breath that lingered visibly in the air long after he had stepped off into the street. It was as though the sky itself was attempting to test his commitment; the rain wasn't so hard as to drive one back indoors, nor was it so light that it warranted little consideration. He headed to the notice board, where the rain pattered down on a weathered wooden awning. There wasn't room to avoid even partial occlusion of someone else's advertisement or notice, and he thought it was surely a simple matter of time before his little flyer disappeared into the sea of paper on which it now floated.
Sighing a stream of steam out his nostrils in the chilly drizzle, he set off to find other, less crowded places to distribute his hopefully not-too-desperate-sounding plea for help. What he wouldn't give for a hot plate of Kharenian chicken tagine with lemons and olives right now....
