The Imperial Academy at Serebursk (1984 onwards)

[Gulliver]

The Imperial Academy at Serebursk. The name spoke to a proud history and tradition. It was not the first institution of higher learning established in Novmir, but it was the first in the United Empire. It had been established  in the last half of the 19th century as part of the new and meticulously planned city of Serebursk, a new capital for a new state forged in the fires of civil war. The designers' decision to wedge the place between King Martin’s Prospect, named for the first king, and Emperor Clement’s Prospect, named for the first emperor, spoke to their hopes for the future prestige of the school and simultaneously met them in a self-fulfilling prophecy of geography.

The third side of the triangular grounds, meanwhile, was closed in by the sluggish and deep waters of the Osetrovaya, which wound its lazy way through the center of the capital. Tradition held that it was good luck to walk the river’s banks at the start of a term. So it was of great convenience for the superstitious among the incoming students that the rotunda in which the matriculation ceremony was being held was located on that side of the campus. The magnificent paneled and gilded inteior was a welcome reprieve from the baking heat of the late summer sun for the prospective graduates and attending faculty, clad as they were in the stuffy academic dress required by the occasion. Unfortunately, it did nothing to spare them the ceremony itself.

The Academy was fully aware of the promises of pomp and circumstance it name made, and had dutifully kept them for the past century. What might have been a matter of filing paperwork at a more practical school was in Serebursk drawn out into a lavish ceremony. First there had been an opening prayer from the school’s chaplain, followed by a series of formulaic speeches from professors, outstanding members of the community and a duke on loan from the Imperial Assembly. The third part was without contest the most tedious, as the students to be were one by one called to the stage and formally inducted. This particular section of the ceremony had grown steadily more and more impractical as each class grew in size, but to turn against tradition was unthinkable.

By the time the chaplain reappeared to conclude the ceremonies most the students were squirming in their seat, counting off the seconds in their heads until it was finally over and they'd be free once more. An appreciable portion of the professors from the Academy’s numerous faculties seemed to share the sentiment. When the chaplain finished and the provost stepped up to conclude the ceremony, the assembled’s reaction was as much a vast collective sigh as it was applause. There was an clattering uproar as hundreds of newly inducted students began chattering again and got up from their seats. Without delay, the herd moved as swiftly as possible from the chamber to begin the term.

[Rozaria]

[ OOC; Seeing as I don't see the OOC thread for this shit, Imma just start. AND YA first reply! ]

Vincent had been half-listening the whole time, and got up as fast as he could, through the doors of the Auditorium. He quickly made his way across the halls, and to the entrance of the grounds. Vincent had heard the superstition, and so went to the banks of the river.

"Only a few hours until class starts, I'm sure I'd be able to walk the banks and find a teacher to change my schedule." said Vincent to himself as he strolled along the side of the river.

[Myroria]

In Novrith, a young man running through the streets with a backpack is nothing out of the ordinary - most observers would think that he was simply running to a class, or a meeting, or anywhere a young urbanite such as himself would need to go. Today, though, one young backpacked man is running from something instead of to something. In the distance one could hear the soft sound of police sirens, the sirens of police that the young man had managed to slip away from. The young man, Arvyn Trerovth, did not slow his pace at all as he ran up the six flights of stairs to his apartment - the one he had inherited from his parents at their tragic deaths, when he was only 18.

Arvyn only stopped when he dropped his backpack on the kitchen table. He paused and listened. The sirens were getting less loud - the Novrith prefecture was heading in the wrong direction. He smiled and ripped open the backpack. He stuck both hands in and pulled out stacks of bills - fifty imperial marche bills, with the face of Resdayn I looking at him. Hundred imperial marche bills, with the rotunda of the Council of the Great Houses facing him. Seventy-five imperial marche bills, with the face of Nelvil I Moomintroth on them. He smelled the cash. It smelled like dust.


"I mean, I think I was pretty damn lucky to have gotten that scholarship!" said a werewolf with a long face. He laughed. "I mean, sometimes it's just so hard to make money - especially the kind of money to get you into a place like this! You know what I mean, Arvyn?"

Arvyn snapped out of his daze. "Yeah." he chuckled. "I think I know what you mean."

[St Oz]

The relationship between the Imperial Academy of Serebursk and Novic-Ozians, per tradition, has always been strained. The Academy never attracted a significant demographic of Novic-Ozians, and on the rare occasion one met an Ozian with enough money or scholarship to attend the Academy even the suggestion to attend such an institution would be either a joke or an insult. Those Ozians preferred attending universities back in the Divine Republic rather than subjecting themselves to the Academy’s traditions of Religion, the use of Novic, and anymore Royalty. For the academy, the negativity was mutual, as the first Novic-Ozians at the Academy had an expulsion rate of 50%. The majority of the expulsions are crime related. However, the most famous expulsion case was in 1894, when a Novic-Ozian woman, by the name of Beatriz Tilki, enrolled into the university through a fine arts scholarship, and in just one year turned in a series of paintings portraying the entire Novic Imperial family being crucified. That being said, the majority of ethnic Ozians enrolled at the university are usually studying abroad from the Ozian homeland.  
   
Estha Ekmekchi Iseltov had an aptitude and obsession in many languages, especially in Novic. Before enrolling into the Academy of Serebursk, she attended the Suloka International School of Liberal Arts in La Sava, and there she attained fluency in Inglish, Novic, and Eruvite.    

Estha walked into the ceremony room feeling as though she drew too much attention to herself with her wardrobe. Compared to everyone else in the room, she was dramatically underdressed for the occasion, wearing a blouse and dark khaki pants with a colorful keffiyeh wrapped around her neck. Despite the contrast, she felt apt to further juxtapose herself by sitting next to a pale gussied up blonde in an elegant formal dress. The beginning stages of the Academy’s ceremony had the full attention of the only pair of bright purple eyes in room. Estha saw the whole ordeal awfully fascinating, translating and trying to understand every single prayer and speech. The moment all the speeches from the duke and the professors began to mesh into notable themes of tradition, honor, and excellence was when she believed this had to be the most vexing experience in her life. The Duke speaking on behalf of the Imperial Council-thing became background noise to her pervasive need for a smoke of Zuavka. She looked around the audience to see if anyone else was dismissing themselves from the ceremony but failed to see anyone moving. Fuck, not one fat mother is even dismissing herself to use the latrine.  

She waited.

I fucking waited. Every minute exponentially became longer with the pressing need to smoke or drink some Zuavka based product. After the Chaplain finished his closing prayer, she gave a sigh of relief, anxiously walking out of the speaking hall in the crowd of people. Many people, especially older parents, took notice to Estha’s Ozian features, and usually responded with a disgusted look or an artificial grin if they saw she was looking. Estha walked out of the building and followed path all the way down to a river bank. Ignorant of the significance of the river, she pulled out a zuavka cigarette from its carton with her teeth, she felt her bag for a lighter, but by a cruel fateful joke, was unable to find it. She desperately turned her head around to search for anyone that could spare her one. She decided to try her luck with two other foreign looking gentlemen,

Estha took the cigarette out of her mouth and walked into their conversation. She waited for them to finish speaking before asking in a heavy Ozian accent, “Pardon my intrusion Sirs! But would you two gentlemen be in possession of a lighter or match?” Of everything that morning not to be embarrassed for, she was especially critical and self-conscious of her accent in other languages. She did her best to hide a blush.  
 

[Prydania]

Tobias Richmond was a prince Not in a "my child is a prince" sense that every parent claimed when discussing their children. No, he was a literal prince, second in line to the Inglo-Scotian throne behind his father, David. David's uncle was Emperor George VII, his cousins the former Imperial Prince William and Prince Andrew. When William, his wife, and George VII had been assassinated Andrew became Emperor and David, who never expected to see the crown, was the heir apparent. Which meant that Tobias, at 18, was second in line. Andrew had ascended to the crown eight years ago, and in those eight years Tobias' father had grown disheartened with his cousin's reign. Andrew III and the SoCom Party, in power for nine years by this point, had turned the United Empire of Inglo-Scotia into a place that David didn't feel comfortable having his child come of age in.
That's why Tobias was in Novmir, attending The Imperial Academy at Serebursk, going from one United Empire to another. David wanted his son out of a country that had become suffocated by an endless array of marching, flag waving, torch lit processions, "transitional camps," and unquestioned censorship. Tobias didn't know that though, his father was careful about how much he let out concerning his dislike of the current regime, and the young Prince Tobias was as disinterested in politics as most boys his age, with an added sense of aloofness concerning the political sphere due to his position in the Imperial family. All he knew was that his father insisted on him going to school "on the continent" as the phrase went, to get some worldly experience.

And he had already begun hating his father for that decision. He sat for what had to have been an eternity in an uncomfortable suit. Even though the rotunda protected him from the stifling suit he was still a bit, just knowing it was blazing out there. He missed the cool damp climate of Inglo-Scotia more and more.  Finally the matriculation ceremony came to an end, and he jumped up as soon as possible without it seaming rude. He quickly shed his sports coat and slung it over his shoulder, hoping it would give him some relief from the heat. As soon as he stepped back outdoors he discovered it did, but not nearly enough. The backpack didn't help matters either.
 
He took a thick square of paper from his pocket, unfolding it to reveal his class schedule. Though fluent in Novic he had forgotten where a key building was, at least in relation to where he was standing. Looking around he spotted someone who looked seemed Novic who might have a better command of where things were located. Approaching the boy he asked "excuse me, could you point me in the direction of the Faculty of Social Sciences?", painfully aware that his diction was unnecessarily formal.
Not that it mattered, the boy smiled and responded, giving him instructions on how to get where he was going, plus a shortcut through the physics building if he was ever crunched for time. "It's nice to being being recognized" Tobias thought turning around after thanking the boy.
Just as he turned around he came face to face with a girl, of obvious Ozian descent. This was confirmed when she spoke to both Tobias and the boy he had asked directions from "Pardon my intrusion Sirs! But would you two gentlemen be in possession of a lighter or match?” in a heavy Ozian accent. The Novic boy looked hesitant, unsure of what to make of an Ozian, but Tobias was less handicapped. A foreigner himself, he relished the opportunity to talk to someone else who wasn't a native of Novmir.

"Yeah, sure thing" he replied, digging throw his backpack, finding a book of matches.

[Gulliver]

Samvar Tapsjangok’s private study was dimly lit by both the sunset feebly filtering through the tall windows and the fresh fire which crackled in the hearth. The summer season still lingered, but in Hemland the evening air already had enough of a chill to it that he enjoyed lounging in an armchair and warming himself in front of the blaze. Heat, he found, also helped to sooth the aches that his body was starting to slowly accumulate with age. An ornate glass of golden liquid suggested another improvised anesthetic.

This particular evening in front of the fire, however, was unfortunately not reserved for relaxation alone. Heavy footsteps and a sort of nervous grunt from the corridor outside signalled the arrival of the man he’d been expecting. A solid pair of knocks on the door followed.

“Enter.”

Samvar didn’t look up when he spoke, nor when the door opened with a weary creek. A few slivers of light from the corridor managed to struggle past the imposing shadow cast by his visitor before the door was shut again with a definite thud. For a moment the room was silent except for the crackle of the fire.

“I’m sorry for summoning you this late, Brask.” He didn’t look up when he spoke either. Had he, he would have seen a familiar and very large and familiar werewolf standing and waiting not an inch from where he’d entered. The blue livery he wore and the grim patience with which he bore himself marked him as a senior footman of House Tapsjangok, thought the copious patches of brown in his fur pointed to an ancestry from farther to the west.

“I am always glad to serve, sir,” he replied promptly. A brief flicker of a  smile at the absurdity of the apology showed that he sincerely believed in what he was saying. Samvar knew him well enough to correctly guess what was happening without looking up. Gratitude mixed with frustration elicited something between a choked sign and a chuckle.

“Please, you don’t have to be so formal all the time in private, the both your and House’s reputation will be quite safe if you unwind here a bit.”

“I’m sorry sir.” The response was as quick as it was predictable. Samvar managed to suppress any expression of exasperation this time.

“I know it’s not something you enjoy or are used to, but I am going to need you to be frank with me. A good start would be to put yourself at ease and take a seat.” He gestured towards his armchair’s brother across the hearth. This time Brask actually hesitated before he deliberately plodded over and gingerly lowered his bulk into the chair, obviously aghast at the mixing of persons and furniture of different classes he was being forced into. Samvar decided to refrain from offering him a drink, only to be surprised when Brask spoke first.

“I apologize if I’m out of line, sir, but may I ask what it is you wish to discuss?” That neither him nor his chair had burst into flames yet had apparently emboldened him. Samvar sighed at the reminder of the matter at hand.

“Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t drag this out. Though, I think you can already guess what this is about.” He shot a meaningful glance at Brask, who nodded slowly.

“This is about the young master, isn’t it?” He received a reciprocating nod from Samvar.

“What would you say about him? Be honest, what do you think about my son Oke?” Brask’s eyes flickered in panic as he searched for a response that would satisfy his now conflicting obligations.

“He’s... he’s certainly got a very keen sense of fashion, won’t accept anything that’s not the latest out of Ilium and Fellowmoor. And, uh, yes, quite the socialite, I’m told. My friends in the other great houses certainly, uh, seem to remember him...” He trailed off under Samvar’s cold stare. The older werewolf filled the silence with a derisive snort.

“I’ll admit, that was a good dodge, even for you, but I’m sure you were thinking what I heard. A petty narcissist who squanders his time getting drunk at frivolous parties, yes?” Brask confessed his agreement with the treacherous opinions by way of dead silence. “And yet, Moon and Sun, that very boy is my heir.” Samvar groaned and shook his head.

“He’s just lucky he’s got a father who could get him into the Imperial Academy. A degree from there might just be enough to make him... something. But we can’t have him causing an international incident either.” Brask nodded slowly as the conversation worked up to what he’d been expecting.

“Brask, I’m going to have to ask  you to go abroad with him, and keep him out of trouble.”
A sudden explosion of applause from all around him rudely dragged Brask back to reality. In a brief moment of horror he realized that the unrelenting boredom of the matriculation ceremony had driven him to begin daydreaming. He quickly calmed down when a glance to his left confirmed that his charge was still alive and kicking, albeit it very uncomfortable. He managed to silently reprimand himself and vow increased vigilance before Oke shot up from his seat.

“Moon and sun, I didn’t think that was ever going to end!” he proclaimed loudly to no one in particular. “Come on Brask, let’s get out of here,” he continued, already stripping off the stuffiest parts of his ceremonial garb, which Brask dutifully accepted when they were flung haphazardly in his direction. Oke showed just as little care to the others around him as they pushed towards the exit. The going wasn’t difficult. People had an understandable tendency to clear out of the way when they noticed Brask looming behind them, and with him cutting through the floes of the crowd like a monstrous icebreaker they made it out of the rotunda shortly.

“Moon, I’ve been inside so long I forgot how bright it was outside,” said Oke immediately upon stepping into the sunlight. He squinted with his ice blue eyes through the glasses perched on his muzzle. The glare coming off of the river was not trivial. “And how hot it was,” he continued, rolling up his sleeves and undoing the collar of his shirt.

“It certainly has been unseasonably warm today, even for this climate,” responded Brask blandly.

“At least the ceremony’s over, what about we celebrate my successful matriculation? I think I see a small party already gathering over there,” said Oke, and jerked his head towards a group of several new students.

“If that’s what you wish to do, sir.”

“You can make anything sound dreadful, can’t you?” replied Oke, and then laughed at his own little joke. Brask was unmoved. “Come on, I want to go introduce myself.” Oke began to walk over to the group, and Brask dutifully trudged in his wake. They had covered about half the distance between themselves and the  others before Oke spoke up in his accented but grammatically sound English.

“Hey, mind if I intrude?” He opened with the cheery inquiry, and then inserted himself smoothly into the group without waiting for an actual response. “Just figure I'm going to need to meet everyone eventually, and this gathering is the most interesting thing I’ve seen today." He continued in well practiced form without missing a beat. "I’m Oke, by the way.”

[Myroria]

Arvyn stuck his hand out in the direction of Oke. At his wrist was a gaudy, cheap looking pink cuff. His ill-fitting sportcoat in a clashing white and baby blue stripe was distinctly Myrorian, though the absence of plaid made it clear it was from a Myroria that had just gotten a new queen. His father's coat, probably.

"Pleased to meet you, sera. Arvyn."

[Eluvatar]

Shuffling from one foot to the other just outside the group stood a small, short young man wearing gigantic glasses. Dressed in the most conservative contemporary Novic style, the young man's name was Vardamir Orvas Bespaecasi Trovtrith.

Vardamir bit his thumb. It's okay, they're just new students like you, he told himself. No, you can't do this later, you need to start making potential study partners now, before they don't have any time for bonding rituals. Deep breath, you can do this Vardamir.

In a quiet, quiet voice, he spoke, "Hello, I'm Vardamir."

[St Oz]

Estha lit her zuavka cigarette, blowing smoke upwards and staying downwind to be polite. Estha looked very different from the rest of the group by only wearing a gray blouse, a loose hijab hanging over her neck in a purple and blue pattern, khaki pants, and leather flip flops.

She hardly noticed but she heard a shy man speak, "Hello, I'm Verdamir," next to her. She threw a 'light' punch at him, then spoke in a loud voice, "Nice to meet you Vlad! My name's Estha, that guy's Arvyn, and this fellow is Oke. Anyone else know what the fuck their living arrangements are?"