Who: Ambros Pakhunov & Open
What: Ambros remembers his school days.
Where: the Atrium
When: Friday after classes
Ambros fingered the leaves of a plant idly staring around. He could still hear the echoes of his youth, perhaps strongest here. He and his friends had claimed the Atrium as their place to relax, bullying and bickering until they got their privacy. He could still hear the authorative drawl of Vlad directing someone around, Mikael's whining tones chiming up with some complaint, perhaps a scuffle in the corner drawing attention from some of the younger ones in their group. But most persistent was the memory of that soft tug at his sleeve, the flicker of eyes looking for approval, his name called with just a note of pleading. Here, at Durmstrang, it was easy to remember Alexandr, to remember his own irritation at his brother's persistance. But it was harder to keep away that ever present want, knawing away at him, to contact his brother, to speak to him. Ambros carried the weight of his brother always and here the burden grew only more and more weighted down.
Shuddering up from his thoughts, Ambros scanned the room moving towards the windows. He was tired today, but it was a good kind of tired and not the constant sapping away that he felt at times. His students were progressing well enough, though certainly there were some who would never get a handle on the art. Too much discipline was required, if he'd had it his way all his students would be previous Foresight students, they would've learned to control themselves much better. Necromancy was a finicky magic, eager to worm away from your control. Ambros sighed and pondered going up to grade papers once again, perhaps write a letter to the family.
