50th of Winter, 512 AV
Mid-morning
Forum, University of Zeltiva
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The luminosity of the day seems almost like a mockery of the misery and paranoia that imbue the air of Zeltiva. The crisp smell of new snow and the promising crystalline humidity of more coming, blend dyspeptically with the smell of death. Even in the forum of the University, the smell pervades - the smell of running sores, of sour stomachs, of fever sweat, and then the odors of the various poultices, perfumes, and oils of those fighting or trying to prevent infection. The sickly sweet smell rises, intermixes, dissolves, with a rapidity that makes it difficult to tell its source, that sends scurrying students and staff into shaky perambulations to avoid perceived sources of infection.
Minnie with the sun of the morning, stands on the grass (or what would be grass in the summer) of the forum, a long pointer in her hand. On her back, she has what is, perhaps, the most hideous imaginable piece of outerwear imaginable, it is a wool rain-coat, once perhaps grey, but now stained and faded into a sickly dark green. The sleeves are battered - a long tear mars the wool of one, letting a sun-yellowed lining peek through - and unused anyway. The whole contrivance is simply thrown over her shoulders like a cloak, the top button done up tightly, mashing the scarf at her neck into an ugly knot.
A student stands near her, shivering miserably in the cold, a young fellow in a gloriously well cut (but marvelously impractical) great-coat. He watches the pointer with the energy of the damned.
Dr. Lefting draws a broad arc in the fresh snow with the pointer, and looks up at the student with tired, nervous eyes, "Alright, Mr. Parks. Now, this arc, say this is the walls of Pre-Valterrian Zeltiva. Of course we've no idea the shape, but honestly the poet probably took some license with it…" she stops abruptly, "Are you cold, Mr. Parks?"
Mr Parks coughs, and mutters, "Just a bit, Dr. Lefting…"
Minnie frowns, and rubs at her face with her left hand - its the first time she's pulled it from under the coat. Its wrapped tightly in a linen bandage. Her own cheeks have the pallor of too much chill on them as well, but she pays little attention to them. She sighs, and nods, "Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow then, yes. But, if you please, revisions to your paper on the Eyriad. Off with you then, child…"
Mr. Parks waits for no further invitation, scurrying off into the nearest fire-warmed building. Minnie calls behind him in a wheedling squeak of a voice "And you're going to have to do a far better job of convincing me, if you're going to argue in favor of the musicality of the third book!"
The boy doesn't hear. She sighs. It would be best for her, perhaps, to go inside, but she doesn't consider the option, crouching down instead, and drawing absently in the snow with the pointer, murmuring lines of poetry to herself:
"The patter-pat of art is proved
A petty player on the stage
Born with a flash of great applause,
But in the end no painter's brush
Or poets pen can turn the heart
So strong to hold away the blow
Of cruel and artless steel."