The first morning as a prospective bard was about as unceremonious as Emeros had anticipated. He'd never been the student of any formal institution; rather, his education as a younger Mer came in the form of private tutors (many of whom were, however, members of some college or another with a measure of esteem to their names). As he grew older and sought out the one-on-one mentorship of those skilled in his crafts, he found the approaches of each a mixed bag. Some alchemists were a far more secretive lot than he'd anticipated in the haze of his youthful pursuits, whereas others were more than happy to share their knowledge. As in all things, however, the results were more often inconsistent.
Until, that is, he'd met the alchemists which he would spend much time learning under, each more significant an impact in his life than the last. Yet, here he was, being brought into the folds of a bardic institution by some awkward wringing of the cloths of fate, and as he fished for his shirt at the end of his bed, he wondered half-heartedly if this path would be a waste of his time. He'd never had much of an aptitude to seek out the arts, moreso existing beside them in a way. Leatherwork was, to him, a practical thing.
Though he was far from one to complain about his newfound position. Plus, it was a dull morning, which he found he'd enjoyed far more than anything else. No grand ceremony, no insurmountable pressure in any directions. All he had to do on the first day was show up.
He'd risen early, washed up, and had a quick breakfast with his companions. The trio spoke little, anticipation eating away at them much like a starved wolf eats even the most foul of scraps. The moment they'd finished up their meal, all three departed one another for the branching halls and rooms of the college, not a word between them, Athenath the most visibly on-edge with the way that they fiddled with their hair, again and again wrapping lengths around a finger. He watched the other two disappear through doorways one-by-one, and found himself alone in the majestic stone building, other students flittering by him.
Emeros soon took his seat along one of the wooden benches, well-worn and bearing thin cushions which did very little to soften the hard, polished surfaces beneath. There were few students in the room, and he couldn't stop the thought that the hall had very clearly been built to house more. As his gaze darted from corner to corner, his attentions were inevitably drawn to the sound of footsteps, then an imposing figure which made his way up to the podium, resting a large, hirsuit hand upon its intricately carved and just as ornately painted surface. Before the class, commanding all attention with his presence, a Pahmar, his white beard in a tight braid, face decorated by markings of his furstock. His green, round eyes were lined with kohl, and his voice lilted with tinges of well-disguised disappointment.
"If this will be all of us today," he spoke, folding his large hands together, "then I suppose we'll begin. I am Vashani, and I will be teaching you the flute," he finished through a clearing of the throat, voice airy and warm. Compared to the Khajiit before him, Emeros found his own traveling garb to be lacking in flair: once perfectly pragmatic, now shockingly out of place and fashion. His garments were as elaborate as the rest of the college; velvety, dark shades of orange and red accented by greens and blues, with his earrings which hung from his high-set ears bearing the imagery of Jone and Jode. It was a common motif in parts of Valenwood, the twin moons whose names and tales changed with the time and the place, nevertheless bearing such an impact on their surroundings that it was hard not to believe some of the stories of their divinity.
Ripped away from his thoughts, Emeros watched the Khajiit as he gestured with feather-light flourishes of his hands. They would not be given instruments right away, Vashani went on to explain. Instead, they would have to prove that they understood the instrument and its needs. They would learn the history of its creation, and its significance in Skyrim, and its care and maintanence. Only then, he punctuated, could they be allowed to pick up the flute themselves. They had to prove that they understood that it was more than an object, but an extension of themselves - as bards and as people. Emeros briefly wondered if Athenath were receiving the same talk from their lute instructor, or Wyndrelis from the drum classes down the hall. Occasionally he'd catch the sound of Viarmo beginning a sentence several rooms away, but for now, he focused his attentions to Vashani, who gave a warm smile to the students before him, however few there may be.
"You may be in luck," he started after a silence, "if this one is not having to divide focus between many, then we should be picking up the actual playing much faster. But I could be wrong," he laughed, a deep, rumbling noise, the kind that caught the edges of Emeros' mouth in a small grin. "I will stop doddling. There's much to cover, and I would like to begin as soon as possible."
The lecture began shortly thereafter. Emeros tuned in as much as he could, his eyes locked on the Pahmar who paced his space behind the podium, linen white daylight streaming in behind him from the vaulted windows. He spoke of the flute, and of the materials it could be made from. He spoke of ivory and bone and wood and reed, but emphasized that the flutes of Skyrim were most often mammoth tusk ivory, bone, or wood. "Reed flutes are more common in other parts of Tamriel, and their sound is much lighter..."
If one could view the first class of his morning as a breath of fresh air, then one could equally view the next one as drowning in unfamiliar waters. He'd spent the half-hour he had between his courses reading up on the flute and its history in order to get a head start on the materials, seated in the commons so as to take advantage of the early day light. He'd been comfortable enough where he sat, in fact, that he'd nearly missed the tolling of the temple bells which called the hour, and found himself hurrying to the semicircle theatre which housed his next class. There, he'd taken one of the many unoccupied spaces and waited until the high-held and proudly-postured Suthay appeared from the same doorway which Emeros had recently emerged from, his cap held down right as a breeze threatened to tug it off his head. Emeros had found himself feeling terribly underdressed twice in one morning, watching the Suthay with his glittering embroidery and even more dramatic flourishing of his hands.
The Bosmer had elected to take a theatre class. He had been interested in a handful of plays he'd seen during his travels, and even picked up copies of a few scripts in his time to read over when there was a lull in things to do, and he figured that if he were required to take it, he might as well approach the topic early in his education. Yet, he found himself struggling to understand the lectures of the Suthay, whose sandy fur and dark, earthy eyes moved about as if puppeted by someone who was a stickler for elegance.
"Theatre, throughout Tamriel, has played an important role in shaping the way we understand histories. Not everyone has had the benefit of literacy," he lectured, his voice a rolling wave of sharply enunciated consonants, "in fact, many remain illiterate still, despite the Empire's efforts. So! My question to you is, how many of you have enjoyed the performances of traveling troupes in your own towns? Or in your travels?"
A few hands shot up, including Emeros' own.
"You learned something, right?" the instructor - Dahtesh - emphasized.
A few murmurs. Mostly out of a vague confusion, Emeros gathered as he peered at the other students around him.
"Did you not pay attention to any of them? You, there!"-he pointed to a girl dressed in dark blue, whom Emeros recognized to be a long-term student of the college-"Illdi! You, most certainly, have learned something!"
Illdi shrunk back, as though she were doing her best efforts to disappear into the wall. "Well, I uh-" she tried, "of course, I mean... I've learned a lot through the plays we've put on here, and from the ones I've seen-"
"Like what?" Dahtesh questioned. Illdi swallowed and gathered her thoughts a moment.
"I mean, that's how I learned about Saint Martin, and- and the Oblivion Crisis. I saw a puppet show about it when I was a child-"
Finally, the Khajiit ceased his pacing, planting his feet in place and letting out an exaggerated haRUMPH through closed lips, staring down the seated class as Illdi explained, her words trailing off into the quiet.
"Miriam," he pointed to a woman with one blind eye, her dark hands rested over her knees as she watched the instructor, "you shall play the part of The Lady. Casirus," he pointed to a man who sat close with the one called Miriam, his eyes darting from his friend to the instructor, "you shall play the part of The Apprentice." Dahtesh continued to point at students, assigning them roles from the popular comedic troupes that traversed the continent of Tamriel all throughout Emeros' life - and for eons before it. The Great War had put a temporary stop on these shows, but the moment it was over, the troupes were on the road again, playing out the stock characters of the constellations, complete with painted masks and gaudy costumes, or puppets decked out the same.
When Dahtesh's finger finally jabbed into Emeros' direction, the Khajiit announced, "you, lad, shall play The Steed."
Emeros balked silently at the notion. Of all the thirteen constellations, The Steed - often named Wodin the Faithful - was his least favorite. He'd never once found the figure amusing, and even worse, would tune out whenever he saw the stock character appear in one of the numerous plays put on in many a town square or chapel step. Often, whatever amounted to a stage was little more than an outlined patch of earth, and the moment the mask of a horse's head made its grand entrance, Emeros would roll his eyes and fold his arms and hope that the scene would end shortly afterwards. The stone would thunder with movement of actors footsteps, and the sounds of speech, half-improvised but well-rehearsed, would echo through the section of the town they found themselves performing, laughter in rattles from the crowd. He'd been lucky to find himself audience to plays as they began, but catching one in the middle had never bothered him the way it bothered several of his friends throughout the years.
The mockery and second-hand embarrassment of witnessing The Steed's antics made it hard for him to enjoy the character. Stubborn and impatient to the point of disaster, the character acted as the squire of The Warrior - or otherwise connected to The Warrior through some manner - and while the Bosmer biting his tongue, he inwardly protested the assignment. The Steed would stumble on himself in defense of The Warrior, would rush to his call and do as he asked, with little question. This was his main flaw, of course, his unflinching loyalty-to-a-fault, but it made it difficult to stomach the mockery hurled the character's way throughout the comedic narratives performed for the towns throughout Tamriel. Emeros much preferred The Ritual, The Mage, and even The Tower when the role was played well and to great effect.
Once everyone had their characters - the class was short two actors, which the instructor made sure to note would not be a problem at all - Dahtesh threw a clawed hand in the air.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "The Warrior! How you endanger yourself so! In rushing to the defense of The Lover, you have caused a skirmish with the town guards! And now your friends are to clean up the mess, what luck!"
The scene set, everyone flurried into action as their characters: Emeros, ardently defending his superior, whereas Miriam pretended to fan herself with one of the many delicate and gaudy fans which The Lady was prone to breaking throughout these sorts of plays. Casirus feigned gathering a bundle of invisible scrolls and sprinting to the side of the student who had been assigned The Mage, asking in a voice intentionally put on to sound more youthful as to what should be done, and Emeros continued to plead for Miriam to give pardon to his superior. The dialogue flew from everyone's lips with stumblings of the awkwardness of people not trained in the art of improvisation, but came together all the same, the Bosmer himself reflecting on every performance he'd seen in recent years, the flickers of familiarity guiding his actions as he tried to curry favor for Warwyrd the Shield-Breaker.
After what must have been a satisfactory length of time, Dahtesh rose from where he'd seated himself and clapped his hands in a rhythm in the air, before reciting the typical ending of many of such plays, and grinning at the group before him. The students stopped mid-action, before slowly settling into an uncomfortable standing before the instructor, unsure of what he was to say next.
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"This one has learned a lot from your performance today, class." He hummed a thoughtful note, before pointing to Illdi, assigned the role of The Ritual. "Illdi, tell me where you learned of The Ritual's plottings."
"Well, I uh, always kind of knew about that trait."
"Yes, but how? We do not come into this world knowing naturally about the constellations."
Miriam piped up, "I think what Illdi's trying to say is that we've just seen so many of these comedies before, we sort of..."
"Picked up on them? You could then say you learned, lets say, the names of the characters? I doubt that your Elysiah the Beautiful was always named Elysiah. Or that she was always beautiful. Ah, but you learned this about her from seeing the portrayals time and time again, is this not so?"
A few murmurs now of agreement, the message clear. Emeros watched as Dahtesh grinned gleefully and stood tall before the group. "Each one of you," he continued, "knew who I said to play, their names, their personalities, who they were connected to... well, this one could go on! But how do we trust the portrayals? We know Saint Martin sacrificed himself, but was he brave? Or was he scared? Theatre, our sacred domain, is the one which so many learn through, and so few know just how much it shapes us."
"I assume you two have enjoyed your first day thus far?" Emeros asked, looking down at his companions as they each emerged from their classes. While Wyndrelis merely looked as he normally did, the slump of Athenath's shoulders caught the Bosmer off-guard. Of all the students in the Bard's College, he expected Athenath to be the most elated among them. He'd practically imagined them bounding from hall to hall, to sit early inside the classes, wait for the instructors, everything at the ready to take down the most detailed of notes. Wyndrelis, too, picked up on the odd touch of defeat in the Altmer's posture, and when the trio had found themselves in the common area, the Bosmer spoke up.
"Is everything alright?" He pressed. Athenath shrugged.
"Yeah, I'm fine, I just... Well, y'know. I wanted to actually play the lute, not look at a bunch of books on how a lute is made and tended."
"I won't be playing the drum very soon, either," Wyndrelis tittered, "so I suppose we're all in the same boat."
"Yes, as for myself, playing the flute is entirely out of the question until I study it's making and care, as well."
At these confessions, Athenath's shoulders lightened a touch, before a small grin spread over their mouth. Something beneath it still belied a truth that he was not telling the other two, and Emeros could sense it in the nervous twitch at the edge of their lips, but he let it escape his noting when the younger elf joked, "well, you two let me know when your instructors let you pick up your instruments so I can hassle Inge Six-Fingers about it." He nudged the other two Mer with the ends of their elbows before they looked between their friends and asked, "what else are you two taking, again?"
Seizing the chance, Emeros' face sprawled in a highly amused grin as he launched into what turned into a lengthy ramble about his theatre class - and its eccentric instructor - and the methods he used to instill in the class an understanding of one of the many roles the art itself could fill. It was stated practically outright, yet Emeros still found himself impressed at Dahtesh's ability to impress upon the class how much theatre could preserve or alter understandings of history, or of stories and characters, and relay lessons within. Yes, he'd known this for years, of course, he waved away, but to see it on display so clearly made it seem all the more real. With each new point, a level of passion began to fill his voice, intrigue thoroughly piqued by today's example.
After several minutes, he finally wound his tangent down, and Wyndrelis snickered. "I see," the Dunmer clicked his tongue, "instead of meeting with Nurelion in Windhelm, you'll run off to join a comedy troupe."
Emeros folded his arms over his chest and huffed. "Well, I wouldn't say that."
"Oh, I can just see it now," Athenath joked, "you'd make a perfect Wodin the Faithful!" As Emeros rolled his eyes and made a faint sound of aggravation, the Altmer snorted with laughter, rolling their dark eyes. "Come on, it's a joke. But y'know, it is kind of funny to imagine you playing The Steed."
"I hope I never have to again," Emeros drolled, "but I have to admit, Dahtesh made a bloody good point by showing us how we knew each character without... Well, needing someone to describe them to us, shall we say."
"Yeah, well, I'm going to describe to you where we're going next: the kitchens."
"That's why we eat a full breakfast," Emeros tutted, following closely behind Athenath, who gave a shrug in response as they took each step two at a time.
"I did, I just want a bite before we have to get back to our classes," they replied as they sauntered through the doorway at a brisk pace, a few other students sat around chatting at the tables. The Altmer snagged an apple off a platter and bit into it, leaning against the wall with one foot pressed to the stone. "So, my turn to tell you about my classes."
Emeros and Wyndrelis sat on one of the long benches as the younger Mer described his first day thus far, recounting his first impressions of Inge Six-Fingers in a hushed tone before swiftly moving on to discuss his poetry course, taught by a tall, barrel-chested Breton named Arteus. They described the general outline of each class that they'd had today with mixed levels of enthusiasm: on the one hand, Athenath was grateful to finally be taking a lute course, but on the other...
"If I can be a bit honest," he said, shrinking into himself a tad, "I'm a little bit scared of Inge. I think. She's a fantastic instructor, but I can already tell it's gonna be a bit of a challenge gaining her respect."
"Why would that be? You're a perfectly fine bard." Emeros shrugged the sentence out, Athenath exhaling tightly through pursed lips and rubbing their face.
"Gods, I hope so, but... Well, I don't know. Anyways, uh, Wyndrelis, how's your first day?"
The Dunmer didn't have much to comment on, as far as things went, as he found Viarmo to be an apt (but loud) instructor, and he found Giraud's history course to be perfectly adequate thus far. When Wyndrelis mentioned that he hoped Viarmo would refrain from bringing up dragons to any of them ever again, the other two Mer groaned in an agreeing exhaustion with the topic. This brought the three into quiet laughter, Athenath disposing of the apple core and wiping his fingers on a cloth.
"Come, we have more classes, and I don't want to be late," Wyndrelis announced as he rose and stretched. With his friends in agreement, the trio followed, one after the other, into the one class which they shared.
Emeros had, many years ago, read that at one period in time, those skilled in the Thu'um would keep their mouths gagged at all times so as not to cause harm to those around them, as their voices were simply so powerful that merely whispering could tear mountains asunder. Thus, the history of sign language in Skyrim was born. Morrowind, too, had its own forms of signs. Cyrodiil's sign language, likely due to Solitude being so interconnected with the Empire, was what was offered at the Bard's College. From what Emeros had gathered, it had two instructors: one hearing, and one deaf.
The trio sat on one of the long benches closer to the front of the room, with Athenath between his two friends, Emeros looking over at his friends before glancing about at the empty seats, some filling, many left unoccupied, a sight he figured he would become acquainted with throughout his time here. The instructor arrived not long after the trio, and stood at the front of the room behind a large podium, waiting for the class to fill for a moment. He took note of her appearance, her red hair and rounded face, her high cheeks and soft nose, her plump frame and her bright eyes, all of it much too familiar. He swore he'd met her before, and it was only when he saw Corinne approach her that he put the pieces together: this was the mother and member of the college which Phoebe had alluded to when they'd met the scribe in the Winking Skeever, one of the parents which she had relayed their tale to, and whose name they could thank for their admittance.
Such a thing should make Emeros feel at least a tinge of excitement to meet one of the figures responsible for their ability to be where they were, to sit where they sat, yet he could not shake the need to run and hide from the woman whose dress wore embroidery of the wolf of the old Nord pantheon, and whose clothes were so deeply, evenly, and well-dyed that it made the Bosmer wonder at the price for even a yard of such fine fabric. He watched carefully of the two women - catching the occasional glances sent the trio's direction - and when Corinne and her mother ceased their conversation in signs, Corinne moved to the back of the room and waited for her mother's signal. When she gave it, the younger woman repeated her mother's words.
"Welcome. Firstly, I want to thank you all for joining this class, as I understand the roads are becoming far more treacherous than they were when I began teaching at the college. My name is Matilda, which some of you may know, and I am the sign language instructor at the Bard's College. My daughter,"-she gestured to the back of the room, and the blonde waved-"is my interpreter. Good luck suffering us both, she takes after her father in her stubbornness."
A laugh rumbled through the crowd, uneasy on Emeros' lips, and Matilda grinned. She continued to describe herself, her work here as taking on administrative duties when not teaching, her drumming, her love of poetry, ending with the note that she had been born deaf. As she moved, the light of the vaulted windows caught her earrings, and made the fine strands of her red hair near-gold. Emeros watched her hands with rapt attention, the words formed seeming so easy for her and punctuated by expressions, by body language, all of it thought out and communicating clearly to those who would grow to understand her within their time in her class. She had a grandness to her signs, a fluidity of motion, that the Bosmer could only hope to achieve one day.
Matilda went on to explain that the class would begin by learning letters, the most fundamental of things, and build on the knowledge from there. "Runes," Matilda noted, "had actually once been the basis for Nord sign language. Well, when the Empire came to Skyrim, and of course the ever-changing nature of languages themselves, we at the college adopted the Cyrodilic signs. But I will still teach runes, and the Nord sign alphabet."
The noon sun strode through the high windows as the woman continued to explain the language, the way it was utilized, the ways in which it was helpful in the daily life of a bard. Perhaps, she'd proposed, one was to travel into Stormcloak territory. After all, there was a war going on outside, was there not? And how could one communicate to other bards which songs they should refrain from using without drawing too much attention on oneself? Or, should one fall ill and wake up to the world gone silent, how could they explain to anyone? Matilda emphasized that it was very easy, and increasingly common, to lose one's hearing to the machinations of war. "I teach soldiers, actually, when I'm not here, how to sign. We have a small community in Solitude, but I have no doubts that it will grow."
The discussion of the war, which raged throughout all of Skyrim, settled a dour blanket of discomfort on the class. Matilda smiled, and clapped her hands together. "Right," she said, "then let's start on the alphabet. Then I'll show you how to greet someone, say goodbye, and such basics."
It didn't matter how he categorized the next handful of days; whether fey and flighty, or simply not worth noting. They came and went all the same. Emeros, alongside his friends, had begun to memorize the little motions to form all the letters of the Cyrodilic alphabet, even attempting to sign words to one another utilizing what they'd learnt. Athenath's hands were a tad more sluggish to pick up the pacing, whereas Wyndrelis - much to either Mer's surprise - excelled, latching onto the language and studying it with much intent. The Dunmer would sit at dinner, pouring over a book of signs and teaching the other two at the same rapid pace he studied, which Emeros found to be beneficial. He'd much rather be ahead than behind, and while the trio were still stumbling through the basics, they were quick to grasp onto the language with the mage's enthusiasm brightening his pale irises.
Even still, he had other classes, and hardly found them as notable. He enjoyed his tailoring course, certainly - especially as he found it was taught by Dahtesh, and he'd begun to respect the eccentric - but it was a tad too easy in some areas. After all, he had spent much of his life repairing his own garments, tanning hides, working with leather to make tools and clothes and all manners of items. While it still presented its own challenges to him, as he would be learning much more about the materials themselves, he could not find it as demanding as he found his other classes. He did not think it easy by any stretch of the imagination, yet he also did not find himself engaged so fervently in the class that he was making attempts to get ahead. He simply kept pace, as he did with his history course.
He'd found that the days bled into one another, mulling over task after task, dinners in the Bard's College kitchens with his friends, chatting with other students, evenings in the Winking Skeever to merely change scenery not uncommon either. He'd gotten to know Miriam a little better, the two chatting before their theatre classes, and he'd introduced she and Casirus to the trio not long after. He would spend his nights comfortable in a bed that he found uncomfortable on the best of days, listening to the crackle of the hearth in the kitchens and the sound of footsteps, or of distant, quiet music, or of people chatting late into the night.
He would, if he had the chance, grasp the peaceful nature of these days and hold them forever in his hand. Yet, one warm, Middas morning, Viarmo saw it fit to take the three Mer ("you're my newest students, they'll understand your sorrows at the festival being called off!" he insisted), alongside two students whose inductions as fully fledged members of the college had been halted ("you, they know you! Elisif adores you both, she's bound to listen," he declared), and march them up the long, stone pathway for yet another petition in the court of the Blue Palace for the reinstatement of the Burning of King Olaf. Emeros mentally begged the headmaster to let the subject go, as he quite liked not drawing too much attention to himself from the icy court of the port city, yet it appeared he had little choice. He could balk and protest all he wished, but he knew that should he fight it, Viarmo would simply bring he and his friends up to the Blue Palace another day under pretense of a performance for the Jarl, and there would be little escaping such a thing then, either.
So, he walked bitterly behind the bouncing steps of the headmaster, and thought to himself how much he would have preferred attending his morning classes, rather than watch the courtyard of one of Skyrim's grandest feats of architecture draw ever nearer, his eyes catching the uncomfortable glances of the other students.
