"You'll never believe this."
"Now I'm certain."
The air is heavy, cumulative of dust of thousands of students entering and exiting the classroom, which settles at the end of each busy class day, only to be tossed in the air by the next. Two students whisper in the back of the classroom, one retelling the tale of his weekend escapades, while the other struggles to pay attention to the lecture. He's unamused by the weekend story.
"It was the end of the night, and we've been talking the entire time. She's in my Alchemy class, the chick with the red hair and the giant—"
"Yes, Shaina. You mention her all the time."
"Yeah, yeah, Shaina. Well, like I said, we were talking the whole time, and—"
Ralfe tunes Zadle out. He doesn't care about the almost hook up he's setting up for the story. He knows nothing happened, because he was back in the room before midnight. Ralfe happened to be studying at the time, so he doesn't appreciate the sober version of what he told him then.
He tries to focus on the lecture, but it fades as quick as a sentence into the wonders of telekinesis. Around the room, students are mixed: those who are frantic in their note taking, and other, whose Ralfe fits in, struggles to pay attention. The seats are full and that's where all the excess heat generating from. Ralfe's robes are damp in a few places, but he's thankful for the tunic he's wearing underneath.
It doesn't feel like Senior at all.
"Dude, I just realized something." Zadle cuts his own story short. "Isn't this the Courtyard Count?"
It's a nickname that the professor has had for centuries. For a while, it had some alternate names to try to change it up, especially when students learned that teachers who went to the same school also referred to him as that. It varied for a bit, in a cycle that always returned to the classic label, Courtyard Court. It was freshmen question for a while, but it they kept the wonder to themselves; they would soon realize that he stands in the middle of the courtyard in the beginning of his day, staring at the ground, not moving, not looking for anything in particular. Some say he's cursed, while the rest say he's crazy.
The board can't do much with him because he's tenured.
"Yeah. That is him, isn't it?" Ralfe agrees. He wonders why it took so long to realize that, but a campus spectacle only remains a sight for so long. Soon it becomes just another part of the campus. "Have you done telekinesis yet?"
"We did a little bit last semester. It was a part of the Adv. Evocation class I had."
"So you know this already."
"Mostly."
#
This is his 1000th lecture, or at least, it is since he's started counting again. It ebbs in flows between the year, and the urge to maintain awareness of how many students, classes, curriculums he's teaching helps him keep his mind active. On his last field outing, Girullian Ghostseer had way too many close calls. The mandrake's nest they harvest every few years grew bigger than expected, and he almost lost his least favorite TA. It wouldn't have usually bothered him as much (he hasn't lost a TA in 150 years, and wants to keep it that way) but it forced the TA to reconsider his life. Now he has more tedious work until he can find a replacement.
He finds that his mind wanders more, in more crucial tasks, and wanted to combat that a bit more for things he normally wouldn't pay any mind too. He's slept through lectures, managing to maintain the coordination of one his illusions and an unseen servant. It was one of his biggest accomplishments as a teacher, and he saved him many sleepless nights. The students didn't even know the difference, and since he perfected the formulas, no one will.
