Warlock Harrow reclines behind his desk, lounging on a long, low divan made of black leather. The lecture hall is for the moment, empty; Practical Daemonology is currently running on the other side of the Red Academy, which means every student with functioning legs is there. Actual summoning and use of daemons is, after all, why anyone chooses to become a warlock or witch, and his colleague Mister Tabard is a master of the art, pulling things from the abyss that likely hadn't existed prior to being touched by his foul mind. He really has a gift for it. Harrow doesn't get quite as much reverential admiration, but being the Hexmaster has some benefits.
He's long since replaced his mortal frame with a silky wickerwork of interlocking phalanges like scales, that clasp down over a hollow framework interior. Each smooth ivory length is mobile and capable of quite a grip, and they undulate in waves, slithering him along surfaces with dexterous ease. His upper torso remains largely intact, a man's overbroad, muscled chest with a tinkling glass heart encapsulated in a sphere within his chest, the glass smoothly merging into flesh. A long mane of inky black hair trails behind him to his waist, crackling with green arcs of arcane bleedoff that discharge into the open air with gentle cracks and pops. Of any of the academy staff, and indeed, in the world, he has perhaps advanced furthest from humanity.
And that's why it gives him such pleasure to death with the failures. Plenty would resent being in charge of remedial training, but considering it gives him first crack at dealing with the failures, he doesn't mind much. The Academy takes a very dim view of dropouts and flunkers.
Kept in a cage hung from the ceiling is just one such failure - Erin. Her contract had been abrogated by failure to perform last semester, and that means he just needs to fulfill the last few conditions for his side before he can take possession of her.
The cage is warm iron, a fine arcane conductor. The air is likely cool on her bare skin - she'd been barely dressed when he collected her, but that wasn't his concern - and it already tingles with hypnotic currents, leeching the mana from her body steadily as he speaks.
"Your last chance for revision and remedial training passed yesterday," Harrow says, mockingly regretful. His overlong arm, slung heavy like an ape's, reaches out the half-dozen feet from the divan to tap the side of the cage. "Very sad, my dear. This is just a formality to inform all invested parties that the violation clauses of the contract now come into force, and that all collateral invested in the contract now belongs to the Academy and the vouching instructor."
That would be him, coincidentally.
"Do you understand these facts as they have been related to you?"
He's long since replaced his mortal frame with a silky wickerwork of interlocking phalanges like scales, that clasp down over a hollow framework interior. Each smooth ivory length is mobile and capable of quite a grip, and they undulate in waves, slithering him along surfaces with dexterous ease. His upper torso remains largely intact, a man's overbroad, muscled chest with a tinkling glass heart encapsulated in a sphere within his chest, the glass smoothly merging into flesh. A long mane of inky black hair trails behind him to his waist, crackling with green arcs of arcane bleedoff that discharge into the open air with gentle cracks and pops. Of any of the academy staff, and indeed, in the world, he has perhaps advanced furthest from humanity.
And that's why it gives him such pleasure to death with the failures. Plenty would resent being in charge of remedial training, but considering it gives him first crack at dealing with the failures, he doesn't mind much. The Academy takes a very dim view of dropouts and flunkers.
Kept in a cage hung from the ceiling is just one such failure - Erin. Her contract had been abrogated by failure to perform last semester, and that means he just needs to fulfill the last few conditions for his side before he can take possession of her.
The cage is warm iron, a fine arcane conductor. The air is likely cool on her bare skin - she'd been barely dressed when he collected her, but that wasn't his concern - and it already tingles with hypnotic currents, leeching the mana from her body steadily as he speaks.
"Your last chance for revision and remedial training passed yesterday," Harrow says, mockingly regretful. His overlong arm, slung heavy like an ape's, reaches out the half-dozen feet from the divan to tap the side of the cage. "Very sad, my dear. This is just a formality to inform all invested parties that the violation clauses of the contract now come into force, and that all collateral invested in the contract now belongs to the Academy and the vouching instructor."
That would be him, coincidentally.
"Do you understand these facts as they have been related to you?"
