III: Anger

The boy arrived at the Academy on a cart drawn by a tamed shrew - scaled beasts of burden with a curved spine and stubby legs. A sullen, square-framed citizen and his son had noticed him en route, and recognised him as one of the adventurers from class. Exhausted from running, he had accepted their charity, though the gesture seemed to be out of obligation, and the ride with them unnaturally hostile.

As they arrived at the gate to the school grounds, the man ushered him toward the Grand Professor. Mutterings and looks were exchanged between the two, with something said of routine giving a sense of normality. The Grand Professor reached his arm around the boy, tilted his head sideways and forced his cheekbones upwards, straining a smile. The boy took the opportunity to reach in his pocket, and presented the Grand Professor with the pieces of needle - eyes hopeful for answers. The man nodded once, resting his other arm atop the boy's shoulder and pushed forward, leading him toward a string of interconnected classrooms.

He recognised the craft chambers immediately, peeking through the amber windowframes as he passed. The tinkerers were feverishly fusing ingot against ingot; the armour class clanged wood to metal frame; the alchemy teacher held a frog precariously over a cauldron; and the haranguing hums of sychronised machinery from the tapestry class hurt his ears. From the door, the Grand Professor gestured toward the old hag lording over the tapestry students, pointing her toward the boy. Unceremoniously shoved into the room, he unfurled the cloth bindle holding the pieces in one place.

The wrinkled, wart-laden crone unfurled her lips in thinly guised contempt, pursing them against her teeth. She gestured for the class to halt.

"This was your fault, wasn't it?"

Taken aback, he loudly bellowed: "No! Everything was like that when I found it! How am I responsible?!".

As the witch prepared adequate retort, he noticed something shining atop her desk. A needle! Not one, but a whole leather pouch of them! The boy's arm lurched for cache, with the woman slapping his hand away as he got within reach.

Nursing his stinging hand against his lips, he thrust his head toward the hag and yelled: "I need those! You don't understand! The machine is broken and I can fix it and then find-"

"NO! They are MINE!" she hissed in competition, her chin arched out, eyes glaring down her textured nose. The boy darted forward with his other hand, unrepentant and unwilling to take no for an answer. The harpy intercepted him, slamming his arm against the wooden frame of the desk and the pouch of needles, the fine bones crunching in his hand.

The pain gave way to clarity. Hearing the blood pulsate through his head, the boy reached to his side, where the Swen hummed in place of the class machines.

One.
Two.

He plunged the tip of the blade against her arm twice, the skin blistering and bursting in a torrent of black and red. She shreiked an inhuman cry, arm releasing the boy just long enough for him to snatch the satchel, pushing past the Grand Professor and out the classroom door toward home.