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The journey from Derdriu to Garreg Mach was a lengthy one: with the Oghma mountain range blocking off access from the east, the caravan would have to go south through Gloucester and across the Great Bridge of Myrddin into Imperial territory, then hang a right at Gronder Field and trek back up north to the mountains. The road was well-traveled, at least, but it was a gruelling several days nonetheless; still, even the road-hardened guards of the Riegan caravan were weary of travel by the time they arrived, with only one plausible cause. 

Jorah von Riegan was in a [i]fantastic[/i] mood. 

The weeks leading up to his departure had been an agony of anticipation, and by the time they finally set out on the road, Jorah felt like he could have sprinted the whole distance himself. He was even more airy than usual, not a care in the world as the Riegan caravan lumbered down the road, except maybe to urge the drivers to go faster. Ever averse to closed spaces and eager to drink in the scenery he hadn’t seen since he was sixteen, Jorah spent as much of the trip as he could manage riding alongside the caravan on a horse of his own - albeit tethered to the carriage axle. His father must have given the guards a stern talking-to, because no matter how much Jorah bargained and begged and nudged with his Crest, they wouldn’t let him ride freely. Duke Riegan probably told them he’d flee or something. Jorah supposed that was fair enough; many of them already knew the sorts of stunts he tended to pull on hunts and rides with Clarissa. 

But despite being pulled along like a captive, Jorah’s spirits never dipped. When he wasn’t out in the fresh air, he was strumming the lute his father had weakly tried to hide from him, serenading the company with every tavern dirge and sea shanty he could remember. Sure, he might have been the source of the circles under the eyes of the guards, but he knew from experience he’d test their patience whether he was singing or not, so he considered it a net gain. 

The crossing into Imperial territory was particularly exciting, and had Jorah straining on his horse’s tether more than any other leg of the trip. He’d never been to Adrestia, but laying eyes on Gronder Field brought to mind the stories he’d heard from his father’s Academy days of the grand mock battle held there each year. Naturally, Jorah was fascinated by anything that could lift the Duke’s spirits to such heights - even if they did always come crashing down once the story was over - and drank in as many of the sights as he could, eyes glued to the horizon until they finally happened upon the mountain keep at the end of the road: Garreg Mach Monastery itself.

While he wouldn’t pretend to be profoundly struck by the age and holiness of the monastery, he [i]was[/i] greatly impressed by its scale; the monastery rose from the Oghma mountains like it had grown from the very rock, its own spires jutting into the sky alongside the mountain peaks. The place was more lively than he expected, too, with a busy village at the base and people and animals all over the place. Jorah had expected a painfully quiet, stern, boring church and dormitory, but what he got instead felt like a miniature city all its own. He’d heard the place described as “Fódlan in a nutshell”; if that was true, he couldn’t wait to explore every inch of it. 

The address in the cathedral was novel - Jorah scarcely believed that what he’d been told about a twelve-year-old Archbishop was actually [i]true[/i] - but what really caught his attention was the [i]feel[/i] of the room. It was totally different from the day-to-day buzz of city crowds; the new students of the Officers’ Academy radiated every emotion from excitement to dread, like an elegant bell curve of nervous anticipation that had Jorah with gut aflutter, practically vibrating in his seat. He wasn’t sure if it was a good feeling or a bad one, but the excitement of feeling something [i]different[/i] in a crowd eclipsed any of his borrowed reservations. 

Oh, and the classroom! Now [i]there[/i] was a place he wouldn’t mind going every morning. True, yes, he had originally planned on shirking his classes as much as he could get away with to explore the monastery and adjacent town, but when [i]Professor Euphemia[/i] bounded in all bouncy blonde hair and slender legs and high-heeled shoes, Jorah couldn’t think of a better place to start his day. 

[color=yellow]“I’ll make sure to take good care of you!”[/color]

Ah yes, nothing could spoil Jorah’s mood today. 

[color=yellow]“...and the lucky one...is future Duke Jorah Riegan!”[/color]

Wait. What?

Jorah blinked, sitting up from leaning his head on his hand and glancing around the room. Okay, he hadn’t really been paying attention to the Professor - not to what she was [i]saying[/i], anyway - did she want him for something? He’d normally be thrilled for a lady like her to call on him, but the very distinct crash he felt in Clarissa’s mood next to him told him that she might have been saying something important. He was left to puzzle over the address and Clarissa’s rapid, concerning decline from anger to melancholy until the papers Professor Euphemia was circulating around the class explained everything. 

[color=yellow][i]Jorah von Riegan - House Leader, Golden Deer[/i][/color]

[color=FFAB66][i]“What?!”[/i][/color] Jorah blurted out, clutching the paper closer to his face and reading it over again. Surely this was a mistake. She’d said [i]Jorah Riegan[/i], and he was Jorah [i]von[/i] Riegan, so there must have been another student with a curiously similar name who was chosen for House Leader, right? He looked around the room for anyone who looked like they were thrilled to be in charge, but saw no one. Cichol’s teeth, no wonder Clarissa was pissed!

Jorah could empathize, fuming in his seat with as much potency as a whimsical delight like himself could manage. His dastard father set this up, didn’t he? Ugh, he should have known better than to think he’d get an entire year away from the Duke’s iron clutches! The man probably thought this was [i]brilliant[/i], a great way to whip his son into the leader he always wanted him to be. It was just [i]perfect[/i], make him responsible for the students of the Alliance [i]and[/i] get an extra set of eyes on him to keep him from slinking out of class. Fucking ideal!

Jorah was contemplating methods of begging the academy coordinator for reassignment (even though he knew it was impossible - his [i]father[/i] probably dropped a literal boatload of money into the Archbishop's lap to make this happen) when a ray of Almyran sunshine broke through the cloud above his head in the form of a face he’d barely seen these past five years: none other than his only aristocratic partner in crime, Raimund Kent. 

His mood spun around like a weather vane, Rai’s high spirits throttling his own joy at finally seeing his old friend again. Jorah leapt out of his seat like he’d been launched off a spring, and returned Rai’s arm around his shoulders by dragging the taller man’s head down for a very loud kiss on the cheek. 

[color=FFAB66]“You Gloucester dastard, how dare you not tell me you were coming?!”[/color] he loudly demanded, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He could feel the disapproval dripping off Clarissa behind him, but took it as a good thing - she knew exactly how happy he was to see his old friend again. 

Raimund’s little quip of encouragement, however, reminded Jorah of the absolute tragedy he was facing, and for once, he was happy to take the sideline as Rai and Clarissa made their introductions to the rest of the class. But man, barely five minutes in and Clarissa was already acting more the part of Leader than he ever could; why in Sothis’ name didn’t they pick her?

Ugh, well, he supposed he knew [i]why[/i], and that dip of sad acceptance he’d felt in Clarissa a moment ago told him she had the same idea. But that didn’t mean it made any sense, or that he agreed with it - sadly, it [i]did[/i] mean that it would probably be impossible to get... whoever was in charge of appointing House Leaders to change their mind on the matter. Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be leaning on Clarissa’s expertise every step of the way. 

Heaving a sigh, he supposed he should try not to disappoint her [i]right[/i] off the bat, and cleared his throat, raising a hand to get the room’s attention. 

[color=FFAB66]“Alright, I suppose I can’t let myself be outshone here,”[/color] he began, taking on the same familiar storytelling tone he used in taverns by the docks. [color=FFAB66]“My name is Jorah von Riegan, heir apparent to the Duchy of Riegan, but if you bother with all those titles, there’s a good chance I won’t realize you’re talking to me.”[/color] He grinned, hoping that comment would get back to his father. [color=FFAB66]“Apparently, I will also be House Leader of the Golden Deer this year. I’ll go figure out what that entails in a moment, but for now, please don’t hesitate to come find me if you’re looking for a drink, a dance, or a good time! I am happy to provide.”[/color] Grinning wide, he offered the room a grand, theatrical bow, before waving to the students and promptly taking off for the courtyard, dragging Clarissa behind him by the wrist.

[color=FFAB66]“I know, I know,”[/color] he tried to mitigate the outrage he knew was coming, pulling Clarissa behind a pillar. He could hear Euphemia arguing with another professor, probably over that dashing chalk drawing on her board, but paid her no mind for the moment. [color=FFAB66]“Listen, I don’t like it either, I think this is a [i]horrible[/i] idea, but I’m pretty sure Duke Riegan set this up and I don’t think we can undo it. So [i]pleeaaase,”[/i][/color] he took both Clarissa’s hands in his and held them to his heart, giving his friend his best ‘pity me’ face and a little nudge with his Crest for good measure, [color=FFAB66]“please help me out? I [i]desperately[/i] need your sage wisdom.”[/color]

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