A right answer exists for when to arrive. It has to. After all, everyone else seems to know what it is.

But if they do, nobody's willing to [i]share.[/i] D'you know the kind of looks you get when you ask for, for, for a schedule? An estimate? It'd be so much easier if they could just give her a number, or, hell, "let us meet when the sun touches the horizon." 

Or worse, they give you an answer, and then they [i]fucking lie.[/i]

Oh, show up in your own good time. There isn't a rush. No doubt you have your own projects you need to work on. But just try it, and see what happens? They act as if it's a deliberate insult to do what they [i]told[/i] her to do, as if she's snubbing them somehow! Why even say it's okay to make them wait, if that's not what they want her to do? Is it too much to ask to just say what you mean?

So Dyssia is early.

She thinks. She'll find out when she arrives, really. Sage Ohlemi might have the good grace not to mention it, which would be nice. Nicer than the ones who get that weird look and get all bossy, like they've decided they own you just because you showed up?

But it's better than the alternative, if the Great Sage decides Dyssia's taking too long.

The Sage'll get that look that says she took too long getting dressed--you know the one, the one with the pinched eyes and the pinched corners of the mouth?--but that he's come to expect this of you, Dyssia, none of which will be taken as a mark against you, but which nonetheless will hurt to get. Won't say anything about it, but the unspoken will hang in the air like a noxious stench. He understands, Dyssia. He's willing to work with your, ahem, oddities.

If he understands Dyssia, it'd be great if he could share with the class.

Although! That's kind of the point in her coming, right? Maybe Ohlemi knows something she doesn't!

Hell, it's practically guaranteed. It's not like they just hand out Great Sageness. How great a sage could he be if he [i]didn't[/i] know something that she doesn't?

It's why she's taken so long getting ready. It's a multi-person job to bring out the luster in those navy scales, to bring them to the point where each navy scale glistens like they're deeper than they are. It's why she's draped in blue silks and gold teardrops, each one set with a stone of lapis to set them off.

It's no hoodie, for sure. The texture is all wrong, with none of the comforting weight or bulk of what she'd wear around the house. The silk catches every breeze, sending the stones swaying. It's like being pelted by unenthusiastic pebbles every time she moves.

But it's what she has to wear. The great sage has to know how seriously she's taking this by her showing up like this, right? Has to have something to help her?

(As the servitors scramble to hang the stones, she stares in dissatisfaction at the purple pattern. If it were somewhere else, it could at least be covered up. On her back, maybe, or down her side. Somewhere she can wear clothing and make excuses. Oooh! That could be her trademark, is to be Dyssia, that Azura who always wears daring clothes that cover the back at all times. You've heard of backless dresses? Well, this is the opposite. Give them a show up front, and make sure they never question what's in the rear.

(But no. Right in the face, right where it's impossible to miss. It's at least symmetrical? But being symmetrical just means there's more of it to stare at, more of it for people to notice and tut and "what a shame" about when she's not supposed to be able to see. A winding vine, creeping from her nose, beneath both eyes, and burying itself in her hood. A good metaphor, if a winding vine were a symbol of yet another defect.)

She has to arrive in state, which means the servitors have to be carrying her supplies. Which is weird, by the by. It's great to have crafting supplies on hand, but… having a dozen people running around you, tending your every need, do you have enough paint ma'am, more paper ma'am, do you need that book ma'am… 

It's like being tended by an enthusiastic tornado. If the twelve little servitors give her any more help, she'll never be able to get anything done. 

It would be so much nicer if they could just ride along with her, hovering along on her back. Can you imagine all the hands on her, just riding the same grav belt as her? Can you imagine how much faster they could all go if the servitors didn't need to proceed on foot? She's thought about doing just that--loading all the supplies in one cart, loading all the fuzzy little ones on herself, and pushing the belt to its limits. 

So much nicer.

But no. It has to be an event. There must needs be a procession. She has to carry her whole household with her, in case she needs any of it at any point--which is, admittedly, something that happens, if she gets ideas, so it's nice then--but still.

Just. 

So much hassle, so much fanfare, so much noise, so much light.  She can feel the headache building, and she's not halfway up the hill.