The Opulent Quarrel - Round One: Mademoiselle Primfel's

"To-my-understanding," Gunzelurge was explaining to the night porter, at a very polite and considerate 90-odd decibels, "there has been a mistake."

The Academie atrium was all latticed windows, each a cage keeping ruler-regimental distance between raking columns. It seized the Pheral's fine growl, bedraggling it out into the high-ceilinged space until it was the voice from the cavernous chest of a long-dead thing.

The porter was a sinuous creature, head bedecked with jittering quills like she'd had coffee for dinner, six hours ago, and was only just getting warmed up. Gunzelurge didn't flinch when a barb (one of many in the porter's updo) lashed out and patted her on the hand, a maternal gesture well at odds with its brook-no-shit hiss and rattle. "Aww, you're a new face, aren't you, hun?"

Gunzelurge hesitated.

Fragiles, for all their "out-of-earshot" "jokes" about Pherals being "simple machines", they weren't actually much better. You could still count on any individual one to surprise you, sure, but herd them together and prod them a particular way and you can expect much the same from them each time. In some ways, Fragiles were more predictable in Unexpected Presence of Gunzelurge than the Bulwark's denizens, Gunzelurge's own kind.

Fragiles would (usually) refrain from screaming, or for that matter making too much fuss at all around her. (Gunzelurge. Awesome in all permutations of the word.) She'd be more or less free to do as she pleased, which always consisted of doing reasonable, ambassadorial things, always keeping respect of local customs forefront. She would, at least, until they mustered enough collective pluck to brandish, hamfistedly, some pretext that bid her move on. They'd often invoke some local law, to which Gunzelurge would usually comply. Not out of any programmed regard of Fragile laws, but because it made everyone feel better.

Compare back to this creature, murmuring at her like no creature had even seen fit to before. About as durable as a Fragile if push came to shove, not that Gunzelurge was sizing the porter up. It was chattering away about a bunch of things, like matriculations and welcome letters with necessary documentation but that's fine if you've forgotten, I can print your timetable off what was your name again, hun?

"You-may-call-me-Gunzelurge," rattled off Gunzelurge. The porter clacked away at her desk; one of her headspines shot out into the pitted rear wall of her office and retracted with a snap. With not a moment's hesitation, she snapped off the quill and proffered it to the Pheral, two manicured talons prying it open for inspection.

"The Academie runs on human-common time, a tad slow for my tastes but my word do those little biologics get cranky if you try set them on anything different. Looks like you don't have breakfast scheduled in this semester so... you've Horsemanship with Madam Ascot next. Go back to August Hall through those doors, and wait in the courtyard."

Gunzelurge just stood there, until the creature sighed. "Hun, there's no point standing around looking pretty if you're not doing it where you're being told to. Off you trot."

"I-have-inquiries and. Request. Direct responses." Gunzelurge felt a tile creak underfoot, she redistributed her weight some with a faint hiss of achilles-coupling. "If. You will-not-comply that is acceptable. And you-have-my-thanks-for this. Timetable."

The porter stared at Gunzelurge, an indeterminate number of little black beady things staring down the Pheral's single, face-sized, lamplike arrangement. "Very good then. But let's keep it short and sweet, or you're going to be late for class. Three questions," it added, fractionally less a declaration than its other utterances.

Gunzelurge would've smiled if she could, even as her brain lurched into query-queueing motion. Not so weird and alien after all, then.

"Where is my horse?"

If the gatekeeper was taken aback at the mental image of Gunzelurge on a horse, it kept it to within a second's pause. "In Madam Ascot's stables, probably? She'd know better than me."

Gunzelurge nodded. "How do I leave the Academy?"

"Seniors only, hun. Sorry. And then, only on weekends if you've a leave form and a teacher with you." The porter retracted her hackles; glanced nervously toward the rest of the school. "Don't think about causing trouble eyeing for expulsion, either. Mademoiselle Primfel is right proud of her perfect graduation rates, and there's no quitter's route out of here."

An answer neither encouraging nor direct, but she couldn't begrudge this creature for it. Gunzelurge could think of a dozen or more arguably-useful lines of inquiry, but something ambassadorial kicked in.

"Thank-you-for-your-help. What-is-your-name?"

The porter made a noise that might've been laughter. "That's your last question?"

"Of the three to be addressed before. Horsemanship. I-would-relish-the-opportunity to inquire-further. If. There-are-no-objections."

"You're an odd duck, aren't you?"

The Pheral stared down at the doormonster, crunching conversational segues, before shrugging a mighty shrug. "Uncertain. If. That is a turn-of-phrase, I-look-forward-to asking you. About its meaning. I-may-then-verify-whether I am."

Gunzelurge spun about on a heel. The tiles underfoot gave an agonised screech as the Pheral took off at a jog. The porter burst out laughing, something real and raw and virulent in a place prickly-allergic to joy as this.

"Call me De!" She yelled, then winced, as Gunzelurge bellowed back:

"Thank-you, De."