The Faculty of Lost Marbles, the word Floccinaucinihilipilification and Falling Sky Prevention
Created | Updated Aug 22, 2002
Mildly bewildered, and certainly confused, the teleporting system has dumped you in front of a battered, carved oaken door, illuminated by a lit torch in a sconce beside it, and covered with scratches, a thin layer of dust and strange (arcane?) symbols. A mat on the floor suggests you should “PLEASE COME IN”, and, thinking this to be quite reasonable advice, you reach out your hand for the doorknob… and realise after a moment’s confusion that there isn’t one. Nor a doorknocker, or bell, a ‘push’ or ‘pull’ sign, a handle, a switch, or advanced pulley system.
“Well,” you chide yourself “where are my manners.” Putting your still outstretched hand to good use, you knock politely on the door and, placing your hands behind your back, wait for an answer.
There is none.
Hmmm. Perhaps you have the wrong door. Glancing up and down the corridor reveals nothing but dust and darkness. You hear a distant growling off to your left.
Rapping again on the door, louder this time. Your ear against the door, you hear some movement from the room within, but this soon ceases and the door remains closed. Checking under the doormat reveals no key.
This is ridiculous. You decide to throw it all in, but, turning away from the door, you realise that your transport sheet is sitting on Quille’s desk in the Administrator’s Office. A glance from side to side confirms your suspicions- that you don’t want to have to face those dark corridors alone. Alone and confused. You turn back to the door.
The door really is quite dusty; you wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t been open for years. Dragging the edge of your sleeve across the scarred surface, you are, once again, forced to notice those strange symbols, only now you can see that they aren’t strange symbols, they are numbers, numbers that read:
111 111 111 x 111 111 111
=
12345678987654321
“Does it?” you wonder aloud. “How peculiar.” What is even more peculiar is the way those numbers dissolve, even as you look at them, into the wood, only to be replaced by the words:
THE AVERAGE CHOCOLATE BAR HAS EIGHT INSECTS LEGS IN IT
“Eight?” you splutter, appalled. But, regardless of how shocking this news is, you can’t for the life of you see what this has to do with the price of fish. The next words that hover within the fibres of the wood are the last straw-
A NIHILIST BELIEVES IN NOTHING
“A nihilist believes in nothing?” you cry in frustration, “what’s that supposed to…” but, before you can finish, the doors swing open (on hinges that scream out to be oiled) and…
You are confronted by a short, hooded figure in a dark cloak, wielding a pointy and rather dangerous sword. In shock, you take a step back and suddenly find that the sword’s tip is poised a hairsbreadth from your throat. You notice idly that the sword hilt is elaborately decorated.
“Don’t move!” the whisper is low and fierce. You swallow and feel the tip of the sword touch your throat. You hold your breath.
Suddenly you realise that the shadowed features of your assailant are looking not at you, but behind you…
“Ah ha!” the figure shrieks whipping the sword away down, over your shoulder to land with a resounding CRACK on the shell of a large tortoise. It looks very disgruntled.
“Now look, Mithril,” the figure’s voice is female and very annoyed. The sword is thrown down, “that’s just not good enough. Alright, so you’re a tortoise. Fine. I don’t ask for speed, do I? All I ask for is a little stealth now and again.” She turns to go inside, muttering under her breath. You stand on the doorstep for a moment, then, in the apparent absence of anything else to do, you pick up the discarded sword and step inside.
The room, like Quille’s, is very colourful, very large and very full, but, while Quille’s room gives the impression of wealth with care, the only impression this room infers that your brain seems qualified to suggest is ‘clutter’. ‘Books’ could also, possibly, be another.
The occupant has a large collection of books, stored on every shelf and available surface. Bookshelves, spanning from floor to ceiling, cover almost every inch of the expansive walls, and these, in turn, are filled with old-world clutter- books, scrolls, papers, plants, bottles and jars (each filled with something unidentifiable), knick-knacks and obscure paraphernalia. One bottle sprouts seven large peacock feathers, and a large branch, resting in a corner between bookshelves, has been utilised as a hat stand. The occupant obviously has a great love of plants- besides the large leafed plants lining the bookshelves; indoor vines drape themselves lovingly, climbing walls and shelves. Bundles of dried flowers and herbs hang from the stone ceiling, as well as a pair of Icarus style wings, a number of other objects you don’t recognise, and a dodo wearing a top hat, who raises it in greeting as you walk in the door.
The room seems to be divided into two sections- the floor of the far left of the room is covered with a number of thick, decorative rugs and this end of the room is dominated by a great, four-poster bed. It hasn’t been slept in. The table beside the bed is set for one, and a bowl of soup, long gone cold, sits congealing, untouched. A large tapestry depicting two figures, dressed for a long journey, setting out through a wide cylindrical door is hung beside the bed. A fireplace, although small, gives out a good amount of heat. A large, tortoise-sized basket, much worn, is nestled in front of the hearth.
The other end of the room is either less, or more inviting, depending on your point of view. It’s much darker, lit only by candlelight and the light of the moon, striking the floor through the open window through which the snow is also coming in- in gusts (wasn’t it sunny outside a moment ago?). A heavy, wooden desk dominates this end, competing with a large blackboard for seniority. The blackboard is covered with various inscriptions, scrawled all over, none of which mean anything to you, except for the curly words written in capitals across the top:
YOU ARE MORE LIKELY TO BE KILLED BY A CHAMPAGNE CORK THAN BY A POISONOUS SPIDER
Below this, scribbling furiously and referring frequently to the lengthy scroll in her hand, is the woman. She has her back to you and she still hasn’t noticed you, but this gives you a moment to study what you can see of her, and you do so with great interest. Particularly the small cloud hovering persistently above her head. You watch with amazement as a small drop falls from the cloud onto her hood. She brushes it aside absentmindedly. You realise she’s still talking to the tortoise, despite the fact he’s only got his head in the door.
“How we’re ever going to sneak up on Atlas with you breathing so loud, is beyond my comprehension…” The tortoise makes a rumbling sound and she swings around in frustration. Her hood falls back, giving you your first proper glimpse of her.
She is short, with a figure inclined to roundness, has shoulder length, fair, blonde hair and fair skin. Her bright blue eyes are partially obscured by gold spectacles. She looks about eighteen. Beautiful? Not startlingly so. Perhaps if she made more of an effort with her appearance. Her cloak, sweeping the ground, would seem out of place anywhere but possibly four-hundred years ago and here, now. She scowls at the tortoise.
“I know Atlas was turned to stone! But he’s a Titan so it shouldn’t make a difference.” The tortoise snaps its beak. “Look!” Hands on hips. “I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you, so I think I should know what I’m talking about!” The tortoise, making a sound that indicates it has better things to do than standing around arguing about mythical giants, begins the long trek over to its basket by the fire. The cloud gives a little rumble and looses another few drops on the woman’s head as she turns back to the board. You decide it’s time to make your presence known.
“Excuse me?” fumbling with the sword, “I believe you dropped this.” The woman looks at you in vague surprise, as if she’s seeing you for the first time. “You dropped it in the doorway.” You hold it out hopefully. She stares at it for a minute, then at you.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, “do I know you?”
“Ah, no,” you admit, slightly embarrassed, “I was just having a look around the school and the door to this room was on the transport sheet…”
“Oh yes!” she slaps her forehead as light dawns, “sorry- was mildly confused for a moment there (comes with the position, all this confusion), ah… so we haven’t met?”
“Um… no.”
“And I haven’t introduced myself?” You shake your head. “How unforgivably rude! Allow me to remedy the situation,” she produces a hand from the deep recesses of her sleeve and holds it out for you to shake, “My name is Auralyra Kelentari, and I’m the Resident Expert on Lost Marbles, the word Floccinaucinihilipilification (and all its connotations) and Falling Sky Prevention, here at the School for the Perpetually Confused.” You shake her outstretched hand. Auralyra gives a nod of satisfaction. The tortoise, partially across the room, mumbles. She waves her hand distractedly in his direction, “Oh, and that’s Mithril.” Mithril bobs his head in acknowledgement. “And the dodo is Job, and the obnoxious puff of fog above my head is Jasper.” On cue, the little cloud begins to rain and a puddle begins to form on the floor about Auralyra. She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m here to help you in whatever way I can, so,” she moves to sit behind her desk and indicates the chair in front, “any questions you have, any queries, any help you’re after, please, don’t hesitate to ask. I can answer them all.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “Well, mostly all.” Gripping the edge of her soaking cloak, she begins, absentmindedly, to wring the water from it, “In the meantime, please feel free to explore the room, search for any marbles you may have lost, relate any useless trivia and ruminate on the many ways of holding up the… ah…” she frowns, “the… ah…what’s the word? Um… it’s lethologica!”
“Lethologica?”
“Yes, ‘describes the state of not being able to remember the word you want’. Very useful piece of useless trivia that.” She smiles, a somewhat bemused expression on her face. Do you get the feeling she’s just as confused as you? “Anyway. Make yourself at home.”
Jasper continues to drizzle.
“Well,” you chide yourself “where are my manners.” Putting your still outstretched hand to good use, you knock politely on the door and, placing your hands behind your back, wait for an answer.
There is none.
Hmmm. Perhaps you have the wrong door. Glancing up and down the corridor reveals nothing but dust and darkness. You hear a distant growling off to your left.
Rapping again on the door, louder this time. Your ear against the door, you hear some movement from the room within, but this soon ceases and the door remains closed. Checking under the doormat reveals no key.
This is ridiculous. You decide to throw it all in, but, turning away from the door, you realise that your transport sheet is sitting on Quille’s desk in the Administrator’s Office. A glance from side to side confirms your suspicions- that you don’t want to have to face those dark corridors alone. Alone and confused. You turn back to the door.
The door really is quite dusty; you wouldn’t be surprised if it hasn’t been open for years. Dragging the edge of your sleeve across the scarred surface, you are, once again, forced to notice those strange symbols, only now you can see that they aren’t strange symbols, they are numbers, numbers that read:
111 111 111 x 111 111 111
=
12345678987654321
“Does it?” you wonder aloud. “How peculiar.” What is even more peculiar is the way those numbers dissolve, even as you look at them, into the wood, only to be replaced by the words:
THE AVERAGE CHOCOLATE BAR HAS EIGHT INSECTS LEGS IN IT
“Eight?” you splutter, appalled. But, regardless of how shocking this news is, you can’t for the life of you see what this has to do with the price of fish. The next words that hover within the fibres of the wood are the last straw-
A NIHILIST BELIEVES IN NOTHING
“A nihilist believes in nothing?” you cry in frustration, “what’s that supposed to…” but, before you can finish, the doors swing open (on hinges that scream out to be oiled) and…
You are confronted by a short, hooded figure in a dark cloak, wielding a pointy and rather dangerous sword. In shock, you take a step back and suddenly find that the sword’s tip is poised a hairsbreadth from your throat. You notice idly that the sword hilt is elaborately decorated.
“Don’t move!” the whisper is low and fierce. You swallow and feel the tip of the sword touch your throat. You hold your breath.
Suddenly you realise that the shadowed features of your assailant are looking not at you, but behind you…
“Ah ha!” the figure shrieks whipping the sword away down, over your shoulder to land with a resounding CRACK on the shell of a large tortoise. It looks very disgruntled.
“Now look, Mithril,” the figure’s voice is female and very annoyed. The sword is thrown down, “that’s just not good enough. Alright, so you’re a tortoise. Fine. I don’t ask for speed, do I? All I ask for is a little stealth now and again.” She turns to go inside, muttering under her breath. You stand on the doorstep for a moment, then, in the apparent absence of anything else to do, you pick up the discarded sword and step inside.
The room, like Quille’s, is very colourful, very large and very full, but, while Quille’s room gives the impression of wealth with care, the only impression this room infers that your brain seems qualified to suggest is ‘clutter’. ‘Books’ could also, possibly, be another.
The occupant has a large collection of books, stored on every shelf and available surface. Bookshelves, spanning from floor to ceiling, cover almost every inch of the expansive walls, and these, in turn, are filled with old-world clutter- books, scrolls, papers, plants, bottles and jars (each filled with something unidentifiable), knick-knacks and obscure paraphernalia. One bottle sprouts seven large peacock feathers, and a large branch, resting in a corner between bookshelves, has been utilised as a hat stand. The occupant obviously has a great love of plants- besides the large leafed plants lining the bookshelves; indoor vines drape themselves lovingly, climbing walls and shelves. Bundles of dried flowers and herbs hang from the stone ceiling, as well as a pair of Icarus style wings, a number of other objects you don’t recognise, and a dodo wearing a top hat, who raises it in greeting as you walk in the door.
The room seems to be divided into two sections- the floor of the far left of the room is covered with a number of thick, decorative rugs and this end of the room is dominated by a great, four-poster bed. It hasn’t been slept in. The table beside the bed is set for one, and a bowl of soup, long gone cold, sits congealing, untouched. A large tapestry depicting two figures, dressed for a long journey, setting out through a wide cylindrical door is hung beside the bed. A fireplace, although small, gives out a good amount of heat. A large, tortoise-sized basket, much worn, is nestled in front of the hearth.
The other end of the room is either less, or more inviting, depending on your point of view. It’s much darker, lit only by candlelight and the light of the moon, striking the floor through the open window through which the snow is also coming in- in gusts (wasn’t it sunny outside a moment ago?). A heavy, wooden desk dominates this end, competing with a large blackboard for seniority. The blackboard is covered with various inscriptions, scrawled all over, none of which mean anything to you, except for the curly words written in capitals across the top:
YOU ARE MORE LIKELY TO BE KILLED BY A CHAMPAGNE CORK THAN BY A POISONOUS SPIDER
Below this, scribbling furiously and referring frequently to the lengthy scroll in her hand, is the woman. She has her back to you and she still hasn’t noticed you, but this gives you a moment to study what you can see of her, and you do so with great interest. Particularly the small cloud hovering persistently above her head. You watch with amazement as a small drop falls from the cloud onto her hood. She brushes it aside absentmindedly. You realise she’s still talking to the tortoise, despite the fact he’s only got his head in the door.
“How we’re ever going to sneak up on Atlas with you breathing so loud, is beyond my comprehension…” The tortoise makes a rumbling sound and she swings around in frustration. Her hood falls back, giving you your first proper glimpse of her.
She is short, with a figure inclined to roundness, has shoulder length, fair, blonde hair and fair skin. Her bright blue eyes are partially obscured by gold spectacles. She looks about eighteen. Beautiful? Not startlingly so. Perhaps if she made more of an effort with her appearance. Her cloak, sweeping the ground, would seem out of place anywhere but possibly four-hundred years ago and here, now. She scowls at the tortoise.
“I know Atlas was turned to stone! But he’s a Titan so it shouldn’t make a difference.” The tortoise snaps its beak. “Look!” Hands on hips. “I’ve been in this business a lot longer than you, so I think I should know what I’m talking about!” The tortoise, making a sound that indicates it has better things to do than standing around arguing about mythical giants, begins the long trek over to its basket by the fire. The cloud gives a little rumble and looses another few drops on the woman’s head as she turns back to the board. You decide it’s time to make your presence known.
“Excuse me?” fumbling with the sword, “I believe you dropped this.” The woman looks at you in vague surprise, as if she’s seeing you for the first time. “You dropped it in the doorway.” You hold it out hopefully. She stares at it for a minute, then at you.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, “do I know you?”
“Ah, no,” you admit, slightly embarrassed, “I was just having a look around the school and the door to this room was on the transport sheet…”
“Oh yes!” she slaps her forehead as light dawns, “sorry- was mildly confused for a moment there (comes with the position, all this confusion), ah… so we haven’t met?”
“Um… no.”
“And I haven’t introduced myself?” You shake your head. “How unforgivably rude! Allow me to remedy the situation,” she produces a hand from the deep recesses of her sleeve and holds it out for you to shake, “My name is Auralyra Kelentari, and I’m the Resident Expert on Lost Marbles, the word Floccinaucinihilipilification (and all its connotations) and Falling Sky Prevention, here at the School for the Perpetually Confused.” You shake her outstretched hand. Auralyra gives a nod of satisfaction. The tortoise, partially across the room, mumbles. She waves her hand distractedly in his direction, “Oh, and that’s Mithril.” Mithril bobs his head in acknowledgement. “And the dodo is Job, and the obnoxious puff of fog above my head is Jasper.” On cue, the little cloud begins to rain and a puddle begins to form on the floor about Auralyra. She doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m here to help you in whatever way I can, so,” she moves to sit behind her desk and indicates the chair in front, “any questions you have, any queries, any help you’re after, please, don’t hesitate to ask. I can answer them all.” She pauses for a moment, considering. “Well, mostly all.” Gripping the edge of her soaking cloak, she begins, absentmindedly, to wring the water from it, “In the meantime, please feel free to explore the room, search for any marbles you may have lost, relate any useless trivia and ruminate on the many ways of holding up the… ah…” she frowns, “the… ah…what’s the word? Um… it’s lethologica!”
“Lethologica?”
“Yes, ‘describes the state of not being able to remember the word you want’. Very useful piece of useless trivia that.” She smiles, a somewhat bemused expression on her face. Do you get the feeling she’s just as confused as you? “Anyway. Make yourself at home.”
Jasper continues to drizzle.
