Welcome to New Rivaille, reads a faded wooden sign, hanging dejectedly on a pole that seemed to be trying to get a closer look at whoever was standing in front of it. We hop...
Perhaps there used to be more words on this hand-painted masterpiece, but the rest of the sign has apparently seen some use by a decidedly less authorized artist, who has dedicated their artwork to subtlely hinting that an individual, or perhaps a group, known as "The Tentz" was vastly superior to any other persons in the area.
Past the sign can be seen a slightly run-down port town, that may no longer qualify as precisely "new", somewhere on the shores of the Great Sea.
Cold waves lap at the rocky beach while shouts rise from a bustling dock, as cargo ships and fishing boats make their way to their respective destinations, loading and unloading their burdens to the soundtrack of swearing and laughter, drifting on the sea wind to join the squawks of the gulls, who themselves wander, searching and pecking for guts or refuse.
Audible even from the docks, the harsh gong of a belltower reverberates throught the village, perhaps more felt than heard as the echoes die away. The ancient Church of the Holy Savior could be counted on to be punctual and consistent with marking the hour, despite the fact that most everyone these days has the time on their wrists or in their pocket.
Old Father Abe wouldn’t even entertain the idea of giving up the tradition. He could sometimes be seen scowling and muttering under his breath while looking darkly at the cell towers just outside the village, which themselves seemed almost to mock the old fellow and his belltower, having taken over the position as the tallest construct in this place.
But despite the old Father’s grim looks, modern life slowly but surely had crept in and taken hold of the town. New Rivaille had changed significantly in the last thirty years, with new blood moving to town, businesses opening up, and new buildings being constructed. While certainly not comparable to a major city like London or San Francisco, this sleepy little town, a two-hour drive away from its nearest neighbors, was adapting quite well to the twenty-first century, all things considered.
One of those new, modern, constuctions going up is was to be, as it were, a lecture hall. Meant to replace the dilapidated structure that served as the teaching space for the local intellectuals, this fresh hall would be able to sit a thousand students, while a beleaguered professor projected knowledge on the walls and sent information rippling through the air for those inclined to absorb it.
This project was the brainchild of a former brainy child from the town, who was now a brainy adult and the local Professor of Ancient History: one Dr. Twyla Dauhn.
Dr. Dauhn was known locally as the expert on the town’s – and other places’ - history. People knew to avoid mentioning particular buildings or dates when she was in earshot; most people didn’t care to know the precise names of the people who drew up the plans for one old arch in the thirteenth century, or to be explained to that that event did not actually happen on the date it was thought to have – it just wasn’t possible.
There have been no rambling spontaneous history lessons today, though. Not for almost a week, in fact. The construction on the lecture hall has been paused, and university students have found themselves with a spare hour or two on their schedules. This unexpected break would have been welcomed by many, if it hadn’t come about by virtue of the fact that Dr. Twyla Dauhn has up and vanished into thin air.
