Silver Insanity

The clocks vary widely, from tiny pocketwatches to massive constructions with more hands than a barrel full of monkeys.

The weasels, on the other hand, are all terrified of Ametrine - except for one half-blind nose-deaf weasel sitting and drooling in the corner, who doesn't seem to care.

The proprietor lurks under a broad-brimmed black hat, dark eyes keeping a careful watch on the contents of her shop.

Ametrine inspects the weasels and clocks, a bit disappointed that he is unable to find a clock that either contains weasels or uses them to keep time.

He turns to the proprietress. "So, what do all the hands on this one keep track of?"

"Oh, all the usual things. Hours, minutes, seconds, eclipses, weather patterns, weasel attacks, the price of wheat in Targrove, and so on."

"I'll be back," says Ametrine. "Don't sell that clock!"

He takes off back for the Academy to find Mr. Willoughby. "Once we're done here, I've got a great store to show you!"

Mr. Willoughby nods. "It had occurred to me that you might enjoy the weasels. I am not sure how long this visit will take, but rest assured that we shall patronize the Aran Clock and Weasel shop afterwards."

So saying, he collapses his umbrella, shakes it, and strides into the Academy.

The halls of the academy are no less imposing than its exterior; the narrow passages extend to about twelve feet tall, with the upper sections decorated with baroque facades and gargoyles with glowing green eyes - perhaps to make up for the lack of ivy on the interior.

There is no doorman; no receptionist; in fact, nothing at all to indicate even where one might find the nearest exit, let alone any particular inhabitant.

"This place could use some signs," says Ametrine.

"Every time I put some up, they take them back down again. I've given up trying. I believe we want the graduate students' lounge..." Willoughby turns decisively and walks down one of the unmarked corridors.

The lounge, when you finally reach it, is a large room liberally decorated with a variety of wizards-in-training, mostly human. All of them ignore you; apparently the arrival of a butler with a yellow dragon on his shoulders is of no note whatsoever.

The comon dress code seems to be whatever happened to be at hand, as long as it has pockets, and varies from full robes decorated with silver and gold patterns, to thin harnesses that make you wonder how the wearer isn't freezing to death. (The answer, of course, is magic. These are grad students, after all; they're all - at least in theory - halfway competent thaumaturges.)

To your left, a group of students cluster around what appears to be some kind of game involving animated figurines. To your right, the only dwarf in the room is doing metalwork with a portable forge. Ahead of you the other students are scattered about the room, doing what students do - mostly talking, reading, or sleeping.

Ametrine heads for the game, making overt queries as to its operation and being allowed to play.