Post by Silvanus Snarl on May 23, 2006 19:01:33 GMT -5
Silvanus is on earth once again, making his rounds, checking up on his novice guardian angels doing apprentice work to up their credits in the Angel Academy. There aren't very many he is truly proud of. There will never be another student like Hanz Schultz. Unfortunately, this very same student had used his knowledge and experience for the wrong reasons and quite literally betrayed not only his teacher, but all of Heaven. Such a pity.
At the moment, Silvanus isn't mentally focusing on anything in particular. His innate sense of direction--and the sounds of his students blundering--is all he needs to locate each pupil and evaluate his or her performance. Nothing is especially outstanding today. An F here...a D there...occasionally a C...
"This is pathetic," he mutters, stuffing his clipboard and half-rim reading glasses back in his cloak, "Possibly the most disgraceful bunch of mongrels I have ever had the nauseating displeasure of laying my eyes on."
After evaluating his last student for the day--incidentally, another failure--he truly feels sick to his stomach. Are these students just exceptionally bad...or is he slipping as a teacher? He has to ask himself this. Maybe he is letting his work slip due to being preoccupied with knowing his grandson is in the company of Hanz Schultz--the same Hanz he had trained years ago.
"It's no excuse," he growls, slamming a back foot against a tin trash can as he strides past it, "I can't let personal issues interfere with my professional life--err...afterlife. It's not fair to my pupils."
Feeling that he himself, Silvanus S. Snarl, needs a self-evaluation, he crosses the streets into a quiet alley where he settles atop a stack of wooden crates, resting his head on crossed paws to think. Unfortunately, every thought he thinks ends up circling around to focus on what Hanz might be up to at this very moment.
At the moment, Silvanus isn't mentally focusing on anything in particular. His innate sense of direction--and the sounds of his students blundering--is all he needs to locate each pupil and evaluate his or her performance. Nothing is especially outstanding today. An F here...a D there...occasionally a C...
"This is pathetic," he mutters, stuffing his clipboard and half-rim reading glasses back in his cloak, "Possibly the most disgraceful bunch of mongrels I have ever had the nauseating displeasure of laying my eyes on."
After evaluating his last student for the day--incidentally, another failure--he truly feels sick to his stomach. Are these students just exceptionally bad...or is he slipping as a teacher? He has to ask himself this. Maybe he is letting his work slip due to being preoccupied with knowing his grandson is in the company of Hanz Schultz--the same Hanz he had trained years ago.
"It's no excuse," he growls, slamming a back foot against a tin trash can as he strides past it, "I can't let personal issues interfere with my professional life--err...afterlife. It's not fair to my pupils."
Feeling that he himself, Silvanus S. Snarl, needs a self-evaluation, he crosses the streets into a quiet alley where he settles atop a stack of wooden crates, resting his head on crossed paws to think. Unfortunately, every thought he thinks ends up circling around to focus on what Hanz might be up to at this very moment.
