Attend a Lecture at Heron

Though her father has long since retired and her own scholarship is beyond reproach, the Dean’s Daughter and her reputation are forever wedded to familial connections. She teaches at Heron, but her father, her grandfather, her very name, tie her to Basque.

The Dean’s Daughter is a proud nonconformist, in love and in scholarship, but what is almost expected from a professor at that proudly unconventional school puts her into irresoluble conflict with her noble legacy. {if A Licentiate = 1} She used to confide her apprehension in you, but it seems success has only made the rumours more vicious. {elseif A Scholar = 1} Her studies were a curiosity back when you taught yourself, but as her successes grew so did – it seems – the viciousness of the rumours surrounding her. {else} That’s what the assembled academics whisper among each other, anyway. And whisper loud enough for you to overhear. {endif}

{if A Licentiate = 1} You know that her father worked hard to hush up her affair with you, even if you never quite understood why. And it has not stopped them from talking about something in her past. Something dark, mysterious, and sexual. {else} And there is talk about something in her past. Something dark, mysterious and sexual. {endif}

{if A Licentiate = 1} Your erstwhile lover, {else} The Dean’s Daughter, {endif}however, delivers her lecture unconcerned with their gossip. She smiles through some innuendo-laden questions and keeps her answers focused on her research. Applied Theology, her field of study, is outrageous enough. Encroaching on the Church editors and their quest to print spiritual truth has made her famous – or maybe notorious.

”Divine Revelation,” she claims, ”is bodily felt.”

There are those who label her a blasphemer. There is but one way to apply theology and it is done by righteous priests who shepherd their parishes towards the light. Not by academics comparing the Holy Writ to the screeds of Feyish philosophers and even baser writings.

Her harshest critics, of course, are her colleagues. She is doing philosophy and poorly at that; philology at the most. Her dense tractates are sheer obscurantism, intellectual flimflammery designed to bedazzle lesser minds.

And even her dress is an outrage. The white blouse is sufficiently frilly, but also hidden underneath her mannish blazer. She has it coordinated with her skirt, in colour and style, but whereas her top is almost modest, the short length and tight cut of the bottom is in itself a statement.

More than one audience member’s gaze drifts down along her long legs, suddenly disinterested in blasphemy or even rumour. The nightwhisper weave of her stockings ends inches below the hem and in black bands of outrageous ornamentation. They gawp as if she had left both on the floor of their bedrooms. Your own eyes are on her dark-red lips, and you follow the beguiling movements of her tongue. Some words reach your mind and form meaningful melodies. A truth revealed in fevered song and daytime dreams.

D̴̺̙̜́̈i̷͕͠v̵̰͊i̴̦̟͖̾ñ̵̢͕͈e̵̡̍ ̸͕̆͒R̸̪̀́͝ủ̴̩̪l̶̟̂e̶͕̔ ̵͉̳̂a̵̹͊̈́̄n̶̪̣͊i̸̢̊͝m̴̻͖̝̈́͝a̵̧̪̱͊t̶̨͇̱̉̔̀e̶̘̱͑͜s̴͇̝̀ ̶͖̦͂͝ṱ̵͚̒ͅh̴͇̬̿̉e̵̺̔̾͛ ̶̩̊b̴̹̼͍̀̄o̸̩̻̙̎d̷͕͕̂y̷͈̮̽.̸̲̓̿ ̴̲͚̩̈́́͘

Ȍ̵͖̂b̴͈̝̄͛͌ë̵̲̗̭́̿̒ī̷̹͚̅͝s̶͔̜͓͋ạ̷́̔̍ṉ̷̤̿c̴̝͎̾ḛ̸̠̂͛͋ ̷̛̞̺̺l̸͔̾e̶̞͙̐a̵͈̺̣̎d̵̯̒͘s̸̬͋ ̶̜̯͐̀t̶̺̲̉̆o̵̠͙͕͋ ̷̫̜̳͛̄r̵͍̈́ê̸̠͛̊v̷͓͉͕̎͑̕ḛ̶͎̩̽̌l̷͕͂͗á̸̜̾t̵̟̳̻͌̚i̸͇̹̋̈̓o̶̱̭̓͐̑n̷̢̈ͅ

{if A Licentiate = 1}

Her every move is a provocation, and her innocent explanations are grievous insults. But the drooling public is blind to both. She has always been bold, but this is different. Something wilder, something darker, and something you cannot describe. Your heart beats fast but shallow, and your throat is as dry as sand. The two of you are back in the park. The Liar Stars sparkle still, bright as her eyes, but you are no longer together alone.

A hundred hands have joined yours as you offer up her body, and the bleeding moon extends her tendrils to raise her up. Greedy knowledge smiles, salivating at the chance to consume. You open your eyes and **** the dream away.

Her fingers look like chicken bones and she moves them like a Feyish conductor moves a golden wand. A dark fire burns inside her innocent eyes. You cough, and her gaze bores down into your chest. She gasps and her speech stumbles to a sudden halt. The spell fades, and the audience resume their inane questioning.

She does her best to fend them off. Her acerbic wit borders on rudeness and her technical explanations are far beyond you. And they fall, one after the other, to exhaustion. All that remains is scattered applause and meaningless niceties. A priest, dressed in a ragged parody of his kind’s usual attire, is the last to leave, and then you are alone with her.

”You!” she says, griping her lectern for support.

The air is hot, and tense with anticipation. You look at her, at the floor, and back at her. She swallows, her knuckles as white as a walrus' tusk. You take a step and she licks her lips. A bead of sweat runs along her high brow and a golden marriage band shines on her slender finger.

”You look well.”

{else} Her every move is a provocation, and her innocent explanations are grievous insults. But the drooling public is blind to both. Everyone is blind to – blinded by – the dark evocation performed under the silk-thin guise of a simple lecture. And even your own eyes have grown heavy – and your cock has grown hard.

A hundred hands have joined yours as you offer up her body; as the bleeding moon extends silver-red tendrils to raise her up. Greedy knowledge smiles, salivating at the chance to consume. You open your eyes and wave away her fancies.

Lies, truth, and nonsense swirl into word flood, and she again dreams you under. You understand, you think, but then someone laughs behind you. A priest, dressed in a ragged parody of his kind’s usual attire, has raised his hand and challenges her on a point you only remember in pictures. He uses his other hand to rub his exposed cock.

Her smile widens and her fingers look like chicken bones as she moves them like a Feyish conductor moves a golden wand. Around you, the audience erupts into applause. They holler and cheer, and then shuffle out of the lecture hall. A distinguished professor pushes past you, and you fight the urge to follow them; to safety and far away from threatening knowledge.

”Two?” the Dean’s Daughter asks. ”That I did not expect. And Sir, I am a woman wed. Would you kindly put away your cock?”

You clear your throat, seated and all too aware of your own erection pressed against your leg.

The Priest-In-Rags laughs, then swallows. ”You mean? Saints have mercy.” He fixes his clothing, but all the while regards her with a hungry grin. ”I did not even notice. How embarrassing.”

”And I apologize. The stars speak and strange things happen when people listen.” Her voice is cool, calm and professional. ”Though some people are more resistant than others.” She approaches you and offers you her hand. ”I do not believe we have met, Mr ...?”

You remain seated as you shake her hand. Crossed legs and a laboured smile should be enough to make you look the gentleman. More the gentleman.

”I might have guessed,” she mumbles at your introduction. ”You do look the Mariner. And I had the great pleasure of reading some of your papers. It is an honour to finally meet you. ” She looks you over, eyes focussed on your midriff, and licks her lips. ”I was particularly impressed by your Phenomenology of Mast and Pole and Navigation by Albatross and Chisel Bill. And I do hope you did not find my lecture boring.”

You look into her fiendish eyes. Those manuscripts never saw print. You thought them locked away in some safe, or scorched from the earth by order of the High Office of the Censor – cleansed by fire. And your cock twitches against your leg.

The Priest-In-Rags’ rattling laughter breaks a moment of meaningful silence. He, rising, massages his own member, now again hidden inside tattered vestments. ”I thought it anything but, Professor. But then I am but a simple parish priest. Uncouth and ruled by basal needs. And theory has often been beyond me and our libraries rarely get the newest papers. Or the ones dreamed up by disgraced scholars. Practical revelation, then, is all that is open to our kind – if I may be so bold.” He has moved closer and closer to her, stroking his obvious erection all the while. ”Divine Revelation, after all, is bodily felt.”

The Dean’s Daughter regards the fallen clergyman with a cold smile but does not shy from his approach. ”Your point is well-taken, Father, though you will not begrudge me if I first elicit a second opinion from a fellow academic.”

He answers with a curt nod, but his free hand already reaches for her shoulder.

”Well then, First Officer, what do you say?” Her smile widens and she again licks her lips. ”Theory or Practice?” {endif}