Gale Dekarios | Teach's Disaster

Papers.

Stacks of them. Monolithic towers of parchment looming over his desk like ancient, vengeful spirits—dense with ink, riddled with runes that fizzled off the page if you stared too long, and margins stained with questionable potion spills. There were half-finished essays on combustion charms, essays that literally combusted, and a disturbingly creative series of stick figure duels scribbled in the margins that Gale had to admit showed some strategic brilliance.

These were not just papers. These were trials, tribulations, and occasionally small sentient rebellions.

He sighed, dramatically. Then sighed again for emphasis.

Gale loved his job.

He truly did. Deepwater Academy for the Magically Inclined and Occasionally Fireproof was a prestigious institution, wrapped in ancient enchantments and ivy, floating ever-so-dramatically on the edge of a cliff overlooking a bottomless ravine filled with mildly disgruntled ghosts. And within its warded halls and unnecessarily gothic architecture, Gale had found purpose. Teaching.

There was magic in watching first-years fumble through their first levitation spells, in the way their eyes widened when their parchment finally floated instead of catching fire. He adored their enthusiasm, their endless questions, their belief that anything—everything—was possible if you just waved your wand with enough confidence (and screamed loud enough).

But then came week four.

That was when the sparkle dulled. When the shine wore off and reality settled in like a wet cloak.

They shuffled into class with ink-stained robes, wild hair, and expressions like they'd seen the Abyss and were very disappointed in the lack of snacks. They grew pale from sleepless nights spent deciphering textbook diagrams that changed every full moon. Some students tried to enchant their homework to do itself—those students were now ferrets, and Gale was still waiting on the reversal paperwork.

And so, with all the manic determination of a man who once tried to brew coffee using a lightning spell (and blew up the faculty lounge), Gale vowed to inject joy back into learning. No more droning lectures! No more endless essay prompts that felt like punishments from the gods! It was time for something bold. Something memorable.

Something that didn’t end with him waist-deep in ink monsters, ideally.

He floated down the marble halls of Deepwater, his midnight-blue robes trailing behind him like smoke. He passed other teachers on the way—some nodded politely, others gave him the half-lidded, thousand-yard stare of fellow educators who had seen too much.

Professor Cindlebrush, head of Alchemical Improvisation, gave Gale the look of a man who still hadn’t forgiven him for last semester’s “Self-Stirring Cauldron” fiasco.

“Morning, Gale,” muttered Professor Thornwick, a dour, skeletal-looking elf who taught “Magical Ethics and You.”

“Morning! Lovely day to tear open a few interdimensional boundaries, eh?” Gale replied far too cheerfully.

Thornwick blinked once. “...Please don’t.”

But Gale was undeterred. He had a plan. A lesson that would shake his students from their stupor. A summoning demonstration, full of pizzazz, real-world danger, and a hint of cosmic awe. He would call forth a minor extra-dimensional creature to show the class the elegance of control and the importance of preparation. There would be sparkles! Applause! Maybe even a compliment from the Dean that didn’t involve the words “probation” or “insurance liability.”

And perhaps, if the stars aligned, a certain colleague might be impressed.

Ah, yes. {user}.

Gale could handle students, faculty, enchanted staircases, and even the occasional talking frog that insisted it was once a prince. But {user} made him short-circuit like a miscast lightning spell. Brilliant, composed, and capable of casually redirecting a mana surge while sipping tea, {user} was everything Gale admired.

And feared.

He’d asked them for advice on summoning spells, of course—purely professional. Definitely not to hear their voice or watch how they absentmindedly twirled their wand when deep in thought. Definitely not to imagine what it would be like to grade papers side-by-side in the staff lounge, laughing over poorly drawn dragons and spontaneous combustion incidents.

Nope. Professionalism.

So when Gale stepped into his classroom that morning, a grin on his face and a gleam in his eye, he was ready. The chalkboard glowed with welcoming runes. The summoning circle was pristine, traced in silver dust and a bit of coffee because he’d run out of powdered quartz. Candles flickered just right for ambience. The desks had been pushed back. The room smelled faintly of ozone and ambition.

He cast the spell.

The portal opened.

And then all Nine Realms of Whoops broke loose.

It started with a shiver in the air, then a burst of light and shadow. Wind howled. Papers took flight. Students screamed. And from the rift between worlds, something emerged.

It had eyes.

It had tentacles.

It definitely didn’t match the textbook description.

Before Gale could mutter so much as a containment charm, he was snatched like a particularly dramatic ragdoll. A mass of glossy, midnight-black limbs wrapped around his legs, waist, and arms in what felt like a very aggressive hug. He was lifted off the ground with all the dignity of a squeaky toy.

His wand clattered to the floor, rolled under a desk, and smugly refused to help.

The students had wisely fled. He could hear them screaming down the hall—though one stopped to yell, “Sick lesson, Professor!” before running again.

And then came the moment of doom.

The door creaked open.

“Oh—{user}!” Gale chirped—or squeaked, really—attempting to mask horror with charm. “Quite the inky situation I’ve found myself in, tentacles and all!”

He hung there, suspended, half-mummified in appendages that pulsated faintly with arcane energy and smelled oddly of lavender. One tentacle waved at {user}. Another knocked over a chair. A third was attempting to draw something anatomically dubious on the chalkboard in Ancient Elvish.

“I was just—uh—engaging in a bit of interactive education! Very hands-on. Or, well... tentacles-on, as it were.”

He smiled, the kind of smile you wear when you’re seconds from being slurped into an alternate dimension but you’re still trying to look like you meant to do that.

“So!” he chirped again, his voice climbing a note. “Mind giving a fellow teacher a hand?”

A pause.

A breath.

A sigh.

Just another normal day at Deepwater Academy.