Marcus, instead, produces a single page, and slides it across the table to her along the same path she'd offered hers. Handwritten lines take up half of it in an abbreviated letter of his own, in the same script she'd studied a few days ago.
"Have a read of that," he instructs, "and when you're done, report back to me its contents." Which is different, ostensibly, from simple reading out loud.
As she does so, he sits back and analyses her letter in turn. After a moment, he picks up a pencil, and begins making marks.
On the page she's holding, reads;
Dear Athessa,
My name is Marcus Rowntree. I was a Senior Enchanter for the Circle of Starkhaven, where I spent much of my life. Originally, I had three brothers and one sister. Their names are August, Rufus, Heraldt, and Agnes. When I was taken to the Circle at age 9, I found my new brothers and sisters.
I began teaching when I was 20-years-old. The Circles see all kinds. Children of noble families, and children of poor families. Some knew their letters well enough, others had never held a pen. You asked if I enjoyed teaching. I did, then, for I learned about them in turn.
Normally, correspondence can end with a question, to promote a response. Mine is: do you enjoy learning?
That's a relief, honestly. Much less pressure when your prospective tutor hasn't written books for you as part of a demonstration.
Though, him already making notes on what she wrote when she's barely made it through reading his first sentence puts a sliver of that pressure back on. She begins reading fully upright, and after so many minutes she's slowly descended into leaning on her elbows, tracking her place with one finger on the page.
"Do you want me to report it from memory or read it back to you?"
She returns the nod and looks back at the page, first to finish reading, then tracking her eyes back up to the beginning to double-check things before relaying.
"I didn't really make mine a letter like yours..." She mumbles, more to herself than to him, then officially begins:
"Your name is Marcus Row-Round-Rowntree," with a glance to confirm pronunciation, "and you were Senior Enchanter at S...Starkhaven Circle. I'm guessing that since you said you had brothers and a sister, that they...didn't stay your brothers and sister once you entered the circle? August, Rufus, H-uhh Harold and," she frowns. "Angies? I don't know that name. You started teaching at twenty (wow), and liked learning about your students while teaching them."
Laying the page flat on the table, she scoots it about an inch closer to him, so it's still in front of her but signalling that she's done reading it, if he allows.
"And I do like learning, even if I'm not great at it."
He tips his head, like he considers this last thing a curious thing for her to say, but rather than speak to it, he notes it and moves on.
"Agnes," Marcus says. "Is her name. And aye, they didn't."
He reaches for the small pile of materials he'd placed down, taking the writing slate, locating the chalk piece, although not yet putting it in front of her as he speaks.
"You're a decent reader, and by my estimation," he touches the page in front of him, "more literate than most common folk you'll encounter in daily life. Accomplished men and women get along fine with much less. But those men and women don't tend towards a career in an outfit like Riftwatch. Do you have scholarly ambitions, or-- are you pursuing something more practical?"
A dubious expression clouds her features at his assessment of her capabilities. A decent reader? But it took her so much longer to read his letter than he took to read hers!
"Practical," she answers, shrugging one shoulder. Looking back down at what he wrote and, specifically, at the way Agnes is spelled, she feels compelled to say:
There's the click and scrape of chalk on slate as Marcus writes some things down. Without looking up, he says, "Thank you, but it likely wasn't a loss as you've experienced it. I'm sure they're alive and well.
"Now." Moving on. He sets the slate down for her to see, where he has written a list of words arranged thusly:
Ag - nes sig - nal ig - nite stag - nate
And then, next to them, in a different column:
ni - ght ben - ign dei - gn
"Reading is about patterns, and recognising them as they come. I suspect you go as slow and careful as you do because you're attempting to take each letter they come, but you're going to run into words that don't work the way you think they should if you do. I can give you some guidance around how to recognise patterns, but improvement will only come with practice."
Still a loss gets mumbled as she leans forward to look at the slate.
"It's always a G and an H causing problems," Which is true, but not the extent of it. "How do you know which patterns to look for? Just by knowing them?"
He folds his hands, having ignored the mumble, or having not heard it at all.
"But you've the benefit of knowing these words already. As a grown woman, you have an advanced vocabulary that'll make the process easier. Once you recognise what the words you already know look like, you'll identify the unusual ones by their similarities."
"Well, perhaps so, if you were intent to tutor yourself. If I am to tutor you, I'd provide some materials that would help you along, and assignments to complete."
He takes the slate back and goes to wipe it clean.
"As this is an assessment on your part of my methodology, perhaps we could pivot to writing drills?"
Athessa sits up a little straighter, perhaps reminded that she's supposed to be assessing him and not entirely the other way 'round. Hands folded on the table top, she nods once, definitive.
"Yes, let's. My writing is even worse than my reading, I have to warn you."
Marcus slides the slate over to her, and the length of chalk. It is not very thick, but has more girth to it than a typical pen. No matter.
"Show me how you would hold it, to write," he says, and as soon as she does, reaches over to physically correct her. "Like that, for better control. Have you been taught any at all, or have you taught yourself?"
“A little of both,” she says, looking at how he corrected her grip and trying to replicate it with her other hand, too. Just to see the difference. “My clan didn’t write much down except for trading and I was too young to be really involved in that.”
With a shrug she complies, writing first with her right hand--lines wiggly and the letters of inconsistent size and spacing--then with her left.
Though it takes a bit of adjustment to figure out that with the left hand, she has to arch her wrist just so to avoid smearing the chalk, the letters scratched out are neater, less cramped. Not, by any means, perfect or well written, but definitely better.
"Holding the chalk in this hand--" The left, "--feels better, but I have to come at it from a different angle to not erase what I just wrote." Which probably means she's doing something wrong, right? She tries again with the right hand, but holding the implement feels... off.
To the left, he means, at which point Marcus stands and moves around the table. Twin touches to her shoulders steady her posture some before he moves the slate around at an angle. Keep your wrist straight and relax your fingers. "You'll be writing from below the sentence," he says, "to avoid smearing your work. And it'll feel strange until you practice.
"But you'll learn faster if you're using the better hand. Do you favour this one in combat as well?"
She expects the adjustment of her hands, of the slate, but the touch on her shoulders is unexpected enough for her to tense slightly.
"Not really," she answers, breezing past that momentary discomfort. "I use both about the same when I have my daggers." And without daggers, it's all legs and feet and kicking.
"Well," Marcus says, moving around to loom at a more comfortable distance. "Writing is as much a physical activity as it is a mental one. You'll have to train your hand. To drill you, I'd provide shapes and forms for you to copy at length, so that you can focus on mastering the basics rather than concern yourself with legibility."
He turns to his seat. "Once it becomes natural, the rest will follow."
"Shapes and forms?" Her brows knit in a frown and she looks between Marcus and the slate in her hands. "Not letters? Or--I guess letters are made of shapes and forms, aren't they..."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Marcus, instead, produces a single page, and slides it across the table to her along the same path she'd offered hers. Handwritten lines take up half of it in an abbreviated letter of his own, in the same script she'd studied a few days ago.
"Have a read of that," he instructs, "and when you're done, report back to me its contents." Which is different, ostensibly, from simple reading out loud.
As she does so, he sits back and analyses her letter in turn. After a moment, he picks up a pencil, and begins making marks.
On the page she's holding, reads;
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Though, him already making notes on what she wrote when she's barely made it through reading his first sentence puts a sliver of that pressure back on. She begins reading fully upright, and after so many minutes she's slowly descended into leaning on her elbows, tracking her place with one finger on the page.
"Do you want me to report it from memory or read it back to you?"
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He looks up, then, and nods to her. "In your own time."
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"I didn't really make mine a letter like yours..." She mumbles, more to herself than to him, then officially begins:
"Your name is Marcus Row-Round-Rowntree," with a glance to confirm pronunciation, "and you were Senior Enchanter at S...Starkhaven Circle. I'm guessing that since you said you had brothers and a sister, that they...didn't stay your brothers and sister once you entered the circle? August, Rufus, H-uhh Harold and," she frowns. "Angies? I don't know that name. You started teaching at twenty (wow), and liked learning about your students while teaching them."
Laying the page flat on the table, she scoots it about an inch closer to him, so it's still in front of her but signalling that she's done reading it, if he allows.
"And I do like learning, even if I'm not great at it."
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"Agnes," Marcus says. "Is her name. And aye, they didn't."
He reaches for the small pile of materials he'd placed down, taking the writing slate, locating the chalk piece, although not yet putting it in front of her as he speaks.
"You're a decent reader, and by my estimation," he touches the page in front of him, "more literate than most common folk you'll encounter in daily life. Accomplished men and women get along fine with much less. But those men and women don't tend towards a career in an outfit like Riftwatch. Do you have scholarly ambitions, or-- are you pursuing something more practical?"
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"Practical," she answers, shrugging one shoulder. Looking back down at what he wrote and, specifically, at the way Agnes is spelled, she feels compelled to say:
"I'm sorry you lost your siblings."
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"Now." Moving on. He sets the slate down for her to see, where he has written a list of words arranged thusly:And then, next to them, in a different column:"Reading is about patterns, and recognising them as they come. I suspect you go as slow and careful as you do because you're attempting to take each letter they come, but you're going to run into words that don't work the way you think they should if you do. I can give you some guidance around how to recognise patterns, but improvement will only come with practice."
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"It's always a G and an H causing problems," Which is true, but not the extent of it. "How do you know which patterns to look for? Just by knowing them?"
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He folds his hands, having ignored the mumble, or having not heard it at all.
"But you've the benefit of knowing these words already. As a grown woman, you have an advanced vocabulary that'll make the process easier. Once you recognise what the words you already know look like, you'll identify the unusual ones by their similarities."
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She's still looking at the slate, tapping her fingers next to the words as she goes over them again, and again, and once more for good measure.
"I'm gonna be spending a lot of time in the library..."
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He takes the slate back and goes to wipe it clean.
"As this is an assessment on your part of my methodology, perhaps we could pivot to writing drills?"
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"Yes, let's. My writing is even worse than my reading, I have to warn you."
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"Show me how you would hold it, to write," he says, and as soon as she does, reaches over to physically correct her. "Like that, for better control. Have you been taught any at all, or have you taught yourself?"
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But he nods his head to her hands, and asks, instead, "How does it feel, in the other hand? Try writing as you would with both, holding it that way."
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Though it takes a bit of adjustment to figure out that with the left hand, she has to arch her wrist just so to avoid smearing the chalk, the letters scratched out are neater, less cramped. Not, by any means, perfect or well written, but definitely better.
"Holding the chalk in this hand--" The left, "--feels better, but I have to come at it from a different angle to not erase what I just wrote." Which probably means she's doing something wrong, right? She tries again with the right hand, but holding the implement feels... off.
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To the left, he means, at which point Marcus stands and moves around the table. Twin touches to her shoulders steady her posture some before he moves the slate around at an angle. Keep your wrist straight and relax your fingers. "You'll be writing from below the sentence," he says, "to avoid smearing your work. And it'll feel strange until you practice.
"But you'll learn faster if you're using the better hand. Do you favour this one in combat as well?"
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"Not really," she answers, breezing past that momentary discomfort. "I use both about the same when I have my daggers." And without daggers, it's all legs and feet and kicking.
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He turns to his seat. "Once it becomes natural, the rest will follow."
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