"Intuitive Scholastics!" chirped one sheet merrily when it was caught. Others would notice it was also their first class. Printed in neat block letters were the details:
The classroom was on the first floor, the second door on their left as they entered through the sunroom and into the main hall. It was precisely what one would expect from a classroom in a mansion. A pristine green board with fresh chalk and an immaculate eraser resting in the catch at its base occupied the entirety of the wall to their left. Directly ahead was the teacher's desk: sturdy, unadorned mahogany. To their right were six rows of six desks for the students. None were occupied. They had a few minutes to themselves when the bell rang.Intuitive Scholastics wrote:ROOM 112 // 0800 START // INSTRUCTOR: J SMITH
At least, the faintest echo of the bell ringing could be heard as through thick concrete. Overriding the bell were the first few bars of an old tune from the West. In tandem with the first note, the door opened and a horse bowed its head through the frame. Its rider also dipped beneath the lintel and slid out of the saddle with a graceful sweep, landing one foot on the desk and the other in the chair. A small kick-up of dust drifted in through the door before it shut of its own accord. The "bell" ceased. The horse moved to the far side of the desk and began to chew on grass sprouting from the wood floor that almost certainly wasn't there a moment ago.
The instructor was garbed in heavily worn riding leathers from head to toe. A scratched and torn hat sat off-kilter to the left and too low to reveal a face. A tendril of smoke twirled around the brim. The hem and shoulders of the ankle-length duster were frayed and pale from time and tears. The toe of the one boot visible on the desk wore a cap of dust and dirt, yet none seemed to dirty the desk itself. The wind of the rider's movements ruffled the duster enough to reveal a glint of-- were those matching firearms!? Before anyone could fully process the moment, a gloved hand flicked up the brim of the hat, revealing the smiling face of a young woman, clearly in her twenties. A cigarette sprouted from her lips and seemed to dangle there impossibly as she spoke.
"Mornin' 'n welcome to intuition," she said with special emphasis on the final word to ensure its proper enunciation. With a practiced flourish, she flicked the cigarette out the window. Were one to go investigate, it would be as if it had simply vanished. Then the teacher (presumably) pushed off the desk and rode the wheely chair one-footed before nimbly stepping down beside the chalkboard. She scooped up a piece of chalk and in the top-right corner began to scrawl in slanted, cursive English. She wrote one word, INTUITION, and beneath that her name in a much simpler script, Jane Smith. After a pause, she added the course title in Japanese.
Turning back to the class, she continued in Japanese, "I know the Japanese like to introduce new students, but we've got more of 'em than a cow has moo, so I wantchy'all to go 'round 'n give y'name 'n y'focus 'n anythin' else yer wantin a share."