The steady tap of boot heels clicking. Then stopped. Tristan Owein GoodFellow, teacher of Art and Music reached for one of the glass doors and looked back at his own reflection.<br/><br/>The Jacobite shirt gave him room to move comfortably. He favored black spit shinned hob nail boots over shoes. But the Kilt was the traditional Black Watch dark tweed of a recent time he remembered well.<br/><br/>After all this was also a test of strength, endurance and stamina. This school was designed for one thing. Training. It was his calling.<br/><br/>He was not about breaking, or bending or beating. He was about training. Unflinching relentless task Mastering of those requiring a strong unyielding hand.<br/><br/>He had applied. Was accepted and now. It was time to bring his flavor of training to the minds of the willful freedom seeking.<br/><br/>To mold. To create. To enslave.<br/><br/>He took long strides into the building heading straight for the Headmistress Office.<br/><br/>At the door he stopped. Bringing his heels together sharply. Straight and a deep breath he let out slowly then.<br/><br/>He rapped on the door solidly twice and waited to gain entrance.<br/><br/><br/><br/>