Having looked briefly at the other students to arrive after he'd come in, Arthur had focused mostly on the tutor at the front. As she spoke her welcome and outlined the class they'd all be taking, he jotted a few notes on his pad, leaving plenty of margin space for his own thoughts later. He found her accent quite pleasant on the ear, but it seemed faded. Perhaps it'd been some time since she'd been on French soil? Emigré's words on his fellow students studying together with him came as no surprise; his senior schooling had included tutor groups so this was nothing new. What made his pen stop jotting was the mention of wiping of slates. He tapped his chin with his pencil and took another look around at his classmates. What had they all walked away from, he wondered?
As the Cajun talked, he watched and listened. It was hard for him to follow what the man said, the accent making some words blur together. Arthur thought he got the gist, though, and knew that over time he'd adapt to the way Boyce, or, Les Ouragan spoke. He could always ask some questions later. The man sat, and Arthur turned his head to the more awkward lad to his right as he made his introduction. Here was a more familiar accent, and he more easily followed the tones of his Welsh neighbour. Arthur noted that the lad didn't stand as the Cajun had, further reinforcing the impression that here was someone not so socially comfortable. With Macca's short oration over Arthur knew his turn had come. He got to his feet with a quiet clearing of his throat and smiled.
"I'm Arthur," he began, keeping his eyes moving from one classmate to the next to include them all without focusing on any. "I'm from England, raised in a city I think few of you have heard of, called Swindon. My power lets me reshape solids; metals, glass, wood and such. It goes like wet clay, all soft and malleable."
He realised he'd been unconsciously kneading something in his right hand and found he'd lost another pencil to his gift. He raised the bubble-gum sized lump demonstratively. "As you can see, I'm still not in full control of this. I'm calling myself Artisan. Since they made things with their hands, from clay and the like, it seemed a best fit."
Arthur let the wooden pellet rest on his desk and tucked his thumbs into his pockets. He would have to think of something to make yet another former pencil into.
"I'd like to learn to stop that happening, obviously," he nodded at the pellet, "I'd hate to have it happen just shaking hands. But I s'pose I want to know just what I can and can't do with my power. They didn't exactly print guidelines."
He sat back down with a final, fairly cheerful smile around again at his classmates, signalling the end of his introduction. That was easier than he'd expected, given he hadn't had warning he'd be doing any public speaking, though he guessed it was to be expected for a smaller class. Truth be told, he admitted to himself, he was glad to only have four other classmates. It made it feel just like any old study group more than a proper class. He let his mind quiet then and turned his attention to the two women in his class, moreso at the one in the scarf than the redhead, and waited for her to speak. It was odd that this one hadn't once more than glanced at anyone, and, judging by her expressionless mask, had no intention to, either. How she handled her introduction was going to be interesting.