Master Mircea was universally hated by each one of his students. Having come from a strict traditional background, girls found him uncaring and harsh. His figure was slender and angular, and he controlled every room he walked into while still remaining mostly silent. His stone-cut profile only served to enhance the strength his glare and his infrequency of speech sharpened the edge of his tongue. A cold disposition came easily, naturally, to him.
As he grew older, beginning to grey, his seriousness and professionalism, he had convinced everyone around him he was the living embodiment of ballet, making him also universally respected. He taught without warmth, bloodless. He knew his pupils through his hands almost more than his eyes. He knew each one’s hips and collarbones, their thighs and buttocks and slender necks. Yet never had there ever been a whisper of impropriety surrounding him because though he was physical when correcting his pupils passe or arabesque, he was conscious not to make any blooming young girls feel his humanity.