Alistair Gorse

Grimbriar’s Most Eccentric (and Mildly Infuriating) Innovator

If you’ve ever found yourself lost in the winding halls of Grimbriar Academy, bumping into doors that weren’t there before or questioning whether the staircases have a personal vendetta against you, you can probably thank—or curse—Alistair Gorse.

Yes, that Alistair Gorse. A name whispered in both admiration and exasperation by generations of students and faculty alike. You see, Gorse wasn’t just another wizard. He was an architectural visionary, a magical innovator, and—according to most accounts—a bit of a trickster who couldn’t resist making life just a little more complicated for the rest of us.

The Early Years: A Mind for Mayhem

Born in 1821 to a well-respected family of wizards, Alistair Gorse seemed destined for greatness. From an early age, he was fascinated by how magic could alter the physical world. While most young wizards were focused on perfecting their first levitation spell, Gorse was busy trying to enchant his bedroom so it would expand and contract with the seasons. (It worked—sort of. There was a minor incident with the family cat getting lost in what became a temporary jungle in the middle of winter, but that’s a story for another day.)

By the time Gorse arrived at Grimbriar Academy as a student, it was clear he had a knack for magical architecture. He quickly earned a reputation for his “enhancements” to the dormitories—like making doors appear in random places just for fun or charming mirrors to recite Shakespearean sonnets at unsuspecting passersby. This, of course, delighted some and deeply annoyed others. But it was a sign of things to come.

The Architectural Wizardry

After graduating from Grimbriar (despite nearly causing several magical incidents that would’ve gotten most other students expelled), Gorse stayed on as a professor. And this is where things really took off. Gorse’s fascination with magical spaces became the cornerstone of his work, and he began experimenting with what he called “fluid architecture”—a concept that buildings, rooms, and hallways didn’t have to be static. Why settle for a classroom that just sits there, when it could move, shift, and adapt to the needs of students?

Some say his motivation was noble—after all, what student wouldn’t want a library that conveniently rearranges itself so all the books you need are in one place? Others suggest Gorse had a much simpler reason: boredom. He seemed to genuinely enjoy messing with people’s expectations of space. If you’ve ever opened a broom closet in Grimbriar only to find a fully equipped laboratory (or worse, a labyrinth of broom closets), you can bet Gorse had a hand in it.

The “Great Hallway Incident” of 1873

Perhaps Gorse’s most infamous contribution to Grimbriar was his reworking of the North Hallway, a long stretch that connected the dormitories to the main classrooms. Students had complained for years that it was dreadfully boring to walk down—straight, uneventful, and far too easy to navigate. Gorse, being the helpful soul he was, took it upon himself to “improve” the experience. His solution? He turned the hallway into an ever-changing obstacle course.

On a normal day, you could be walking peacefully through the hallway, minding your own business, when—bam!—the floor would suddenly shift into a series of moving platforms. Or, if you were lucky, the ceiling would start lowering itself, encouraging you to get creative with your magic (or, you know, duck).

The idea was simple: a hallway that made your commute a bit more exciting. Of course, it was absolute chaos. For three days, no one could get to class on time—or without accidentally triggering one of Gorse’s more “adventurous” obstacles, like the surprise wind tunnel or the spontaneous patch of quicksand. Eventually, a group of particularly frustrated professors had to intervene to restore the hallway to something resembling normal. Gorse’s reaction? “I was just trying to make it fun.”

Following the incident, Gorse was put on what the faculty referred to as “light probation.” Which, in Grimbriar terms, meant they just kept an extra eye on him while also secretly marveling at his ingenuity.

The Disappearing Room

And then there’s the crown jewel of Gorse’s legacy: the Disappearing Room. By now, you’re probably familiar with the room that seems to vanish at will, leaving only the faintest trace of its existence behind. While there’s no definitive proof that Gorse created it, all signs point to his handiwork. Who else would invent a classroom that actively avoids detection?

The theory goes that Gorse was trying to design a room that could appear anywhere, at any time, to suit the needs of the Academy. But, true to Gorse’s style, it didn’t quite work as planned. Instead of being a helpful feature, the room took on a life of its own, showing up only when it felt like it—or, as some say, when the stars align just right. Classic Gorse.

The Man Behind the Mayhem

For all his mischief, Alistair Gorse wasn’t a villain—he was a dreamer. Sure, his work was often more confusing than helpful, but there was a method to his madness. Gorse believed that magic wasn’t just about spells and potions; it was about bending reality, challenging the way we think about space and time. He once famously quipped, “Why should walls stay where we put them? That’s so predictable.”

Gorse’s colleagues often found him insufferably arrogant, but it’s hard to deny his genius. He was the kind of wizard who could conjure up a whole new wing of the Academy overnight but couldn’t be bothered to remember where he’d left his own wand. (In fact, it’s rumored that Gorse misplaced his wand so often that he enchanted his office to hide it, just to see if he could remember where it was each time. Spoiler: he usually couldn’t.)

Gorse’s Later Years

In his later years, Gorse took on fewer projects but remained a fixture at Grimbriar, occasionally consulting on matters of magical infrastructure. He spent most of his time wandering the grounds, making notes on how to “improve” the Academy, though thankfully he was never given free rein to redesign it entirely. That’s probably for the best—imagine an entire school where the classrooms changed as frequently as the hallway did during that ill-fated week in 1873.

He passed away in 1899, leaving behind a legacy of architectural chaos, fond memories (and a few not-so-fond ones), and a lingering sense that at any moment, a door might open where none existed before.

Gorse’s Legacy Today

Love him or hate him, there’s no denying that Grimbriar Academy wouldn’t be the same without Alistair Gorse. His creations still haunt—sorry, enhance—the Academy to this day, and his influence can be felt every time you find yourself questioning whether the walls are, in fact, moving.