27 May 2025, 23:46
The Weight of It
It was hazy as she pulled the trunk out onto the Quidditch training pitch. "On dirait qu'il va pleuvoir," she said, shaking her head. Up here, in this incredibly foreign place, it always looked like it was going to rain. And it often did—over and over again came the droplets like sands in an hourglass that never emptied. (Wouldn't it be funny if someone had an object like that here?)
Akerrah did not particularly enjoy it like this, preferring the days when you could see the sun bare down on the metal of the Eiffel Tower, radiating heat to all who lived under her light. This deep northern rain made her skin crinkle up and set her hair awry. But there was little point in fighting it: this was just how this place called Scotland was, apparently.
In so many ways, this year was a year of learning exactly what everything was. And yet, so many unknowns still seemed to exist for her. But for Akerrah, she'd decided this was one thing she had to try to understand—this Quidditch thing. Flying was enough of a bother, although apparently she was pretty good at it. (Though perhaps not as good as the Ilver-something student she'd met out here the other day.) But flying fast and chasing after that little golden nugget of a ball seemed like a hell of an ask. The only way she'd manage was with practice—just like her mum's language students. The more you practiced, the better you got.
So, she tugged on the trunk, nudging it across the grass, but it was much heavier than she expected. Who knew four balls, especially that teeny tiny one, could be this heavy? And it was just as she let out a sigh that she felt the first drop of rain hit her cheek. Looking up into the storm clouds, it was very clear more was on the way. And in a few moments, a drop had turned to droplets, and drizzle had turned into downpour. Tugging on the Quidditch trunk seemed twice as hard now. But pull she did until—
—whoosh.
Her simple cheap trainers scuttled against the mud, nearly throwing her to the ground. Instead, she managed to throw her arms around the trunk, hugging it to safety and stability. "Merde," she let out as she stood back up and reached around the handle again. She was going to get it out to the center of the pitch. If not, how would she possibly live up to the expectations of a seeker?
@Oliver Armani as Sunday Crestmont
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5 Jun 2025, 13:34
The Weight of It
English | ency | Vella-----------
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OUTFIT |
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@Maisie Gemmell||@n/a
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⊹ 𝖲𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗒 𝖢𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍 ₊˚⊹ Let's go to the garden, let's be kids again |
Alan Dolus ~ Staff Oliver Armani ~ PC |
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10 Jun 2025, 00:26
The Weight of It
The tugs required her focus as she tried to pull the trunk out of the mud. So much focus in fact, she didn't even notice another person walk right ahead of her in this rain. But that was remedied quickly but the easy, almost optimistic way the other girl came over to help. "Ouais—" was all she could say as it became very clear her new companion needed no reply before grabbing a hold of the other side of the trunk.
And that seemed to make all the difference. Together, they seemed able to unstick the trunk from the crust of mud below and carry it out towards the center of the field. She dropped her side somewhat quickly—strength had never been her strong suit.
As she pressed her fingers up into her hair to ensure the ponytail remained somewhat in place despite the rain, she considered the other girl's introduction. A seeker—too? It seemed too coincidental, but she was not one to refuse help. "Oui, yes, I am practicing and I am a seeker, too, for Beauxbatons," she explained, "Thank you for your assistance. My name is Akerrah." Her English was still somewhat formal and stilted—her thoughts still flowed in French—but the tone was genuine. One arm extended to shake the girl's hand, the other leaned on the trunk, which wobbled slightly under the pressure of her weight.
Reaching down she started to pull at the lock. It wasn't rusted or anything, but the weather seemed to make it slippery or more stuck together somehow. Once again, Akerrah pulled fast. "You are good at locks?" she asked. The blonde was turning out to be nothing less than a savior, if she could get this open.
But maybe that wasn't a bad thing. No, no, maybe it was a very good thing to get to know one's opponent. After all, it was pretty much inevitable the two schools would face off against one another some time. And in reality, Akerrah had absolutely nothing to hide: no knowledge, no strategy. She wasn't even entirely sure she had talent. It had just been a day in flying class when someone had called her—what was it?—agile. Yet somehow in this deep rain, it seemed like even that didn't matter. No agility or finesse would help her in seeking that glint of gold in weather like this.
Kneeling beside the edge of the trunk, she reached up into her hair looking for a pin, just in case the other girl couldn't figure it out. For a faint second, the thought occurred there was probably a spell for this, but surely a little lock-picking was easier.
@Sunday Crestmont
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