Platform Nowhere
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The airport was too bright.
Everything moved constantly, rolling suitcases, recorded announcements, the shuffle of people. I stayed near Gate 17, where the seats were half-empty and slightly out of the way of others, watching the departure board, looking for when I will be free of this place.
Russia.
It wasn’t exactly a holiday. My father had a work meeting, one of those international ones. Most of the time, he travelled the magical way. Apparition, Portkeys, things that made everything faster and more efficient.
But sometimes, like now, he liked to bring me with him when the destination was "worth seeing."
Apparently it was supposed to be educational or whatever excuse he used when he wanted to drag me across Europe. I didn't mind the places though, in all honesty, I was grateful I got to travel as much, even if it meant to stay at a stupid airport.
Muggle travel is really the worst part.
Slow, unnecessary, painfully normal. Waiting in lines. Security checks. Sitting still for hours and hours.
Compared to the way we usually travelled, it felt almost insulting.
I leaned back in my seat, tugging my bag closer with my foot, glancing at the departure board again even though nothing had changed in the last five seconds. My father was somewhere nearby talking to his colleague who was apparently coming with us.
I decided to stand up and stretch my legs, willing to do anything to let time pass.
Action: N/A
Stamina: 5 | Evasion: 4 | Strength: 2 | Wisdom: 7 | Arcane Power: 9 | Accuracy: 3
Abilities: Parselmouth
"That's crap-puccino" Sta 5 | Eva 6 | Str 2 | Wis 7 | Arc 9 | Acc 6 |
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴅ ʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ’ꜱ
Platform Nowhere
| C | airport 04.06.2026 |
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C | ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀ: ᴡᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ, ꜱɪɢʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ; ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴀᴍ ɪ. |
| C | Exhaustion was not an unfamiliar feeling to Marcel. A life spent lazing about the lush grasses of Croatia, under a Mediterranean sun that could lull any many into eternal slumber, had softened him. Adjusting to Russia was not an easy demand. And it wasn't just Russia. Marcel had not known about his father's tendency towards long and mysterious expeditions that stretched on for weeks at a time until he had finally spent a complete summer with the man. It had been a lengthy stay in some shifty motel in Kirkenes, which had taken a day or two of travel and some magical assistance to land in. Then it had been a plane ride and a few scattered bus trips to some tiny English town where each building was made of pale bricks, sun-worn and crumbling. By the time he was finally back to Murmansk, their tiny apartment and its musty smell suddenly felt like a blessing. Returning to school had also been a test of gratitude, as the eclectic yurts and tall grass suddenly felt much more familiar. For the past year, he had been expanding his educational prowess and keeping a safe distance from most of his peers, save for Mitsuru (@ Evpraksiya Vinogradova). The two's bond had been unexpected, but addicting. Mitsuru was the first person Marcel saw in the morning and the last person he saw before bed. Sometimes the two would even steal away under the cloak of midnight to swim in the lake, hiding from professors under the murky water. That was what made Spring Break so hard. There was a dull feeling rattling about in his gut, a sense of emptiness he couldn't recall being so strong in the wintertime. Most mornings were spent on the road, or, on occasion, tucked away into old motels where the sun stays hidden. Something about Mitsuru's absence rattled him. He felt unnerved, antsy. He hated it. Marcel and his father had been traveling for four days. It was a quick one, partially because Marcel needed to be back at school soon and partially because Ivan was paranoid. He had opted for the safest option of air travel to avoid any potential magical tracking. Magic, he told Marcel, was not to be used lightly. There were eyes in the skies, and magic was the easiest way to get all those eyes trained on you. So they took the plane. Well, first they took a bus to Kirkenes, then a plane to Heathrow. Marcel had taken a nap part of the way through this, and when he woke up, they were already on a train to Nottinham, where his father would be meeting with someone or another about something or another. Marcel didn't often get the insider knowledge about his father's meetings. It was generally a point and go, Marcel following his father like a lost duckling. The meeting had been short and neat, as promised, Marcel spending most of the day sleeping in a shitty hotel with mysterious stains on the carpet. As soon as his father had returned, Marcel was forced to groggily pack his things and board the train back to the airport. He hated airports, dreaded them really. Hated the loud lines and nasty workers and meaty guards. Hated the bookstores and coffee shops and strange, otherworldly architecture. It was times like these that he had begun to, oddly enough, miss the organic simplicity of Russia. Particularly, he missed Koldovstoretz. After managing to squeeze through bag checks and get situated at their gate, Ivan excused himself to whatever business he deemed more important than waiting with his son in a cramped seating area. Marcel watched him go, eyes heavy-lidded and shoulders slouched. A part of him was tempted to curl up and fall asleep, the gentle slices of morning light that still cut through the tall windows lulling him off slowly. He liked sleep, especially now. Sometimes, he dreamt of Mitsuru, the two boys obscured by moonlit water, flashes of pale skin illuminating their curious faces. It was one way to occupy his mind, and one he quite liked. There was only one outstanding issue. The noise. Voices carried like letters in the claws of owls, bouncing off the wide walls and eliminating any chance of rest for the lazy boy. With a frustrated exhale, Marcel stood slowly and stretched. It happened, mostly on accident, that he had stood at the same time as another girl. As his arms fell back to his sides, he accidentally bumped his elbow against her shoulder. He shot over a cool look, at first annoyed, then examining. He watched her for a moment, before quietly saying, "Oops." It was one universal phrase he knew an English girl would know, or otherwise understand. |
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ɴᴏᴛᴇ: "Still missing the lakes." ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ: @Tes Cadell CODE BY CAMILLE DE VARENNE |
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iNPC of Charlotte Winfield