23 Feb 2022, 02:28
What Good Is A Raven That Can't Fly?
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
thinking about | @cain corvus • @juniper kelly
| ── | Draven had always dreamt of flying. Or rather, he'd dreamt of trying to fly. Of great black wings unfurling behind him, and taking off at a breakneck pace. Wings flapping wildly in the wind. Except. He couldn't take off. While everyone else around him was soaring towards the heavens, he was stuck on the ground. Almost making it into the air. Wings twisting in strange directions, flapping without a sense of rhythm. Hovering a foot or two before gravity claimed him once more. When he made it into the air, flight came unnatural. He couldn't get the hang of it. And soon enough, he glided more then flew back on the ground. Unable to take off again. While everyone else had left him behind, skies clear. And he couldn't catch up. In his dreams, he couldn't make it off the ground. Even in the lucid ones, which people claimed to have control over. Now, he was on the quidditch pitch. It was deserted, a light snow settling over the grounds, tangling in his hair and landing atop his clothes. Not that he was wearing many of them. For the first time at Hogwarts, Draven hadn't spent twenty minutes picking his outfit. There was no jewelry hanging around his throat or off his beltloops, no silver rings gleaming in the morning sunlight. A ragged shirt and black jeans splattered in ancient paint hung off of the boy's frame. Even his hair, which had been growing a tad long for his tastes, had been tied back with one of Juniper's hairties. He fully expected to crash. For clutched in an anxious grip was a broom. A beauty. One he'd hidden from his father for months, buying it under guise of going to town for parchment paper and ink. It wasn't a bad broom, but wasn't fantastic either. A beautifully crafted Moontrimmer, with a polished handle and Gladys Boothby's signature etched in the metal holding the whole thing together. Draven could have bought a better one. But he didn't. Because first off, he didn't think he was worth a better one. And second off, this broom flew higher than all the other brooms in the quidditch shop. And he would fly today. He would make it off the ground. Even if was sent hurling back towards it a moment later. Draven stepped forwards on the quidditch pitch. It was still early in the morning, first playful rays of February sunshine only just peaking through the clouds. The day before, Cain had called him a Raven. They'd stood on the edge of the Astronomy tower, looking down at the world. He'd felt like if he walked off, he would have flown. And what kind of Raven couldn't fly? |
── |
thinking about | @cain corvus • @juniper kelly
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |
23 Feb 2022, 13:51
What Good Is A Raven That Can't Fly?
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
thinking about | @river jemari
| ── | Draven's semester of flying had finished before Professor Stube had come into teaching, and a small part of him was grateful for it. River had taught for many years, and had taught him well. He still remembered standing in the drenched field, a school broom waiting patiently by his side, twigs falling apart with age and metal hoop starting to rust around the edges. He'd been afraid to touch it, least he'd get tetanus. So he hadn't. Dray wasn't about to embarrass himself in front of other classmates. If he were to fall flat on his rear, he'd've rather it happened when no one else was around. Dangerous? Yes. Foolish? No doubt. But it kept his dignity intact. And it ensured he wouldn't get a sternly worded letter from his father, telling him he was a disgrace to the Mirador name, and how dare he put less than 110% in his schooling? How dare he not be perfect the first time around? Draven sighed. His fingers had gone numb from the cold, and he was shivering underneath the thin cotton shirt. It was the first step that was the hardest. Setting the broom down on the field, Dray stepped beside it, his heart in his throat. And hovered his hand above the polished handle. "Up." He murmured. The broom, perhaps sensing his nervousness, didn't pull any stunts. Rising obediently, spruce wood pressing upwards against his palm. Draven released a breath, heart starting to beat normally again. The broom gave him a nudge, impatiently. "I'm scared," Draven told it. He looked at the broom. The broom looked back at him. It was in the quiet of the quidditch pitch, in the middle of an arena where hundreds of students gathered on the daily, that Draven admitted to weakness. His feet were glued to the ground, pounding of his heart the only thing he could hear over the howl of the wind. It wasn't him, that threw his leg over the broom. It couldn't have been. Yet there he was. Hovering a foot above the ground, legs dangling bonelessly off the broom. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned forwards, copying the stance he'd seen many quidditch players in newspapers use. Hands clasping the handle in a white knuckled grip, knees bent, back nearly horizontal to the ground. It felt right. It felt natural. Draven didn't have time to breathe in. Because the broom, taking advantage of his relaxation, pitched forward, soaring upwards at a breakneck pace. Draven bit back a scream. It wasn't terror, he realized, as he ascended towards the clouds, his heart tying itself up in a knot. His hands weren't slipping off the handle. He wasn't dropping out of the sky like a stone. He wasn't stuck on the ground. He was flying. Spiraling above the gray clouds which a moment before had seemed unreachable. And. It. Felt. Right. |
── |
thinking about | @river jemari
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |
23 Feb 2022, 14:21
What Good Is A Raven That Can't Fly?
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
scene finished
| ── | Maybe it was years of wishing he could escape, or countless sleepless nights imagining himself flying alongside birds, or the thrill of finally doing something right. But Draven didn't stop his broom from going up. Down below him, the grounds had become small. Meaningless. The school he'd spent so many months agonizing in was nothing but a black blur obscured by fog. He felt like he could fly forever. Dance amongst the clouds and live upon the breeze. He felt. Free. That was the word. Free. No one could bother him up here. No one could take this away from him. It was just him. And the wind. And the morning sunlight, which was caressing him, painting ivory skin orange and red. Slowly, Draven's death grip slackened on the handle of his broom. He didn’t need to hold on so tightly. He wouldn’t fall. He wouldn’t crash. A smile, the first real smile he’d had in a long time, took shape on the boy’s face. His ascent had slowed to a near stop. High above the school, everything seemed a lot less important. Insignificant, really. It was beautiful. Snow dusted the grounds and trees, the castle roof and the keeper’s cabin. It covered everything like a cold blanket, getting in all the nooks and crannies and holding a firm grip over the students. Winter at Hogwarts was nearly magical. He couldn’t feel the cold, not really. It was unimportant. Slowly, cautiously, Draven took one hand off the broom handle. He didn’t die. The other hand followed. Death didn’t come that time around either. But once in the air, could he make it back down? Leaning back forward, Dray peered at the grounds beneath the castle. Never before, had he wanted to go somewhere less. And yet, the rush of adrenaline that had coursed through his veins just a moment before was calling out to him. Demanding to be fed. He took a deep breath. And pointed the broom downwards. It was instantaneous - the rush of air as he broke through the clouds, the ground spiralling closer by the minute, the bleachers glinting in the sunlight, snow blinding the boy. He stopped way before he hit the ground. Twenty meters above the pitch, pulling upwards on the handle and getting sent back in a loop before slowly levelling out. Draven laughed, relief making him lightheaded as he descended. Too soon, did he feel the ground underneath his feet. But class was calling, and he needed time to go back and change. Despite the cold, he’d broken out in a sweat, hair sticking to the back of his neck and plastered across his forehead. Draven Mirador was a mess. And he didn’t mind it one bit. |
── |
scene finished
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |