mirador moping Closed

interacting with: @draven mirador | dialogue hex: #143314

A mosaic of leather-bound letters in lines of lives reaching audiences unable to comprehend even a sliver of it all; the tortured artist and deathly draft of a cautionary tale that was Leonard Oaksworth appreciated the library, perhaps more so than what was strictly necessary for even the most prudent of students. There were a handful of constants the boy held onto for dear life, and throughout his thirteen years of trudging past peers with all the work ethic of a pot of mashed potatoes, the shelves stocked with stories inspired him to do better in all his pursuits, in one way or another. Despite more than a handful of incidents very nearly tainting the location’s reputation as ink would an unfortunate paper, it was without a doubt he’d eventually make a return to read up on anything and everything he could get his hands on.

Acquainted indeed were the dark oak doors leading to the labyrinth of a library he’d learned to navigate only through trial, error, and more error, but it had been long since he could remember a quietness so palpable it felt like Hogwartsian creatures were following the rules. He flicked through his mental files with a heavy dose of scepticism, searching and scrutinising every cabinet for the reasons as to why it was happening, how it had come to be, and when it would stop. There were the usual offenders making themselves known, the beasts so common they were nothing more than pests of paranoia he could sweep away with the tip of his wand. Perhaps he was hallucinating due to a lack of sleep, perhaps there had been an explosion within the dormitory that had destroyed his ability to hear, or perhaps people were just feeling nice today. He decided on the second option.

He’d enjoyed a sort of shared solitude with the other scholarly silhouettes sat few and far between for quite some time when it very nearly did end with a cup of pumpkin juice put on his table for seemingly no reason. The Slytherin, unwilling to start a confrontation over being trusted with a drink but equally unwilling to let his Herboloy scripture turn to the hue of a mundane carrot, had merely nudged the container a few inches away from the stack of books he’d borrowed and would likely forget to return when the study session had finished, content to let the boy nearby do his work. And so, he’d scribbled in silence for an unquantified amount of time, his eyes flitting to that of the other every now and then. Though the purpose of his visits to Nosyville, Scotland had originally been to appreciate someone with the same fashion sense as he did, albeit with more shine and shimmer than his simple suit, tie, and slim trousers, it became something more of a safari trip to find someone with a similar darkness around their eyes and an all-too-familiar frustration with the schoolwork in front of them. Try as he did to ignore all of that and what was either a spider in the corner or a sign of his declining vision and sanity, the sound of a rip in parchment hit his ears and all control was lost.

“Is your parchment quite alright, there?” He pointed meekly towards the tear in the material with his quill, finding it excessive to condemn the other for a host of unflattering flecks spread across whatever the parchment held. An essay, he assumed, or perhaps some last-minute notes for a particularly strenuous subject. “Honestly, if the assignment’s stressing you out that much, I reckon it’d be better to leave it be for a while, lest points be deducted for illegibility of all things.”

If he was going to be a disturbance, he might as well have been a well-meaning one. Lowering his volume by a marginal amount, he added a rather embarrassing admittance to his attempt at making use of his long-gone experiences with assisting teachers in their often disastrous duties. “I’d know from experience.”