28 Apr 2022, 03:51
Call It a Meet Cute
Gryffindor || First Year || Part-Veela
[PV] Thread with: @Draven Mirador
Marshal Walker was tired.
He was always tired, these days. Over-weighted with homework among other things. Would he ever get used to the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts? He hoped so.
Hoisting the large book up in his arms, Marshal continued in the drab lower hallways of the castle. Coming soon to a stone archway, he placed a sweater-covered hand on the frame, staring out at the land. The Quidditch field was covered in neatly trimmed blades of grass, sprawled out the length of a basic area. The high stands surrounded it, blocking most from Marshal's view.
He stepped timidly onto the green turf, making his way around the stands. He took in the full view of the field, the tall goal posts on each side, and the white lines coating the grass.
He turned, eyeing the low, slanted stands surrounding the field. It didn't have the towering stands that took him up, up, out of the world below, but it would do.
Clutching his book to his chest, he began to climb the steps inside the flaps of the stands. The inside was wooden, beams and poles crisscrossing like a splintering spiders' web. Upon reaching the top, he breathed in a fresh breath of cold air. Even though Spring was approaching, the cold still came in snaps and fast whispers.
Plopping down on the bench right up against the edge of the stands, he sat still for a moment.
What if I fail? Will them remove me from Hogwarts? Marshal shuddered. He couldn't even think about the consequences if he were to have to leave. No magic. No friends.
Averting his mind, he opened his book. He didn't remember the title, and didn't care to check. Flipping a page, more followed by a gust of wind. He tentatively turned them back to his spot.
He just wanted to focus on nothing, nothing but his book. Him and the book. Him and the world.
Interacting with: /
Word Count: 326
"Everything you can imagine is real."
-Pablo Picasso
30 Apr 2022, 19:40
Call It a Meet Cute
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| ─── | The first hints of spring were starting to peak through the Hogwarts fields, tiny flowers having sprung up from between fresh grass blades, peppering the mass of green with drops of pink and blue. Even the few non-spikey trees on the grounds had grown tiny green bulbs, leaves making a cautious exit to greet the morning sunlight. Whichever overzealous birds had returned from their travels early were singing at the top of their lungs, making their presence known to anyone and everyone who would listen.
And Dray? He was walking along the quidditch training pitch, an enchanted satchel thrown over one shoulder and his broom clasped tightly in one hand. It was strange, being in his quidditch uniform. Exactly one week before the game meant nerves. Meant he was back to neglecting his school work in favor of waking up at the crack of dawn and flying around the quidditch training pitch. The only difference this time? He'd brought a Quaffle. After a couple training sessions with the Slytherin team, he'd been left dizzy and light headed. He needed to get used to the feeling of flying around while following the ball, preferably without causing a mess on the field. It wasn't exactly hard to see he'd been practicing. The boy was covered in darkening bruises and gashes, his palms having been scraped raw from the sheer amount of times he'd fallen and tried to brace. The nurse had become acquainted with Draven showing up at his door step at the crack of dawn, with a dislocated shoulder or a sprained wrist, or something just straight up broken. He fell a lot. But he got up. He figured, if he got up enough times, one day it would get easier. SO there he was. Gingerly placing the satchel near one of the stands, Quaffle tucked under his arm. Sleep was still clinging to the boy's lanky form, dusted across his cheeks and making the field into a hazy golden mess. It was a good day. Clear, and just cold enough to wear the uniform, sunlight shining onto the field and snow having finally melted, leaving the ground dry and covered in soft grass. The first time he'd climbed on a broom, Draven thought he would die. Now, it came as natural as breathing. Taking off the ground, falling into the practiced stance he's spent hours perfecting. The quaffle was new. He had to adjust his grip on the broom, put more of his weight onto one side, grip the handle tighter. There was nothing between him and a hundred foot drop except for a skinny stick and how hard he was able to hold onto it. The notion was...terrifying at best. Draven was grinning from ear to ear as he rose up in the air, wind howling past him, sunlight caressing his skin as if to greet him. It was just him and his broom. Him and the wind. |
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@marshal walker | @kelsey brumby
@marshal walker | @kelsey brumby
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |
12 May 2022, 05:27
Call It a Meet Cute
Gryffindor || First Year || Part-Veela
[PV] Thread with: @Draven Mirador
Marshal continued staring down at his book. The words were beginning to crowd together on the pages as deeper thoughts flew to the front of his mind. The edges around his vision were growing blurry with exhaustion and stress. He could almost feel the bags under his eyes. Had he remembered to finish his homework? What about the book lent to him by a fellow student? He couldn’t remember.
Sighing, he leaned back, head resting on the bench behind him. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was warm. The morning sun shone down on him, highlighting his blond curls with white, shining light. It pressed down on his cheeks like a snug blanket of spring. How calming, it was, lying alone in the sun. Even if it was on top of who-knew-how-old bleachers and with a heavy book atop his lap.
He peaked one eye open as a whoosh sounded nearby. Something black whipped past at the top of his eyesight. Considering it as either paranoia or a bird, he dismissed it.
It came again.
Opening both eyes now and sighing, Marshal reached to shut his book with a snap. What was that absurd motion? Slipping forward on the edge of the bench in the bleachers, he squinted into the sky. It seemed as if somebody was flying. This early in the morning? He wondered what it was like to have the motivation to fly in the early morning hours. Or to fly at all.
Not moving from his position on the hard bench, he cupped his hands around his mouth. He parted his lips to shout something, but hesitated. Instead, he placed his fingers back down on the back of the bench and watched the student soar. Now it was just him and the sky. Him and the mystery figure silhouetted against the pale, beautiful, morning sky.
Interacting with: /
Word Count: 308
"Everything you can imagine is real."
-Pablo Picasso
12 May 2022, 23:37
Call It a Meet Cute
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@marshal walker
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@marshal walker
Last edited by Draven Mirador on 14 May 2022, 23:47, edited 2 times in total.
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |
13 May 2022, 20:51
Call It a Meet Cute
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@Draven Mirador
Marshal sat up very quickly, wincing as his back cracked against the wooden bench. The 'mysterious' figure was suddenly not so mysterious. The boy had dark, curly hair that seemed to fall perfect, even after having flown through the sky. He was tall and slender, and fairly good looking, if Marshal would admit. Shrinking backwards, the broom and it's rider flew up to the stand in front of him. Marshal opened his mouth to say something, maybe to greet him, but instead watched as the boy reached forward to grasp the edge of the stand. He obviously hadn't noticed him. He watched the dark-haired boy's legs shake as he attempted to stand on the brooms handle. Marshal slapped his palm to his lips, holding in an expression of terror. The boy was going to fall. He was going to fall. Marshal's eyes followed the boy's hand as it removed itself from the wood, knuckles fading back into pink from their ghostly white. The sharp laugh startled Marshal. He was right there. Less than an arm's length away. A gust of wind blew past Marshal's face, and the broom wobbled. His heart skipped a quick beat, and he made to stand up. The boy was loosing his balance. He was going to fall. Marshal's eyes fluttered, and his brain lapsed into hyper-speed. Lunging forwards, he leaned over the edge, arms outstretched. He made to grasp the boy's Quidditch robes, but his foot slipped. He tumbled forwards further, wrapping his arms securely around his waist. Bracing his toes against the wood, he tugged backwards, preventing the fall. The broom steadied itself, and there they were. Marshal standing awkwardly, arms still wrapped around the boy to stop another possible fall.Oh dear. |
@Draven Mirador
"Everything you can imagine is real."
-Pablo Picasso
15 May 2022, 00:32
Call It a Meet Cute
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@marshal walker
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@marshal walker
ITS STILL RAINING. WHY IS IT STILL RAINING? sta • 13 | eva • 8 | str • 1 | wis • 15 |arc • 7 | acc • 9 |