18 Jul 2022, 12:38
A Fateful Football
___ _________________________ |
___ |  RPing as Raphael Aveline |
French | English
Friday, 05 August 2022
Early afternoon
For the second time in just a few months, Raphael found himself on that tiny island across the sea. In a more Southern part this time, though, and at least it was summer, so the weather wasn't quite as miserable.
Last time he'd come for the vague chance of becoming Beauxbatons' champion for the upcoming Hexwizard tournament, and had been sorely disappointed when the flaming cup had chosen Angelique instead. He supposed it had been a long shot anyway, considering the tournament would likely require its participants to actually be good at magic. Not that he was sure how Angelique's skill in that field ranked, he just new she was one of Beauxbatons' best racers.
Which brought him to the only reason he had chosen to spend an entire month here instead of home with his family, playing football with an actual team on an actual field. The upcoming race, which would gave him the opportunity to flex his muscles and stretch his wings, competing with other racers than the ones from his own school. He had put a lot of work into being chosen for the group of French racers who were allowed to participate, even if it meant sacrificing precious time at home.
That didn't mean Raphael couldn't bring a tiny bit of home with him, though, in form of a football and a radio, a connection to his Muggle life, that had been so pleasantly uncomplicated and non-magical before that letter from Beauxbatons had come and turned everything upside down. Not for the better.
He had that ball out now, kicking it lazily back and forth at the edge of the campsite beneath the bright afternoon sun, and wishing one of his kinda-almost-friends was around to play with him. Switching to trying some tricks with the ball, he kicked it up to bounce it off his knee a few times, then up to his head, and then tried to catch it on his knee again. It worked... kind of medium well. When it sprang up again, it was off a little to the side, and he barely managed to catch it with his knee the next time, coming in at an odd angle with too much force, and suddenly it veered off to the side, fast and straight.
Raphael turned after it, raising a hand to brush his hair out of his eyes, only to see it shoot straight toward the head of a boy walking past. "Shit," Raphael cursed, setting off after the ball in a fast jog. "Hey, watch out!" he called, then remembered where he was, and switched language into an accented English. "Hey you, duck!" he repeated. Except he thought he recognised the guy. Not well, but he was quite certain he was someone from Raphael's school, one of the older students he had seen from afar and immediately decided he wanted to keep his distance from them. Give them a berth as wide as possible, hoping to stay off their radar to avoid any possible drama in his life. (Honestly, this category included ninety-five percent of the students at Beauxbatons.) He'd managed well enough that he didn't even know the guy's name. "Fuck," he repeated to himself. So much for his peaceful invisibility.
@Cecily Quinn as Amaury Favreau
"One can never consent to creep when one feels an impulse to soar."
9 Aug 2023, 23:54
A Fateful Football
When not duelling the Hogwarts scum, Amaury was at a loss for what the Scottish highlands had to offer him. Or anyone, for that matter. It was frequently windy and dreary, and he was staying in a tent, for Merlin’s sake. He was far from the luxuries of the Favreau manor or his own classy school of Beauxbatons, and they were sorely missed. What kind of person sleeps outside, all but exposed to the elements? It was truly remarkable that so many students seemed to be enjoying themselves playing frivolous games and wasting time in the so-called “great” outdoors.
And yet, he found himself in the very same outdoors as the rest of the students. Perhaps it was because there was a sore lack of indoor activities or worthwhile uses of his time, but he had chosen to walk throughout the campgrounds. He’d might as well learn his surroundings if he was to be stuck here for two weeks. It was something of a tragedy that this silly camp had to last as long as it did. If Amaury had it his way, he would simply arrive for the international duelling tournament, win, and promptly leave to spend the rest of his summer comfortably in France. But alas, it was not to be. He was to spend two weeks of his summer break here, in Scotland, making small talk with students he would choose to never see again and upholding his family’s reputation within the greater pureblood community— and apparently, getting pelted in the head by a stray football. This was an inauspicious beginning to his leisurely stroll.
“Merde— what the hell!” He was struck out of his reverie by the impact, and he rubbed where the ball had collided with his skull. Much too late, he heard a voice call out a warning. A warning only helped so much when the damage was already well on its way to being done.
A younger boy was making a beeline for him— the culprit, Amaury assumed. For all his extensive networking and connections, he couldn’t put a name to the face, suggesting that this boy was not a pureblood— and, by extension, not worth his time.
Amaury nudged the ball with the tip of his shoe. Ugh, muggle sports. He looked up as the boy reached where he stood. “Is this yours?” he asked, not really interested in an answer. At least he was from Beauxbatons, judging by the French he had initially used to alert Amaury (again, much too late) to the incoming projectile. He earned the barest minimum of bonus points. Perhaps this interaction could be salvaged.
merde | shit
| C. Quinn | and until we meet again. |