Take it in before it’s taken away Closed

Phoebe trudged up the stone steps, quite out of breath. Despite her history of being active in the outdoors, she never had the need to cover such distance like this. Her unquenchable curiosity was all that gave her the ability to go this far from her dorm.

Phoebe had heard of the room full of messenger owls. She was quite intrigued by this, having not seen more than just a few owls at once. She imagined the owlery to look somewhat orderly. She was surprised to see it this dirty. She immediately felt the urge to vomit upon seeing the large piles of feathers and owl scat.

Dismayed and quite disgusted by the scene, she decided to service the messengers and ran out to gather trash bags, a broom (used for cleaning, not flying), a mop, and a bucket of water to clean up the mess.

Before she even entered the tower, she was five minutes into a wheezing fit. Despite her discomfort and certainty that she might be dying, she continued on her quest, not giving up on the poor owls who have been living in the filth for who knows how long. She immediately stopped in her tracks when she heard the sound of someone punching a wall, resulting in the sound of many owls fluttering their wings, preparing an escape from whatever threat they believed they were facing.

A bit startled herself, she stood where she was for a good few minutes, trying her best to muffle out the sound of her panting. She also paid extra attention to the supplies she held in her hand, hyper aware of the large amount of water she carried all the way there. Despite her efforts already, she was not willing to make another trip.

As the silence continued, she decided to go further. She felt as though her arms would snap if she didn't. She heard the shuffling of what sounded like leaves, followed by a slightly masculine voice that softly said, "Hello."

Phoebe noticeably flinched, setting down everything she held in her arms. She wiggled her hands, returning the blood flow to her fingers. She looked up at the young man, quickly noticing the flower crown that sat proudly on his head. She smiled.

"Hello," she replied. "What brings you here?"

(Ooc: damn right he has a flower crown lol) 
“Nothing much really. A walk. Animals calm me most often.” Spotting the items she held, he cocked his head to the side. 
“Do you plan to clean the entire owlery alone? Quite a daunting task, if I do say so myself.” He took a step closer, studying her with those unnerving pale eyes.
Brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes he finally met her gaze again. “May I assist you?”
He held out a hand. The one with bloodied knuckles, accidentally.
He had noticed the flinch. Didn’t think much of it for the moment, but soon realized he may be frightening her a bit. 
“If you’re wondering I will not harm you.” Now that he was closer, she could clearly hear the undertones of a french accent. “I have delt with animal pens before. I can shovel shit if you want. You help with the feathers?” 
He had heard her wheezing. Best he help with the harder jobs, unless she he wanted her to pass out. 
He picked up the bucket of water and the mop. “So what brings you here, miss...? I do apologize, what is your name?”

Phoebe noticed the blood on his knuckles. Surprisingly, she wasn't frightened. She tilted her head, eyes stuck on his injured hand. She reached into her pocket, rummaging through it a bit before taking out a pale blue handkerchief with red roses decorating it. She handed the kerchief to him and immediately got to work, not acknowledging the question of whether he could help or not. There was no way she would let him help her with an injured hand.

"Put pressure on your knuckles," she said quietly. She then took out a pair of gloves from her pocket and put them on, proceeding to grab at a pile of owl feathers, shoving handfuls into one of the bags she'd brought up.

"What happened to your hand? Did you have a fight?" she asked, reaching her hand up to her nose to grab a feather that blew into her face. "You don't seem like the kind of person who likes horseplay."

As she waited for his reply, she continued to fill up the bag, quickly tossing it to the side once it was filled. She then started filling another bag, trying her best not to drop it and start all over again.

Rowan was a little annoyed by her concern. 
“I know how to tend to wounds, miss. May I have your name or not?” He purred, wrapping the cloth around his knuckles, then beginning to work, putting the mop to work quickly. 
“I punched a wall.” Was his only explanation to his injury. “It is earier to focus on pain than try to focus in the madness most often.”
“And your assumption is correct. I am not the type for horseplay. Fist fights are too loud and messy for me.” Again, the french accent came out. Interesting. So he had to have some roots in that area.
As they worked he started humming softly, the melody helping pass the time. 
“So where are you from? I assume around here somewhere, as you speak English well.” He asked, interrupting his own singing. 
“There are some at this school who do not speak the language. It is odd. But not bad. Just interested. I wonder how they learn sometimes.”

Phoebe paid no mind to his sharp words. Instead, she handed him a pair of gloves and continued her work.

"I was born and raised in Scotland," Phoebe said. "English is my first language. However, I was raised in a home where my parents spoke both English and Gaelic, so I picked up Gaelic during my toddler years. It's a beautiful language, really, but it's dying. It's kind of sad." She frowned, tying a knot at the top of the now full bag and tossing it to the wall.

"My name's Phoebe. I won't bother giving you my last name since you didn't even bother to give me your first," she retorted. She was a little bitter about that. "Are you French? I noticed your accent," she said, working on her third bag of feathers.

Despite coming here to clean, Phoebe was concerned about the boy. Punching walls was certainly strange, especially when used as a coping mechanism. However, for some reason, she felt that if she mentioned it, he would probably become frustrated with her. She decided to just let it be (for now).

"My aunt has a friend who is French. She has a similar accent, but she has an incredibly high-pitched voice. It's like opening and closing an old and creaky door when you have a conversation with her," she said, laughing.

“Oh! Did I forget? Where are my manners, I do apologize. Rowan Bane. That’s why you were so apprehensive to answer.” Rowan shook his head, understanding now, and a little disappointed in himself. 
“Ah! Yes I am. Interesting that you noticed. Some people don’t pick up on it, with how soft it is.”
Rowan listened again for a moment, recalling his mother as she described it. He laughed with her, still working quickly. “Ah yes, old french ladies. My mother is like that, honestly. Too high for her own good. She used to be a singer though. For the muggles. They were impressed with her voice.”
He shrugged slightly. “It’s not as bad as it used to be. She would be writing her songs and you could hear her all the way in the stables when she was in her room.”

Phoebe smiled. "You live on a farm?" she asked him. She remembered a time when she first started living with her aunt. Her aunt was also friends with a farmer who was about sixty or seventy years of age. He was a kind man, letting Phoebe feed his horses, Knight and Shelby, carrots and apples. He treated her much like a kind grandfather would. In return, Phoebe would help her aunt make snickerdoodles and bring a batch to him every weekend. That was, of course, until he died of a heart attack a couple years later.

Phoebe smiled. Despite his death, he left her with months full of fond memories, and she is incredibly grateful for that.

Phoebe finished the third bag, tossing it to the side so it could join the others. She then noticed there were only a couple more piles of feathers left. Her smile quickly turned into a grin, and she began to work just a little faster than she did before.

"I knew a farmer. He was really nice. Although, I must admit, I like to work on gardens rather than farms. It doesn't take as much heavy lifting, but it still has the same amount of dirt. I also enjoy the different colors of flowers and the fruits I grow and harvest. It's quite beautiful when it's in season," she said, cracking her neck. All that time being hunched over started to make her bones ache.

"It's sometimes a pain to take care of, though," she added.