11 Apr 2022, 12:21
Fireproof Trousers
Mentioning: @Marshal Mozor | Dialogue Hex: #1433147th of January, 2022THE LETTER:
ReducioEven with his spectacular surplus of pride and prejudice, there were a number of quadratic quandaries and paradoxical puzzles that Leonard Wendell Oaksworth had not a hope of solving. He held out with stiff standing onto grounds that these unsolvable mysteries were not rendered unsolvable of his own accord, that this incapacity would be shared by the brightest brains found in works of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie alike, though there wasn’t much evidence pointing towards Poirot being privy to problems of the Pensieve and poltergeists anyhow. Holmes, on the other hand, had the slightest sliver of faith given only due to having a striking sense of fashion and unhealthy obsessions hinting towards some wizard blood in his ice cold veins. Yes, there was little to suggest this was a case of causation rather than correlation, but it was a case he’d gladly distract himself with as he nursed his own striking sense of fashion coupled with obsessions as healthy as his ghastly complexion suggested. If only, he mused, his Snape dormmates could have hopes of being as high-functioning as the deerstalker donning detective. Instead, they were merely left with the ‘sociopath’ part of Sherlock’s self-description, either born or becoming a poster person of everything wrong with magical education. Shallow, fleeting, empty; despite their insistence on packing the time left in the school year with horrors best suited for a British Broadcasting Corporation syndicated series about the murders of childhood innocence, Leonard suspected that was all their interactions, their supposed emotions, and motives behind both were. Never to mind the fact this (correctly, may records show) meant he was shallow, he was fleeting, and sometimes he felt as though everything about him was and would be empty.
The breezy January day was not one to be ruined by the snappish snakes eating each others’ metaphorical eggs, however. The meeting he’d arranged had a growing chance of being interrupted in one way or another, with the approaching evening meal and light drizzling dousing dampness upon those unlucky enough to find themselves outside, but he would not let it be the fault of the things their disastrous reptilian den housed. No factor would put an end to their appointment, not unless the other boy didn’t show up to bask in the glory of his newly attained friend. The anxious line of thought turned to a mystery very much unsolved: where in the world was Marshal? He’d sent the letter at the beginning of the week, and it was expected that business for the Owlery would be more, well, busy, considering the year’s beginning and the general bustle of returning from winter break. Frankly, he hadn’t needed to burden the birds further if it wasn’t for his aversion towards setting up encounters with extroverted beings, and even moreso, the boredom of simply telling his partner in dragon training to meet him at a given place, a given time, for a given purpose. With absolutely no relation to the unnamed medical condition that caused his hands to turn clammy as Michelin star winning chowder, nor the similar infliction that wrung his vocal cords out to fry and dry when it was time to speak without a thoroughly prepared script, he just knew that the Gryffindor wouldn’t appreciate the blandness of a plain oral invitation. It had to be as enigmatic as both its invitee and its arresting subject, especially when the given place was on the unconventional side.
He stood in the dingy dungeons with all focus on the dragon in his hands. No, he hadn’t a shilling of scrutiny to spare upon such trivial things as hypothermia or sudden hallucinations of a figure in the shadows as of then. He, ambiguous as the meaning of his message to Marshal was, knew what had to happen and what was absolutely going to happen. Leonard Oaksworth had been compared, in varying degrees of accuracy and affront, to quite a number of things over the course of his turbulent career in the position of Somewhat Alive Entity, and he really did mean things. Whether it was a mannequin, a piece of cardboard, or a cardboard mannequin that also happened to disproportionately punish those who slighted him in any manner and baked halfway decent muffins at home, he was not to be considered a person, which was fine. A dungeon in his own right, the path to the substitute soul in the centre of the chaos was confusing, to say the least. Barriers. And yet, there was a staggering amount above zero of Hogwarts folk who had gotten more advanced than they were ever supposed to, one of them indeed being the myth and legend Marshal Mozor. They could all be numbered on one hand, and he had no intentions of changing that, for the other metacarpus in his possession was dedicated to a relatively new friend, scurrying across to his shrivelled heart as though it were easier than blinking.
It was told of in stories dating back to the mediaeval era and films dating forward to as recently as the legion of Chrises had gained a sustainable career. Love expressed itself in many forms, and one was a bolt, the shock of finding someone so incredible one’s vision orbs turned to enlarged cartoon hearts. The lightning had never struck him, never buzzed in his bones and ran a shiver down his spine quite like it did when he met Merlin Normandy Leonardius Rosconai Owain Ddraig-Oaksworth. Beady eyes connected to his own, and he was absolutely done for. While his beardie’s penchant for affection and talent with calming him down on the common occasion Leonard felt like disappearing into the nearest abyss, one of the most important ingredients in the beginning of their fellowship was the former’s species: the baby bearded dragon. A baby, sure, and verily bearded, but Merlin was a dragon, no matter that the wings or flaming breath was missing. When he’d gone to retrieve the dragon from its tank, he counted on this to be the drawing point for him and Marshal to go deeper into each other’s dungeons, especially. For sakes of the beard they wore Halloween night, he named the lizard Merlin. Mozor couldn’t not appreciate this unless, as was the circumstances seemingly creeping up on them, he didn’t come. Merlin had adjusted to the cooler climate of the dungeons quickly enough, but Leo the Dragon Trainer had fairly intuitive suspicions that his animal companion would rather return to his container sooner than later. No longer Leonard, the nickname came with a more confident persona he’d started to try on for wear–it wasn’t faking it until he made it per se if he made it too fast to notice. And so Leo waited with his totally healthy not-obsession about understanding who Marshal was through his totally awesome dragon, whom he was also not obsessed with whatsoever.
Approximately four minutes and fifty-two seconds into this waiting, he commenced the tapping of his foot unto the ground. What started as an innocuous way to pass the time matured into a skittish, audibly agitated percussion piece at a pace rivalling Chopin’s Minute Waltz. For now, all he could do was breathe, wait, hold Merlin in his bony palms, and try his very best to not perish on the spot. Wait, had he forgotten his fireproof trousers?
much to the detriment of leonard oaksworth’s mental health...
26 May 2022, 09:01
Fireproof Trousers
Wonderful Banner by Leonard Oaksworth@Leonard OaksworthHe was late, he felt, for a very important date. How the twists, turns and convoluted yet systematic chaos of the corridors still baffled his sense of direction was beyond him. He’d inhabited this enormous building for a period of time swiftly approaching a year and a half, and yet his current predicament mirrored those which he’d found himself in on more numerous occasions than seemed quite necessary throughout the course of his first few months at the school.
Had he taken four lefts in a row? Certainly that couldn’t be correct, lest he’d have ended up in the same- yes, that did indeed appear to be the same painting he’d had the pleasure of passing several minutes prior, and the disapproving glower of its inhabitant had lost none of its zeal for the aim of driving home the foolishness he already felt.
”Cut me some slack, okay?” Two upraised hands would compliment the exasperation in his voice, equally incredulous eyes accosting the overly critical piece of art. ”I’ve only been to the dungeons like once! How am I supposed to remember every turn to get back?”
It was then, and only then, as the man in the painting upheld his self-righteous gaze with astonishingly unwavering intensity, that Marshal opted for a closer inspection of his features. This resulted in the realization that this particular painting was not of the magical variety, but was rather a perfectly normal work of craftsmanship; ergo, the man in the painting did not possess the ability to judge the apparent foolhardiness of any errant student who might pass his way. And in other words, Marshal had not been the victim of disapproving ire, but instead had projected his own thoughts that the boy in the hall was a moron onto the painting; which, of course, made him feel a good deal more foolish.
”Jerk,” he muttered reproachfully, though whether the comment was directed at the painting or his own conscience would remain a mystery as he moved on his way… taking another left.
The letter languished uselessly in his increasingly sweaty hands, serving only as an object to glare at with sufficient intensity that a makeshift map might appear where stimulating words only mocked his inability to find a simple path. Yet no such map appeared, leaving him to read feverishly over those words until he could likely repeat the entire thing in his sleep.
Leo was expecting him. And beyond even the eagerness which chimed with the beat of his heart at the prospect of meeting with his best friend, the remainder of the letter’s contents urged the rhythm of that beat into overdrive. Dragons? Secrecy? Life-changing events? Fireproof trousers? Leo being excited about something? All of it screamed hints at unconventional happenstance, and Marshal was nothing if not a lover of unconventional happenstance. He simply had to know what all the fuss was about.
And yet, he may never learn if he couldn’t find his darned way to the dungeons.
Ironically, Leo had hidden their meeting place so well that even the party he intended to meet might never find him. At the very least, there was something to be said for effectiveness.
Frustration, misery, and a great deal of berated paintings occupied the substantial amount of time the Gryffindor spent wandering the corridors before a telltale staircase made its appearance, leading downward. A dull bell of recognition rang in his mind at the sight of it, but if nothing else, down was the correct direction; surely he’d reach the right place eventually and not become forever lost in the depths of the dungeons. His sense of direction was clearly too impeccable for any of that business.
Right. He was likely doomed.
But then again, one more glance at the words ‘fireproof trousers’, jotted on the crinkled page in his hands, overcame the threat of certain doom. There were dragons to be tamed, and friends whose hair likely required saving from resultant flames.
Shoving Leo’s letter in one pocket, the boy began his descent into the gloomy depths.
Much to his relief and enthusiasm, Leonard did - in fact - occupy the hall at the foot of the stairs, his presence initially announced by a musical tapping sound, playing with an anxious tone which could only be elicited by the shoe of his favorite uneasy serpent.
”Leo!” The call bounced from one wall to another as he traversed the final few steps. His words would reach the other boy’s ears before either one of them spotted the other. ”I’m late, I know! But your map contained a distinct lack of directions, and the paintings were no help at all. I’ll even admit my sense of direction is slightly subpar, so you should have-“
It was then that his friend came into full view. Eyes attempting to make adjustments to the dimmer lighting of the dungeons, he wasn’t entirely certain what Leo was holding. But it was large and - scaly?
”Leo…” His tone had dropped to little more than a whisper, the drastic change wrought as quickly as his gaze alighted upon the living subject. ”Is that…?” The question would be left open-ended, awarding ample space for Leonard to finish it by way of an answer.
~Sometimes you have to laugh at yourself. It helps if you give yourself plenty of reasons~
STA ✩ 10 | EVA ✩ 10 | STR ✩ 14 | WIS ✩ 7 | ARC ✩ 6 | ACC ✩ 15
STA ✩ 10 | EVA ✩ 10 | STR ✩ 14 | WIS ✩ 7 | ARC ✩ 6 | ACC ✩ 15