28 Nov 2024, 01:19
Praise As Sweet As Peaches
♢ Date | Sometime In November, 2024 ♢
♢ Interacting With | Cyrus Darsel@Koko Riddle♢
♢ Hex Code | #C08838 ♢The first time Everett had gone to seek out Cyrus, he had found out that he had gone on the Hogwarts trip in October. It was one of the first ones Rett decided not to attend, seeking out time in Ilvermorny to clear his thoughts from a certain Durmstrang student that plagued his mind. Additionally, he had school work to catch up on that he knew wouldn't get done among the swarm of cute boys that were international school visits.
Still, it took awhile for the boy to seek him out again. It took a lot for Everett to admit that people were better than him, out loud. He had gathered up the courage and marched over to the common space for Horned Serpent and Wampus, and... he wasn't there. That was a sign from the universe that Rett actually didn't need mentorship from Cyrus. Cyrus didn't need to hear about how great Rett thought he was, and how talented and funny he was in the middle of a stressful situation. Surely, Cyrus already knew.
It was only a couple of weeks after all the students returned from the trip, looking worse for wear than they left. Which... honestly was pretty expected for Hogwarts. Rett usually returned feeling more haggard, emotionally and physically from travel. But, there were rumors that rippled through the student body about what had happened. Rett wasn't really one to be clued into this kind of gossip, especially since teenagers were known for exaggeration and blowing stories out of proportion. Just in case they had some semblance of truth though, Rett kept his distance from tracking down the older boy for now.
That for now lasted a good five days from his return to America. In his almost scarily neat uniform he walked over to the paralleled common room once more, this time finding him quite easily just sitting in one of the chairs in plain view of the entrance. He started speaking once he was standing in front of the boy, though if Cyrus had caught his eye on approach he would've given a small head nod of acknowledgement. "Howdy, Cyrus. Do you have a second for me to... ask and tell you somethin'?" The question, confusing, even to Rett. But, he didn't want to offload praise and admiration and a request for some sort of private dueling lesson if Cyrus was busy... sitting in a chair.Mod Note | Permission given to have Cyrus sitting in a chair.
"I don't know whether to cry or scream or do both. It feels like I've done more than enough of both. And it feels like I haven't done enough." - Mason Deaver
Stamina 12 ∴ Evasion 12 ∴ Strength 5 ∴ Wisdom 12 ∵ ArcPower 10 ∵ Accuracy 15
Stamina 12 ∴ Evasion 12 ∴ Strength 5 ∴ Wisdom 12 ∵ ArcPower 10 ∵ Accuracy 15
1 Dec 2024, 21:46
Praise As Sweet As Peaches
Since he had returned from Scotland, Cyrus couldn't help but shake the feeling that he wasn't supposed to be here. It had started, truthfully, before that: he had awoken to the sound of the cold wind instead of the chirping of songbirds, and he had known with a firm chill in his soul that nothing was right anymore.
He had not even unpacked anything at all. How could he? Some things had survived the explosion — and that comparison was, in itself, laughable! He had survived. Some of his belongings had survived. But what was to say for those humans, those beings full of life, who had not? What was to say for Headmaster Plott? What was to be said for those who had not been saved?
He was full of anger these days. Not that he thought he was righteous for it. He might have despised himself for it. Terrorists felt angry. Murderers felt angry. Both acted upon their anger. Cyrus was supposed to be joyful, radiant, kind — not so angry that sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He wasn't supposed to stoop down to their level.
Yet here he was. Alive. He hadn't been able to protect anyone.
(What a horrible, horrible thing to be: useless.)
The hours turned into days. The days had since turned into weeks. He was in America, but what did that matter? There were many who had ceased to exist in Europe. What difference did he have that let him live to see this day?
He sat on a chair in the common room, hunched over, his expression haggard, his usually-unkempt hair seeming even worse for wear than usual. His uniform was rumpled from the floor — he hadn't bothered to open his trunk, hadn't bothered to put it where it belonged. His shoes, for once, were normal. Instead of any of his strange shoes, he wore a simple pair of slippers.
He had come out here to attempt to do his assignments, but his usual lack of focus had been worse ever since he got back from Scotland. A pile of unfinished assignments sat next to him, and a set of mechanical pencils sat on his other side. Eraser shavings littered the papers.
He sighed to himself, his gaze caught somewhere far away, as if he weren't quite there, and he jolted in his seat when Everett spoke. He blinked, surprised, and smiled at his friend. 'Oh, hi, Rett.' He had to take longer than usual to process the question. Finally, he said, 'Of course I have a second! Actually, quite a few seconds, maybe even all day. Go for it!'
He had not even unpacked anything at all. How could he? Some things had survived the explosion — and that comparison was, in itself, laughable! He had survived. Some of his belongings had survived. But what was to say for those humans, those beings full of life, who had not? What was to say for Headmaster Plott? What was to be said for those who had not been saved?
He was full of anger these days. Not that he thought he was righteous for it. He might have despised himself for it. Terrorists felt angry. Murderers felt angry. Both acted upon their anger. Cyrus was supposed to be joyful, radiant, kind — not so angry that sometimes he woke up in a cold sweat, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. He wasn't supposed to stoop down to their level.
Yet here he was. Alive. He hadn't been able to protect anyone.
(What a horrible, horrible thing to be: useless.)
The hours turned into days. The days had since turned into weeks. He was in America, but what did that matter? There were many who had ceased to exist in Europe. What difference did he have that let him live to see this day?
He sat on a chair in the common room, hunched over, his expression haggard, his usually-unkempt hair seeming even worse for wear than usual. His uniform was rumpled from the floor — he hadn't bothered to open his trunk, hadn't bothered to put it where it belonged. His shoes, for once, were normal. Instead of any of his strange shoes, he wore a simple pair of slippers.
He had come out here to attempt to do his assignments, but his usual lack of focus had been worse ever since he got back from Scotland. A pile of unfinished assignments sat next to him, and a set of mechanical pencils sat on his other side. Eraser shavings littered the papers.
He sighed to himself, his gaze caught somewhere far away, as if he weren't quite there, and he jolted in his seat when Everett spoke. He blinked, surprised, and smiled at his friend. 'Oh, hi, Rett.' He had to take longer than usual to process the question. Finally, he said, 'Of course I have a second! Actually, quite a few seconds, maybe even all day. Go for it!'
Date: Sometime in November 2024
Time: Evening
Location: Ilvermorny — Thunderbird common room
Mentions: @Dorion Anderson as Everett Brooks
Stats & Abilities
Reducio
Stamina: 10 | Strength: 10 | Evasion: 10 | Wisdom: 10 | ArcP: 19 | Acc: 17
Obnoxiously Strong
Fearless
Charmer
Impartial
Poison Resistance
Spell Spread
Wandmaker (Phoenix Feather Core)
Obnoxiously Strong
Fearless
Charmer
Impartial
Poison Resistance
Spell Spread
Wandmaker (Phoenix Feather Core)
[pc] koko riddle · 'i was raised up to be admired.'
'hey! bom bom bom. got any grapes?' · cyrus darsel [inpc]