The Cloister, the Cuillin, and the Crime Against a Page
The Transfiguration Courtyard, after first year Charms Class.
The day had run pretty quiet, so far in the peaceful Transfiguration courtyard, a perfectly serene environment where one could easily get lost in a book or lose track of time in the quiet serenity of the space, perfectly still that was until the courtyard rang with shouting, breaking the still before Beowulf even cleared the archway.
He was laughing as he had another first-year boy he was clearly friends with in a headlock under one arm and a half-eaten apple that they had been scrapping over clenched between his teeth.
The pair of them came stumbling through the cloister still wrestling for it like a brace of staghound pups, the other lad got a knee into somewhere unkind but in response to this Beowulf laughed around the apple, shoved the boy sprawling onto the flagstones, and spat the fruit triumphantly into his own palm.
"It's mine, ya wee scrunt." Beowulf proclaimed as he kept the apple away from the other boy. It's mine you stunted runt, also an insult akin to the strength of a swear it rhymes with that starts with c
He stood over the sprawled boy with both fists on his hips, chest puffed like a cockerel, and took a crunching, delighted bite that sent juice running down his chin, he did not wipe it.
The other boy groaned, rolled onto his side, and waved a defeated hand giving a lighthearted laugh before leaving the scene. Is that still too much interaction or is that more what you were talking about?
That was when Beowulf noticed the girl, she was appeared to be tucked at the far end of a bench under the arch, knees drawn up under a book that looked nearly as big as she was, and from the look she seemed to be giving him you would have thought he had just trodden in something and brought it indoors on his boot.
He looked back at her with a wide, apple-filled grin, sizing her up he thought her to be a small scrap of a thing, all elbows and pinched mouth, peering at him over the top of her tome like he was an exhibit in a glass case at a museum, and she was displeased with the curating.
'One of those wee indoors lasses who had never put a boot wrong on a hillside in her life and looked like a good gust would fold her up and post her home'a tiny woman who spends all her time indoors and never steps out of line, always follows what she's told and weak enough that she would float away in a strong wind he thought to himself.
Beowulf had been at Hogwarts a while, though he had remained mostly unfocused except for his key interest, one thing he'd already learnt about though was Ravenclaws, from what he'd noticed they sat, they read and they looked at you like you were a bit of mud they were trying to work out how to scrape off without touching.
He had no patience for it, no sir, back home a person earned their airs by doing something worth airing about, hauling a creel, walking the ridges, putting a roof back on after a January gale, in his mind sitting on a bench reading was not on the list of worthy accomplishments.
'Well' he decided, 'That's a face that needs cheering, or at the very least a damn good bothering.'
He shoved the rest of the apple in his mouth, all of it, cheeks bulging like a squirrel, and tramped over chewing loudly with his mouth open, not changing his grin, when he reached her He did not so much sit down so much as fall onto the bench beside her, close enough that his thigh bumped her knee through her robes, the wood letting out a great offended creak under his weight.
Both his boots stuck straight out in front, one had its laces undone, the other had laces tied wrong, in a great clumsy knot like a child's first effort, both were speckled with mud on the heel.
He leaned right over her book to peer at the page, near enough that she would feel him breathing apple at her, and reached down with one grubby, juice-sticky finger to turn the corner up so he could squint at the cover, a small smear of apple juice came off his thumb and stayed there on the paper, glistening.
"Whit's that, then? What's this, then?" he said, mouth still full, far too loud for the quiet of the cloister despite being full of fruit, a fleck of said fruit landing square on her page, he did not appear to notice or at the least appear to care. "Yon book's enormous! well, compared to ye anyrate, are ye readin' it for the joy o' it, lass, or did some puir soul dae ye a wrong, an' that's the wyrd ye've laid on him?" That book's enormous! well, compared to you at any rate, are you reading it for the joy of reading or did some poor soul do you a wrong and that's the fate you've placed on him
He swallowed the great wad of apple in one final gulp, his throat working like a snake, and then grinned at her sidelong, all teeth, an apple seed stuck to his lip, and another caught in the corner of his mouth.
"Och, dinnae look at me like that, lass, I'll nae bite ye. Hey, don't look at me like that, girl, I'll not bite you." He paused, considered, then picked something out of his back teeth with his tongue. "Probably." He then wiped his sticky hand down the front of his own robes and offered it to her to shake, palm up and faintly tacky.
"Beowulf," he introduced himself.
"Beowulf Gordon MacLeod, o' Duncarnavoine Hollow under the Black Cuillin. Hou d'ye dae.Beowulf Gordon MacLeod of Duncarnabvoine Hollow (birth place) located under the Black Cuillin (the dark mountains found on the Isle of Skye)" He left the hand hanging there between them, eyebrows up, perfectly content to wait her out.
(Hope that's alright as an opener; I wanted to give the worst possible first impression I could come up with, help have you see him as a full on brute, but if I was too controlling of introducing your character to the scene let me know and I am happy to change it up)
@Mikaela Hendricks
Word count 960 words.
The day had run pretty quiet, so far in the peaceful Transfiguration courtyard, a perfectly serene environment where one could easily get lost in a book or lose track of time in the quiet serenity of the space, perfectly still that was until the courtyard rang with shouting, breaking the still before Beowulf even cleared the archway.
He was laughing as he had another first-year boy he was clearly friends with in a headlock under one arm and a half-eaten apple that they had been scrapping over clenched between his teeth.
The pair of them came stumbling through the cloister still wrestling for it like a brace of staghound pups, the other lad got a knee into somewhere unkind but in response to this Beowulf laughed around the apple, shoved the boy sprawling onto the flagstones, and spat the fruit triumphantly into his own palm.
"It's mine, ya wee scrunt." Beowulf proclaimed as he kept the apple away from the other boy. It's mine you stunted runt, also an insult akin to the strength of a swear it rhymes with that starts with c
He stood over the sprawled boy with both fists on his hips, chest puffed like a cockerel, and took a crunching, delighted bite that sent juice running down his chin, he did not wipe it.
The other boy groaned, rolled onto his side, and waved a defeated hand giving a lighthearted laugh before leaving the scene. Is that still too much interaction or is that more what you were talking about?
That was when Beowulf noticed the girl, she was appeared to be tucked at the far end of a bench under the arch, knees drawn up under a book that looked nearly as big as she was, and from the look she seemed to be giving him you would have thought he had just trodden in something and brought it indoors on his boot.
He looked back at her with a wide, apple-filled grin, sizing her up he thought her to be a small scrap of a thing, all elbows and pinched mouth, peering at him over the top of her tome like he was an exhibit in a glass case at a museum, and she was displeased with the curating.
'One of those wee indoors lasses who had never put a boot wrong on a hillside in her life and looked like a good gust would fold her up and post her home'a tiny woman who spends all her time indoors and never steps out of line, always follows what she's told and weak enough that she would float away in a strong wind he thought to himself.
Beowulf had been at Hogwarts a while, though he had remained mostly unfocused except for his key interest, one thing he'd already learnt about though was Ravenclaws, from what he'd noticed they sat, they read and they looked at you like you were a bit of mud they were trying to work out how to scrape off without touching.
He had no patience for it, no sir, back home a person earned their airs by doing something worth airing about, hauling a creel, walking the ridges, putting a roof back on after a January gale, in his mind sitting on a bench reading was not on the list of worthy accomplishments.
'Well' he decided, 'That's a face that needs cheering, or at the very least a damn good bothering.'
He shoved the rest of the apple in his mouth, all of it, cheeks bulging like a squirrel, and tramped over chewing loudly with his mouth open, not changing his grin, when he reached her He did not so much sit down so much as fall onto the bench beside her, close enough that his thigh bumped her knee through her robes, the wood letting out a great offended creak under his weight.
Both his boots stuck straight out in front, one had its laces undone, the other had laces tied wrong, in a great clumsy knot like a child's first effort, both were speckled with mud on the heel.
He leaned right over her book to peer at the page, near enough that she would feel him breathing apple at her, and reached down with one grubby, juice-sticky finger to turn the corner up so he could squint at the cover, a small smear of apple juice came off his thumb and stayed there on the paper, glistening.
"Whit's that, then? What's this, then?" he said, mouth still full, far too loud for the quiet of the cloister despite being full of fruit, a fleck of said fruit landing square on her page, he did not appear to notice or at the least appear to care. "Yon book's enormous! well, compared to ye anyrate, are ye readin' it for the joy o' it, lass, or did some puir soul dae ye a wrong, an' that's the wyrd ye've laid on him?" That book's enormous! well, compared to you at any rate, are you reading it for the joy of reading or did some poor soul do you a wrong and that's the fate you've placed on him
He swallowed the great wad of apple in one final gulp, his throat working like a snake, and then grinned at her sidelong, all teeth, an apple seed stuck to his lip, and another caught in the corner of his mouth.
"Och, dinnae look at me like that, lass, I'll nae bite ye. Hey, don't look at me like that, girl, I'll not bite you." He paused, considered, then picked something out of his back teeth with his tongue. "Probably." He then wiped his sticky hand down the front of his own robes and offered it to her to shake, palm up and faintly tacky.
"Beowulf," he introduced himself.
"Beowulf Gordon MacLeod, o' Duncarnavoine Hollow under the Black Cuillin. Hou d'ye dae.Beowulf Gordon MacLeod of Duncarnabvoine Hollow (birth place) located under the Black Cuillin (the dark mountains found on the Isle of Skye)" He left the hand hanging there between them, eyebrows up, perfectly content to wait her out.
(Hope that's alright as an opener; I wanted to give the worst possible first impression I could come up with, help have you see him as a full on brute, but if I was too controlling of introducing your character to the scene let me know and I am happy to change it up)
@Mikaela Hendricks
Word count 960 words.
Last edited by Kaitlyn Connor on 30 Apr 2026, 22:36, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: Changed topic type to an RP :)
The Cloister, the Cuillin, and the Crime Against a Page
Code by Fawkes Chaos I wasn't having a good day. Or a good week. Or, being fair, a good streak. I had been stressed, and moody and, in my pa's words, having a moment. Exams were just around the corner, and I knew that this was going to be, possibly, my worst weekend. I just knew it.
Morning, after charms class :TIME
x
So I decided to study. Like always.
The common room was filled. The library was particularly noisy. And the weather was... good. Well, good enough to study outside. At least it wasn't raining.
I sat on a bench by the courtyard with my Transfigurations book. I have to admit, it was a bit big, even for me, but I wanted to be ready for whatever question the teacher did next class. Besides, I had some time to spare before my next class.
And I was there, studying, happy with my book, minding my own business... when all of a sudden, I hear this weird, agitating voice. I looked up from my book, curious and...
A gryffindor was making a scandal. He had some other guy in a headlock (a friend, I guessed) and they were... sharing an apple?
Disgusting.
The other boy left, and I could finally look at the guilty of my distraction: A big boy, probably a first year, second as much. Big, but not like tall-big. He was big-big. I read and heard about kids who were part-giants. I had never seen one, but I thought that, if he wasn't one, then he was the closest to one I'd ever see.
I think my face expression should've said it all cause, one second later, he looked at me. And I won lots of silver stars on my younger years, but none of them were for my... exact subtlety.
He ate the apple all. In one bite. It was even more disgusting than the fact that he shared it.
Then, with all and his juicy hands, he sat next to me. And my giant theory was confirmed once I noticed how the bench creaked.
Please, don't talk to me. There are, exactly, five more benches around. Please, leave.
He didn't. In fact, he had the cinism to lean closer, right where I could smell his breath (thank Saints I didn't throw up), lift a juicy hand and...
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no...
He said something. I didn't hear. Nor understand, where was that accent from? I didn't even wanna know. I was just focused on the fact that his hand was over the book.
Touching it. With his ugly, big, juicy and disgusting hand.
He said something else I couldn't quite focus on while he touched a page again, and in that moment I was pretty sure I could've passed out. I think my face reflected that.
He cleaned (tried) his hand with his clothes (again, disgusting), and introduced himself. Finally, civilized words I understood.
"Beowulf Gordon MacLeod, o' Duncarnavoine Hollow under the Black Cuillin. Hou d'ye dae"
Oh, well. Great. Now I was talking to a weird dude with a weird name from a weird place. Perfect.
Mikaela Hendricks, if you don't wanna throw up over him and mess him up even more, for all your Saints' sake, don't look at his face.
I decided I had enough. I took all my will power and, with my back straight, my characteristic braid perfectly done and a face that I'm sure reflected my thoughts, I stood up and walked away from him, not even bothering on giving him my name.
"I was good. I was really good"
| PC: Mikaela Hendricks | Shop: The Hendricks Archives | iNPC: Coming soon |
The Cloister, the Cuillin, and the Crime Against a Page
The bench was suddenly very empty beside him.
Beowulf blinked. His hand was still out, the wee scrap of a girl had not taken it, had not said her name, had not said anything at all, in fact, she had just gathered up her enormous book against her chest like he was about to snatch it off her, stood up with her back so straight you could have used her for a ship's mast, and marched away across the flagstones without so much as a good day to him.
He watched her go, the braids down her back were so perfectly done it looked as if her mother had got at it with a ruler, her small shoes made not a sound on the stones.
His hand was still out.
Slowly, with what he considered great dignity, he lowered it to his lap, and then, because the dignity was wasted on no one in particular, he wiped it on his robes again.
He looked at the way she was walking off, all stiff little shoulders, he looked back at his hand. Then he tipped his head back and let out a great bark of a laugh that bounced off the stones.
"Aye, an' a fine guid day tae yersel' an' a', yer wee leddyship!" he bellowed after her, cheerful as a herald at a feast, loud enough that two passing Hufflepuffs jumped sideways. Yes, and a fine good day to yourself as well, your little ladyship! "Dinnae fash yersel' aboot tellin' me yer name, like, I'll jist cry ye Yer Majesty an' hae done wi' it!" Don't trouble yourself about telling me your name, I'll just call you Your Majesty and have done with it!
He sucked his teeth and shook his head, slumping further down the bench with both arms flung along the back of it, boots stuck out in front. 'London,' he thought to himself with a roll of the eyes, and he would put a Galleon on it.
'One of those soft wee indoor lasses from a great quiet city full of carpets and hushed voices, who thought a person from a place with proper weather in it was a beast in boots, he had seen it on her face plain as she were.'
The wrinkled-up nose at his apple, the way she had looked at his hand when he offered it as though offering a hand was a crime it boiled in his blood.
'A bairn-sized snob with a braid and a book the weight of a paving slab, and not the courtesy or manners in her to give a name when one was offered.' He thought bitterly
'Gran would have skelped smacked her round the ears for that, fine breeding or not, down the Hollow, you gave your name when it was asked, that was the price of a body's hospitality, and you did not need to like the asker to do it.
Even old Murdo who had not had a kind word in him since the Eighties gave his name when it was asked, but not Yer Majesty, oh no. Yer Majesty's name was clearly too fine a thing to be handed out to the likes of me.'
"Bonnie manners ye've got there, Yer Majesty!" he called after her, louder this time, because an audience was an audience. Lovely manners you've got there, Your Majesty! "A right credit tae yer hoose, sae ye are! I'll mind tae tell my maw aboot ye when I write hame, she'll be fair delichtit tae hear o' the quality doon sooth!" A real credit to your house, you are! I'll remember to tell my mother about you when I write home, she'll be properly delighted to hear about the quality down south!
Beowulf blew a long whistle through his teeth and slumped properly now, head right back, the stone cool through his hair, then stretched both his legs out so far, the heels of his boots scraped on the flagstones, and folded his arms across his chest.
A snob, then, a right wee snob in a braid, he had thought as much from twenty paces off and she had gone and proved every bit of it before she even opened her mouth, which she had not, the once.
Could not even speak to a person, no she just had to walk off like a little queen with the gout, nose in the air so high she was like to trip on a cobble.
"Pfft." he chuckled to himself; oh this was going to be a lot of fun.
He looked at the smear of apple juice she had left on the bench beside him from where she had been sitting, scratched it idly with a thumbnail, and grinned a slow, unbothered grin up at the cloister vaulting.
"Och weel," he said, to nobody, to the courtyard, to the little snob who was no longer there to hear it. Oh well. "The castle's nae sae big, Yer Majesty. I'll be seein' ye aboot." the castle isn't so big, Your Majesty. I'll be seeing you around.
And he meant to. Oh, he very much meant to.
Word Count: 845
Tagging @Mikaela Hendricks
The Cloister, the Cuillin, and the Crime Against a Page
Code by Fawkes Chaos "Scourgify." I casted as I walked away, cleaning the book. This... Moron didn't even think that this was a book from the library, and I'd be dead if something happened to it.
Morning, after charms class :TIME
x
Well, honestly, I'd be more surprised if he in general, had a brain instead of muscles.
He kept saying things that, honestly, I didn't care about. Between them, I understood that he was... Offended by the fact that I didn't bother on giving him my name.
Well, why give him my name? I really doubt he's even able to say it well.
Besides, he was the one offended? And scolding me about my manners? He was the one who looked like he was raised in the streets! What kind of manners did he have to come say me those things?
As I walked away from the courtyard, heading somewhere away from that thing (Saints knew it couldn't be a human being), I heard something that really pissed me off.
'Yer Majesty'.
No. Oh, no. I was not his majesty.
I was just about to turn around and shout him one or two truths, but I decided to go with peace today, walking away even faster than before.
Well, the castle was big enough for the two of us, right? And hopefully, I could reduce our encounters at the minimum...
Right?
"I was good. I was really good"
| PC: Mikaela Hendricks | Shop: The Hendricks Archives | iNPC: Coming soon |