Post by Sofiya Mihailova on Dec 22, 2007 15:12:40 GMT -5
Sofiya hated Christmas. She hated the lights, the sounds, the colors, the feel—she just hated the whole deal. And with such a repulsive holiday drawing ever-closer, the obsession seemed to swell and grow within the student body, as well as the faculty staff. Trees being crushed beneath the oppressive weight of light and tinsel were shoved into any and every corner, and gargoyles were enchanted to loudly and abrasively sing “Oi, Moroz, Moroz.” In Sofiya’s opinion, the song was already horrible enough—it didn’t need the craggy crusty voices of the stone statues to be lewdly spewing it out.
One of the statues called out to her—its sightless stone eyes glinting with ill—humor. It wasn’t funny.
“Oh shut up, why don’t you!” She snapped, lashing out at the thing with her foot in an uncharacteristically violent display of anger. Foot struck solid stone, and she knew that that had been a mistake. Limping away, she could hear the chortling laughter lacing the stupid git’s song.
Placing her hands over her ears, she tried to block out the sound as a cluster of never-melt icicles created a light show and melody that was oddly reminiscent of the Russian Kazachok. There was no escape! No relief!
Injured foot long forgotten, she practically sprinted down the long, winding trail of stairs that led to the foyer, and was out the door in a matter of seconds. The cold, frigid northern air whipped across her bare face, bringing tears to her eyes. Adjusting her scarf and tightening her gloves, she steeled her slight frame, and continued marching towards the Quidditch Pitch. It wasn’t long before she got to her destination.
No, there weren’t any scheduled practices or games today, and by all means she had no clear-cut reason to be there, but still. Weere does one run to when the rest of the school has been overtaken with this stupid Christmas madness? The air, of course.
Pulling her broom out of its padlock and grabbing one of the practice quaffles, she mounted the thing and kicked off in one, fluid movement. Thirty feet in the air and she was beginning to feel better already.
Pulling her wand from the pocket of her coat, she muttered several inaudible words beneath her breath, and a small bolt of scarlet-colored light burst from the end of her wand, covering the sports ball like a blood-red film. Shoving her wand back into her pocket, she dropped the ball and took off flying for the hoops.
Instead of hitting the ground, the now-enchanted ball shot towards her, as if it had been thrown. Increasing speed, she pulled herself up further, intent on testing out her new move, which one of her friends had so cleverly coined “the hovering hummingbird.” It wasn’t a bad move, but having only practiced it in her own little private sessions, she wasn’t quite so sure that it was polished and ready for a real game. It was the epitome of a strategic offensive move—one that threw the keeper extremely off-balance, but left her wide open and completely defenseless to any sort of physical attack. She’d need two amazing beaters, or it’d be all over for her.
Turning her broom a full one hundred and eighty degrees, she spun about and readied herself. Releasing her grip upon her broom handle, she clutched the back end tightly with her thighs, and let gravity pull her over. As her upper body began to fall, she caught the quaffle; it’s solidly little red body falling into her hands like it was made for such things. Just as her torso reached a full ninety-degrees rotation, she threw the ball. It flew through the hoop with practiced ease. Suspended upside-down in the air, her plan was oddly effective. A Keeper’s defense relied solely on the movement of his opponent’s bodies. A turn of the hip, the reach of an arm—it was all he need to know to defended his post. Throw something as bizarre and odd as she had, into the mix, and it totally crushed any sort of readable body-langue. It was off-setting.
She sat there for a moment, letting her body hang suspended in the air. Panting in effort, she looked at the world from a topsy-turvy perspective and thought of home.
“I am coming to her
At the sunset of the day.
I will embrance my wife
And I will groom my horse. "
[/center]At the sunset of the day.
I will embrance my wife
And I will groom my horse. "
One of the statues called out to her—its sightless stone eyes glinting with ill—humor. It wasn’t funny.
“Oh shut up, why don’t you!” She snapped, lashing out at the thing with her foot in an uncharacteristically violent display of anger. Foot struck solid stone, and she knew that that had been a mistake. Limping away, she could hear the chortling laughter lacing the stupid git’s song.
Placing her hands over her ears, she tried to block out the sound as a cluster of never-melt icicles created a light show and melody that was oddly reminiscent of the Russian Kazachok. There was no escape! No relief!
Injured foot long forgotten, she practically sprinted down the long, winding trail of stairs that led to the foyer, and was out the door in a matter of seconds. The cold, frigid northern air whipped across her bare face, bringing tears to her eyes. Adjusting her scarf and tightening her gloves, she steeled her slight frame, and continued marching towards the Quidditch Pitch. It wasn’t long before she got to her destination.
No, there weren’t any scheduled practices or games today, and by all means she had no clear-cut reason to be there, but still. Weere does one run to when the rest of the school has been overtaken with this stupid Christmas madness? The air, of course.
Pulling her broom out of its padlock and grabbing one of the practice quaffles, she mounted the thing and kicked off in one, fluid movement. Thirty feet in the air and she was beginning to feel better already.
Pulling her wand from the pocket of her coat, she muttered several inaudible words beneath her breath, and a small bolt of scarlet-colored light burst from the end of her wand, covering the sports ball like a blood-red film. Shoving her wand back into her pocket, she dropped the ball and took off flying for the hoops.
Instead of hitting the ground, the now-enchanted ball shot towards her, as if it had been thrown. Increasing speed, she pulled herself up further, intent on testing out her new move, which one of her friends had so cleverly coined “the hovering hummingbird.” It wasn’t a bad move, but having only practiced it in her own little private sessions, she wasn’t quite so sure that it was polished and ready for a real game. It was the epitome of a strategic offensive move—one that threw the keeper extremely off-balance, but left her wide open and completely defenseless to any sort of physical attack. She’d need two amazing beaters, or it’d be all over for her.
Turning her broom a full one hundred and eighty degrees, she spun about and readied herself. Releasing her grip upon her broom handle, she clutched the back end tightly with her thighs, and let gravity pull her over. As her upper body began to fall, she caught the quaffle; it’s solidly little red body falling into her hands like it was made for such things. Just as her torso reached a full ninety-degrees rotation, she threw the ball. It flew through the hoop with practiced ease. Suspended upside-down in the air, her plan was oddly effective. A Keeper’s defense relied solely on the movement of his opponent’s bodies. A turn of the hip, the reach of an arm—it was all he need to know to defended his post. Throw something as bizarre and odd as she had, into the mix, and it totally crushed any sort of readable body-langue. It was off-setting.
She sat there for a moment, letting her body hang suspended in the air. Panting in effort, she looked at the world from a topsy-turvy perspective and thought of home.