3 Feb 2020, 11:21
A Flight of Ambition
@Rafael D'SpacitoJanuary 24th, 2020, Evening
Snow fell gently from the white-gray blanket of clouds pressing heavily from above. Hovering twenty feet about the air, Evelynn sat hunched over, shoulders heaving. Even an onlooker from below could see her exertion. The breaths that billowed in clouds of condensation had become jagged, frequent. And as the afternoon waned into evening with the setting sun, she started wincing with each sharp intake of air. It was cold. Too cold.
Her breaks came more and more often. This whole endeavor to practice and train for the Gryffindor team try-outs hadn't exactly been the walk in the park that Evelynn had been building herself up to expect. Flying had come so naturally. Like riding a bike. Or a horse. The whip of wind, the thrill of a dive, the counter-balancing and subtle shifting of weight to accommodate the various turns and maneuvers…in many ways, it wasn't at all dissimilar to the years she had spent atop her hunter mare. But the rest of it -- handling the quaffle, smashing the bludgers, and protecting the hoops -- was another thing entirely.
The only thing that had come quite easily and naturally to her was catching the snitch. She'd developed quite the keen eye from an early age, often the first to find her mother's lost keys, or the missing piece to a puzzle, or to connect new dots in the Liberation endeavors. While watching the quidditch matches, she often found herself internally screaming at the Gryffindor seeker to see what she saw and go after the snitch. Of course, it was all well and good to search for something from the safety and relative calm of the stands as compared to the utter chaos of the game's pitch. Even still, she had felt the satisfying flutter of wings between her fingers on more than one occasion while working in previous sessions with the flying instructor to find her strengths. She was quick, Evelynn, lithe and light and sharp as a tack. She'd make a good seeker.
Unfortunately, there weren't spots for seekers. There were spots for beaters. So here she was, bat in hand, practicing for the position she thought herself least likely to pursue. A slowly climbing whistle broke Evelynn from her thoughts. Ahead to the right, billowing snow swirled in an angry torrent as something round and dark came streaking towards her. Her break was over, it seemed.
"Oh crap," she heard herself mutter, numb fingers fumbling to try to get a proper grasp on the bat.
Not quick enough.
Flattening herself against her broom, she jutted forward just in time to avoid the cross collision course of the blood-thirsty projectile. Arcing around in a wide circle, she retraced her retreat. Keen eyes fell quickly upon the bludger in its parabolic arc as it, too, came barreling back towards her again as though shot from a slingshot. This time, she was ready. Closer is flew, growing larger, and larger, splitting a path through the falling snow. Evelynn wound up her shot, and swung with the might of a jumped up hissing kitty-cat.
Thunk.
Not the crisp crack she was hoping to hear. What was worse, the impact sent a jolt of pain up her arm and into her shoulder. It hadn't been so bad at the start of the practice, but with every swing, her shoulder grew more tender. At least the cold was helping to ease the pain a bit, right? A sort of environmental cold compress. Still, even if the strength of the connection wasn't one to owl home about, it was hard to deny the precision of the strike. If there had been a little more oomph behind the blow, the trajectory of the bludger would have taken it straight across the pitch and through the center hoop opposite her.
In the distance, she could hear the chatter of conversation, the shrieks of laughter of what she assumed was another snowball fight, the crunching of snow underfoot as a student here and there carved a path through the knee deep snow. She paid them little mind, however. Tried to ignore anyone who might chance a glance her way. With the bludger struck off and away, Evelynn had the very brief and very precious opportunity to try to recuperate. She slumped over her broom once again. Another reprieve. Another short rest. Shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths. And all the while, she kept her gaze on the bludger so as not to lose track of it in the falling snow.
4 Feb 2020, 22:32
A Flight of Ambition
@Evelynn Decipio
[font=Segoe Print]It wasn’t the most ideal day for a practice, Rafael noted as he slid his Quidditch Uniform on. He’d been gazing outside all day, his eyes wandering out the windows in just about every class he had [not] participated in during the harrowing day. The conditions weren’t exactly favorable, what with the heavy blanket of snow on the ground, the air nippy and chilling, the grounds busy with students looking for fun in the snow. The day made for distractions, setbacks, bad playing. It was as if mother nature had deemed this day unworthy of a Quidditch Practice, setting down the rules and expecting wise Quidditch Players to follow suite.
What she didn’t know, was that Rafa didn’t follow rules.
Truth be told, Quidditch was one of the only things the boy actually understood. Flying had been second nature, something he didn’t even realize he fully understood until he hopped on a broom and gave it a whirl. The art was just so easy, so understandable… and yet, so many people found it difficult. Which made no sense, in Rafa’s opinion. It was like speaking Spanish, something everyone should know how to do. And yet, everyone around seemed to have a one-track mind, the only things coming out their mouths being the strange and uncomfortable language the people called English. He supposed that, by now, he should be over it, but it still bothered him, even a year and six months after he’d mastered the difficult language. He could only imagine the views of a first-timer. Part of him ached for those people, and he often wished he could share his knowledge, even if just for a second.
Quidditch had been the exact same. The throwing of the ball, the dodging of bludgers, the cheering, the adrenaline, the rush. It was as if whoever had made the sport were thinking of a specific Gryffindor first-year in mind. The game was a language, a puzzle few could understand. But Rafa could see it. He could see all the answers, all the maneuvers, all the plays. There was something purely comforting about the sport, something that put Rafa at peace every time he walked onto the field. It was no football, but it would have to settle for second place. The sky sport was amazing, and he wasn’t sure he’d give it up for anything.
That wasn’t to say that the sport didn’t confuse him at times. Though the maneuvers came naturally, it was impossible to predict the reactions of his fellow players. People were unpredictable, to put it simply, and he had to learn to react to them. He often practiced alone, freshening up his reflexes from time to time. You’ve gotta stay sharp, the Northlands Coach had told his football team after a mercy-rule game. Get too cocky, and the other team will get the best of you every time. And Rafael had lived by those words. He knew, better than anyone, that lack of practice would result in terrible playing. It didn’t matter how good you though you were. The boy had trekked down to the field every other day as a result, sharpening his skills and reflexes for hours on end. The pitch was usually empty at this time, as he’d found the golden hour for practice.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if the field was taken today. As he stepped onto the field, broom in hand and headband pushing his hair out of his face, his chocolate-brown eyes caught another student in the sky, a face he couldn’t recognize from the distance he stood. It was a bit infuriating, seeing another student on the field – he felt a scowl take over his face, a massive dramatic sigh escaping his chest. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, his mood partially spoiled by the sudden discovery. No matter. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on this. Instead of giving any more attention to the student in the sky, he turned to find the Quaffle –
That’s when he saw the bludger.
Anyone who watched Quidditch could tell you that a bludger was dangerous. It was a known fact that multiple serious injuries had been caused by the small ball, and even more minor injuries, at that. The ball was not at all safe, and for that reason, typical students weren’t allowed to take them out of the ball box. It was a bit disturbing to the first year’s eyes, seeing the ball dart across the sky – and right for the girl.
Yes, he could see her better, now that her angle had changed. In that moment, he’d recognized the girl as Evelynn Decepio – his face immediately soured. Now, he didn’t like to go making assumptions about people, but he’d heard quite a few things about her. Particularly from Wren Caster, one of his best mates. From what he had heard, she was brash, stuck up, and a know-it-all. And, while she had merits in finding answers, her attitude didn’t really make her an ally in Raf’s book. He eyed her scathingly. Who does she think she is, getting a bludger out? He wondered angrily to himself. They’re reserved for the beaters! She’s going to bloody hurt herself. But, what made the whole sight even more amusing, was her mannerisms in the moment – it almost looked as if she were practicing, or something. That was the icing on the cake, the cherry on the top of crap-Rafael-can-take-in-a-day meter. Thinks she’s a bloody Quidditch Player, she does.
Without taking a moment more to assess the situation, the Gryffindor brashly jumped on his broom, heaving himself up and darting through the air like a bullet. [Or, as much like a bullet as he could manage. It wasn’t like he was on a bloody Firebolt, or anything.] In just a few seconds, he was hovering in her airspace, close enough to be heard and far enough to stay clear of the bludger. “Hey!” he yelled, his voice lost in the wind. His face growing ever agitated and angry, he yelled again, this time his voice carrying. “HEY!” he yelled again, giving her a very scathing look. Gesturing to the flying ball, he made his argument. “You aren’t supposed to get these out! Quidditch Players only!” He nodded his head in a sarcastic way, his countenance icy. “You mind coming down, now?” [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]It wasn’t the most ideal day for a practice, Rafael noted as he slid his Quidditch Uniform on. He’d been gazing outside all day, his eyes wandering out the windows in just about every class he had [not] participated in during the harrowing day. The conditions weren’t exactly favorable, what with the heavy blanket of snow on the ground, the air nippy and chilling, the grounds busy with students looking for fun in the snow. The day made for distractions, setbacks, bad playing. It was as if mother nature had deemed this day unworthy of a Quidditch Practice, setting down the rules and expecting wise Quidditch Players to follow suite.
What she didn’t know, was that Rafa didn’t follow rules.
Truth be told, Quidditch was one of the only things the boy actually understood. Flying had been second nature, something he didn’t even realize he fully understood until he hopped on a broom and gave it a whirl. The art was just so easy, so understandable… and yet, so many people found it difficult. Which made no sense, in Rafa’s opinion. It was like speaking Spanish, something everyone should know how to do. And yet, everyone around seemed to have a one-track mind, the only things coming out their mouths being the strange and uncomfortable language the people called English. He supposed that, by now, he should be over it, but it still bothered him, even a year and six months after he’d mastered the difficult language. He could only imagine the views of a first-timer. Part of him ached for those people, and he often wished he could share his knowledge, even if just for a second.
Quidditch had been the exact same. The throwing of the ball, the dodging of bludgers, the cheering, the adrenaline, the rush. It was as if whoever had made the sport were thinking of a specific Gryffindor first-year in mind. The game was a language, a puzzle few could understand. But Rafa could see it. He could see all the answers, all the maneuvers, all the plays. There was something purely comforting about the sport, something that put Rafa at peace every time he walked onto the field. It was no football, but it would have to settle for second place. The sky sport was amazing, and he wasn’t sure he’d give it up for anything.
That wasn’t to say that the sport didn’t confuse him at times. Though the maneuvers came naturally, it was impossible to predict the reactions of his fellow players. People were unpredictable, to put it simply, and he had to learn to react to them. He often practiced alone, freshening up his reflexes from time to time. You’ve gotta stay sharp, the Northlands Coach had told his football team after a mercy-rule game. Get too cocky, and the other team will get the best of you every time. And Rafael had lived by those words. He knew, better than anyone, that lack of practice would result in terrible playing. It didn’t matter how good you though you were. The boy had trekked down to the field every other day as a result, sharpening his skills and reflexes for hours on end. The pitch was usually empty at this time, as he’d found the golden hour for practice.
Unfortunately, it seemed as if the field was taken today. As he stepped onto the field, broom in hand and headband pushing his hair out of his face, his chocolate-brown eyes caught another student in the sky, a face he couldn’t recognize from the distance he stood. It was a bit infuriating, seeing another student on the field – he felt a scowl take over his face, a massive dramatic sigh escaping his chest. “Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, his mood partially spoiled by the sudden discovery. No matter. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on this. Instead of giving any more attention to the student in the sky, he turned to find the Quaffle –
That’s when he saw the bludger.
Anyone who watched Quidditch could tell you that a bludger was dangerous. It was a known fact that multiple serious injuries had been caused by the small ball, and even more minor injuries, at that. The ball was not at all safe, and for that reason, typical students weren’t allowed to take them out of the ball box. It was a bit disturbing to the first year’s eyes, seeing the ball dart across the sky – and right for the girl.
Yes, he could see her better, now that her angle had changed. In that moment, he’d recognized the girl as Evelynn Decepio – his face immediately soured. Now, he didn’t like to go making assumptions about people, but he’d heard quite a few things about her. Particularly from Wren Caster, one of his best mates. From what he had heard, she was brash, stuck up, and a know-it-all. And, while she had merits in finding answers, her attitude didn’t really make her an ally in Raf’s book. He eyed her scathingly. Who does she think she is, getting a bludger out? He wondered angrily to himself. They’re reserved for the beaters! She’s going to bloody hurt herself. But, what made the whole sight even more amusing, was her mannerisms in the moment – it almost looked as if she were practicing, or something. That was the icing on the cake, the cherry on the top of crap-Rafael-can-take-in-a-day meter. Thinks she’s a bloody Quidditch Player, she does.
Without taking a moment more to assess the situation, the Gryffindor brashly jumped on his broom, heaving himself up and darting through the air like a bullet. [Or, as much like a bullet as he could manage. It wasn’t like he was on a bloody Firebolt, or anything.] In just a few seconds, he was hovering in her airspace, close enough to be heard and far enough to stay clear of the bludger. “Hey!” he yelled, his voice lost in the wind. His face growing ever agitated and angry, he yelled again, this time his voice carrying. “HEY!” he yelled again, giving her a very scathing look. Gesturing to the flying ball, he made his argument. “You aren’t supposed to get these out! Quidditch Players only!” He nodded his head in a sarcastic way, his countenance icy. “You mind coming down, now?” [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
9 Feb 2020, 10:35
A Flight of Ambition
@Rafael D'Spacito
The most recent strike of the bludger didn't lend itself to the ball going very far. That seemed to have become the pattern as the afternoon waned into evening and darkness began to descend. Each crack with the bat came with a little less force, a little less power. Her shoulder was aching. Her hand was numb (either with cold, or the persistent jarring impacts, she couldn't even tell at this point). Yet every time, her breaths came more raggedly, her breathing sharper. It was clear that she was nearly at the limit to what she could safely practice, lest what could easily be mistaken for a flying 5-pin bowling ball get the jump on her and crack her instead.
Still, she had some time. Maybe not much, but she would be loathe not to push the bounds and get as much contact time as she could. There was a large difference in ability between her and the other beaters. She had only been in the stands during the previous Quidditch matches rather than right up close and personal, but that was all she needed to know that she was outmatched. Painfully so. If she was going to pull her weight, she would need to make every moment of practice count. Fortunately, what she lacked in strength, she more than made up for in obstinate determination.
At the farthest distance of its course, the effective cannonball U-turned sharply. Eye still fixed firmly on the target, she watched it barrel closer and closer. She eased her breathing. It was thirty feet away now. She calmed her thoughts. Twenty feet. She reared back her arm and tightened her grip in preparation. Ten feet. She inhaled slowly and prepared for striking.
She'd been so focused on the ball's fast approach, determined to avoid any stupid accidental self-injury, that she hadn't noticed the sudden arrival of her House-mate. The shout of his unexpected greeting cut through the background noise and sent a jolt of surprise through her frame. Unfortunately, it also forced her to glance reflexively in the direction from whence it had come. She had just enough time to register who it was, and the relative anger displayed on the speaker's face, before the survivalist within her reminded her that she was about to be a foot shorter in a moment if she didn't act."HEY!"
Reserving questions for later, she snapped her attention back to its previous target. Just in time. In a fit of adrenaline more than anything else (with the bludger a mere foot or two away from her), she snapped the bat across herself left to right, rotated her torso clockwise, and sent the bludger in a weak (but no less effective and straight) trajectory behind her.
Then she wheeled her gaze back around to Rafael.
"What the heck?!" She retaliated beathlessly, her expression now mirroring Rafa's with its annoyance. "I was concentrating! You could have killed me!"
A touch dramatic? Maybe just a little. But the fight or flight instinct was still very much alive, the tail-end of the adrenaline rush a reminder of the very real fear she had felt a second ago after having taken her eye off the flying head-crusher.
"I am a Quidditch player," she continued, hackles bristling only just a touch at being called out like that. She flew forward a few feet and swung her broom around in an arc to keep the flying bludger in her field of vision. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, but I'm your new second string beater."
In truth...she had actually assumed the team would have known. Perhaps that was her mistake. The try-out had been a small one after all. I mean, let's just say she hadn't gotten the position because she was particularly suited to the task. She might have been slightly above average in height for a girl her age, and although she was lean, she was a far cry from burly or strong. It wasn't his fault that he wasn't aware that she had been given the position of the benched beater, but that didn't stop Evelynn from feeling defensive. She knew she wasn't suited for it. She knew she didn't look like she belonged up here practicing with bludger and bat. But that was exactly why she was. She desperately wanted to play. It was the first thing she had set her mind to when she had first walked the streets of Diagon Alley with Professor Olphie to gather her school supplies. Regardless of the House into which she was sorted when the term started, Evelynn was going to be a Quidditch player. She was trying.
"And yes, I do mind, thank you." Her eyes began to dart back and forth between Rafael and the once again approaching ball of bludgeoning. "I'm still practicing."
26 Feb 2020, 18:37
A Flight of Ambition
@Evelynn Decipio
[font=Segoe Print]"What the heck?!" Evelynn yelled. "I was concentrating! You could have killed me!"
There was something about the girl’s words that put the young Gryffindor off slightly, his grip tightening on his broom ever-so-slightly as his eyes narrowed in her direction – how had she gained the right to yell at him? What was wrong with her? His countenance, once a look of annoyance, only sunk further, his face now an even deeper scowl, a wolf-like glare now present on his features. No, he would certainly not take her antics. [Even if they did hold some ground. Not that they did, or anything.] Not wasting a moment to watch his words, he began speaking the words on his mind. “Oh, yeah?” he snarled, his voice growly and low, almost feral. “Put you at an inconvenience, did I? Real shame.” There was a mocking air in his voice, an obvious taunt – he was testing the proverbial waters, seeing how far he could push before she pushed back. If he’d heard anything from Wren, it surely wouldn’t be long now.
[Wren was rather chatty, he noted absently. Half of the things that came out of the girl’s mouth was biased and dramatic, so he knew better than to dote on her words. But it angered him quite a bit to hear that the redhead had snapped at his friend so acutely. Maybe it was his way of releasing some of his feelings on the topic, another weak attempt at avoiding his fists. He couldn’t hit girls.]
"Maybe you didn't get the memo, but I'm your new second-string beater."
For a moment, the Gryffindor boy found himself torn by an entire volley of emotions, ranging from anger, to confusion, to amusement, and then – he laughed. Audibly laughed. To be completely honest, he wasn’t exactly sure why he found that so amusing – perhaps it was her public image, all studious and snotty, frail and fragile, and the very idea of her handling such destructive balls. Or maybe it was the irony of it all, the mere fact that he had run into a fellow player on the field, instead of an ignorant girl. Whatever the case, there was nothing he could do to keep his true feelings from falling into the open air, his tones young and light, yet somehow antagonistic. He let it consume him for a moment, his attention leaving the oncoming bludger for a moment – however, he caught sight of it as it projected in the path of his shoulder, and ducked out of the way in one fluid motion, missing it completely.
He caught his breath for a moment, taking control of his emotions somewhat and facing the redhead in question. “Y-you, a beater?” he jeered, a look of utter disbelief on his face. It was just… it couldn’t be possible. “You’ve got to be joking. Think you’re funny now? Got a good laugh out of me, you did. But seriously,” he nodded his head towards the entrance to the locker rooms, his eyes locking onto her broom pointedly, “Enough games. It’s time to go.”
Though, the more he thought about it, the more sincere her statement sounded. There seemed to be some truth in her words – Rafael had always been a man of sight and observations. As it seemed, there was quite a bit of evidence supporting her wild claims. She was sweaty, for one, and obviously tired from what Rafael could read. It almost seemed as if she’d been out and about for quite a while – that brought him to another startling thought. If she had been out and about for a prolonged period of time, then how could she have survived the bludger without training?
At such a thought, Rafael’s amused look faded, now replaced with one of aggravation. Putting on a taunting, wry smile, he flew off to the side, his broom quick beneath him as he swung around in an arc. “You say you’re a Quidditch Player, eh? Prove it,” he scoffed once more, nodding is chin towards the beater. “Hit me with a bludger. Then I’ll believe you.” His wry smile was gone in an instant as his hands gripped the handle of his broom tighter, a look of complete focus painted on his face. With that, he flew out at a safer distance, his senses steeled and his being perfectly balanced upon his broom.
She surely wouldn’t be able to hit him. Surely not.
He inwardly scoffed, shaking his head with a wry smile. What am I even going on about? Evelynn Decipio? She couldn’t hit a target if it were right in front of her…. [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]"What the heck?!" Evelynn yelled. "I was concentrating! You could have killed me!"
There was something about the girl’s words that put the young Gryffindor off slightly, his grip tightening on his broom ever-so-slightly as his eyes narrowed in her direction – how had she gained the right to yell at him? What was wrong with her? His countenance, once a look of annoyance, only sunk further, his face now an even deeper scowl, a wolf-like glare now present on his features. No, he would certainly not take her antics. [Even if they did hold some ground. Not that they did, or anything.] Not wasting a moment to watch his words, he began speaking the words on his mind. “Oh, yeah?” he snarled, his voice growly and low, almost feral. “Put you at an inconvenience, did I? Real shame.” There was a mocking air in his voice, an obvious taunt – he was testing the proverbial waters, seeing how far he could push before she pushed back. If he’d heard anything from Wren, it surely wouldn’t be long now.
[Wren was rather chatty, he noted absently. Half of the things that came out of the girl’s mouth was biased and dramatic, so he knew better than to dote on her words. But it angered him quite a bit to hear that the redhead had snapped at his friend so acutely. Maybe it was his way of releasing some of his feelings on the topic, another weak attempt at avoiding his fists. He couldn’t hit girls.]
"Maybe you didn't get the memo, but I'm your new second-string beater."
For a moment, the Gryffindor boy found himself torn by an entire volley of emotions, ranging from anger, to confusion, to amusement, and then – he laughed. Audibly laughed. To be completely honest, he wasn’t exactly sure why he found that so amusing – perhaps it was her public image, all studious and snotty, frail and fragile, and the very idea of her handling such destructive balls. Or maybe it was the irony of it all, the mere fact that he had run into a fellow player on the field, instead of an ignorant girl. Whatever the case, there was nothing he could do to keep his true feelings from falling into the open air, his tones young and light, yet somehow antagonistic. He let it consume him for a moment, his attention leaving the oncoming bludger for a moment – however, he caught sight of it as it projected in the path of his shoulder, and ducked out of the way in one fluid motion, missing it completely.
He caught his breath for a moment, taking control of his emotions somewhat and facing the redhead in question. “Y-you, a beater?” he jeered, a look of utter disbelief on his face. It was just… it couldn’t be possible. “You’ve got to be joking. Think you’re funny now? Got a good laugh out of me, you did. But seriously,” he nodded his head towards the entrance to the locker rooms, his eyes locking onto her broom pointedly, “Enough games. It’s time to go.”
Though, the more he thought about it, the more sincere her statement sounded. There seemed to be some truth in her words – Rafael had always been a man of sight and observations. As it seemed, there was quite a bit of evidence supporting her wild claims. She was sweaty, for one, and obviously tired from what Rafael could read. It almost seemed as if she’d been out and about for quite a while – that brought him to another startling thought. If she had been out and about for a prolonged period of time, then how could she have survived the bludger without training?
At such a thought, Rafael’s amused look faded, now replaced with one of aggravation. Putting on a taunting, wry smile, he flew off to the side, his broom quick beneath him as he swung around in an arc. “You say you’re a Quidditch Player, eh? Prove it,” he scoffed once more, nodding is chin towards the beater. “Hit me with a bludger. Then I’ll believe you.” His wry smile was gone in an instant as his hands gripped the handle of his broom tighter, a look of complete focus painted on his face. With that, he flew out at a safer distance, his senses steeled and his being perfectly balanced upon his broom.
She surely wouldn’t be able to hit him. Surely not.
He inwardly scoffed, shaking his head with a wry smile. What am I even going on about? Evelynn Decipio? She couldn’t hit a target if it were right in front of her…. [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
29 Feb 2020, 01:32
A Flight of Ambition
Interacting with @Rafael D'Spacito
It took a considerable amount of effort to keep her emotions in check, and even then, they spilled out around the edges. She was tired, she was panting, she was nearly at the limit of an already arduous self-imposed training session, and she was already dealing with a ceaseless assault of self-beration at her need to be better. To be stronger. To be able to bring herself to and then past the standard of the rest of the Quidditch team. When the time came for her debut, she was adamant that she was not going to be the reason for any loss.
As a result, his comments hurt. Not only that, but they grinded. The mocking in his tone in response to her serious concern regarding his presence being a dangerous distraction… His outright laughter at her announcement of her new position… The insinuation that he didn't believe her and thought her incapable… It was like a thousand little ants crawling over her skin, biting and itching. He was aggravating. And it showed in her expression.
As the bludger arced back around, missing Rafael as he dodged, Evelynn took out some of that mounting frustration with a well-timed CRACK! and sent it whizzing off and away from her.
For the longest time, she tried to block him out, choosing to redirect her attention away from his and to the bludger instead. She wasn't sure for how long she'd be able to ignore him, or if it would reach a point where he would try to physically intervene and actually act on his suggestion for her to pack it up. But she didn't particularly care. This was her time. She was practising. She was doing right by herself, and the team. He could bemoan that fact all he wanted, but as far as she was concerned, he didn't have a leg to stand on.
Even still, as much as she tried to tell herself she couldn't hear his jeering commentary…she could. And as much as she wanted to be able to let it all slide off her shoulders…she couldn't. If her mother had been here, she might have told Evelynn she had nothing to prove. Let your performance be proof enough, honey, she might have said. But she wasn't here. She never would be now. And Evelynn was tired of being underestimated. Of being locked into some sort of "swotty" box.
She knew she probably should have ignored his taunt. To hit a student with a bludger was a stupid thing to do. There were no teachers around to come to his aid if he got hit. When he got hit, more like. Nor was he even armed with a bat himself. Perhaps she should have suggested he retreat back down to at least arm himself. Give him some warning about the amount of time she had been practising. Sure, she didn't look like a beater. She wasn't brawny or beefy or particularly imposing, but she was accustomed to challenges of strength. How many times had her mare tried to take the bit and take Evelynn for a ride?
Perhaps she should have done a lot of things. But she didn't.
Instead, she wheeled her broom around to face the bludger as it barreled back towards the pair. Fingers played at the leather wrapped handle of the beater's bat in her palm, adjusting and then readjusting her grip. Her body tensed in wait, poised. She was every bit a lioness waiting for the right moment to pounce as ball drew ever nearer.
"Try and dodge this, then," she growled, irate in her breathlessness, and struck the ball back-handed at the last second.
It was a move she had practised right from the get-go. Always one to appreciate a good misdirection, the Bludger Backbeat had been a move that she had found rather attractive. Plus…she didn't really wish to get into trouble. She knew she couldn't produce as much power with this as she could a regular swing, and hoped that the damage would be minimal when it connected (for she was quite confident that it would).
Action: Targets Rafael with a Bludger Backbeat
2 Mar 2020, 16:59
A Flight of Ambition
@Evelynn Decipio
[font=Segoe Print]Now, Rafael liked to consider himself a ruddy good player. Hell, he’d played sports his entire life, from the time he could walk, to present day, whistling through the air on a broom. A ruddy broom, of all things. He knew how to throw a ball fast, how to aim, how to make his mark. He’d also learned how to improve as a player, as he surely had benefited, from his extensive daily practices, sometimes ranging to 12 full hours, depending on the day if the week. He could say with confidence that he had fairly gained his position on the team, and could possible even uphold the title of ‘best chaser on the team’.
Though, he wasn’t sure there was anything, no drill or practice, that could have prepared him for Evelynn’s next move.
He’d always known of the wrath of the fairer gender. Be they ever gentle, dainty, and graceful, they had long since proven to be one of the fiercest creatures on the earth, comparable to dementors and dragons. So, he surely should have anticipated Evelynn’s wrath as the other girl readied her bat, her eyes narrowing in on her target. "Try and dodge this, then,” the girl sneered, the ferocity of her feelings ever-present in her voice. Though, Rafael hadn’t been watching her face – instead his eyes had been trained on her form, as he had been taught many years ago. He absently noted its perfection, the skilled ease in which she drew her bat back, be her muscles tense from anger or anticipation. However, he thought with a wry grin, movements were pristine mirrors towards a player’s actions, as Evelynn’s were – she was going to hit it full on, surely, and towards him, if she hit it correctly. A subtly disturbing thought, as it seemed she had practiced more than she had let on.
No matter. Rafael steeled his senses, his eyes narrowing in on the ball in question, his grip loosening in the slightest as to allow versatility and flexibility for flying. He rotated his shoulder cuff, the joint popping gently, any stiffness being released quickly as his pupils followed the path of the bludger, carefully taking in his opponent’s movements with a clenched jaw. He was ready for whatever she had to throw at him.
Or, perhaps he wasn’t.
Evelynn, he realized, was just as much a strategist as she was a player. It seemed as if, at the very last moment, her movements had taken a subtle change, one that led to a chain of reactions. She wasn’t going for a full-on hit – instead of her arms swinging forward to meet the ball in front of her, she had decidedly picked a more strategic move, hitting the ball behind her back. An impressively-executed bludger backbeat. A rather bright strategy, he absently noted with growing, his eyes widening in the slightest as he traced the path of projection. Her aim was true – she had effectively sent the ball hurtling left. There was nothing he could do, now, what with the momentum of his own broom already carrying him into the path of collision, the ball ominously whistling through the air. Even if he stopped, he wouldn’t be clear of the hit.
Perhaps he could choose where it landed, however.
Instead of stopping his broom, he continued to fly, his muscles tensing in order to soften the blow a little. The bludger, as anticipated, rocketed into his direction – he adjusted his position at the last moment, turning his body in the slightest, the bludger hitting the meaty part of his arm, vaguely protected by a shoulder pad. At the impact, his joint automatically exploding in pain. “Gah!” he cried out in agony, his hand immediately reaching up to clutch where he’d been impacted. It was throbbing. Throbbing.
At the idea of Evelynn actually hitting him, he laughed out loud – this time, instead of a mocking laugh, it was a laugh of bitter surprise. He couldn’t help it, it was hilarious. Of course, she was a bloody good shot. The universe had screwed with his life once again. How was it that he was the one who suffered from its merciless nature?
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with his circumstances this time around. Shooting the girl the same bitter grin as before, he circled around again, now back into position. “Lucky shot,” he chided mockingly. Though, he knew better. ”But, why don’t you hit me full-on? Too weak?” His smirk left immediately, a scowl now on his features as his eyebrow raised in contempt. “Or, too chicken?” [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]Now, Rafael liked to consider himself a ruddy good player. Hell, he’d played sports his entire life, from the time he could walk, to present day, whistling through the air on a broom. A ruddy broom, of all things. He knew how to throw a ball fast, how to aim, how to make his mark. He’d also learned how to improve as a player, as he surely had benefited, from his extensive daily practices, sometimes ranging to 12 full hours, depending on the day if the week. He could say with confidence that he had fairly gained his position on the team, and could possible even uphold the title of ‘best chaser on the team’.
Though, he wasn’t sure there was anything, no drill or practice, that could have prepared him for Evelynn’s next move.
He’d always known of the wrath of the fairer gender. Be they ever gentle, dainty, and graceful, they had long since proven to be one of the fiercest creatures on the earth, comparable to dementors and dragons. So, he surely should have anticipated Evelynn’s wrath as the other girl readied her bat, her eyes narrowing in on her target. "Try and dodge this, then,” the girl sneered, the ferocity of her feelings ever-present in her voice. Though, Rafael hadn’t been watching her face – instead his eyes had been trained on her form, as he had been taught many years ago. He absently noted its perfection, the skilled ease in which she drew her bat back, be her muscles tense from anger or anticipation. However, he thought with a wry grin, movements were pristine mirrors towards a player’s actions, as Evelynn’s were – she was going to hit it full on, surely, and towards him, if she hit it correctly. A subtly disturbing thought, as it seemed she had practiced more than she had let on.
No matter. Rafael steeled his senses, his eyes narrowing in on the ball in question, his grip loosening in the slightest as to allow versatility and flexibility for flying. He rotated his shoulder cuff, the joint popping gently, any stiffness being released quickly as his pupils followed the path of the bludger, carefully taking in his opponent’s movements with a clenched jaw. He was ready for whatever she had to throw at him.
Or, perhaps he wasn’t.
Evelynn, he realized, was just as much a strategist as she was a player. It seemed as if, at the very last moment, her movements had taken a subtle change, one that led to a chain of reactions. She wasn’t going for a full-on hit – instead of her arms swinging forward to meet the ball in front of her, she had decidedly picked a more strategic move, hitting the ball behind her back. An impressively-executed bludger backbeat. A rather bright strategy, he absently noted with growing, his eyes widening in the slightest as he traced the path of projection. Her aim was true – she had effectively sent the ball hurtling left. There was nothing he could do, now, what with the momentum of his own broom already carrying him into the path of collision, the ball ominously whistling through the air. Even if he stopped, he wouldn’t be clear of the hit.
Perhaps he could choose where it landed, however.
Instead of stopping his broom, he continued to fly, his muscles tensing in order to soften the blow a little. The bludger, as anticipated, rocketed into his direction – he adjusted his position at the last moment, turning his body in the slightest, the bludger hitting the meaty part of his arm, vaguely protected by a shoulder pad. At the impact, his joint automatically exploding in pain. “Gah!” he cried out in agony, his hand immediately reaching up to clutch where he’d been impacted. It was throbbing. Throbbing.
At the idea of Evelynn actually hitting him, he laughed out loud – this time, instead of a mocking laugh, it was a laugh of bitter surprise. He couldn’t help it, it was hilarious. Of course, she was a bloody good shot. The universe had screwed with his life once again. How was it that he was the one who suffered from its merciless nature?
Didn’t mean he couldn’t have fun with his circumstances this time around. Shooting the girl the same bitter grin as before, he circled around again, now back into position. “Lucky shot,” he chided mockingly. Though, he knew better. ”But, why don’t you hit me full-on? Too weak?” His smirk left immediately, a scowl now on his features as his eyebrow raised in contempt. “Or, too chicken?” [/font]
Will add the math when I get home.
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
8 Mar 2020, 19:59
A Flight of Ambition
Interacting with @Rafael D'Spacito
Even before witnessing the final results, Evelynn knew her aim was true. The crack of her bat against the bludger, although not quite as perfect as she might have liked, was a solid one, and the ball-with-a-mind-of-its-own followed through as though the two were allied. Her head swiveled on her neck as far as it would allow in the swift trailing of the projectile until she had to snap it back the other way to watch the rest of its course.
She knew it would land its mark.
From what she had seen in game and practice (for she would sneak to the stands when able to watch the Gryffindor Team fly between official games) Rafa wasn't the most nimble of the team. Sure, he was an excellent player — she would be one of the first to announce that — but his forte rested on offensive play, not defensive. Even still, it wasn't this observation that led to her conclusion. Nor even that he had fallen for the feint and had flown the wrong way to dodge. No. It was his face. His expression bore the widened eyes of someone who knew they had made a grave error.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Quite unexpectedly, a hunger swelled within Evelynn's core. It wasn't entirely an unfamiliar feeling. She'd felt it many times: horseback on the field when the announcer excitedly reported her time as under that in first place; sitting across her opposition at chess when they realized they were going to be check-mated and there was nothing they could do about it; watching from the safety of the class as nefarious evidence landed her harassers in detention. It was the feeling of victory. Of triumph. The intoxicating taste of over-powering another. She was not ignorant of its flavour, but neither was she accustomed to it, and every time, she relished its effect.
Her shoulders and chest still rising and falling in tandem with her heavy breathing, her lips barely able to manage more than the hint of a strained smile with her panting. Regardless of her outwards appearance, one that likely looked little more than exhausted determination, she swelled with internal glee as she watched the bludger collide with the haughty boy. His resulting groan of pain was music to her ears, and she took no offense to the outburst of his laughter. Gray eyes followed the path of his flight as he returned himself back into position. When he spoke, a brow rose to accompany the look of skepticism on her expression.
"Sure," she laughed. "Luck." She shrugged a brow, dismissing his notion as an attempt for him to make himself feel better for having been showed up just now. "If you say so… But look," she continued, eyeing him as though she couldn't quite decide what to make of his taunt and the return of his scowl. Her bat snapped up to crack the bludger into another backhanded blow, guiding its rebound away from the pair. "I didn't really want to hit you with that last one, and I don't really want to do it again. Games are going to be around the corner, and I don't really want to land one of our best chasers in the hospital wing. We all know Gryffindor can't afford any more losses."
There was no denying that. Gryffindor had been absolutely spanked all season. Sure, the team had managed to earn some very fine goals with the quaffle, but they were still in dead last as far as the House tournament as a whole was considered. Evelynn, for one, didn't like that one bit.
"And I don't know about you, but I am not one to push past my own limits. I've been out here for hours, and as much as I'd love to keep practising all night, I need to start thinking of packing it in before I hurt myself." Everything she said was true. She was exhausted. She was sore. Her lungs were strained, her arm was on fire with exertion and her shoulder was numb with the multitude of jarring impacts. Still…As much as she hated how easily she could be baited, she wasn't one to back down from a challenge. "Here, I'll tell you what," she continued after a moment, pushing herself up to sit a little straighter on her broom as she hovered effortlessly nearby. "I'll give you one last demonstration…"
Perhaps unexpectedly, she turned away from him, bent her left hand towards her leg and pulled her wand — a slender piece of craftsmanship of wood as pale as her skin — from a hidden sleeve inside her boot. Then, without so much as a backwards glance, she waved her wand and chanted, "Bullarum Immortalem." From the end of her wand issued a string of large, golden-tinted bubbles, each about the size of a softball. Although spewed forward with relative speed initially, they quickly slowed to a meander, drifting lazily up and down with the ebb and flow of air currents as the breeze carried them further away.
Evelynn slipped the wand back into the reinforced lining of her inside boot. And just in time too. No sooner had the polished handle disappeared from sight than the bludger returned from its wide arc. Adjusting her position in the air, she slowed her breathing, focused her attention upon the whistling spherical silhouette and lined up her shot. Crack! One. She sent it barreling away in a forward blow towards one of the drifting bubbles.
It missed.
In an instant, all the triumph she'd felt previously vanished as a fire of embarrassment lit in the pit of her gut. Well, she had said she was exhausted, but even still; to miss on the first go was not exactly ideal. She kicked after the bludger, her form flat on her broom as she chased its wake, intent intent to cut it off immediately. Passing frustratingly still-intact bubble, she swung at it with her bat, as though blatching an enemy player from behind. It gave a little pop before dissipating in a burst.
Catching up to the speeding ball, she aimed another forward blow at a sharp angle to send it after the second conjured bubble, which was now quite a distance up and away as the evening breeze sent it on a rolling jaunt across the pitch. Crack! Two. Like the first time, she chased after it, falling into a barrel-roll to better visualise the location of the third and last target. And on her rise, she pulled up abruptly, wheeling counter-clockwise in order to connect one last time with the bludger, this time with another demonstration of a bludger backbeat. Crack!
When all was said and done, her gaze darted around to make sure the bludger had actually landed as intended. It seemed she had recovered well after that first blunder. The latter two were nowhere to be seen.
"Eh.." She wrinkled her nose, once again doubled over panting. "Two...out of...three..." She couldn't quite get a full sentence out between breaths just yet. "Not ideal...I'll need...more practice..."
9 Mar 2020, 19:09
A Flight of Ambition
@Evelynn Decipio
[font=Segoe Print]She’d…. called his bluff.
A startling fact, he supposed, but not entirely out of question. It was no secret that Evelynn was intuitive, after all, having already proven her wit in countless meetings regarding the Potter Case. Not only that, but she’d certainly read into his strategy – that, or her hitting of the boy with a bludger was just dumb luck. And, maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him again, but Evelynn didn’t seem like the sort of person to resort to luck. On the contrary, she’d certainly done her research, a fact that the young boy was now paying for. Kudos to her, then, he thought sourly. Figures.
His shoulders, once hunched, came to relax a little bit, his chin lifting in her direction, a falsely condescending look on his face. As if he were studying her. Which he was – it seemed that Evelynn was more of a threat than he’d initially thought. If not for her aim, then her sharp wits. “Real considerate of you,” his reply came, rather caustically, if anything. “But I suppose your observations are correct. Would be a right shame to leave the game to the second string.” It wasn’t an offensive remark – simply an implication that the second string didn’t get as much playing time. Such things made for dull reflexes, and high anxiety levels. “And, I don’t see anything wrong with pushing yourself. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” He regarded her with unimpressed eyes. “Though, you look pretty close to death yourself. How long have you been out here, yeah?” It was an indication that he wanted numbers, more than just a vague idea. She liked numbers, right?
[He wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, at least not for the time being, but whether she was an ‘official’ player or not, he’d certainly want her on his team. There were too many players on the team, he had noticed, that played with their gut. What would happen if someone decided to play with their head?]
"I'll give you one last demonstration…"
He hadn’t even seen her wand until she’d whipped it out, a startling sign that his own competitiveness had come in between his attention with his surroundings. How had he missed such a fact? He flinched, almost unnoticeably, at the sight of such an instrument on the field. Not only was such an action a threat to the state of the wand, being in the presence of such dangerous projectiles, but it was also a threat to the safety of others. What would happen if her wand were to be hit? He dared not think of the catastrophic outcomes, nor the damage the girl could purposely wreak if she dared choose. Though, before he could utter one word in repercussion, he was soon rendered mute by the three small, golden bubbles that had erupted from the tip of the girl’s wand, lively and mutating within the cold winter wind. A strange choice of spells, he noted, unless she would be… aiming for them?
CRACK.
Yes, she’d sent one soaring already, the silver ball whistling through the air like a missile, its deadly nature strangely beautiful to the boy’s keen eyes. A welcome sound, the whistling was, if not startling, the very noise putting tension in the boy’s shoulders once. Her shot was a close one, very nearly clipping its target – however, due to the wind, the girl’s exhausted state, or even perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation, her ball had gravely missed it’s mark. Perhaps it made Rafael a bad person, to take pleasure in such a thing, but there was something about the whole situation that brought an air of humor to the boy. A small smile fought its way onto the his features, and he let it remain for a second, a wry look that soon disappeared as she reared her beater’s bat back once more.
He watched carefully as she sent the ball booking twice more, making both her targets in beautifully, if not viciously executed, moves. Rather impressive, he’d note, as any practice she’d been garnering was clearly displayed, a magical show of form and strength, mixed with an arrow-like agility and speed as she flew on her broom. [He couldn’t help but wonder whether or not she would make a good seeker – she definitely flew like one, in the least.] Though, he would do nothing to share these sympathies to the girl, instead watching her with an emotionless gaze, his face utterly unreadable by even the best of body language artists.
"Two...out of...three...Not ideal...I'll need...more practice..."
“Certainly,” the boy agreed nonchalantly, observing her exhausted state with a touch of feigned disdain as she flew, just within vocal range. “The second hit was a bit stiff, mind you. But… two out of three’s not bad. You’re already ahead of the entirety of the Ravenclaw team.” His look was shattered, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment – a bright, creeping grin snuck its way onto his features, his eyes flashing with something indescribable, not quite mischievous, but in no way innocent. “Anyways, you’re not the only one who needs practice,” he drawled, a tad bitterly. [Because, she certainly had bested him. ]
A thought came to him then, along with the disdainful look from before. “You say you’re done, eh?” he asked sharply. “Why don’t you get off the field then? Take your bludger with you?” He cocked his head up, his chin jutted out. “It’s already nearing curfew, it is. Don’t you have homework, or something?” [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]She’d…. called his bluff.
A startling fact, he supposed, but not entirely out of question. It was no secret that Evelynn was intuitive, after all, having already proven her wit in countless meetings regarding the Potter Case. Not only that, but she’d certainly read into his strategy – that, or her hitting of the boy with a bludger was just dumb luck. And, maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him again, but Evelynn didn’t seem like the sort of person to resort to luck. On the contrary, she’d certainly done her research, a fact that the young boy was now paying for. Kudos to her, then, he thought sourly. Figures.
His shoulders, once hunched, came to relax a little bit, his chin lifting in her direction, a falsely condescending look on his face. As if he were studying her. Which he was – it seemed that Evelynn was more of a threat than he’d initially thought. If not for her aim, then her sharp wits. “Real considerate of you,” his reply came, rather caustically, if anything. “But I suppose your observations are correct. Would be a right shame to leave the game to the second string.” It wasn’t an offensive remark – simply an implication that the second string didn’t get as much playing time. Such things made for dull reflexes, and high anxiety levels. “And, I don’t see anything wrong with pushing yourself. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” He regarded her with unimpressed eyes. “Though, you look pretty close to death yourself. How long have you been out here, yeah?” It was an indication that he wanted numbers, more than just a vague idea. She liked numbers, right?
[He wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, at least not for the time being, but whether she was an ‘official’ player or not, he’d certainly want her on his team. There were too many players on the team, he had noticed, that played with their gut. What would happen if someone decided to play with their head?]
"I'll give you one last demonstration…"
He hadn’t even seen her wand until she’d whipped it out, a startling sign that his own competitiveness had come in between his attention with his surroundings. How had he missed such a fact? He flinched, almost unnoticeably, at the sight of such an instrument on the field. Not only was such an action a threat to the state of the wand, being in the presence of such dangerous projectiles, but it was also a threat to the safety of others. What would happen if her wand were to be hit? He dared not think of the catastrophic outcomes, nor the damage the girl could purposely wreak if she dared choose. Though, before he could utter one word in repercussion, he was soon rendered mute by the three small, golden bubbles that had erupted from the tip of the girl’s wand, lively and mutating within the cold winter wind. A strange choice of spells, he noted, unless she would be… aiming for them?
CRACK.
Yes, she’d sent one soaring already, the silver ball whistling through the air like a missile, its deadly nature strangely beautiful to the boy’s keen eyes. A welcome sound, the whistling was, if not startling, the very noise putting tension in the boy’s shoulders once. Her shot was a close one, very nearly clipping its target – however, due to the wind, the girl’s exhausted state, or even perhaps the slightest moment of hesitation, her ball had gravely missed it’s mark. Perhaps it made Rafael a bad person, to take pleasure in such a thing, but there was something about the whole situation that brought an air of humor to the boy. A small smile fought its way onto the his features, and he let it remain for a second, a wry look that soon disappeared as she reared her beater’s bat back once more.
He watched carefully as she sent the ball booking twice more, making both her targets in beautifully, if not viciously executed, moves. Rather impressive, he’d note, as any practice she’d been garnering was clearly displayed, a magical show of form and strength, mixed with an arrow-like agility and speed as she flew on her broom. [He couldn’t help but wonder whether or not she would make a good seeker – she definitely flew like one, in the least.] Though, he would do nothing to share these sympathies to the girl, instead watching her with an emotionless gaze, his face utterly unreadable by even the best of body language artists.
"Two...out of...three...Not ideal...I'll need...more practice..."
“Certainly,” the boy agreed nonchalantly, observing her exhausted state with a touch of feigned disdain as she flew, just within vocal range. “The second hit was a bit stiff, mind you. But… two out of three’s not bad. You’re already ahead of the entirety of the Ravenclaw team.” His look was shattered, in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment – a bright, creeping grin snuck its way onto his features, his eyes flashing with something indescribable, not quite mischievous, but in no way innocent. “Anyways, you’re not the only one who needs practice,” he drawled, a tad bitterly. [Because, she certainly had bested him. ]
A thought came to him then, along with the disdainful look from before. “You say you’re done, eh?” he asked sharply. “Why don’t you get off the field then? Take your bludger with you?” He cocked his head up, his chin jutted out. “It’s already nearing curfew, it is. Don’t you have homework, or something?” [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
10 Mar 2020, 01:57
A Flight of Ambition
Interacting with @Rafael D'Spacito
Lips pursed at D'Spacito's reply to her own self-assessment. Sure, she'd been the one to state first that she had made a mistake and needed more work, but he didn't have to go and agree so quickly. Or quite like that, with a tone that hinted as though he thought her unworthy even to be present on the pitch. She'd had half a mind to snap something back at him when he continued, countering her notion that her performance had been inadequate by saying it wasn't, in fact, bad. Not good, mind you. But not bad. And apparently better than the entirety of the Ravenclaw team.
While she didn't allow herself to actually believe that statement to be true, it did serve to curl the corners of her mouth into a rare and crooked grin, as she retorted, "Well, that's really not so hard, is it? I'm amazed the birds know how to hit anything other the library."
The mirth of her pun was short-lived, however, as D'Spacito spoke up again, and this time with all the bitter returning to his words. Her expression shifted, her smile fading away, leaving nothing but defensive confusion etched in the lines upon her countenance. Eyeing him warily, she couldn't help but feel like there was something else going on. Sure, this wasn't the first time he had levied her with a cutting tone, but this seemed a little out of place.
"I…" She hesitated, taken aback by his attack, her mind not quite able to process the onslaught of questions.
It was as though he was angry with her for having stated she was thinking of packing it in. As though he couldn't wait to be rid of her from the pitch. She also wasn't exactly sure where he was coming from with telling her to take her bludger with her. It wasn't hers. It was the school. But somehow there seemed to be some sort of implication here.
"Yea, I think I'll do that," she replied guardedly, eyes still surveying him in an attempt to discern what the heck was driving this sudden ire. "And I guess if it's close to curfew," she added, pulling back the sleeve of her robes to check her watch, "then I've been out here about 4 hours…"
Not really knowing what else to say, she cast him one last furtive look, brows still faintly pinched, before making her descent. A glance in search of the bludger showed that it was making its return at break-neck speed, however. Sucking in air, Evelynn flattened herself against her broom and let the nose fall. She picked up speed, ginger hair whipping off her face to fly behind like a flag heralding her departure. Wind whistled in her ears, the ground looming ever closer. At dusk, it was difficult to measure distance as easily as day, and she had a hard time marking the bludger's track behind her, frequently losing it against the darkening sky.
Pulling from the dive as close to the ground as she dared, she looped upside down as the bludger whizzed past where her body had been moments earlier. Robes hovered within feet of the grass. Hastily, she righted herself, took the opportunity to pull up sharply to cease her forward momentum and drop to the ground. It was a heavily landing than she had intended, knees buckling underneath, hands — one still gripping the beater's bat in a death vice — falling to the earth to catch herself from eating dirt. She didn't have much time to think about it, though. The worst part of the practice was moment's away.
Having little choice in the matter, however, lest she be minced, she recovered herself into half a crouch, bracing one leg back for support as though expecting an impact. Which would become very clear very quickly that she was. She could bat the bludger time and time again until her arms fell off, but at the end of the day, when practice was over, she still had to deal with it. To catch it. Entrap it. Physically overpower it and secure it in the chest. She hated this particular task at the best of times, and with an onlooker, she was positively dreading it. She could only raise her bat crosswise, as though intending to bunt it (which she was planning to do) in order to slow its momentum just long enough to save herself being flattened by the cannon-like ball and guide it painfully and with no small amount of difficulty into its waiting resting place as it fought every inch of the way.