Owlery

Register
Sign in

portrait  private   closed 

private thread with @Wyatt Starkey


✧˖*°࿐

After such a long week, Morgan had finally decided to write his mother back. He wasn't avidly avoiding her, but he was avoiding a situation he knew was arising back in his grandparent's home. It had taken him forever to find the right words to say; and after countless crumbling and ink splattered messes that left his roommate flushed with bubbling anger, he dotted down what he thought was best.

"Hello Mother. . I miss you, so much so. So much all the time. I'm good. How is everyone? I hope they're well. ."

He attempted to answer his own question, as to deviate from learning the real truth. He stopped himself from reminiscing what was in his enclosed envelope, for he feared he'd deem it no longer proper and discard it away just as the previous ones.

He wasn't surprised to see a couple of forgotten pages around the floor. He smiled at them from his view, not taking the chance to read someone's personal letter, and accidentally learn something he shouldn't have. Though from where he was, he could see the occasional 'Dear Mom,' or, 'Best Regards.'

As he wandered he became more invested, so many thoughts and feelings that remain unheard. But it wasn't until be came across a sole piece of paper that he stopped. Eyebrows fringed together over his forehead, pinching the top of his nose. Morgan took it upon himself to pick up the drawing which he'd come across, looking for a name in case it had fallen out of someone's reach. Upon finding none, he took a look around him, whose was this?

He wasn't much of an art appreciator in his time but this interested him greatly. Not only did he love mysteries, but he loved to solve them-- if there was anything to solve at all. He took it with him, Morgan thought perhaps he missed something, and the wizard or witch who drew this had been far more methodical than he thought in hiding their identity.

Grabbing a quill, ink, and parchment as well as a seat, he began his own endeavor. He took a look at the drawing before him, trying to understand some double meaning or.. something he wasn't seeing, but, he couldn't.

So Morgan did what any other sane bloke would do. He drew.

Now, what to draw, though? To him it was easier to journal, words made the world go 'round. But this was the task at hand; the other had unknowingly set the rules, and he was to follow them. He smiled at this, a small adventure that perhaps wouldn't go too far. Who wanted to spend their time responding to a stranger? Well, he did.

He drew about his favorite thought. The stillness of being on a rowboat in the water. To some that imagery was scary, but for him, it was calming. So, following the pace he drew the waves, and the oar battling against the current with the breeze blowing overtop. When he was done, he made sure to seal it tight in an envelope, not stamping much as to who he was.

"Do you know who sent this? Could you help me?" He only really had one shot this would work, and he was entrusting this owl to get the job done.
Last edited by Morgan Bowens on 6th May 2020, 5:35 am, edited 1 time in total.

"Why is it that when one man builds a wall,
the next man immediately needs to know
what's on the other side?”

portrait  private   closed 

@Morgan Bowens
Wyatt was walking in the courtyard after supper when an especially careless owl dropped an envelope on his head, and circled to a nearby bench to rest its wings. Bloody- Thanks?” He spoke to the owl, as it had stayed on the bench, expecting something. He looked around, hoping no one had witnessed that awkward interaction between man and bird, and thankfully, he was alone. He looked to the ground for the letter, and noticed it didn’t have a name or a stamp on it. “Alright, then…” He picked it up cautiously, and opened it far away from his body. There wasn’t a baby dragon tucked inside, nor was there any anthrax (he assumed), so Wyatt felt it would be safe to take out whatever parchment the envelope held inside.
Wyatt pulled out a… a drawing? Wyatt was beyond confused, until he realized. His missing drawing! He knew he lost it after he sent a letter to his mum, but he didn’t care much, as it was just a quick sketch from when he was bored in potions class. Perhaps someone stumbled upon his drawing in the owlery and sent him a drawing back, but… how? He didn’t put his name on that sheet of parchment, did he?
He stared at the rather calming artwork for a moment, he didn’t know what to do, but soon it came to him. “Stay there,” he told the owl, “just a moment.” Wyatt rummaged through his little satchel of schoolbooks and found a muggle pen and ripped a piece of paper from his notes journal. Wyatt closed his eyes and looked for a memory, and one came to him, a quite sad one at that. He clicked it and got to work, sketching a broken guitar on the floor of a bedroom, Wyatt’s bedroom back at home.

Wyatt was thinking of the day his father came home after being fired from his latest job- well, not exactly. After his dad was fired, he went to a pub, then he came home. Wyatt was sitting on his bed practicing an old song, Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, on a worn acoustic guitar, and hadn’t heard his dad come in. His father stormed into his bedroom, furious. Wyatt stopped playing and looked up at the terrifying man- in Wyatt’s 9-year-old eyes, his father was a giant. “What’d I tell you about those pansy songs?” Wyatt never liked his father’s view of what a boy should be. He assumed his father felt that if everyone within a 10-mile radius could feel his masculinity radiating off his person, he was ok. His father ripped the guitar out of his hands and smashed it against the wall, breaking it in one swing, before tossing it on the ground in front of him. “It’s useless now,” he growled, "you're welcome." Wyatt knew better than to cry.

He finished the drawing and looked through his bag, trying to find an envelope, but he couldn’t find one. Though, he did find a ribbon. Wyatt rolled up his artwork and tied it up with the thin green ribbon. He gave it to the owl and said, “Find the artist.”

"Before you start pointing fingers
make sure your hands are clean.” -Jimi Hendrix

portrait  private   closed 

interacting with @Wyatt Starkey

✧˖*°࿐

Morgan wasn't sure how long he had waited for the owl to return. He wasn't much sure if he should've waited at all. Perhaps he was way in over his head; as he was with most things.

But regardless, just to make it easier on the winged rat, he waited about. A few people spiraled in and out, but not much stayed long, which left him to learn unnecessarily boring things like how many tiles were in the ground or how far apart the cobblestone walls were. How many cracks they had, and how many steps he had to take from one side of the room to the other.

Blimey, he was going absolutely mad.

Just as he was about to take his leave, a familiar companion had returned to him, alerting the young Gryffindor with the sound of gust between his feathers as he landed nearby. "Yore back," he said, a tone of slight disbelief; He hadn't expected this. "That fore me?" he asked of the owl, who stared back at him with big, cerulean eyes, stars in his gaze. Carefully he took the scroll from his hook, analyzing what was now in his hand.

Morgan looked at the green ribbon, carefully prodding his finger through one of the loops. So, whoever this was, were they a Slytherin? "Fanks, old pal." He smiled a great deal. The left corner of his lip turned upwards, enough so that his canine fang poked out and against his bottom lip. He was excited to open it, so much so that he didn't. It didn't make sense to him either, but instead, he put the rolled up paper on the inside of his robe, next to his wand.

Whoever this was, it was real-- and it was now. It brought excitement to him, that there was some meaning behind this. Perhaps it was coincidental that he'd happen upon the paper, and that the paper had happened to find him.

He decided to give the owl a bit of time to breathe; he'd remember him.

Morgan returned to his dormitory. His mate wasn't there, so he had what felt like all the time in the world to completely melt himself into this endeavor. Checking twice that he were alone so to avoid nosy blokes in his business, the male settled down over his bed before taking out the rolled up drawing. He laid with his head pressed up against the glass window behind him, arm tucked under his neck, fingers playing with the curtain lightly as he stared at it, moving it back and forth between his fingers.

When he finally did open it, he kept the ribbon aside. He'd been careful with it, not wanting the off chance of accidentally tearing at the felt.

When Morgan did have the chance to look at the drawing, he was rendered speechless. More-so in a state of comatose thought, where his eyes danced around the page in attempt to decipher what the broken guitar could mean. He thought of all the Slytherins he passed in the corridors on his way here, and he wondered, just who could this be?

. . .

He hadn't returned a drawing. Not for a few days. He'd been thinking, about what was worth while. It wasn't one day until he was sitting by the Great Lakes, that he had a small encounter with a box of matches. And so that he painted in black ink. A box with a brand name he hadn't seen before, with a single match ignited next to it. He supposed in a way it represented how he'd been feeling, like his chest was on fire. Maybe he could infer more on it if they were curious. When he returned to the Owlery, he smiled at the familiar bird. "Oi trost you'll send this to the wright person."
Reducio
ooc: hi sorry this was so late ! also, the way I type when he speaks is to highlight his accent! Let me know if its hard to understand.

"Why is it that when one man builds a wall,
the next man immediately needs to know
what's on the other side?”

portrait  private   closed 

@Morgan Bowens
Wyatt had been waiting another few days for his next drawing, remembering the owl and the boat in the calm waves. He wondered if the artist just forgot, maybe they were a 5th year and had O.W.L.s to study for or something- but Wyatt didn’t forget. It was quite interesting, who would see a picture of a boggart in a cupboard and pick it up- from what Wyatt remembered, his drawing was quite unsettling.
He drew it in Potions, after Defense class where he learned about boggarts. He remembered looking at it when he was finished, the picture sent a chill traveling down his spine. A boggart was possibly the easiest fear to have, as it practically was fear. Wyatt found out, though, his fear wasn’t a boggart- it was his own father. He cringed when he saw him, it had been years. That was definitely something to explain to the few people that asked him after class.
“Who was that?”
“Me, just… older.”

They accepted that answer, as Wyatt and his father (obviously) shared features. He was pondering this in the Slytherin common room when he heard a knock- no, a peck on the door. He turned and squinted at the door, waiting for someone to open it. Though the common room was riddled with people, no one decided to open the door. Wyatt rolled his eyes and stood up. He walked over to the door, opened it, and was greeted by a familiar beak. He carefully took the loose drawing from the bird and it flew away. It wasn’t in an envelope, nor was it rolled up in any way. There was a hole on the top of the parchment where the owl’s beak had pierced it. He went over to the couches by the fireplace, where someone’s abandoned charms assignment lay on the coffee table, and borrowed their quill and spare parchment.

He looked at the box of matches with one on fire and thought, “that’s how I feel, but the opposite, I suppose.” He saw the match, separate from the others, on fire, but he felt like one of the matches in the box- if one had been burned out and placed back in the matchbox. He rolled his eyes at the thought of comparing himself to a box of matches, and as he looked up to laugh at himself, he saw the fireplace. Though it was dark and cold in the basement, there was no fire. He smiled and began drawing, he made this one so detailed, that his work went into the night. He waited for the black ink to dry, folded the artwork, and put it in an envelope. He decided against risking detention by going to the owlery after curfew, and sent the owl to find the other student- or teacher when you think about it- in the morning.

"Before you start pointing fingers
make sure your hands are clean.” -Jimi Hendrix