6 Apr 2020, 05:13
The Enemy of My Enemy
@Thomas Lestrange
[font=Segoe Print]It was a rather revolting day, as was easily evident to all inhabiting the fair castle of Hogwarts, the powerful Scottish winds whistling dangerously through the air as they burst into the courtyard, carrying with them the foul, soggy stench of an oncoming storm. April, it seemed, had finally arrived, bringing with it all of Mother Nature’s pain and merciless rage – large, ominous storm clouds billowed dangerously in the sky, alight with her thunderous anger, sheets of rain pouring down in large, suffocating droves as the sky’s warriors berated mercilessly against the sturdy stone walls of the castle. The chill of the outside weather, cold and sticky, seemed to cling to all who traversed about the school, nature’s warfare painfully evident to the innocent wizards rushing to their classes.
The conditions were certainly less than favorable – however, Rafael supposed he couldn’t complain too much. He’d always liked the rain. There was something oddly tranquil about the incessant patter, gray skies, billowing thunder, that had always calmed the boy’s nerves, leaving him utterly at peace with his circumstances and surroundings. He found it a bit odd, actually, how such an ugly, revolting mess of nature could create such a lovely feeling within his chest – the universe had a funny way of screwing with someone’s feelings, that was for sure. However, the vibes were certainly welcome to the boy, as there was seldom a day where the greater forces decided to side with the cursed child, offering its merciful hand to help him out of his manifold problems. It was a strange concept to grasp for those who couldn’t feel it, and yet, the understanding of the situation was so clear to the boy, it was hard to imagine a time where the concept hadn’t been as familiar as the back of his hand.
[As weird as the words sounded in his head, sometimes he felt as if the rain was where he belonged. Where he truly felt free of the grasp of the world’s many demands and problems.]
[Of course, flying in the rain was another story, for another day.]
The rain had helped him little in his attempts to beat the bell, however – Rafael was running late for class. Again. Which, he supposed, wasn’t that much of a surprise, given that the boy’s tardiness was more of a pattern than anything else. He supposed his lack of concept of time had something to do with his negligence for schooling – really, he wasn’t all that concerned with the wizarding world and the lessons it entailed. If his magic were anything to go by, his life in wizardry was one-hundred-percent screwed and set for failure – which had never irked him, as he’d hardly ever wanted anything to do with his ruddy wand in the first place. It was an amenity, and a ruddy useless one, at that, the sort in which he’d easily trade for 50 euros without so much as a second thought.
However, he supposed, it was best to at least keep up pretenses – the last thing he needed was a howler from his mother, embarrassing him in front of the entire school population. Now, that was a matter of importance. Reputation was everything, he’d long since decided – who you were, led to who you were to become, led to the entirety of your existence on the earth. And, if his spotless reputation was anything to go by, he was not to be messed with. There could be no signs of weakness if his life, no scolding from his mother, no long, sappy talks about his screwed emotions. Men didn’t work like that. At least, real men didn’t.
It was for this reason that he rushed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts Room, eyes drooping increasingly as the moments wore on – second period was a real bitch. The very class where the tiredness and irritability of long, sleepless nights finally started to settle in, turning an irresponsible first-year’s learning experience into a game of how long one could go before his head hit the desk. And he’d already fallen asleep in Potions – unstealthily so, at that, an act that garnered a good laugh from his classmates, if the smirks of his peers were anything to go by. But no matter. He wasn’t afraid of a good challenge.
He’d trod into the brilliant room, the lighting oddly dreary, what with the rain battering against the windows, dark-filtered sunshine painting the setting in a sad, depressing light. A sigh escaped his lips just then, a wave of exhaustion washing over him at the very sound of the soothing patter of the rain, incessant and calming. Mother nature had sweetened the game. That would be too bad…. Without much thought to those around him, he’d boldly chosen a seat near the back, promptly setting his belongings down and seating himself comfortably, leaning back and pulling his hood over his eyes in a shady manner. This was his area now. He’d claimed it, which by default, meant that he owned the place.
It was only a matter of time before this perception would be shattered. [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]It was a rather revolting day, as was easily evident to all inhabiting the fair castle of Hogwarts, the powerful Scottish winds whistling dangerously through the air as they burst into the courtyard, carrying with them the foul, soggy stench of an oncoming storm. April, it seemed, had finally arrived, bringing with it all of Mother Nature’s pain and merciless rage – large, ominous storm clouds billowed dangerously in the sky, alight with her thunderous anger, sheets of rain pouring down in large, suffocating droves as the sky’s warriors berated mercilessly against the sturdy stone walls of the castle. The chill of the outside weather, cold and sticky, seemed to cling to all who traversed about the school, nature’s warfare painfully evident to the innocent wizards rushing to their classes.
The conditions were certainly less than favorable – however, Rafael supposed he couldn’t complain too much. He’d always liked the rain. There was something oddly tranquil about the incessant patter, gray skies, billowing thunder, that had always calmed the boy’s nerves, leaving him utterly at peace with his circumstances and surroundings. He found it a bit odd, actually, how such an ugly, revolting mess of nature could create such a lovely feeling within his chest – the universe had a funny way of screwing with someone’s feelings, that was for sure. However, the vibes were certainly welcome to the boy, as there was seldom a day where the greater forces decided to side with the cursed child, offering its merciful hand to help him out of his manifold problems. It was a strange concept to grasp for those who couldn’t feel it, and yet, the understanding of the situation was so clear to the boy, it was hard to imagine a time where the concept hadn’t been as familiar as the back of his hand.
[As weird as the words sounded in his head, sometimes he felt as if the rain was where he belonged. Where he truly felt free of the grasp of the world’s many demands and problems.]
[Of course, flying in the rain was another story, for another day.]
The rain had helped him little in his attempts to beat the bell, however – Rafael was running late for class. Again. Which, he supposed, wasn’t that much of a surprise, given that the boy’s tardiness was more of a pattern than anything else. He supposed his lack of concept of time had something to do with his negligence for schooling – really, he wasn’t all that concerned with the wizarding world and the lessons it entailed. If his magic were anything to go by, his life in wizardry was one-hundred-percent screwed and set for failure – which had never irked him, as he’d hardly ever wanted anything to do with his ruddy wand in the first place. It was an amenity, and a ruddy useless one, at that, the sort in which he’d easily trade for 50 euros without so much as a second thought.
However, he supposed, it was best to at least keep up pretenses – the last thing he needed was a howler from his mother, embarrassing him in front of the entire school population. Now, that was a matter of importance. Reputation was everything, he’d long since decided – who you were, led to who you were to become, led to the entirety of your existence on the earth. And, if his spotless reputation was anything to go by, he was not to be messed with. There could be no signs of weakness if his life, no scolding from his mother, no long, sappy talks about his screwed emotions. Men didn’t work like that. At least, real men didn’t.
It was for this reason that he rushed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts Room, eyes drooping increasingly as the moments wore on – second period was a real bitch. The very class where the tiredness and irritability of long, sleepless nights finally started to settle in, turning an irresponsible first-year’s learning experience into a game of how long one could go before his head hit the desk. And he’d already fallen asleep in Potions – unstealthily so, at that, an act that garnered a good laugh from his classmates, if the smirks of his peers were anything to go by. But no matter. He wasn’t afraid of a good challenge.
He’d trod into the brilliant room, the lighting oddly dreary, what with the rain battering against the windows, dark-filtered sunshine painting the setting in a sad, depressing light. A sigh escaped his lips just then, a wave of exhaustion washing over him at the very sound of the soothing patter of the rain, incessant and calming. Mother nature had sweetened the game. That would be too bad…. Without much thought to those around him, he’d boldly chosen a seat near the back, promptly setting his belongings down and seating himself comfortably, leaning back and pulling his hood over his eyes in a shady manner. This was his area now. He’d claimed it, which by default, meant that he owned the place.
It was only a matter of time before this perception would be shattered. [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
7 Apr 2020, 05:30
The Enemy of My Enemy
One of the early lessons a pupil can latch onto is that magic is subject to manipulation from its user. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, it is a common misconception the sole purpose of this class it to learn methods of defense as implied in the title. Magic is not inherently light or dark. It’s the approach of the caster that will determine the results of respective spells. It’s what made an unpredictable boy such as Thomas Lestrange one must approach with caution. His off-kilter mind and proclivity for acting on his rage made him dangerous.
Despite Thomas’ inclination towards this subject, distractions led to a late arrival to class. Thomas took solace in the rain. The soft chilling hiss stimulated his brain like a white noise. It often prompted a contemplative mood, only interrupted by the occasional distant rumbles of thunder. He would press the top of his head against an interior window and lose himself. If not for the hastened footsteps of fellow student rushing to class, he would have surveyed the storm until it passed.
Upon his entrance, most seats were taken. A presumably impatient Professor supplying visual daggers to the latecomers. He found a seat open near a hooded boy. He possessed a strong jawline, and lengthy athletic build. Like Thomas, he was taller than your average first year. His demeanor appeared closed off, relatively disinterested. Despite his Gryffindor colors, Thomas identified with this disposition, and elected to sit next to the boy. Far from polite, he would avoid the formulaic courtesies like is this seat taken, or do you mind if I join you? Nope, Thomas gruffly plopped beside the boy, setting his books down in front of him. He paid no mind to his stirring noises, containing a natural aggression he made no efforts to suppress.
The professor began her lesson on Hexes, Jinxes, Curses [Lesson 2 P1]. Thomas rhythmically tapped his fingers on the table, occasional glances towards the mysterious figure to his left. The aforementioned hooded boy carried himself with notable detachment. Either disinterested in learning, or too prideful to believe learning would occur. Seeing as the pair were towards the back, Thomas felt he could get away with a cheeky remark. “You could make it look less obvious.” He muttered, just loud enough for the boy to hear if he wasn’t already dozing off.
Not long after, an announcement from the professor. The students were to partner up and further explore the themes of various spells associated with the lesson. Many of the students surrounding the boys swiftly found a partner, leaving uneasy tension between them, sourced from what was now apparent. The two would have to partner up.
Despite Thomas’ inclination towards this subject, distractions led to a late arrival to class. Thomas took solace in the rain. The soft chilling hiss stimulated his brain like a white noise. It often prompted a contemplative mood, only interrupted by the occasional distant rumbles of thunder. He would press the top of his head against an interior window and lose himself. If not for the hastened footsteps of fellow student rushing to class, he would have surveyed the storm until it passed.
Upon his entrance, most seats were taken. A presumably impatient Professor supplying visual daggers to the latecomers. He found a seat open near a hooded boy. He possessed a strong jawline, and lengthy athletic build. Like Thomas, he was taller than your average first year. His demeanor appeared closed off, relatively disinterested. Despite his Gryffindor colors, Thomas identified with this disposition, and elected to sit next to the boy. Far from polite, he would avoid the formulaic courtesies like is this seat taken, or do you mind if I join you? Nope, Thomas gruffly plopped beside the boy, setting his books down in front of him. He paid no mind to his stirring noises, containing a natural aggression he made no efforts to suppress.
The professor began her lesson on Hexes, Jinxes, Curses [Lesson 2 P1]. Thomas rhythmically tapped his fingers on the table, occasional glances towards the mysterious figure to his left. The aforementioned hooded boy carried himself with notable detachment. Either disinterested in learning, or too prideful to believe learning would occur. Seeing as the pair were towards the back, Thomas felt he could get away with a cheeky remark. “You could make it look less obvious.” He muttered, just loud enough for the boy to hear if he wasn’t already dozing off.
Not long after, an announcement from the professor. The students were to partner up and further explore the themes of various spells associated with the lesson. Many of the students surrounding the boys swiftly found a partner, leaving uneasy tension between them, sourced from what was now apparent. The two would have to partner up.
@Rafael D'Spacito
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
7 Apr 2020, 21:39
The Enemy of My Enemy
@Thomas Lestrange
[font=Segoe Print]Rafael’s hoodie was warm, comforting, the soft brown hair falling over his face providing a shadow that covered his drooping eyelids like a blanket. Sleep, a deadly creature, was calling to the boy like a siren, drawing him in with her mesmerizing security – he couldn’t help but let the voices in, his grasp on reality slowly loosening, the sound of the rain resonating around his head in an incessant, lovely sort of patter, patter, patter. A therapy noise, it was, and an unwanted one, at that – it was slowly dooming his chances of survival in a classroom of education-hungry students and predatory teachers. However, there was nothing he could do but watch as the weariness ensnared his senses, taking over his livelihood by wave, leaving him defenseless as its poison swept in, slowly drowning his thoughts…
His eyelids fluttered close for a moment. Then open. Then closed. Then –
“You could make it look less obvious.”
The voice was strong, cheeky, almost, enough to have drawn the boy back from the edge in a terrible yank, his head restarting in a moment’s notice and leaving the boy jumping to attention. Wow, that was less than subtle – his whole body had jolted, his elbows jutting out, his eyes growing wide, his muscles tense as he searched for the origin of the voice. Since when did he have a deskmate? Last time he’d checked – last time his eyes had been open, mind him – he’d been under the impression that he was alone, left to his own devices. How long had that been?
“Mierda,” he muttered, looking over at the boy sitting next to him. He’d never seen the guy before – he was a pretty good-looking kid, at first glance, probably around second-or-third year age, with short brown hair and serious blue eyes. Strong build. Serious facial features. Slytherin, if his robes said anything about him. God, a Slytherin of all people. Raf’s tired eyes rested on the snake symbol sewed to the guy’s robes with disdain, his gaze intensifying slightly as a sneer grew on his face. Well, just his luck. He seemed to have a lot of that lately, didn’t he.
The Gryffindor couldn’t exactly make sense of what the Slytherin kid had told him in the first place – whether it was helpful advice, an insult, a muttering to himself – so, rather than sending a snide, offhand comeback, he’d opted to use his visual weapons, glaring lasers at the Slytherin beside him. A warning. He was irritable, not in the mood to put up with some first-year’s shit, didn’t matter how big they were. Then, having made his point, he’d adjusted his hood, getting into a comfortable position once more. He didn’t need a Slytherin’s damned help to stay awake. Hell, he wanted nothing to do with the bastards.
However, it seemed as if fate had different plans for the two, as only a moment had passed before the teacher had assigned the class to finding partners. Everyone had their damned friends – the well of possible partners had dried up to one lousy Slytherin in only moments, leaving the Gryffindor with the one person in the room he officially despised the most. [Because, opinions were so easy to formulate at such an age.] Lovely. He looked at the kid beside him, chewing his lip with a purely irritated look on his face as he considered the situation. He was really screwed over now.
Well, this should be fun.
The Thunderbird quickly flipped his book open, the pages flying smoothly through his nimble fingers as he discovered the correct pages. “You’d better not screw up, Slytherin,” he growled, not looking up. “I like my eyebrows on my face.” [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]Rafael’s hoodie was warm, comforting, the soft brown hair falling over his face providing a shadow that covered his drooping eyelids like a blanket. Sleep, a deadly creature, was calling to the boy like a siren, drawing him in with her mesmerizing security – he couldn’t help but let the voices in, his grasp on reality slowly loosening, the sound of the rain resonating around his head in an incessant, lovely sort of patter, patter, patter. A therapy noise, it was, and an unwanted one, at that – it was slowly dooming his chances of survival in a classroom of education-hungry students and predatory teachers. However, there was nothing he could do but watch as the weariness ensnared his senses, taking over his livelihood by wave, leaving him defenseless as its poison swept in, slowly drowning his thoughts…
His eyelids fluttered close for a moment. Then open. Then closed. Then –
“You could make it look less obvious.”
The voice was strong, cheeky, almost, enough to have drawn the boy back from the edge in a terrible yank, his head restarting in a moment’s notice and leaving the boy jumping to attention. Wow, that was less than subtle – his whole body had jolted, his elbows jutting out, his eyes growing wide, his muscles tense as he searched for the origin of the voice. Since when did he have a deskmate? Last time he’d checked – last time his eyes had been open, mind him – he’d been under the impression that he was alone, left to his own devices. How long had that been?
“Mierda,” he muttered, looking over at the boy sitting next to him. He’d never seen the guy before – he was a pretty good-looking kid, at first glance, probably around second-or-third year age, with short brown hair and serious blue eyes. Strong build. Serious facial features. Slytherin, if his robes said anything about him. God, a Slytherin of all people. Raf’s tired eyes rested on the snake symbol sewed to the guy’s robes with disdain, his gaze intensifying slightly as a sneer grew on his face. Well, just his luck. He seemed to have a lot of that lately, didn’t he.
The Gryffindor couldn’t exactly make sense of what the Slytherin kid had told him in the first place – whether it was helpful advice, an insult, a muttering to himself – so, rather than sending a snide, offhand comeback, he’d opted to use his visual weapons, glaring lasers at the Slytherin beside him. A warning. He was irritable, not in the mood to put up with some first-year’s shit, didn’t matter how big they were. Then, having made his point, he’d adjusted his hood, getting into a comfortable position once more. He didn’t need a Slytherin’s damned help to stay awake. Hell, he wanted nothing to do with the bastards.
However, it seemed as if fate had different plans for the two, as only a moment had passed before the teacher had assigned the class to finding partners. Everyone had their damned friends – the well of possible partners had dried up to one lousy Slytherin in only moments, leaving the Gryffindor with the one person in the room he officially despised the most. [Because, opinions were so easy to formulate at such an age.] Lovely. He looked at the kid beside him, chewing his lip with a purely irritated look on his face as he considered the situation. He was really screwed over now.
Well, this should be fun.
The Thunderbird quickly flipped his book open, the pages flying smoothly through his nimble fingers as he discovered the correct pages. “You’d better not screw up, Slytherin,” he growled, not looking up. “I like my eyebrows on my face.” [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
11 Apr 2020, 23:37
The Enemy of My Enemy
The remark that left the Slytherin’s lips served as an abrupt awakening for the other, halting his teetering on a line of consciousness. Only adding to the amusement was the startled expression received. Wide eyes, tense muscles, a momentary scan to locate this impolite rouser. An utterance followed, word and accent both unfamiliar to Thomas. The lack of understanding brought with it judgment of an intended distasteful sting. His smirk faded from said presumed slight, exchanging a mutually contemptuous glare.
With history as an indicator, one could even go as far to say Thomas sought out the negative tension arriving from disrespect, a slight, a threat. He loved distractions, and to share his misery. Anything to peel his mind away from his cold reality. A one Gryffindor boy had potential to be the latest victim. This particular victim may have been a deterrent for some, but Thomas does not discriminate. Whether it was the height advantage, reach, and slight edge in strength, he would antagonize all the same. His demeanor would echo the thoughts in his head. That’s right, I’m already sizing you up.
Shared hostility continued to multiply as the pair grasped onto their unwanted partnership. Thomas joined the boy in arriving at the intended page of his respective book. Reconnecting with his conceited set of brown eyes.
“You’d better not screw up, Slytherin. I like my eyebrows on my face.”
Thomas tore his eyes away from the text, reconnecting with the conceited set of his brown hues. He pressed his lips together, leaning back and tilting his head downward with raised brows. “Going to return to your nap?” He mentioned with a glare. “You’d be of more use to me that way.”
With no intention to abate, the Slytherin tapped the book in front of him, allowing his eyes to flicker over to the Professor. “You may have missed instructions in your slumber. We’re only analysing text for the moment…” Briefly glancing down to his book, he clarified he was on the correct page. “Ah, here it is, the chapter on Ghosts.” Perked brows and a gentle smirk formed, continuing his sarcastic assault. Clearly Thomas wasn't listening either. “Reminds me of you actually.” He brought his fingers together to from a flat palm, floating in the boy’s direction over the table. “The way I can just see right through you.” They were fighting words, which garnered more interest than the discussing the topic of ghosts.
With history as an indicator, one could even go as far to say Thomas sought out the negative tension arriving from disrespect, a slight, a threat. He loved distractions, and to share his misery. Anything to peel his mind away from his cold reality. A one Gryffindor boy had potential to be the latest victim. This particular victim may have been a deterrent for some, but Thomas does not discriminate. Whether it was the height advantage, reach, and slight edge in strength, he would antagonize all the same. His demeanor would echo the thoughts in his head. That’s right, I’m already sizing you up.
Shared hostility continued to multiply as the pair grasped onto their unwanted partnership. Thomas joined the boy in arriving at the intended page of his respective book. Reconnecting with his conceited set of brown eyes.
“You’d better not screw up, Slytherin. I like my eyebrows on my face.”
Thomas tore his eyes away from the text, reconnecting with the conceited set of his brown hues. He pressed his lips together, leaning back and tilting his head downward with raised brows. “Going to return to your nap?” He mentioned with a glare. “You’d be of more use to me that way.”
With no intention to abate, the Slytherin tapped the book in front of him, allowing his eyes to flicker over to the Professor. “You may have missed instructions in your slumber. We’re only analysing text for the moment…” Briefly glancing down to his book, he clarified he was on the correct page. “Ah, here it is, the chapter on Ghosts.” Perked brows and a gentle smirk formed, continuing his sarcastic assault. Clearly Thomas wasn't listening either. “Reminds me of you actually.” He brought his fingers together to from a flat palm, floating in the boy’s direction over the table. “The way I can just see right through you.” They were fighting words, which garnered more interest than the discussing the topic of ghosts.
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
20 Apr 2020, 23:15
The Enemy of My Enemy
@Thomas Lestrange
[font=Segoe Print]“Going to return to your nap? You’d be of more use to me that way.”
The Slytherin’s voice rang insultingly, wry even, through the air, reverberating about in the Gryffindor’s head in the most aggravating way, his antagonization present in the way he reclined in his seat, glancing downwards in the most irritating, smartass sort of way, the sort of movement that made the Gryffindor’s blood boil and burn, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end as he bristled, his eyes narrowing in contempt as he considered the boy in front of him. What if he wanted to? Go back to sleep, that is? Was that such a crime, nodding off in class? Something to be ashamed of? He needed sleep, goddammit, he was only human! Since when had he ever found such a thought shameful to think? What the hell had the Slytherin done to his brain? It was the strangest thing, the feeling of dread that slowly crept into his gut at the very indication of such actions, as if he’d considered something terribly wrong. Why did he feel this way? Perhaps he would never know. However, such a feeling gave way for a moment, a new sort of aggravation slipping through the cracks of his resolve, burning within his stomach. No, such a comment would not go unaddressed.
It wasn’t until the anger had reached every bone in his body, from the very hairs on his head to the tips of his fingers, twitching in angry anticipation, that he realized what he was about to do – he quickly contained his anger, stifling it deep within the pits of his stomach as he considered his actions carefully. No, punching such a vile child – and during class, at that – would bring him little satisfaction and much repercussion. He had to keep his composure, and tact, at that, especially in the presence of such a vile Slytherin child. Sucking in a deep breath, once enraged features settled into something more subtle, a miffed expression if he’d ever pulled such a face, jaw clenched outwards and eyes stricken with disdain as he considered his book, already flipped to the appropriate page. He didn’t associate with his kind, and would continue to not give
Though, all bets were off at the very indication of opacity, the Slytherin’s lilting comment like a bullet to the boy’s resolve, eating away at any patience or self-control he still had within the confines of his 11-year-old body. Wow, the moron really didn’t think that one through, did he? Because, the truth of the matter was all too simple – if Rafael wanted to shield his feelings from the kid, he would do so, and seamlessly, at that. Jack and Evelynn, in the least, had seen such perfect acting first-hand, faces that had fooled even the King of the Snakes and She-Devil herself. What did the Peanut Gallery know about masking feelings, huh? Opacity?
Well, if the Slytherin wanted a hard time, then here it was.
Rafael loosened the drawstrings on his hoodie, carefully tucked underneath his robes, save for the hood itself, tucked comfortably on his head, continuing to rub the exhaustion from his tired eyes as he considered his words carefully. A once angry, pissed look was soon replaced with careful manipulation of the features – his mouth opened just slightly in a wry, slightly curious expression, an eyebrow raising, almost smiling. The words following simply rolled off his tongue, his chin jutting to the side wryly. “Aye, you’re funny, aren’t you?” he said sickeningly, the words lilting off the tip of his tongue. "That’s great. Real Slytherin of you.”
Letting those words sit in the air for just a moment, he picked up his pen, flattening a piece of crumpled paper as he quickly scrawled a date on the top, biting his lip in careful thought. “You ever consider that I’m transparent because I have nothing to hide?” he continued liltingly, his words kindly and tame as a bright, genuine smile surfaced onto his face. “I’m certainly not daft, not like the great deal of your lot.” [Well, maybe he was daft, but Snake Nazi here didn’t know that.] “Hiding your pathetic little weaknesses and insecurities behind clever words and a prickly interior. Hell, I’d try to see things from your perspective, but,” he shrugged, closing his eyes with a short yawn. “I’m not sure I can get my head that far up my ass.” [/font]
[font=Segoe Print]“Going to return to your nap? You’d be of more use to me that way.”
The Slytherin’s voice rang insultingly, wry even, through the air, reverberating about in the Gryffindor’s head in the most aggravating way, his antagonization present in the way he reclined in his seat, glancing downwards in the most irritating, smartass sort of way, the sort of movement that made the Gryffindor’s blood boil and burn, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing on end as he bristled, his eyes narrowing in contempt as he considered the boy in front of him. What if he wanted to? Go back to sleep, that is? Was that such a crime, nodding off in class? Something to be ashamed of? He needed sleep, goddammit, he was only human! Since when had he ever found such a thought shameful to think? What the hell had the Slytherin done to his brain? It was the strangest thing, the feeling of dread that slowly crept into his gut at the very indication of such actions, as if he’d considered something terribly wrong. Why did he feel this way? Perhaps he would never know. However, such a feeling gave way for a moment, a new sort of aggravation slipping through the cracks of his resolve, burning within his stomach. No, such a comment would not go unaddressed.
It wasn’t until the anger had reached every bone in his body, from the very hairs on his head to the tips of his fingers, twitching in angry anticipation, that he realized what he was about to do – he quickly contained his anger, stifling it deep within the pits of his stomach as he considered his actions carefully. No, punching such a vile child – and during class, at that – would bring him little satisfaction and much repercussion. He had to keep his composure, and tact, at that, especially in the presence of such a vile Slytherin child. Sucking in a deep breath, once enraged features settled into something more subtle, a miffed expression if he’d ever pulled such a face, jaw clenched outwards and eyes stricken with disdain as he considered his book, already flipped to the appropriate page. He didn’t associate with his kind, and would continue to not give
Though, all bets were off at the very indication of opacity, the Slytherin’s lilting comment like a bullet to the boy’s resolve, eating away at any patience or self-control he still had within the confines of his 11-year-old body. Wow, the moron really didn’t think that one through, did he? Because, the truth of the matter was all too simple – if Rafael wanted to shield his feelings from the kid, he would do so, and seamlessly, at that. Jack and Evelynn, in the least, had seen such perfect acting first-hand, faces that had fooled even the King of the Snakes and She-Devil herself. What did the Peanut Gallery know about masking feelings, huh? Opacity?
Well, if the Slytherin wanted a hard time, then here it was.
Rafael loosened the drawstrings on his hoodie, carefully tucked underneath his robes, save for the hood itself, tucked comfortably on his head, continuing to rub the exhaustion from his tired eyes as he considered his words carefully. A once angry, pissed look was soon replaced with careful manipulation of the features – his mouth opened just slightly in a wry, slightly curious expression, an eyebrow raising, almost smiling. The words following simply rolled off his tongue, his chin jutting to the side wryly. “Aye, you’re funny, aren’t you?” he said sickeningly, the words lilting off the tip of his tongue. "That’s great. Real Slytherin of you.”
Letting those words sit in the air for just a moment, he picked up his pen, flattening a piece of crumpled paper as he quickly scrawled a date on the top, biting his lip in careful thought. “You ever consider that I’m transparent because I have nothing to hide?” he continued liltingly, his words kindly and tame as a bright, genuine smile surfaced onto his face. “I’m certainly not daft, not like the great deal of your lot.” [Well, maybe he was daft, but Snake Nazi here didn’t know that.] “Hiding your pathetic little weaknesses and insecurities behind clever words and a prickly interior. Hell, I’d try to see things from your perspective, but,” he shrugged, closing his eyes with a short yawn. “I’m not sure I can get my head that far up my ass.” [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
16 May 2020, 03:37
The Enemy of My Enemy
The overgrown Gryffindor visibly unraveled in his anger, heightened with each utterance departing Thomas’ lips. The house rivalry personified between the pair of boys. The snake of course attacks first, the aggressor, deriving satisfaction from the boiling blood of his counterpart. The irony? Though Thomas would not admit it, he held no allegiance to house Slytherin. House rivalries were weightless, and his status as a Slytherin would be altered if given the choice. This attack was much more personal, feeding the boy’s entertainment. Thomas Lestrange has been corrupted by exterior forces, tarnished under the weight of his father’s legacy. He was beginning to embrace this role, the irritator, the aggravator, the pest, whatever you want to call it. The actuality of his existence? Just another stupid boy with much to learn.
The escalation appeared imminent, Thomas would lock his jaw in preparation, his hands readily shifting for the return of fire. It did not come, the other boy only huffed before reforming his features to mask the perceived fury. A result Thomas would happily take, finding enjoyment in verbal warfare far more than physical attacks. Though the weakness embodied in his initial reaction was an indicator it would only take so many pokes before the bear arrives. Thomas wanted to see the bear.
Sarcastic superiority arrived in the form of a retort, one that Thomas willingly matched, giving the air mutual consistency. “I have my moments.” He tilted his head with a smug smile. Yes, Thomas is the type of kid to laugh at his own jokes, even when nobody else does. “That all you got? How Gryffindor of you.” He mocked as the other returned his eyes to parchment, laser blue eyes remained on his subject, debating if this onslaught was even worth the time.
“You ever consider that I’m transparent because I have nothing to hide?”
That’s more like it. Thomas stirred in his chair, still visually locked into his opponent. The Gryffindor’s words while surely defensive of himself, a sting of hidden truth led Thomas trending away from amusement and towards annoyance, a momentary loss for words. The veiled secrets within often a source of ire, hiding from the twisted perception of himself. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip in silent anxiety. “Or just empty space. My time is better wasted staring at a textbook than in consideration of your extant miracle.”
“I’m certainly not daft, not like the great deal of your lot. Hiding your pathetic little weaknesses and insecurities behind clever words and a prickly interior.
“You generalize all Slytherins’ to be the same. Not only daft, but ignorant.” Thomas lifted his chin with an exaggerated eye roll. “A true housist, huh?” Another typical boy who believes in erroneous house stereotypes. Thomas has encountered enough from each to know the inexact science; the sorting hat is a fool and a drunkard. The houses only exist to inspire competition amongst students, they are not a reflection of one’s aspirations or personality. [Just Thomas’ beliefs.] “Of all the lions I’ve met, you singlehandedly end the stereotypes…” Thomas recaptured his pretentious smirk. “Most of them have more than two brain cells to rub together.”
Hell, I’d try to see things from your perspective, but, I’m not sure I can get my head that far up my ass.”
“Oh no? Head too big?” Thomas leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and placing his hands on the desk. “You want to hit me, don’t you?” Bowing up, removing his back from the chair’s backrest in a rigid posture, providing an easier target. Not that he needed it, as his wingspan was far beyond your average first year. Removing his dominant left hand, he tapped his pointer finger against his jaw, enticing the boy to attack. "Do it then."
@Rafael D'Spacito
The escalation appeared imminent, Thomas would lock his jaw in preparation, his hands readily shifting for the return of fire. It did not come, the other boy only huffed before reforming his features to mask the perceived fury. A result Thomas would happily take, finding enjoyment in verbal warfare far more than physical attacks. Though the weakness embodied in his initial reaction was an indicator it would only take so many pokes before the bear arrives. Thomas wanted to see the bear.
Sarcastic superiority arrived in the form of a retort, one that Thomas willingly matched, giving the air mutual consistency. “I have my moments.” He tilted his head with a smug smile. Yes, Thomas is the type of kid to laugh at his own jokes, even when nobody else does. “That all you got? How Gryffindor of you.” He mocked as the other returned his eyes to parchment, laser blue eyes remained on his subject, debating if this onslaught was even worth the time.
“You ever consider that I’m transparent because I have nothing to hide?”
That’s more like it. Thomas stirred in his chair, still visually locked into his opponent. The Gryffindor’s words while surely defensive of himself, a sting of hidden truth led Thomas trending away from amusement and towards annoyance, a momentary loss for words. The veiled secrets within often a source of ire, hiding from the twisted perception of himself. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip in silent anxiety. “Or just empty space. My time is better wasted staring at a textbook than in consideration of your extant miracle.”
“I’m certainly not daft, not like the great deal of your lot. Hiding your pathetic little weaknesses and insecurities behind clever words and a prickly interior.
“You generalize all Slytherins’ to be the same. Not only daft, but ignorant.” Thomas lifted his chin with an exaggerated eye roll. “A true housist, huh?” Another typical boy who believes in erroneous house stereotypes. Thomas has encountered enough from each to know the inexact science; the sorting hat is a fool and a drunkard. The houses only exist to inspire competition amongst students, they are not a reflection of one’s aspirations or personality. [Just Thomas’ beliefs.] “Of all the lions I’ve met, you singlehandedly end the stereotypes…” Thomas recaptured his pretentious smirk. “Most of them have more than two brain cells to rub together.”
Hell, I’d try to see things from your perspective, but, I’m not sure I can get my head that far up my ass.”
“Oh no? Head too big?” Thomas leaned forward, interlocking his fingers and placing his hands on the desk. “You want to hit me, don’t you?” Bowing up, removing his back from the chair’s backrest in a rigid posture, providing an easier target. Not that he needed it, as his wingspan was far beyond your average first year. Removing his dominant left hand, he tapped his pointer finger against his jaw, enticing the boy to attack. "Do it then."
@Rafael D'Spacito
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
16 May 2020, 21:04
The Enemy of My Enemy
╔══════════════☩══♛══☩══════════════╗Interacting With: @Thomas Lestrange
Mentioning: Jack Burnett╚═══════════════☩══✦══☩══════════════╝
[font=Segoe Print]“My time is better wasted staring at a textbook than in consideration of your extant miracle.”
A growl escaped the lips of the Gryffindor Captain, his gaze, once amiable in the most acutely caustic way, now razor-sharp and teeming with a resilient sort of anger, the same sort that burned just beyond one’s fingertips, leaving his blood boiling and knuckles clenched white. It would see as if his Slytherin acquaintance, much like the finer things in life, only continued to grow more intriguing with time, a fact that did little console the boy’s teeming anger, sparking off his countenance and threatening to burn his whereabouts. It was really a wonder the Gryffindor hadn’t exploded yet – such thoughts tugged at the attention of the young boy, causing him to ponder such a fact further. Perhaps his self-control was stronger now, thanks to the subtlety that he was so determinedly trying to intertwine in his personality, drill to his mannerisms. He was far too transparent, he knew that much, even behind the brilliant facades his face could so easily hold. There was no doubt in his mind that his acquaintance could see right through his once gentle mannerisms, easy smile. It was obviously not this kid’s rodeo. But, then again, Rafael had been around a tense situation himself. His fists were more than ready, should another smart comment leave the boy’s lips. It was only a matter of time before someone pulled something brash.
That being said, he wasn’t about to give in to the snarky comments so smoothly passed his way. Rather, he settled his mouth in a scowl, leaning backwards and rocking in his chair as he shaked his pen once, twice, three times, focusing all the ink towards the tip. “A housist, perhaps,” he muttered, leaning forward once more as to scribbled incoherent writing down onto his paper in rough strokes. He would choose to ignore the boy’s comments regarding his mental capacity, it wasn’t enough to act on. Not with the professor carefully watching. “But it’s not like your lot has done anything to change my mind. The whole lot of you are lying, scheming, two-faced – “ he really could go on all day, but there certainly were more important things to address, “ – little shits. All the same. I mean,” he shrugged, smiling wryly as he scribbled, gaze still sharp as a knife, “Really. You think your special? CHeck again. You’re just as annoying as Burnett. Probably not as smart, though,” he growled, “if your insults are anything to go by.”
His gaze only continued to pierce the assignment underneath his fingertips, teeth gritting as he considered in depth the boy who’d kissed him on New Year’s Eve. There was no doubt in the young Captain’s mind that Jack Burnett was evil, and verily so, the child a well of discord and dismay to all who sold their soul for an interaction. It was no secret that the two had bad blood, that was for damn sure – if anything, the Slytherin was his nemesis, the focal point of all his hate and rage regarding the events of the school year. The very memory of the boy’s lips brushing his cheek sent a cold chill down the spine of the first year – he reflexively wiped the spot of contact with the back of his sleeve, a short gag escaping his lips in horror as he reminisced on the events of the past. “Redhead fucking demon brat,” he would mutter, just audible over the idle chatter of the room. Would his acquaintance hear? Perhaps, if he were attentive enough. That didn’t concern Rafa, as he had shortly ushered such thoughts from his mind, choosing to focus his attention on the homework beneath his fingertips.
“You want to hit me, don’t you? Do it then.”
The offer was tantalizing, verily so, the boy’s words alone enough to draw the eyes of the young Captain – his scrutinizing gaze soon flickering over to the Slytherin, who was tapping his cheek in challenge. Oh, that was just perfect, wasn’t it? he could only think with growing aggravation. Now, he could have been smart, refrained from such blatantly sketchy offers. After all, it wasn’t as if their professor had left the room, the woman still dutifully perched in the front of the amassed group. Such an action would prove critical to the tranquil studies of his fellow students, but then again, since when had he cared about keeping the peace? Possibility was teeming in his fingertips, pooling through his clenched hands and in turn his being, clouding his mind and spurring him into action. It was too late for rational thought, and he could do nothing but turn towards the Slytherin, an evil smile pulling at the ends of his lips as he grabbed the front of the boy’s robes, knuckles clenched as they smashed into the jawline of his acquaintance – [/font]
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
13 Jun 2020, 05:31
The Enemy of My Enemy
A gnawing Thomas sent waves through the Gryffindor, who actively attempted to surmount the cold attacks, but the irritation was easily denoted by the manner he scribbled notes onto a piece of parchment. A boy that was willing to snooze through the day’s lesson become a passionate student was an active defense mechanism Thomas would recognize. The intended message was merely a façade to refute Thomas’s belief he was getting to the boy. What he didn’t understand, was the reception of his attacks would not deter him from pressing on.
The overgrown embodiment of pre-teen incandescence went on to provide his expert understanding of house Slytherin. “Really. You think your special?” With unmoved posture, Thomas’ head fixed in its position, eyes alike in silent examination. To look past the defensive tone and cheap generalizations to witness the huff and puff, the concealed rage that has yet to burst. “I do.” Thomas is nothing if not special. Albeit the adjective can be perceived differently, the connotations implied by the user’s diction. He was special due to the rarity of his circumstances. Also special in the way one would be called for a tendency to make faulty decisions. To succumb to the weight of his emotions…the angry, idiotic, disenfranchised boy. [
]
A mention of a certain Slytherin boy piqued interest from Lestrange that went beyond his simple stone throw. Could he be referring to Fox? A Slytherin acquaintance with an intriguing agenda with Erin Ryan? Red-head, check. Demon, check. Brat, check. These specific similarities to the only red-head boy Thomas has encountered in Slytherin led to his belief it must have been Fox. A glimmer of amusement breached his visage, a brow gently rising. Burnett? The fumes exuding in his classmate’s apparent animosity only allowed Thomas to contrast his feelings further. Sure, Fox had an active tongue, an inclination to state his opinions and challenge others he disagreed with. The two met on unusual circumstances, leaving a general distaste. However, a multi-layered opinion, as the boy’s refusal to back down was a respected quality. He was passionate…and intelligent for a boy his age, a critical thinker. But you can be all of those things and still be a brat.
The Gryffindor’s previous statement clicked. "You’re just as annoying as Burnett. Probably not as smart, though, if your insults are anything to go by.” Thomas was surely not as smart, draw it up to be a late bloomer… or bad parenting from Aunty Petunia. Though he would still take exception with the barb, combined with a comparison to the chatter fox. “Your predisposition leads your belief that we are all alike.” Thomas implied the mental constraints that come from generalizations, to believe individuals that are grouped together are all the same was a foolish notion. With a scoff, he egged the Gryffindor elitist towards his breaking point, letting his finger tap delicately against his jaw in patience for the physical reaction. “I am nothing like him.” The disdain was clear in harsh emphasis of the final word, but while Thomas said him, he meant them—yes, the boy held no respect for his house.
Thomas enjoyed the building storm seated across him. Finally, the right words were said to initiate a vehement brown-eyed glare, the temptation to take the punch was enough to attain the boy’s full attention. His blue eyes flickered down to survey the opponent’s movements, any indecision faded with clenched teeth and a slight tremble in his dominant(presumably) hand. The Gryffindor lifted his fist from the table, bringing it back before a heavy swing. Thomas would only tilt his head slightly upward to increase the chances of the fist impacting his jaw, and not his temple. Fully prepared to accept the painful consequences from a heavy hand, but a favor he would quickly return. Taking the first punch was essential in the event of intervention, painting Thomas as the victim of what he would claim to be an unprovoked attack. Perhaps he was a snake after all.
But the red and yellow within Thomas would soon make its appearance. As the Gryffindor’s knuckles impacted the left side of his arched jaw, his head jolted back from the impact, leaving the boy shaky, loosening his jaw with a grimace. Followed by a slow turn of his head, back towards the boy with a piercing stare. Largely fueling the looming return fire, but a shred of respect born from the strong blow. “You—” The growing pain in his jaw signaled his reluctance to speak, chewing his meals with that side of his mouth would prove a difficult task in the coming days. “Not terrible.”
In fact, it far surpassed his expectations, this boy was stronger than your average first year. With the punch came a rush of adrenaline, the body’s response to fight. Heightened senses accompanied a rising pulse; it was Thomas’ turn. He formed a fist with his dominant left, extending his arm in attempt to contact the boy’s temple with a hook [permission to hit granted, but you decide where it lands exactly]. The result was gratifying, a smug expression forming after the impact. Thomas swiftly closed his book and rose from his seat, pressing his heel upward to thrust the chair backwards, likely toppling over behind him. The intention was to create space and decrease the chance he tripped if his opponent charged or forced him back. Thomas stood there, twinkling his fingers in anticipation for the likely assault. He eyed the Gryffindor with a quirk of the head. Let’s go then.
@Rafael D'Spacito
The overgrown embodiment of pre-teen incandescence went on to provide his expert understanding of house Slytherin. “Really. You think your special?” With unmoved posture, Thomas’ head fixed in its position, eyes alike in silent examination. To look past the defensive tone and cheap generalizations to witness the huff and puff, the concealed rage that has yet to burst. “I do.” Thomas is nothing if not special. Albeit the adjective can be perceived differently, the connotations implied by the user’s diction. He was special due to the rarity of his circumstances. Also special in the way one would be called for a tendency to make faulty decisions. To succumb to the weight of his emotions…the angry, idiotic, disenfranchised boy. [
] A mention of a certain Slytherin boy piqued interest from Lestrange that went beyond his simple stone throw. Could he be referring to Fox? A Slytherin acquaintance with an intriguing agenda with Erin Ryan? Red-head, check. Demon, check. Brat, check. These specific similarities to the only red-head boy Thomas has encountered in Slytherin led to his belief it must have been Fox. A glimmer of amusement breached his visage, a brow gently rising. Burnett? The fumes exuding in his classmate’s apparent animosity only allowed Thomas to contrast his feelings further. Sure, Fox had an active tongue, an inclination to state his opinions and challenge others he disagreed with. The two met on unusual circumstances, leaving a general distaste. However, a multi-layered opinion, as the boy’s refusal to back down was a respected quality. He was passionate…and intelligent for a boy his age, a critical thinker. But you can be all of those things and still be a brat.
The Gryffindor’s previous statement clicked. "You’re just as annoying as Burnett. Probably not as smart, though, if your insults are anything to go by.” Thomas was surely not as smart, draw it up to be a late bloomer… or bad parenting from Aunty Petunia. Though he would still take exception with the barb, combined with a comparison to the chatter fox. “Your predisposition leads your belief that we are all alike.” Thomas implied the mental constraints that come from generalizations, to believe individuals that are grouped together are all the same was a foolish notion. With a scoff, he egged the Gryffindor elitist towards his breaking point, letting his finger tap delicately against his jaw in patience for the physical reaction. “I am nothing like him.” The disdain was clear in harsh emphasis of the final word, but while Thomas said him, he meant them—yes, the boy held no respect for his house.
Thomas enjoyed the building storm seated across him. Finally, the right words were said to initiate a vehement brown-eyed glare, the temptation to take the punch was enough to attain the boy’s full attention. His blue eyes flickered down to survey the opponent’s movements, any indecision faded with clenched teeth and a slight tremble in his dominant(presumably) hand. The Gryffindor lifted his fist from the table, bringing it back before a heavy swing. Thomas would only tilt his head slightly upward to increase the chances of the fist impacting his jaw, and not his temple. Fully prepared to accept the painful consequences from a heavy hand, but a favor he would quickly return. Taking the first punch was essential in the event of intervention, painting Thomas as the victim of what he would claim to be an unprovoked attack. Perhaps he was a snake after all.
But the red and yellow within Thomas would soon make its appearance. As the Gryffindor’s knuckles impacted the left side of his arched jaw, his head jolted back from the impact, leaving the boy shaky, loosening his jaw with a grimace. Followed by a slow turn of his head, back towards the boy with a piercing stare. Largely fueling the looming return fire, but a shred of respect born from the strong blow. “You—” The growing pain in his jaw signaled his reluctance to speak, chewing his meals with that side of his mouth would prove a difficult task in the coming days. “Not terrible.”
In fact, it far surpassed his expectations, this boy was stronger than your average first year. With the punch came a rush of adrenaline, the body’s response to fight. Heightened senses accompanied a rising pulse; it was Thomas’ turn. He formed a fist with his dominant left, extending his arm in attempt to contact the boy’s temple with a hook [permission to hit granted, but you decide where it lands exactly]. The result was gratifying, a smug expression forming after the impact. Thomas swiftly closed his book and rose from his seat, pressing his heel upward to thrust the chair backwards, likely toppling over behind him. The intention was to create space and decrease the chance he tripped if his opponent charged or forced him back. Thomas stood there, twinkling his fingers in anticipation for the likely assault. He eyed the Gryffindor with a quirk of the head. Let’s go then.
Reducio
Thomas' health: 800-225= 575
Rafa's health: 1000-175= 825
Rafa's health: 1000-175= 825
@Rafael D'Spacito
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x
10 Aug 2020, 19:32
The Enemy of My Enemy
────────────────── ♛ ──────────────────
Mentioning: Flash Holmwood • Kyle DeRook • Aaron Jones • Ruka Tan • [insinuated] Jack Burnett
Hex Color: #800000
─────────────────── • ───────────────────
“I am nothing like him.”
The Slytherin child’s words dripped with a heavy sort of disdain, a vocal shadow hovering over the insinuation that he should be anything akin to the two-faced demon brat that inhabited his same house. A silly notion. All Slytherins were the same, all calculating, all traitorous, all troublesome adolescents whom tainted the honorable School of Hogwarts with their very presence and ill conduct. However, the concept was intriguing, and for a moment, the boy allowed his mind to drift, all thought and feeling tuning out for a short moment, save for the subtle stinging of his knuckles, the result of his previous assault – Slytherin had sired its fair share of terrorists and bullies, this was no secret, but was it true, that all its inhabitants were ill-mannered and destructive to a peaceful learning environment? In hindsight, this theory seemed a difficult one to prove. After all, there was a very small handful of people from the House of Snakes of which only good nature had followed – Flash Holmwood, for instance, was a name that popped into the boy’s immediate memory, a face shrouded by a halo of light. This particular Slytherin was of kindly nature, an endless fountain of peace and favorable interaction from the instances Rafael had met him. He didn’t seem evil, nor a tainted soul, so did his inhabiting of the Slytherin House automatically label him as a menace? Now, that was a difficult question to answer.
And, furthermore, were there not students of other houses’ descent who’d thrown a wrench in the proverbial peace? Kyle DeRook was one that came to immediate memory, along with the atrocious acquaintances of Aaron Jones and Ruka Tan… though his idea of an ill-mannered person may have been biased, in this case. With only growing realization, the boy couldn’t help but take note of the number of students from his own house who’d managed to cause destruction and pain just by inhabiting a room. He, of course, certainly couldn’t talk – having been labeled the notorious ‘Thunderbird’ and ‘King of Blatch’ by a handful of his peers, it was no secret that the boy had made enough people cry and bleed to have inherited a reputation of his own. Even so, he had long since learned to cope with the darkness and hunger for torment within him, as his anger was only a result of his ill upbringing. He wasn’t an evil soul. But did being Slytherin illicit that one’s soul was? Suddenly, the stinging of his hand, quarrels with Burnett, antagonistic actions towards the House of Snakes, was all brought into question. What was he doing here? Was the mere title of Slytherin a sentencing? Were the snakes truly a group of menaces… or a clutter of bad eggs tainting those who weren’t?
However, there would be no time to ponder this further, as the boy’s thoughts were promptly and acutely shattered by a blinding pain in his right temple – crying out in a mix of surprise and agony, the Captain couldn’t help but stagger backwards a few steps, leaning forward as to regain his balance as his hand flew up to the point of contact. His face scrunched up in pain, eyes shut tightly and a deep grimace forming on his face, a thick, deafening fog began to seep into his senses, blinding him from all reason and proper thinking… “Mother-fucker!” he cursed aloud, attempting to clear his mind by shaking his head in one swift motion. To no avail. Serves him right, to think a Slytherin was anything less than scum. He would definitely feel that one in the morning – Thomas, he learned in that moment, was far stronger than he looked, far more accurate than he let on. A shame, he wouldn’t be an easy one to punish. No one punched the Captain and got away with it.
No one.
A snarl resounding from the lips of the Gryffindor, Rafael opened his eyes, his pupils narrowing as he focused his gaze on his aggressor. “That hurt,” he growled in anger, almost like a wounded toddler, except a toddler wouldn’t be capable of carrying the terrifying gaze or stature that he did – anger rolled off the child in hot, thick waves, his cheeks turning a dark red as his shoulders bristled, muscles taut and ready to make his aggressor suffer horribly. It was time for reckoning, and it would be a painful one at that. There would be no other course of action in that moment, no other worry or focus on the mind of the child as he started forward, regaining the steps he had lost in the midst of his reeling, his mouth set in a firm line and jaw clenched. Steeling himself, trying to shake the fog of confusion from his head, he turned, springing off his back foot in attempt to tackle Thomas LeStrange.
Action • Tackling @ Thomas
I probably haven't collected my allowance yet.
3 Oct 2020, 23:35
The Enemy of My Enemy
How did we get here? From turning pages to throwing punches. A fatigued peer first stooping down, now throwing down. This battle tested Gryffindor knew how to finish things. A battle of wit not in his favor, enter the knuckles--albeit encouraged, it wouldn’t have taken more than a little push to see the white flashes they provided. A punch that still left Thomas twinged, blue eyes not as wide during the moment of provocation. A scent of fresh blood suffused his nostrils, the next blow would initiate the release and stain his visage.
Even if only temporarily, his opposition forcefully wiped the smirk off of Thomas’ face with this blow. Despite his general reputation, Thomas was not a crazed masochist that feeds off the physical punishment. It was the reaction that fuels him, to see how little it would take to drive another to rage. It was a test, and the malcontent Gryffindor was failing. So easily allowing his physical reaction to be manipulated. Sure, Thomas would come to regret the damage to his jaw--but for a glimpse at this boy’s true nature, it was all worth it.
Thomas had already attained victory. Their peers may disagree at the sight of Thomas left unconscious in a puddle of his own blood, but internally Thomas would know. His partner in fisticuffs may neglect the truth for some time, but he too would come to realize. The bear he became when poked was a statement in its own right. To tread lightly, this big sensitive bear would strike at even the lightest prod. But how long before he went too far, and when he looked in the mirror, he would not see himself. Only the reddish tint from the blood of his enemies.
No, Thomas was not some master villain that initiated a giggle fit when beaten. He was just a boy, looking to escape his own demons. He rolled his jaw delicately, slightly tilting his head before opting to return this physical sentiment. He executed a hook with his left hand, striking the boy’s left temple firmly. A target point, knowing a critical strike was the quickest avenue for his opponent to go night night. Though he did not fall, just left staggering backwards amidst disgruntled cursing. His brown eyes blaze encompassing his animosity, broadening with each moment.
The punch seemed to have the opposite effect. The other left intensifying his movements with repetitive huffs. Thomas’s ice blue eyes flickered to their surroundings. Seats that were filled now vacated, various students opting to remove themselves before a conclusion. Others left huddled on the outskirts, faces ranged from amused to fearful, though frozen in indifference.[Faceless NPCs] It was growing clear, intervention was not coming. The boys would continue on until one of them did not get back up.
In this brief realization, the Lion vaulted himself forwards in a sprint towards Thomas. It was no longer a boxing match, the other realized a close quarters fight was to his benefit, given the strength advantage he held. Pride goeth before the fall. Even if Thomas knew keeping his opponent at a distance was to his benefit, he would not cower from his approach. Instead, pressing his feet into the ground, and launching his weight into the boy’s tackle.
In a split stance, Thomas pushed his feet off the ground at the point of contact, forcing his weight into the Gryffindor as he arrived. The impact left Thomas stumbling, grasping the corners of his opponents robes before collapsing to the ground. Though amidst their descent, with his grip Thomas twisted enough to place himself atop the Lion. “Had enough?” Thomas regained his smirk of amusement, raising a fist with the intention to strike--regardless of the other’s retort.
Even if only temporarily, his opposition forcefully wiped the smirk off of Thomas’ face with this blow. Despite his general reputation, Thomas was not a crazed masochist that feeds off the physical punishment. It was the reaction that fuels him, to see how little it would take to drive another to rage. It was a test, and the malcontent Gryffindor was failing. So easily allowing his physical reaction to be manipulated. Sure, Thomas would come to regret the damage to his jaw--but for a glimpse at this boy’s true nature, it was all worth it.
Thomas had already attained victory. Their peers may disagree at the sight of Thomas left unconscious in a puddle of his own blood, but internally Thomas would know. His partner in fisticuffs may neglect the truth for some time, but he too would come to realize. The bear he became when poked was a statement in its own right. To tread lightly, this big sensitive bear would strike at even the lightest prod. But how long before he went too far, and when he looked in the mirror, he would not see himself. Only the reddish tint from the blood of his enemies.
No, Thomas was not some master villain that initiated a giggle fit when beaten. He was just a boy, looking to escape his own demons. He rolled his jaw delicately, slightly tilting his head before opting to return this physical sentiment. He executed a hook with his left hand, striking the boy’s left temple firmly. A target point, knowing a critical strike was the quickest avenue for his opponent to go night night. Though he did not fall, just left staggering backwards amidst disgruntled cursing. His brown eyes blaze encompassing his animosity, broadening with each moment.
The punch seemed to have the opposite effect. The other left intensifying his movements with repetitive huffs. Thomas’s ice blue eyes flickered to their surroundings. Seats that were filled now vacated, various students opting to remove themselves before a conclusion. Others left huddled on the outskirts, faces ranged from amused to fearful, though frozen in indifference.[Faceless NPCs] It was growing clear, intervention was not coming. The boys would continue on until one of them did not get back up.
In this brief realization, the Lion vaulted himself forwards in a sprint towards Thomas. It was no longer a boxing match, the other realized a close quarters fight was to his benefit, given the strength advantage he held. Pride goeth before the fall. Even if Thomas knew keeping his opponent at a distance was to his benefit, he would not cower from his approach. Instead, pressing his feet into the ground, and launching his weight into the boy’s tackle.
Contested Strength Roll
Rafa: 19
Thomas: 23
In a split stance, Thomas pushed his feet off the ground at the point of contact, forcing his weight into the Gryffindor as he arrived. The impact left Thomas stumbling, grasping the corners of his opponents robes before collapsing to the ground. Though amidst their descent, with his grip Thomas twisted enough to place himself atop the Lion. “Had enough?” Thomas regained his smirk of amusement, raising a fist with the intention to strike--regardless of the other’s retort.
@Rafael D'Spacito
We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be
Stamina: 8 | Evasion: 7 | Strength: 7 | Wisdom: 8 | ArcPower: 3 | Accuracy: 7
Ability - Evasive Maneuvers 2x