(no subject)
Week Name/Date/Time: ‘Natural Disaster’ / Sunday, 5th February 2006 / 2:09 PM.
Location: Dungeony areas
Open To: Bryant (And Lolita, if she so wishes?)
Currently Involving: Troy
Some things really did frustrate Troy, the guy who usually kept a grin on his face. It may have been some bloke getting in his face over a bird, which hadn't happened in quite a while, or not eating enough at meals. Though when the pitch was closed off. . .that was preposterous.
Earlier that Sunday, he'd strolled on out to the pitch with his Nimbus in hand, looking forward to flying. A seventh year bird had stopped him dead in his tracks, exclaiming 'Bloody hell, Troy! You know there's an ice storm!'
He actually. . .didn't know about this. He was never one to read The Daily Prophet or any of that, unless someone told him specifically. OR it was the Quidditch scores. But if there was a WEATHER-LY DISTURBANCE interfering with his Quidditch?! Maybe he would have to begin to read it.
Meanwhile, and knowing he'd have a tizz if he didn't get some athletic activity, and feeling cooped up from too much bloody schoolwork, he had taken to kicking a football about in the dungeons. This area of the castle really allowed you to run about, kicking the ball off of different walls and cellars, and perhaps run into a certain Lolita Damon, if he played his cards right. . .
No luck so far, but he was making sure to stay close to the Hufflepuff door, just showing off how he could kick the ball about. Up to his head, busting out some World Cup (muggle, not Quidditch, of course) moves of his, balancing it on his heel; Troy had played football practically since he could walk, and made this known by his handle (well. . .on his foot, of course) of the ball.
Location: Dungeony areas
Open To: Bryant (And Lolita, if she so wishes?)
Currently Involving: Troy
Some things really did frustrate Troy, the guy who usually kept a grin on his face. It may have been some bloke getting in his face over a bird, which hadn't happened in quite a while, or not eating enough at meals. Though when the pitch was closed off. . .that was preposterous.
Earlier that Sunday, he'd strolled on out to the pitch with his Nimbus in hand, looking forward to flying. A seventh year bird had stopped him dead in his tracks, exclaiming 'Bloody hell, Troy! You know there's an ice storm!'
He actually. . .didn't know about this. He was never one to read The Daily Prophet or any of that, unless someone told him specifically. OR it was the Quidditch scores. But if there was a WEATHER-LY DISTURBANCE interfering with his Quidditch?! Maybe he would have to begin to read it.
Meanwhile, and knowing he'd have a tizz if he didn't get some athletic activity, and feeling cooped up from too much bloody schoolwork, he had taken to kicking a football about in the dungeons. This area of the castle really allowed you to run about, kicking the ball off of different walls and cellars, and perhaps run into a certain Lolita Damon, if he played his cards right. . .
No luck so far, but he was making sure to stay close to the Hufflepuff door, just showing off how he could kick the ball about. Up to his head, busting out some World Cup (muggle, not Quidditch, of course) moves of his, balancing it on his heel; Troy had played football practically since he could walk, and made this known by his handle (well. . .on his foot, of course) of the ball.