RP: Rain Can't Hurt Me Now
characters: Thorfinn Rowle
date: 25 April 2000
location: London
status: private
summary: Rowle returns to London after three months of searching.
completion: complete
It was a dreary spring afternoon when Rowle threw his bags down and dropped his travel-abused body against the hostel bed. The cheap springs groaned and gave way, too tired to hold his weight.
Rowle scowled, pulled out the wand he was currently using and transfigured the springs into goose down. Immediately his mood improved and with another quick spell, his comfort as well. Dry clothes could do so much for a man.
The journey had been unpleasant. After months of traveling, scraping, searching, he'd had to end it with horrific muggle public transportation and a long walk through the rain. He had been unable to even perform a repelling charm to kep his jacket dry for worry of drawing more than the usual amount of attention. Completely evaiding the public eye would always be impossible; he was too tall, too meticulous, too horrific to behold not to go unnoticed. And as such, Rowle had spent his whole life perfecting the art of evasion. He could move swiftly through a crowd, head down, quiet, precise enough for the mind to remember a passing figure but not a face and never a name.
No. Never a name. And that was the one and only reason his plan might actually work.
Rowle had no intention of going to Azkabhan. He'd sooner dispose of himself than spend what remained of his life in an 8X8 foot box. Nor did he want to waste away hiding, pretended he didn't exist. It would be all or nothing for Rowle, a return to elegance or the hard goodbye.
The rain fell out of boredom. It was neither a light teasing drizzle nor a purposeful storm, just lazy, bored, depressing drops of rain in an ever bleak sky. Rowle watched as it ran tracks down the widow, pooled and waterfalled from the gutters. Despite having been outside earlier, Rowle felt no anger toward the rain. Instead, he appreciated its calm. It gave a steady beat to the thoughts tumbling in his head.
Now he could plan.
The three months it had taken him to track her down had set him back quite a bit. Now he would have to accelerate his plans if he wanted to use Maflada's trial as a distraction. It was dragging on but there was no telling how long it would actually last. And after the delays surrounding Greyback, Rowle was eager to strike.
He would make a list.
It was the best place to start.
date: 25 April 2000
location: London
status: private
summary: Rowle returns to London after three months of searching.
completion: complete
It was a dreary spring afternoon when Rowle threw his bags down and dropped his travel-abused body against the hostel bed. The cheap springs groaned and gave way, too tired to hold his weight.
Rowle scowled, pulled out the wand he was currently using and transfigured the springs into goose down. Immediately his mood improved and with another quick spell, his comfort as well. Dry clothes could do so much for a man.
The journey had been unpleasant. After months of traveling, scraping, searching, he'd had to end it with horrific muggle public transportation and a long walk through the rain. He had been unable to even perform a repelling charm to kep his jacket dry for worry of drawing more than the usual amount of attention. Completely evaiding the public eye would always be impossible; he was too tall, too meticulous, too horrific to behold not to go unnoticed. And as such, Rowle had spent his whole life perfecting the art of evasion. He could move swiftly through a crowd, head down, quiet, precise enough for the mind to remember a passing figure but not a face and never a name.
No. Never a name. And that was the one and only reason his plan might actually work.
Rowle had no intention of going to Azkabhan. He'd sooner dispose of himself than spend what remained of his life in an 8X8 foot box. Nor did he want to waste away hiding, pretended he didn't exist. It would be all or nothing for Rowle, a return to elegance or the hard goodbye.
The rain fell out of boredom. It was neither a light teasing drizzle nor a purposeful storm, just lazy, bored, depressing drops of rain in an ever bleak sky. Rowle watched as it ran tracks down the widow, pooled and waterfalled from the gutters. Despite having been outside earlier, Rowle felt no anger toward the rain. Instead, he appreciated its calm. It gave a steady beat to the thoughts tumbling in his head.
Now he could plan.
The three months it had taken him to track her down had set him back quite a bit. Now he would have to accelerate his plans if he wanted to use Maflada's trial as a distraction. It was dragging on but there was no telling how long it would actually last. And after the delays surrounding Greyback, Rowle was eager to strike.
He would make a list.
It was the best place to start.