Post by Forgoil Halifirien on Feb 3, 2008 12:35:05 GMT -5
It was around mid-afternoon and there was a crisp wind dancing on the air at the time. The Quidditch Stadium was empty for the most part, except for a few old pieces of paper and an old flyer. Smiling waning at the sky was Forgoil Halifirien, the lately absent/impossible-to-find Hufflepuff Prefect. The lad was wearing his usual digs, and every so often he ran his hand over his 5 o'clock shadow. He was currently wondering whether or not he would live to regret the decision he was about to make, but he decided that only time would tell. Pulling on his flying goggles and his racing gloves, the Scottish lad mounted his broom and flew over to the other side of the stadium. It was there that a wooden pole of about 8 feet long as stuck in the ground, and as he turned about he yanked it out of the earth.
Facing him from the other side of the field was another figure on a broomstick: the figure had a pole as well. It leveled the pole at Frog and shot off toward him. With a roar of anticipation, the grey-haired lad kicked off the ground and sped toward his opponent: his own makeshift lance leveled at the chest of his challenger. The distance closed so fast that one had to be looking very carefully to see who struck who first, but a resounding crack was enough to let any onlookers know that one of the poles had broken. Dust was kicked up as a body fell to the ground, and one broomrider zoomed out victorious: a man constructed of an enchanted assortment of a bucket, some pillows, and linen. The rider on the ground was Frog, who looked rather peeved at being unhorsed so easily from his broom.
Shakily getting to his feet, the Scotsman rubbed at the bruise on his side just below the ribs: it wasn't fatal or anything, but it stung greatly. Next time round, he'd make it so the dummy didn't go so fast and that his pole remained level for the entire go down the tourny field. While he picked up the pieces of his broken pole, and pulling his wand out of his back pocket he muttered, "Reparo" and the pole reassembled itself. While it didn't look like much at the moment, Frogoil knew that the school had its fair share of thrill-seekers and daredevils: all he had to do was introduce them to his idea and he could have a new sport's revolution on his hands.
That and he'd have to get a ton more poles and bandages: lots of bandages.
Facing him from the other side of the field was another figure on a broomstick: the figure had a pole as well. It leveled the pole at Frog and shot off toward him. With a roar of anticipation, the grey-haired lad kicked off the ground and sped toward his opponent: his own makeshift lance leveled at the chest of his challenger. The distance closed so fast that one had to be looking very carefully to see who struck who first, but a resounding crack was enough to let any onlookers know that one of the poles had broken. Dust was kicked up as a body fell to the ground, and one broomrider zoomed out victorious: a man constructed of an enchanted assortment of a bucket, some pillows, and linen. The rider on the ground was Frog, who looked rather peeved at being unhorsed so easily from his broom.
Shakily getting to his feet, the Scotsman rubbed at the bruise on his side just below the ribs: it wasn't fatal or anything, but it stung greatly. Next time round, he'd make it so the dummy didn't go so fast and that his pole remained level for the entire go down the tourny field. While he picked up the pieces of his broken pole, and pulling his wand out of his back pocket he muttered, "Reparo" and the pole reassembled itself. While it didn't look like much at the moment, Frogoil knew that the school had its fair share of thrill-seekers and daredevils: all he had to do was introduce them to his idea and he could have a new sport's revolution on his hands.
That and he'd have to get a ton more poles and bandages: lots of bandages.