Post by Sam Nanten on Aug 10, 2009 1:06:54 GMT -5
Light shined obtusely upon the streets, the sun disappearing over the Iberian Ministry Building. The cobbled streets were much less crowded than usual, and the more subtle traits of these structures of Spanish architecture had a chance to shine forth, regardless of how much the light was dimming over the backs of the buildings. Things that didn't stand out that much before, suddenly became more obvious, more beautiful, more ugly. The ivy crawling upon the darker crannies of a local wizard's pastry shop, the scent of love potions and the like being synthesized in nearly every building, the occasional and mischievous glints of cats' eyes as they peered from the shadows and disappeared with endearing howls.
Stuff like this helped a person go deep into their thoughts. It also helped them savor a bad mood. In the case of one of Ravenclaw's staple intellectuals, that was his exact agenda. Samuel Nanten had changed into something much lighter than earlier that day, a gray t-shirt with a long-sleeved black form-fitting, wind-breaking top beneath, blue jeans and blue cons. His glasses were held a few inches below his face, crooked. His house had won the quiddich game in a rather sweeping victory, but he hardly felt that was the case. Having offered his congradulations to his housemates in turn, they seemed to just give him the cold and indifferent shoulder. He supposed it was the nature of his house mates, but he had hoped that his participation in this game would make him a couple of friends. Now Sam was sorry he ever even bothered.
All he had to show for everything was a minor concussion and a crooked pair of glasses that wouldn't freaking straighten no matter how much magic he used. Of course, he was still kind of new to actively using magic, so perhaps he didn't have the talent to transfigure his glasses back to their original shape. It only served to make him more irritable, however.
Sam stopped in front of a bench, likely one of the Knight Bus's random stops. Perhaps a good drive around the countryside of continental Eurasia would lift this foul mood he was in. As far as he was concerned, this day was completely fucked, and he just did not feel like being around anyone. There was nothing good left to salvage from this day, though he was sure that if he stood still too long it would certainly get worse. He sank into his seat, patiently awaiting that nuthouse of a bus.
Stuff like this helped a person go deep into their thoughts. It also helped them savor a bad mood. In the case of one of Ravenclaw's staple intellectuals, that was his exact agenda. Samuel Nanten had changed into something much lighter than earlier that day, a gray t-shirt with a long-sleeved black form-fitting, wind-breaking top beneath, blue jeans and blue cons. His glasses were held a few inches below his face, crooked. His house had won the quiddich game in a rather sweeping victory, but he hardly felt that was the case. Having offered his congradulations to his housemates in turn, they seemed to just give him the cold and indifferent shoulder. He supposed it was the nature of his house mates, but he had hoped that his participation in this game would make him a couple of friends. Now Sam was sorry he ever even bothered.
All he had to show for everything was a minor concussion and a crooked pair of glasses that wouldn't freaking straighten no matter how much magic he used. Of course, he was still kind of new to actively using magic, so perhaps he didn't have the talent to transfigure his glasses back to their original shape. It only served to make him more irritable, however.
Sam stopped in front of a bench, likely one of the Knight Bus's random stops. Perhaps a good drive around the countryside of continental Eurasia would lift this foul mood he was in. As far as he was concerned, this day was completely fucked, and he just did not feel like being around anyone. There was nothing good left to salvage from this day, though he was sure that if he stood still too long it would certainly get worse. He sank into his seat, patiently awaiting that nuthouse of a bus.