InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Cha Cha"

Oliver Wood (twisted_wood) wrote in amortentiarpg,
@ 2008-10-01 21:35:00

Current mood:	sore
Entry tags:	charlotte montgomery, oliver wood

Who: Oliver and Charlotte
Where: Quality Quidditch Supplies
When: Evening
Why: Why not?
Rating:

Quidditch practice had been rough, but for the first half it wasn't terrible. It wasn't till after they broke to rest and got back into it that things went horribly awry. The Puddlemere United team was moving quickly and all of them were flying at their usual rate when a Bludger moved out of control and cracked Oliver in the right side of his ribs. He plummeted towards the solid earth before one of his mates picked him up off the ground.

Oliver was forced to sit out the rest of his practice and was even told that if he didn't buck up he would have to sit out the next game which he wanted no part of. The last thing Oliver needed was for someone on the reserves to show him up and he would be out on his arse again. It was just too much for him to think about or deal with. So wrapping his ribs tightly with some white cotton bandage, Oliver went out to do his usual after practice routine.

Wandering out front of the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop, Oliver peered about the items in the window. So many brilliant new brooms would be coming into circulation soon and Oliver loved the idea of trying them all out. Finally able to peel his eyes from the latest goods, Oliver walked into the shop looking through the different set of robes and equipment before bumping into someone and wincing holding onto his side in extreme pain. Maybe he needed to be off his feet he didn't know all he could think about was the pain. Trying to remain polite he attempted to apologize to whoever it was he bumped into.

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painisrelative
2008-10-01 10:53 pm UTC (link)

When she was a child, as much as a hint that she wanted to get anywhere near a Quaffle was met with a frown from her parents. Quidditch was not for women - and certainly not for proper, decent ladies like the Montgomery women. And, of course, the nearly taboo-like prohibition was all Charlotte needed to become infinitely curious, and eagerly want to try the thing out at any cost. And so she did. She tried. And, not before long, she realized she was really, really bad at it. So she eventually gave up, and retreated to being just a part of the audience (even if still a wildly enthusiastic and stubbornly opinionated audience).

However, being pitifully unable to handle Quaffles, Bludgers and Snitches didn't stop Charlotte from flying - and she was actually a fairly competent flier, to be just. Not extraordinary, but good enough to have fun with it - which, for her, was all anyone needed.

As it happened, though, Charlotte was currently desperately lacking of a decent broomstick. She had an ancient Comet at home all right (or, at least, she was pretty sure there was a broom somewhere below that tangle of cobwebs?), but the broomstick was really no good, and she hadn't tried flying it in ages. Her actual broomstick, a Nimbus X3, had unfortunately been lost - possibly forever - in her decision to never speak to Wesley again; as were numerous other personal items that she never had a chance to recover from the entropic chaos that he referred to as his 'flat'.

And so that was why she was at Quality Quidditch Supplies that day. And, after a whole thirty minutes struggling through the specifics of different models (ten of those spent solely on convincing the clerk that no, she didn't want to try the wondrous new Firebolt - that incidentally cost more than her month's pay), Charlotte had finally managed to stuff triumphantly under her arm - all wrapped up and paid for - her new Nimbus.

Alas, just as she was turning to march out of the store, the package smashed into something soft and was rudely knocked out of her grasp. Charlotte scowled at the obstructor. Who winced.

"Oliver?" She inhaled sharply, her ill-tempered expression immediately turning into a sympathetic grimace. "Are you all right?" She blurted automatically, but she could see at once that he wasn't - the bloke was as pale as a sheet. She reached to steady him. "Oh, hell- did it hit an injury?"

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twisted_wood
2008-10-02 04:27 am UTC (link)

For as long as Oliver could remember he had a broom in his hand. Growing up with his sisters, Oliver was the jock and tried to also be the protector. His father encouraged him to love Quidditch a sport he himself loved, so it was an easy child hood. His mum however wished her son would like a less aggressive sport like say, chess. Oliver however would have none of that. What sort of man walked around looking like a chess champion? Not him, no sir.

With is way of getting injured more often then not Oliver had made some friends in the field of healing. Well he wasn't sure if you could consider them friends but more acquaintances. Oliver isn't by definition the klutz of the sky, but he definitely isn't afraid to get his hands dirty and plummet to the ground a time or two. So it was no big shock when he bumped into someone who knew him and could tell he was injured.

Try as he may, Oliver could not hide all the scars of Quidditch. This time however he could not hide the pain showing brightly in his face. The brush of the hard box, even if it shifted felt like hot knives stabbing him after being left on a flame.

Hearing his name through the searing pain he opened one eye to a semi-familiar face. Shrugging a bit he attempted to gain composure, "Maybe it did," he whimpered out. Oliver was starting to regret not seeing the Puddlemere healer when he had the chance too, but the risk of not playing in the next game made him uneasy to say the least.