Ioan Gareth Cadwallader (pl_ioan) wrote in plagued_rpg, @ 2009-10-14 16:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | 1998 october, hogwarts, ioan cadwallader, millicent bulstrode |
Who: Ioan and ??? (Open)
Where: The least popular side of the lake.
When: Tuesday evening, near sunset (backdated)
What: Looking for inspiration.
Rating: Who knows? Let's RP and find out!
Status: Incomplete
So Ioan had taken Daphne's advice and gone for a walk. All things considered, it was a good evening to go out. The weather was already cool enough to keep most people indoors and the leaves were turning colours quickly. They would fall soon and winter would be on, but there were still a few good sunsets to be seen, especially from this side of the lake, facing the west. The great glowing orb bathed the mountains in a fiery swathe, almost too bright to look at. Higher above the earth, they sky was painted in rainbow hues that deepened to a clear, starlit blue. His breath left him in little puffs of cloud that dissipated almost as soon as they appeared.
As he walked, he looked up, out, beyond. That was the world, and this, Hogwarts, was home. Or at least, for part of the year. Ever since his return from Canterbury with Anthony, Ioan had felt restless and unable to settle down for long periods of time. He was surprised not to have gotten in trouble yet, as much time as he was spending outdoors. Even when rain sloped off the turrets in chilly rivers, he'd found an excuse to be in the open air. There were various towers and empty classrooms whose doors and windows were left unlatched to allow for movement of air through the drafty castle.
He looked back at it now, a dark hulking shape against the climbing horizon. Smoke rose from Hagrid's hut, and he could hear strange calls from the Forbidden Forest. It didn't frighten him; on the contrary, it reassured him that life does indeed move on, with or without we humans.
Continuing to walk, he thought about why he'd ventured out this night. He was looking for inspiration, something to get his writing back on track. His playing was as good as ever, and there was no lack of fresh music in his head. It was the words that seemed to come out all wrong. Ioan wasn't stupid. He knew every writer hit a block occasionally. It was just that - something felt different. He just couldn't put his finger on what that was. With a breathy sigh that visibly danced in midair, he began to hum.