Oliver Wood (olliewood_) wrote in vrrpg, @ 2017-08-25 17:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, char: oliver wood, location: residence, time: 2009 08 |
RP: Too much fun, what's that mean?
Who: Oliver Wood
When: friday 25. August 2009
Where: Oliver's flat
What: Oliver went out last night
Warnings: None
Oliver recognized that pattern on the couch, but it somehow looked different. Trying to focus he let out a groan then shut his eye again; focus threatened a massive headache. He wanted to go back to sleep, but as his body slowly woke up new sensations developed: the dull ache of his right arm, the uncomfortable dryness in his throat, the soreness of his neck and the cold draft on his legs. Cold draft? Both eyes popped open and adjusted to the unnaturally bright surroundings of his living room. He didn’t remember this place being so bright or so drafty.
Raising his head Oliver saw the front door of his apartment was wide open and sudden cold dread filled him. Had he been robbed? Quickly sitting up it took a moment for Oliver to realize he had not been lying down like normal, but rather was bent over the arm of the couch, legs dangling down the side and on the floor. That would explain the sore neck. he thought, massaging the nape tenderly. His heart still pounding, Oliver walked over to the front door and peered around, as if expecting to see the robber standing outside, arms laden with his poached belongings. Instead the familiar view of the handsome, red bricked empty atrium of his building greeted him. Quickly shutting the door, Oliver was plunged into the familiar darkness of his interior apartment. Walking over towards the lamp something smacked Oliver in the face.
The next few moments all happened in a blur; Oliver screamed and reached into his pocket for his wand. Within the split second it took him to realize his wand was somewhere else he lunged at the robber; no way was he going to be taken down, at least not without a fight! His body collided with something much bigger than he but gave way and both went crashing to the floor. Oliver punched and kicked before scrambling backwards and running for the couch. He saw his wand dimly illuminated on the cushion in the feeble morning light streaming through his window, dived for it and yelled “STUPEFY!” before the robber had time to get back on his feet. Red light burst from Oliver’s wand, illuminating his apartment for a brief moment then faded back to darkness. His breathing shallow and ragged, Oliver steadied himself, pointing his wand at the massive, dark object lying quite still in the middle of his living room. “Lumos.” He muttered, pointing the beam of light towards his assailant.
A very battered looking ficus tree lay on the ground, many of the branches broken with its leaves strewn about the floor. That tree wasn’t his… what was it doing in his apartment? Pacing back and forth Oliver searched his brain (a task that, now he was out danger, was causing him pain once more). The tree… the tree… Why was there a strange tree in his living room, and why had the door been open? Thinking back to last night he could only remember bits and pieces: meeting up with a few of his good mates for their usual weekend piss up, they eventually turned to debating muggle politics, something that Oliver found very dull, he had ordered quite a few drinks at this point and details were becoming fuzzy. What had happened after he walked away from his friend’s conversation? Straining hard to remember Oliver could hear the far off shouts of his friends echoing in his mind (“Come back! They’re going to kill us if you leave!”; “You’re mad, bring that back!”). ‘That back’… what back? Realization seeped through Oliver as he stared down at the tree. No. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Oliver wasn’t a thief! And yet, there it was, the proof of his plundering, resting on the floor. He must have walked home from the bar with it; he didn’t live too far from his usual hangout.
Oliver stopped pacing, pondering what to do. He could just return it, explain the situation and hope for the best. However, his body ached from what was clearly one of the most intense hangovers he’d had in a long time and the idea of walking the plant a half mile didn’t seem very appealing. Apparating was out of the question, too, for he didn’t feel competent enough at the moment. Deciding there was only one thing to do, Oliver bent down and righted the tree so it stood upright and majestic once more. He dragged the fake shrubbery, which stood a bit taller than himself, into a corner by his desk. “I guess it does add to the place a bit” he said to himself, standing back to admire his new trophy from what was clearly (and worst) drunken stories he’d ever have, and hoped no one would find out about the origins of his tree.