- Messages
- 1,482
- OOC First Name
- Emzies
- Blood Status
- Half Blood
- Relationship Status
- Married
- Sexual Orientation
- Heterosexual
- Wand
- Knotted 12 1/2" Sturdy Ivy Wand with Vampire Blood Core
- Age
- 9/2019 (42)
Following the quidditch game, Ty had been feeling a little more on edge than he usually was. The game had gone fine. There had been few hiccups, and though they hadn't won, he still felt fairly happy. However, he had since then stepped back onto the ground and not found the courage to fly again. He had thought that the game would help his many fears of flying, and falling, all of that, but it hadn't. He had seen the brutality of a game he wasn't sure he was the right guy to play. His eyesight gave little aid, he had trouble making out those who were in his team and those that weren't. He was upset over a lot of things that he shouldn't be. Which was not exactly a good thing. It meant that ever since the game he had not even practiced a little. Instead, he always ended up standing in the middle of the field holding the school broom he had sort of claimed as his own, unofficially, and stood their for an hour or so until he gave up even trying. It was a good thing that there would no longer be any more quidditch matches. That there would be nothing else for him to play in. But, he didn't give up. He wanted to try out in the following year. Try again, maybe play more games. There was just a tiny problem with that, if he didn't get the courage back he would not be able to try. And this was crucial. He needed the quidditch. His brother, had he gone to Hogwarts would've played quidditch. His parents were so proud of him too. How could he possibly say that the fear was too strong. He was a Gryffindor, and that was supposed to come naturally to him. The bravery was meant to be a part of his core. As a second year, it was understandable that he was still afraid of certain professors, and other things like that, but he was still scared of everything. This fear of flying was much greater than it was before. It was something he simply didn't understand. The game had gone well. He had not fallen, he had not been hurt, and yet he could not fly. He would feel his heart race in his chest, though it felt as though it was missing beats. He felt his hands sweat, he felt each terrible scenario that could happen while playing quidditch play in his mind. In the end, he just couldn't. He could not bring himself to launch into the sky.
That being said, Tybalt wasn't giving up. Not in the slightest. Instead he was just trying to find his way around it. Trying to cure it himself. Which was why, on the surprisingly cold Saturday morning, when he had no classes, the young Gryffindor was up as the sun rose. He was quick to shower, quick to get himself ready. The usual casual clothes, with the always present Gryffindor jumper, that because of his small stature was still huge on him. It ruffled his hair, causing it to be even more messy than normal. Sticking out at all sides. Untamable, was how his mother described it. He opted for the contacts lenses rather than his glasses once more, seeing as he actually hoped that today would see him take to the sky. As always the start of the day for Ty called for blind optimism and a joy that was yet to be shattered. He woke with a smile each morning, as it was a new day. A day he could make better by just being himself and doing what he wanted. After he had tidied away his glasses, he grabbed his wand before leaving the Gryffindor dorm as quickly and quietly as he could. Which was easily done, since he had realised that his dorm mates were relatively heavy sleepers, which was more than he could say about himself. As he was a fairly light sleeper. It was just through habit. He slept lightly, because it was something he had always done. Setting off towards the pitch, Ty felt his anxiousness grow once more within him. This he thought was getting silly. He was nowhere near the pitch, and yet his heart was beating as if he'd run many miles. He attempted to calm himself, as he approached the pitch. He wondered if this was merely as he was hungry. But, there would be no turning back now. He was halfway there, he wasn't turning back. This wasn't going to be another set back. Today would be the day. He would stay on the pitch until he built the courage to fly. Or at least hover in the air. How could he not be able to do it. It wasn't hard. He had done it so much before the match. It had been getting easier for him. This was just silly. It was getting out of hand.
The pitch as it would be on a Saturday morning, was empty. He quickly grabbed his broom, and then more slowly made his way onto the pitch. He sighed to himself as the same fears rose up again. Tybalt didn't know what to do. He got the broom up, but he looked between it and the sky above him, and he was frozen. He couldn't swing his leg over it, and easily fly up into the air. Instead he was left standing beside a broom, his eyes looking up on what he assumed was a cloudy sky. It was less bright than normal which was he assumed it was just cloudy. He looked back down at the broom, and sighed. Grabbing the broom, and just sitting down. Ignoring the fact that the ground was a little damp, and probably marking the back of his jeans. He would do that same as he did every time he came to the pitch. Stare at the broom, every so often looking at the sky, trying to find the courage he once had.
That being said, Tybalt wasn't giving up. Not in the slightest. Instead he was just trying to find his way around it. Trying to cure it himself. Which was why, on the surprisingly cold Saturday morning, when he had no classes, the young Gryffindor was up as the sun rose. He was quick to shower, quick to get himself ready. The usual casual clothes, with the always present Gryffindor jumper, that because of his small stature was still huge on him. It ruffled his hair, causing it to be even more messy than normal. Sticking out at all sides. Untamable, was how his mother described it. He opted for the contacts lenses rather than his glasses once more, seeing as he actually hoped that today would see him take to the sky. As always the start of the day for Ty called for blind optimism and a joy that was yet to be shattered. He woke with a smile each morning, as it was a new day. A day he could make better by just being himself and doing what he wanted. After he had tidied away his glasses, he grabbed his wand before leaving the Gryffindor dorm as quickly and quietly as he could. Which was easily done, since he had realised that his dorm mates were relatively heavy sleepers, which was more than he could say about himself. As he was a fairly light sleeper. It was just through habit. He slept lightly, because it was something he had always done. Setting off towards the pitch, Ty felt his anxiousness grow once more within him. This he thought was getting silly. He was nowhere near the pitch, and yet his heart was beating as if he'd run many miles. He attempted to calm himself, as he approached the pitch. He wondered if this was merely as he was hungry. But, there would be no turning back now. He was halfway there, he wasn't turning back. This wasn't going to be another set back. Today would be the day. He would stay on the pitch until he built the courage to fly. Or at least hover in the air. How could he not be able to do it. It wasn't hard. He had done it so much before the match. It had been getting easier for him. This was just silly. It was getting out of hand.
The pitch as it would be on a Saturday morning, was empty. He quickly grabbed his broom, and then more slowly made his way onto the pitch. He sighed to himself as the same fears rose up again. Tybalt didn't know what to do. He got the broom up, but he looked between it and the sky above him, and he was frozen. He couldn't swing his leg over it, and easily fly up into the air. Instead he was left standing beside a broom, his eyes looking up on what he assumed was a cloudy sky. It was less bright than normal which was he assumed it was just cloudy. He looked back down at the broom, and sighed. Grabbing the broom, and just sitting down. Ignoring the fact that the ground was a little damp, and probably marking the back of his jeans. He would do that same as he did every time he came to the pitch. Stare at the broom, every so often looking at the sky, trying to find the courage he once had.