- Messages
- 2,613
- Wand
- It's made of wood, I suppose
Ford walked down to the Quidditch pitch quietly, the heat of the last days of summer beating down upon him. There was no breeze in the air, and Ford in his long black hair was burning up in the sun. It was unusually dry for New Zealand, which was a traditionally rainy land.
Ford had his Emerald Streak swung over his shoulder and he had left his robes in his dorm, and replaced them with some muggle khaki pants, old beaten shoes, and a white t shirt. Upon reaching the center of the pitch, which was vacant except for him, he threw himself over his broom and launched into the sky. He flew upwards until he was well above the castle's towers and began circling lazily. It was quiet up here. Not even the sounds of the birds could be heard from this height, and the view was spectacular. On the horizon, he could see the curviture of the earth, and mountains and dense forests spread across the emerald world below him.
It's so peaceful up here, Ford thought, a good reprieve from the drama and chaos below. He needed a break from everything, and flying was the one thing in which he could clear his mind and commit his whole body and mind to.
There was a very slight breeze that ran across him, which felt like winter's frozen blasts in comparison to the baking heat at ground level. After a few moments of floating along in the winds, Ford pushed the front end of the broom down ninety degrees, so that it was perfectly vertical, and kicked his broom downward as quickly as possible. He accelerated at a blindingly fast rate, and barely pulled up in time to miss the ground by a few centimeters. He flew around the pitch a few times at a startlingly fast velocity, then slowed down to a hover five meters above the pitch.
Ford had his Emerald Streak swung over his shoulder and he had left his robes in his dorm, and replaced them with some muggle khaki pants, old beaten shoes, and a white t shirt. Upon reaching the center of the pitch, which was vacant except for him, he threw himself over his broom and launched into the sky. He flew upwards until he was well above the castle's towers and began circling lazily. It was quiet up here. Not even the sounds of the birds could be heard from this height, and the view was spectacular. On the horizon, he could see the curviture of the earth, and mountains and dense forests spread across the emerald world below him.
It's so peaceful up here, Ford thought, a good reprieve from the drama and chaos below. He needed a break from everything, and flying was the one thing in which he could clear his mind and commit his whole body and mind to.
There was a very slight breeze that ran across him, which felt like winter's frozen blasts in comparison to the baking heat at ground level. After a few moments of floating along in the winds, Ford pushed the front end of the broom down ninety degrees, so that it was perfectly vertical, and kicked his broom downward as quickly as possible. He accelerated at a blindingly fast rate, and barely pulled up in time to miss the ground by a few centimeters. He flew around the pitch a few times at a startlingly fast velocity, then slowed down to a hover five meters above the pitch.