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Post by Sang Ki Ra on Apr 30, 2012 9:51:45 GMT -6
(((Note: my first posts are always my longest, don’t be scared off by the size they will get knocked down to two-three paragraphs as we progress.)))
Sang Ki Ra felt an annoyance of boredom rising inside of him, as he listened to his Quidditch captain ramble on about the strengths of a particular Hufflepuff chaser. As if anyone of that house had any kind of strength at all. His almond eyes slowly spanned over the group that stood in front of him, his hands tightly gripping his broomstick. These were supposed to be the greatest and most pure wizards Hogwarts had to offer? Sang could feel a growl rise inside of him. This had to be a joke. The boys and girls that stood on either side of him looked more like weak rich kids than any formidable power. These so called wizards would not be allowed a wand if they were in Seoul, but it seems the UK is weak in who they admit into the wizarding world. Mixed blood’s..muggle borns. Sang could smell each and every one of them, their rank odor covered the grounds of Hogwarts, consumed every hallway. The air was thick with their filth. It was so overwhelming during matches that often he felt he may fall off his broom.
“Now then, with all that said and done, let’s get into the sky and run formation”
His attention was returned and Sang threw his bat over his shoulder and mounted his broom, darting into the sky. Sang loathed all the socializing that was necessary to get up into there. I.E. show up for practices, sometimes speak to the other students. On one mandatory occasion he was forced to spend a weekend in a cabin for some sort of ‘team bonding’ exercise, which really just turned into his fellow team mates indulging in too much alcohol. Alcohol was something Sang abstained from. It made your head foggy and your judgment unclear. It made asses out of kings, just as it did one female chaser on the team that weekend, who thought it might be fun to call Sang “chinky”. Not only a racist slur but also an incorrect one. He was not Chinese, he was Korean. A fact he often had to reiterate. It was obvious to Sang he had to remind her of this fact. We won’t go into too much detail but let’s just say by the end of the weekend, Slytherin needed a new Chaser and had agreed to never invite Sang to any similar events again.
One may ask, why if he hated everyone so much, did Sang continue to participate in Quidditch? The answer is simple. He loved being a beater. He loved the power he felt connecting bat with bludger, watching as students were hit full force by the angry ball. It was another way to inflict pain on those of lesser breeding. A beater never had to listen to anyone but the direction of the bludger. Their only goal was to make sure fellow teammates were not…well…bludgeoned. And truth be told he loved to fly. Sang’s favorite childhood toy had been a toy broom, given to him by his grandfather. It only floated about five inches off the ground, but that was enough. Flying gave Sang clarity of mind, something very important for someone so tangled in thought.
During practices, however, the Slytherins opted to not release the bludgers. They claimed their focus should be on the quaffle and snitch but Sang suspected his teammates feared he may direct the bludgers at them. Honestly, that was a fair suspicion. On multiple scrimmage occasions, Sang had taken down one or two fellow teammates. Sadly, with this new rule intact practices became endlessly boring for him. There was really no formation to follow, and so he just zigged and zagged through the air until he heard the whistle blow. A signal to bring it in.
tweeeeetttttt
After about half an hour of nothing, Sang descended from the air and landed softly onto his feet, setting his unused bat on the ground. The team stood there for another ten minutes listening to the captain give a boosting speech about winning and team spirit, of which Sang ignored completely, and then dispersed to the locker room. Undressing from his team robes, Sang ran a cloth down his torso drying off his sticky skin, and stopped at his rib cage. He ran his fingers over the large scar that spanned across his chest to his right collar bone and sighed. 6 years that scar had been a part of his life and he still was not used to it. He threw the towel into his locker and pulled the rest of his Slytherin Quidditch Uniform off, the only article of clothing he owned with a house seal on it, and pulled on his plain black robes. Sang thought the house affiliation was rather stupid. The idea that any house was better than the rest, when they were all equally terrible, was inconceivable. The only division there should have been was between purebloods and the filth, and the latter eradicated.
Slamming his locker shut, Sang tucked his wand into his belt, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds were his only vice (that is, other than biting his nails). He hit the butt of the pack on the palm of his hand, packing it down before opening it and sticking one between his lips. After lighting he let in a big inhale, and exited onto the school grounds. The next thing on his schedule was supposed to be a meeting with the charms teacher, but Sang opted out of that. Charms seemed a frivolous waste of magic to him. Who needed to charm a purse to bite a finger, when you could curse someone’s fingers to fall off one by one? So, in his mind, his afternoon was perfectly open. The grounds were fairly empty, and the sun was covered by a tuft of cloud. Sang absolutely abhorred sunny days, so this cloudy day was perfect for him.
Flying had put him in an exceptional mood, and the cigarette in his mouth inspired him to do something he rarely induldged in. Today, Sang Ki Ra would have a conversation with someone. He had yet to decide whether or not this conversation would lead to violence but, one could only hope! His stride increased as he approached a tree by the lake. He stopped in front of the trunk and looked up, exhaling smoke one last time, and then putting out his cigarette. Sang hoisted himself up the tree, one limb, and then another, before settling in on the fourth branch. He leaned his back against the cold bark and waited. His eyes searching the grounds for some sort of entertainment.
Sang Ki Ra felt an annoyance of boredom rising inside of him, as he listened to his Quidditch captain ramble on about the strengths of a particular Hufflepuff chaser. As if anyone of that house had any kind of strength at all. His almond eyes slowly spanned over the group that stood in front of him, his hands tightly gripping his broomstick. These were supposed to be the greatest and most pure wizards Hogwarts had to offer? Sang could feel a growl rise inside of him. This had to be a joke. The boys and girls that stood on either side of him looked more like weak rich kids than any formidable power. These so called wizards would not be allowed a wand if they were in Seoul, but it seems the UK is weak in who they admit into the wizarding world. Mixed blood’s..muggle borns. Sang could smell each and every one of them, their rank odor covered the grounds of Hogwarts, consumed every hallway. The air was thick with their filth. It was so overwhelming during matches that often he felt he may fall off his broom.
“Now then, with all that said and done, let’s get into the sky and run formation”
His attention was returned and Sang threw his bat over his shoulder and mounted his broom, darting into the sky. Sang loathed all the socializing that was necessary to get up into there. I.E. show up for practices, sometimes speak to the other students. On one mandatory occasion he was forced to spend a weekend in a cabin for some sort of ‘team bonding’ exercise, which really just turned into his fellow team mates indulging in too much alcohol. Alcohol was something Sang abstained from. It made your head foggy and your judgment unclear. It made asses out of kings, just as it did one female chaser on the team that weekend, who thought it might be fun to call Sang “chinky”. Not only a racist slur but also an incorrect one. He was not Chinese, he was Korean. A fact he often had to reiterate. It was obvious to Sang he had to remind her of this fact. We won’t go into too much detail but let’s just say by the end of the weekend, Slytherin needed a new Chaser and had agreed to never invite Sang to any similar events again.
One may ask, why if he hated everyone so much, did Sang continue to participate in Quidditch? The answer is simple. He loved being a beater. He loved the power he felt connecting bat with bludger, watching as students were hit full force by the angry ball. It was another way to inflict pain on those of lesser breeding. A beater never had to listen to anyone but the direction of the bludger. Their only goal was to make sure fellow teammates were not…well…bludgeoned. And truth be told he loved to fly. Sang’s favorite childhood toy had been a toy broom, given to him by his grandfather. It only floated about five inches off the ground, but that was enough. Flying gave Sang clarity of mind, something very important for someone so tangled in thought.
During practices, however, the Slytherins opted to not release the bludgers. They claimed their focus should be on the quaffle and snitch but Sang suspected his teammates feared he may direct the bludgers at them. Honestly, that was a fair suspicion. On multiple scrimmage occasions, Sang had taken down one or two fellow teammates. Sadly, with this new rule intact practices became endlessly boring for him. There was really no formation to follow, and so he just zigged and zagged through the air until he heard the whistle blow. A signal to bring it in.
tweeeeetttttt
After about half an hour of nothing, Sang descended from the air and landed softly onto his feet, setting his unused bat on the ground. The team stood there for another ten minutes listening to the captain give a boosting speech about winning and team spirit, of which Sang ignored completely, and then dispersed to the locker room. Undressing from his team robes, Sang ran a cloth down his torso drying off his sticky skin, and stopped at his rib cage. He ran his fingers over the large scar that spanned across his chest to his right collar bone and sighed. 6 years that scar had been a part of his life and he still was not used to it. He threw the towel into his locker and pulled the rest of his Slytherin Quidditch Uniform off, the only article of clothing he owned with a house seal on it, and pulled on his plain black robes. Sang thought the house affiliation was rather stupid. The idea that any house was better than the rest, when they were all equally terrible, was inconceivable. The only division there should have been was between purebloods and the filth, and the latter eradicated.
Slamming his locker shut, Sang tucked his wand into his belt, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Marlboro Reds were his only vice (that is, other than biting his nails). He hit the butt of the pack on the palm of his hand, packing it down before opening it and sticking one between his lips. After lighting he let in a big inhale, and exited onto the school grounds. The next thing on his schedule was supposed to be a meeting with the charms teacher, but Sang opted out of that. Charms seemed a frivolous waste of magic to him. Who needed to charm a purse to bite a finger, when you could curse someone’s fingers to fall off one by one? So, in his mind, his afternoon was perfectly open. The grounds were fairly empty, and the sun was covered by a tuft of cloud. Sang absolutely abhorred sunny days, so this cloudy day was perfect for him.
Flying had put him in an exceptional mood, and the cigarette in his mouth inspired him to do something he rarely induldged in. Today, Sang Ki Ra would have a conversation with someone. He had yet to decide whether or not this conversation would lead to violence but, one could only hope! His stride increased as he approached a tree by the lake. He stopped in front of the trunk and looked up, exhaling smoke one last time, and then putting out his cigarette. Sang hoisted himself up the tree, one limb, and then another, before settling in on the fourth branch. He leaned his back against the cold bark and waited. His eyes searching the grounds for some sort of entertainment.
