J
Jackalope
Guest
Original poster
It was finally starting to warm up again. Not that Samael was complaining per say--he was blessed with a higher temperature than most people, making it at least slightly harder for him to get chilled--but to be frank, if he had to choose between "Winter" and "Summer"...he was going to pick the summer every time. The junior yawned as he shuffled his way from his last class, giving a half-hearted wave to classmates calling out their goodbyes as he made his way along through the hallways. With spring finally begun, it was only a short stretch of time before summer break, and that meant hours and hours of reclining and relaxation, finally free of schoolwork he didn't want to do and any residual responsibilities beyond those of his home and keeping himself fed and, well, that wasn't a bad way to spend a few months.
He smiled, sleepy but pleased, as he waded his way through the crowds of highschoolers streaming this way and that, rushing to extracurricular activities or to buses or to waiting parents. They parted easily for him, his height making him easy to pick out amongst the groups, and he gave a lazy smile to a group of freshman girls that stared openly at him, rolling blue-grey eyes once they'd scurried off. It was a toss-up to determine whether they were staring because "ooh pretty boy" or because of well. His "accessories". Even this late in the year it seemed some of the newbies hadn't decided their stance yet. An irritating but, if nothing else, familiar routine. He reached his locker finally, one of the upper ones painted in the school's traditional cornflower blue, and leaned forwards. Whereas a hand or palm on the surface was adequate for most of the other students, the magic in their blood picking up easily, he just didn't have enough to manage. Instead, he leaned in to touch the front of his "accessories" into the metal, the matte black bone of his horns making a familiar clack as they touched against the steel. Light flashed as the lock recognized his particular flavor of magic, and he straightened, wholly unaware of the flickering of pale blue light that gathered around the tips of his horns, filtering slowly through the cracks and crevices of the ridged bone as it faded away.
Instead, he swung the locker open in perfect obliviousness, pulling out a sling backpack in a mixture of worn canvas and leather and stuffing it with his various notebooks, pencils, and marking materials. It took a minute of digging to find the bone charcoal sticks, tossed underneath a remedial casting textbook so heavily bent and scarred around its spine and edges as to require half a roll of duct tape to remain functional, but those were tossed in as well as he grabbed an armful of the books he'd need for homework tonight, and slung the bag over his head and across his back, the locker closing with a clang. The junior moved against the tide of students as he hummed to himself, maneuvering around the majority of underclassmen as they made their way to the bus stops and pick-up points until he could reach the flow of older students, heading towards the parking lot. He'd retrieved an old helmet from his locker, as well as a set of keys, and they dangled from the arm holding his books as he flicked through his phone with his free hand, checking his messages as he maneuvered thoughtlessly around the other students.
A slight frown curved into place when he saw that the "mom & dad" tab was, again, empty. Last message was from two weeks back, a quick snapshot of his parents covered in gravedirt and smiling happily, a celebrity his mother had raised from the grave rotting away as he...? She? Posed in the background. He sighed, short and only for a bare moment unhappy, before he let the emotion slide away as always, and closed the app, whisking through the messages of friends and chat rooms instead. It got him to the parking lot and to his ride, and he tucked his phone away into a pocket as he settled his textbooks into the saddlebags of an 1989 Tomos Bullet once owned by his dad. The metallic blue moped was out of style for the current aesthetic, but he'd spent his freshman year fixing it up the non-magic way, and he was damn pleased with how the thing had come out. Plus it could run on free-form magic rather than personal, which meant he could buy the fuel...a necessity considering his inability to produce enough to actually power one of the newer individually-coded models.
Samael adjusted the bag on his back, making certain it was situated properly before double-checking his saddle bags and, content, pulled out a pair of music buds, holding them up to his elongated ears for a moment before the mechanical magic inherent in them locked onto his signal, and settled to hover there. He muttered out the name of his preferred playlist as he settled his helmet into place, taking care to make certain his horns slid into the holes custom drilled into the protective gear before buckling it into place, turning the key into the ignition, and setting off. Swinging jazz purred enthusiastically in his ears, mixed alongside more modern tunes and electronic effects, and he sang absently along with the familiar songs as he drove home, weaving in and out of traffic with an ease more fitting for a broom or motorbike rider than really a moped was supposed to go, but this was an old classic and it handled it with ease as he shifted between wide streets and narrow cobbled ones, his eyes at a lazy half-mast as he made his way home on almost full autopilot. He ignored any yelling, tossing up a wave to those he knew, but otherwise staying shut into his own little world all the way out of the city and to the quiet open roads of the countryside.
Making this ride on a bicycle had been miserable, even for his stamina, but with the moped...it wasn't so bad. Was almost peaceful, really, and as he pulled off the main road into his driveway he settled the moped into its place under a wooden carport, dismounting with familiarity and leaning into a stretch. His home was a bit under the weather, a bit disorderly and chaotic, but well...the centuries old cottage with its mixture of rounded and angled roofs and its diamond-patterned windows was home and he couldn't judge it for the age it sometimes showed. Absently, he smiled as he glanced out at the wildflower gardens his father had purred into growth nearly a decade ago, still massive and broad with sunflowers larger than his head and finally starting to buzz with bees as the hives woke from their winter naps, and the gravestones scattered randomly throughout--his mother's trophies from successful raisings. Samael yawned, pulling his helmet off and his keys from the ignition as he set to unloading the bullet, considering what he'd cook for dinner as he mechanically turned and began to make his way up he short stone pathway to his front door.
He smiled, sleepy but pleased, as he waded his way through the crowds of highschoolers streaming this way and that, rushing to extracurricular activities or to buses or to waiting parents. They parted easily for him, his height making him easy to pick out amongst the groups, and he gave a lazy smile to a group of freshman girls that stared openly at him, rolling blue-grey eyes once they'd scurried off. It was a toss-up to determine whether they were staring because "ooh pretty boy" or because of well. His "accessories". Even this late in the year it seemed some of the newbies hadn't decided their stance yet. An irritating but, if nothing else, familiar routine. He reached his locker finally, one of the upper ones painted in the school's traditional cornflower blue, and leaned forwards. Whereas a hand or palm on the surface was adequate for most of the other students, the magic in their blood picking up easily, he just didn't have enough to manage. Instead, he leaned in to touch the front of his "accessories" into the metal, the matte black bone of his horns making a familiar clack as they touched against the steel. Light flashed as the lock recognized his particular flavor of magic, and he straightened, wholly unaware of the flickering of pale blue light that gathered around the tips of his horns, filtering slowly through the cracks and crevices of the ridged bone as it faded away.
Instead, he swung the locker open in perfect obliviousness, pulling out a sling backpack in a mixture of worn canvas and leather and stuffing it with his various notebooks, pencils, and marking materials. It took a minute of digging to find the bone charcoal sticks, tossed underneath a remedial casting textbook so heavily bent and scarred around its spine and edges as to require half a roll of duct tape to remain functional, but those were tossed in as well as he grabbed an armful of the books he'd need for homework tonight, and slung the bag over his head and across his back, the locker closing with a clang. The junior moved against the tide of students as he hummed to himself, maneuvering around the majority of underclassmen as they made their way to the bus stops and pick-up points until he could reach the flow of older students, heading towards the parking lot. He'd retrieved an old helmet from his locker, as well as a set of keys, and they dangled from the arm holding his books as he flicked through his phone with his free hand, checking his messages as he maneuvered thoughtlessly around the other students.
A slight frown curved into place when he saw that the "mom & dad" tab was, again, empty. Last message was from two weeks back, a quick snapshot of his parents covered in gravedirt and smiling happily, a celebrity his mother had raised from the grave rotting away as he...? She? Posed in the background. He sighed, short and only for a bare moment unhappy, before he let the emotion slide away as always, and closed the app, whisking through the messages of friends and chat rooms instead. It got him to the parking lot and to his ride, and he tucked his phone away into a pocket as he settled his textbooks into the saddlebags of an 1989 Tomos Bullet once owned by his dad. The metallic blue moped was out of style for the current aesthetic, but he'd spent his freshman year fixing it up the non-magic way, and he was damn pleased with how the thing had come out. Plus it could run on free-form magic rather than personal, which meant he could buy the fuel...a necessity considering his inability to produce enough to actually power one of the newer individually-coded models.
Samael adjusted the bag on his back, making certain it was situated properly before double-checking his saddle bags and, content, pulled out a pair of music buds, holding them up to his elongated ears for a moment before the mechanical magic inherent in them locked onto his signal, and settled to hover there. He muttered out the name of his preferred playlist as he settled his helmet into place, taking care to make certain his horns slid into the holes custom drilled into the protective gear before buckling it into place, turning the key into the ignition, and setting off. Swinging jazz purred enthusiastically in his ears, mixed alongside more modern tunes and electronic effects, and he sang absently along with the familiar songs as he drove home, weaving in and out of traffic with an ease more fitting for a broom or motorbike rider than really a moped was supposed to go, but this was an old classic and it handled it with ease as he shifted between wide streets and narrow cobbled ones, his eyes at a lazy half-mast as he made his way home on almost full autopilot. He ignored any yelling, tossing up a wave to those he knew, but otherwise staying shut into his own little world all the way out of the city and to the quiet open roads of the countryside.
Making this ride on a bicycle had been miserable, even for his stamina, but with the moped...it wasn't so bad. Was almost peaceful, really, and as he pulled off the main road into his driveway he settled the moped into its place under a wooden carport, dismounting with familiarity and leaning into a stretch. His home was a bit under the weather, a bit disorderly and chaotic, but well...the centuries old cottage with its mixture of rounded and angled roofs and its diamond-patterned windows was home and he couldn't judge it for the age it sometimes showed. Absently, he smiled as he glanced out at the wildflower gardens his father had purred into growth nearly a decade ago, still massive and broad with sunflowers larger than his head and finally starting to buzz with bees as the hives woke from their winter naps, and the gravestones scattered randomly throughout--his mother's trophies from successful raisings. Samael yawned, pulling his helmet off and his keys from the ignition as he set to unloading the bullet, considering what he'd cook for dinner as he mechanically turned and began to make his way up he short stone pathway to his front door.