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Post by Richard Myron Woods-Knox on Mar 30, 2024 13:31:44 GMT -7
blowin' in the wind .
SOMEONE HAD MOVED HIS BOOKS FROM THE communal dining table. Richie had come out of his room only because his sister had nipped his ear when she had visited, stating that he wasn't allowed to 'stew' any longer. Plus, the house had been empty, or had seemed so. It had mid-morning, mid-week, when he had started. Richie had been given a stack of books on archiving magical artefacts for a 20inch parchment piece on the care and comfort of self-destructing texts.
He'd gone to his room to eat, having barely moved from his spot at the table all day, he hadn't even used the bathroom. Afraid he might run into one of his esteemed roommates, Richie had eaten his instant noodles sitting on top of his bed and listened to the latest wizarding rock album his sister had downloaded for him. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but one second he had been slurping noodle water from the bottom of his container, the next he was peeling his drool crusted cheek from his pillow case. He'd only meant to rest his stinging eyes for a moment.
Having leapt from the bed, Richie had used the bathroom and washed his face before he'd ventured into the living room again. Acutely aware he had left his constructed work bench unmanned for at least 4 hours, the sun had since set and he was no longer alone in the flat. The noise of human clattering coming from the kitchen. More importantly, his entire mass of parchment, ink and archivist tomes had been set on the coffee table in a heap. The dining table was clear, and Richie was fuming. He took one look at the sheer audacity of the crime against him, before he propelled himself from the living room and toward the sounds of pots clanging.
"Did you move my stuff?!" Richie asked accusingly, voice deep and hoarse from sleep. He caught sight of the back of his roommate, gripping the doorframe and trying valiantly to remember what her name was again. Vonnie, Ronnie? Something. But Richie recalled that she had touched his things before, and Richie had a lot of gripes, but strangers touching his things was his biggest pet peeve. "Y-you- you can't just t-touch my stuff, they're..." He stole an angry breath, his throat closing with his ire. "They're protected... texts," He spat, blinking rapidly as his nails dug into the soft wood of the door frame.
He'd gone to his room to eat, having barely moved from his spot at the table all day, he hadn't even used the bathroom. Afraid he might run into one of his esteemed roommates, Richie had eaten his instant noodles sitting on top of his bed and listened to the latest wizarding rock album his sister had downloaded for him. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but one second he had been slurping noodle water from the bottom of his container, the next he was peeling his drool crusted cheek from his pillow case. He'd only meant to rest his stinging eyes for a moment.
Having leapt from the bed, Richie had used the bathroom and washed his face before he'd ventured into the living room again. Acutely aware he had left his constructed work bench unmanned for at least 4 hours, the sun had since set and he was no longer alone in the flat. The noise of human clattering coming from the kitchen. More importantly, his entire mass of parchment, ink and archivist tomes had been set on the coffee table in a heap. The dining table was clear, and Richie was fuming. He took one look at the sheer audacity of the crime against him, before he propelled himself from the living room and toward the sounds of pots clanging.
"Did you move my stuff?!" Richie asked accusingly, voice deep and hoarse from sleep. He caught sight of the back of his roommate, gripping the doorframe and trying valiantly to remember what her name was again. Vonnie, Ronnie? Something. But Richie recalled that she had touched his things before, and Richie had a lot of gripes, but strangers touching his things was his biggest pet peeve. "Y-you- you can't just t-touch my stuff, they're..." He stole an angry breath, his throat closing with his ire. "They're protected... texts," He spat, blinking rapidly as his nails dug into the soft wood of the door frame.
