Niccolò
How smooth do you think I think I am?
Fri Jan 3, 2014 05:41
24.215.157.233

“A world of clay.” Niccolò’s tongue darted out, licking off the chocolate still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “A world of limitless imagination. That sounds kind of incredible. Imagine if you could actually land there, in that world. Walk around and construct… buildings from scratch, and animals and… humans, even.” Briefly, he toyed with the possibility of conjuring a pocket sized human, a painted face, its insides made of clay, an animated being but no more intelligent than the pigeon he’d created, still guarding its newfounded territory upon the classroom’s windowsill, alternatively squawking and cooing at its enchanted, flapping brethren.

“I guess that’s why you can’t create food from magic?” Niccolò picked up the last of his cookies, a childish pout dipping his lips before momentary happiness sparked his expression, enjoying the last chocolatey sensation. “Cause the Clay World doesn’t have the right flavors and nutrients and whatever else stuff to make proper food. It can only take the artificial appearance of it.” His wide smile was a flash of white and freshly made chocolate stains. “I think we solved the case!”

He let the pages of the textbook flip towards the end, slamming the cover shut and dropping it back beneath the table, sinking back inside his messenger bag, the fabric visibly worn with grass stains and tears after seven years of dragging it around. The charmed portrait of the hippogriff’s wings stitched onto the cover still offered resilient flaps, but its spontaneous war cry had long been muted, its ferocity dying out from beady emerald eyes.

“Yes, you are the moral support.” Niccolò stressed. “And to keep up my morale, you ought to address me as Captain at all times.” He affected a look of solemn contemplation, dark gaze drifting off to some imaginary place resting just above her head, the Clay World where his armada of racing brooms hovered in waiting, ready for his signal, thirsty for the upcoming battle looming just beyond the clay horizon. “Or, Assistant Director York.” He amended, another flash of a smile. “But only when we’re at theater.”

Although he wished Adisynne would choose a play from the wizarding world, whose culture had their own distinctive contributions to the dramatic arts, he was excited to see how Into the Woods would turn out, already enjoying the rehearsal process and overseeing set construction. Between that, Quidditch practice, looming finals, regular homework, and preparing for life post-graduation he found himself pleasantly overwhelmed, easily distracted from whatever strange, unsolvable mysteries plagued his subconscious, a pulsating headache accompanied by inopportune nosebleeds that flooded his mind and prevented him from wondering further.

“Yeah, that’d be perfect.” Niccolò twirled his wand between his fingers, quick movements of his long digits, a dark olive tone that blended with the wood. “I think that little second year… Ellen something? She’s in charge of props, you should mention it to her. She won’t be able to cast it but we can get volunteers to be ready behind the curtain.” Niccolò grinned at the thought, a whole flock of vicious bird warriors rushing out in attack formation.

"Glad you're talking to me now... Summer okay?"

“Yeah… wait - what?” Niccolò blinked out of the fantasy, turning his body to more fully face Veronika, one arm slung over the back of his seat, his brow creased. “I never stopped talking to you. We see each other all the time.” He couldn’t account for the strange haze he wasn’t even fully consciously acknowledging, vague scraps of moments it hurt his head to try and sort through. But even before that haze… there was still awkwardness and avoidance and this history that Niccolò shared with his ex-girlfriend/mistress/best friend/whatever.

  • “No, I was thinking more like—like clay?” Ika wasn’t sure it made sense, so she elaborated. “Like it… it’s just unformed stuff on the alternate plane or whatever. And when you conjure, pull it back... more
    • How smooth do you think I think I am? — Niccolò, Fri Jan 3 05:41
      • You think you’re a smooth criminalIka, Fri Jan 3 19:59
        Ika considered Nicco’s take on the theory. “Well, I think,” she said, “you’d just turn into—into the clay, if you ended up there. Like the rest of things. You don’t get to be Prometheus and sculpt a... more
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