<font color=silver>Coach Amelia Pierce</font>

December 16, 2011 12:16 PM
For the past three years, the Quidditch final had gone the same way. The same two teams, the same winner. It was almost getting boring. This year, Amelia was going to mix things up by putting the two against each other right off the bat. It would be an exciting start to the season, and the second game would give Teppenpaw and Pecari a chance to face each other for the first time in four years. Less than half of the current players had been around for that.

Today, though, was for the rematch between two teams who had met each other in the finals for three years running. Though it was only the first game of the season, in some ways, that made it even more critical than the finals had been. Before, winning had given the victorious team the Championship. The loser, though, had at least made it to the Finals and therefore took second place overall. Today, the loser would be tied for last place in the school, a position she was sure neither Aladren nor Crotalus had any desire to find themselves in.

The day was bright and sunny. Too sunny, in truth. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, the late autumn air was clear, and looking toward the East could blind a person this morning. Fortunately, the pitch was arranged on a North-South axis, so neither team had a severe scoring disadvantage.

With only a week until Thanksgiving, the mid-November temperature was cool compared to preceeding weeks, but it was still in the high fifties and not yet truly freezing. Still, Amelia had opted to wear one of her heavier robes and added a fashionable purple scarf for a little extra warmth around her neck.

"Welcome to the first Quidditch game of this year's season," she greeted the teams and the audience, her voice augmented by the use of a sonorus charm. She had waited unti the captains - both new to their positions - finished their pre-game speecheds, and now she called them over to her. "Representing Aladren this year is Edmond Carey. Newly leading Crotalus, we have Marissa Stephenson. Captains, please shake hands."

Once they did so, they were free to return to their teams. Amelia released the snitch, and the two bludgers, and picked up the Quaffle. Moving the point midway between the two teams, she held the red ball in one hand and her whistle in the other. Her broom waited beside her, ready for her to call it to her hand and follow the players into the air.

First though, "The game goes until a seeker catches the snitch. A goal is worth ten points, catching the snitch is worth a hundred and fifty. Keep the game clean, folks, and let's get started at my whistle. One. Two. Tweet." She tossed the Quaffle high into the air and the sharp whistle-blow split the air.

The game was on.


OOC:
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1 <font color=silver>Coach Amelia Pierce</font> Game One: Aladren vs Crotalus 20 <font color=silver>Coach Amelia Pierce</font> 1 5


<font color = red>Renée Errant {Chaser}</font>

December 28, 2011 11:05 PM
That wasn’t... that wasn’t... that wasn’t...’ Renée’s mind struggled to form a comprehensive thought. Images replaced words; her shot speeding toward the goal, Arthur Carey intercepting, taking her Quaffle, speeding away, Renée following, leaping off her broom to land on his, her fists raining down on him, pummeling every inch of flesh she could reach until he bled as red as the Quaffle he’d stolen. ‘That wasn’t... that wasn’t... that wasn’t...’ No, punching wasn’t enough. Her elbow striking his nose, waiting for that delicious crack of bone. ‘That wasn’t... that wasn’t... that wasn’t...’ Strangulation. Suffocation. All the breath escaping from his body until he’d sag. ‘THAT WASN’T FAIR!’ She wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Anger seemed too simple a label. Rage, maybe, but still too simple. Was there a word to describe... what was that word?

That frustration of searching for a glove that she was sure she’d just held in her hand, the stench of wet trash lining the streets of Brooklyn, squeezed in an elevator with too many people, squirming in a public place without a place to go to the bathroom, ink bottle spilling over and staining white clothes, the feeling she felt when stripping off her clothes and looking into the mirror, eyes running over all the curves in her body she wasn’t sure were good to have, wind blowing too hard causing the umbrella to flip and break, drenching her in cold cold freezing rain. Whatever the word was for that, whatever summed up all that feeling, that was what she was feeling now.

She wanted to be a Beater suddenly. She wanted to grab a bat and have the valid excuse to hit bludgers at people. See their bones crack, blood squirt from their worthless persons. A specific worthless person. She’d originally only become Chaser because the assistant captain had claimed seeker, and her older brother Gabriel was a Chaser and would perhaps shower her with more attention if she followed in his footsteps. But now that Gabriel had proved himself incapable of being there for her anyway (there wasn’t much room for a sister when you had practically three wives and several bastard children) Beater seemed the way to go.

Her mind continued to spiral in anger as her body attempted to reboot from utter numbness. Keepers making saves, blocking her shots, that she could deal with. That she could accept. Because that was the nature of the game. She could remember once interfering with that natural format, maybe two or three years ago, blocking a shot that was heading toward Nic, saving the goals herself. But that hadn’t been the role of Chaser then, and it wasn’t now. Chasers passed the Quaffle, intercepted the Quaffle, and took shots at the goals. If they made saves then the role of Keeper would have been unnecessary. McLevy was younger and stupid like Renée had been when she’d blocked a shot. Carey was older and knew the rules. Chasers acting like Keepers was deception, was lies, and was Not Fair.

Heat spiked in her dark fingers, traveling up her skin, rushing with the strong upward current of boiling blood. Fingers, hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, back and neck, hips and head, rushing down her thighs, knees, the full length of her leg, her calves, her feet, toes. No longer numb, now encased in her own enraged fire, Renée shot off, a bullet fired from a tightly held gun. CRACK. A bludger was hit, not really close to her, and she kept flying. CRACK. Closer this time, a bludger was hit but still not any danger of hitting her. She kept her eyes on the Quaffle, watching as it traveled through the air, determined to get it, win it back, and this time she would take a shot and this time Aladren would respect the damn rules. Maybe the Aladren Keeper would make the save, maybe not, but he would be doing his own job and not allow his Chasers to do the dirty work for him.

Arthur Carey had the Quaffle still, pushing the game further toward Crotalus goals. He rose above the players, Renée stayed straight, he dove below the players, Renée stayed straight, he rose again even with most of them, Renée pulled up right behind him. He made the pass and she shot forward, a million scents and feelings rushing up at her all at once; heat from the Arizona sun, far hotter than in New York but less potent than the cruel one in Spain. She thought about Seville, she thought about how hot it could get there too. Lying in the garden, dark hair curled and entwined with the flower stems, her nose pressed into the grass, her ears filled with the voices of everybody in her life except one that told her how bad a girl she was, how horrible she was, how she needed to change, fit in more, calm down more, seep back into the grey shadows, the black and white portrait of characters that thought they were colorful. She was better than them, she would conquer them, she would rise and fly and be free. The sun couldn’t pin her down for long.

She caught the Quaffle against her chest and dove for clear space, turning around and leaning forward, chest pinning the Quaffle to the broom, heading back toward Aladren goals. ‘Pass, pass, and then a shot. And then we shoot. And then someone scores a goal.’ It seemed incredible that still they were fighting for only ten points. Her body (sweating, throbbing, strained) was convinced it was fighting for the entirety of the game. But there was no point in doing anything without putting - without giving everything she had. She never wondered, never questioned, never thought about why she gave herself to Quidditch. Her family was a lie, the friends she had back home were never seen, the friends she had at school... the friend she had was gone, and she couldn’t see much of a future past Sonora. What would she be? What could she be? Fourteen and life was over. Fourteen and life was only Quidditch because she’d been told marriage was not for her, society was not for her, and those things that didn’t matter before now mattered and though she’d never had them and had lived well without them, now she knew she was supposed to care. The only thing she did right by her family (lying, deceitful, rule breaking family) was care.

Her family was a lie, friendship had disintegrated, but Quidditch had rules. Rules couldn’t be broken. Rules kept her safe.

She saw a teammate and raised herself up for a pass, gripping the Quaffle, but as she turned to make sure she was clear she saw the distinctive robes of an Aladren. ‘Not yet.’ She swerved, nearing closer to her teammate, still speeding toward Aladren Goals, her skin sensitive to nearby opposing chasers. ‘Not yet...’ She feinted toward one of them, hoping to throw someone off (hopefully not her own teammate) but as they still weren’t open she had no choice but to keep flying, frustration (so much of that this game) tightening her chest, quickening her shallow breath. She needed to get rid of this ball, and ready for the next pass that could potentially lead to another goal, or assist in a goal. ‘Not yet...’ So much heat, she might melt. ‘Not yet...’ So much wind, she might be blown away. ‘Now!’ She didn’t believe in G-d, but was resolved to convert if her pass was completed. ‘Straight like an arrow. Straight like an arrow. Straight like an arrow.’ It shot just a little ahead of her teammate, able to be easily caught by him if he continued a half second in his current direction.

Renée saw blue robes from above and shot up, using her body as a shield, hoping to deter their course. No smile, no gritted teeth, not even rage played across her face. She was playing within the rules, lost within them, suspended in this odd world of children battling children until either Marissa or Carey decided to pull them back into reality.
0 <font color = red>Renée Errant {Chaser}</font> Not really, it's only divination. 0 <font color = red>Renée Errant {Chaser}</font> 0 5


<font color="red">Sam Bauer, Chaser</font>

December 28, 2011 11:33 PM
Yeah, it was official, his teammates were as crazy as the Aladrens. At the moment, though, Sam wasn’t complaining. If they had passed more, it was a pretty sure thing that Crotalus would have lost the ball, at least for a time. That would have been preferable to them getting hurt any further, but they had gotten lucky, and either Preston hadn’t been in a position to shoot at them around his own Chasers or Topher had managed to keep deflecting his attempts. Sam didn’t know which, and didn’t care. So long as they got the ball through the hoop.

That, though, didn’t seem to be in the stars at the moment. He made an inarticulate noise of irritation when Arthur Carey decided that Kitty McLevy shouldn’t be the only person on their team to do something flashy and role-inappropriate and swept in to intercept Renée’s shot. Really, now? Had that been necessary?

He contemplated shouting something insulting at the Keeper, the Assistant Captain who’d appeared right off the alternate’s bench and had never played a game before, to try to undermine his confidence for the next time, but finally decided he didn’t have the time or energy for it right now. He had a Quaffle to run after, and he couldn’t think of anything off the top of his head that put into words exactly what he wanted to convey. It might just come across as ridiculous if he didn’t have it together.

Besides, he thought as he flew away, he would be shaking hands with the guy next year, weird as that sounded to him still, and he wouldn’t be at all surprised if Wilkes didn’t have a stronger grip than he did. Better not to give the other guy a personal reason to want to damage his hand when he’d already have a professional one, and Aladren had always struck him as only a hair above dirty tactics. A thin, thin hair indeed.

Renée, Merlin be thanked for her, got the ball back from them out of the pass. Arthur had covered a lot of ground, though, and there was definitely a Bludger pretty close to them, and Preston Stratford wasn’t going to let it stay aimed at an Aladren for long, so Sam felt that odd sensation of someone staring fixedly at the points of his shoulders directly beneath his neck pretty quickly and expected a pass. Charlie had always taught them never to carry the Quaffle for long, to keep their possession times short and their passes short and frequent, and Crotalus had been having pretty good luck with keeping the Quaffle between them, too. So there was a good chance there was going to be a pass.

There was, and he took it. Unfortunately, he realized after the fact that this meant he was going to have to shoot. He wasn’t their best shooter; he would do, but he wasn’t their best. Not much of an option, though; if he tried to pass it again, the Aladrens were sure to intercept, and then he’d be in for it. So he moved as though preparing to go left before reversing and going to the center hoop, crossing his fingers for luck against the other Assistant Captain.
16 <font color="red">Sam Bauer, Chaser</font> Re-Writing. 163 <font color="red">Sam Bauer, Chaser</font> 0 5

<font color="blue">David Wilkes, Keeper</font>

December 29, 2011 12:03 AM
David had realized things were coming back his way and tensed, feeling his heart rate speeding up alarmingly quickly as he thought about it. He had gotten lucky once, with Kitty intervening like that; he couldn’t expect that again, for something to happen so it just fell in his hands and the game moved back toward Nic without him having to risk anything. Without him having a chance to win anything, either, that was a legitimate point, but he would rather not win than lose. He blamed it on the kind of conditioning he’d gotten from his messed-up mother, who was a whole separate breed from his messed-up father’s completely wackadoodle family.

He rewound that thought sequence far enough to realize he had just thought poorly of his mother, admitted that while she was more functional than Dad’s family, that hers was still the reason why he didn’t agree with the famous Tolstoy quote on the basis that there were no truly happy families, that they all had their skeletons and their relatives who were discussed when they weren’t present and all that. If he was thinking of that, then he was near panic. That was…probably not good.

There was something his lungs were supposed to do, some kind of in and out motion. It would make air go in, carbon monoxide or whatever go out, and that process would make him feel better. He reminded his lungs of this process, forced them to go through that process. Breathing, he thought it was called. It was a good idea. He kind of liked it. It would help with blocking the shot whenever it came.

Oh, heck. Renée Errant. He was going to mess it up, and then the team would gang up on him and end him. Oh, this was great, he did not like this. He was doomed –

Flash of blue, and then –

He blinked, startled. The ball was no longer heading toward him. It was heading away from him. Arthur had just come out of nowhere, the way Kitty had come out of nowhere, and taken the ball away. How had that happened?

And, more importantly, was he the luckiest guy on this Pitch, or just the least trusted? He’d really prefer to think of it as the former, but he was starting to wonder.

That thought didn’t stick in his head long, though. As the ball moved away, his pulse began to go back toward normal as he took an interest in what was going on in the game. Maybe it was just the aftermath of the panic, but somehow, even when things started heading back toward him, he didn’t really register it, and was looking for one of the others to turn the situation around again when he realized that no, Russell wasn’t about to join the brigade of his saviors, and he was going to have to save this one on his own.

He just had to think like practice, that was all. Watch hands especially, watch bodies and brooms, too, and be prepared to move the second he saw them about to, so he didn’t get messed up. So it was Sam Bauer; it wasn’t as easy as it would have been if they’d been the ones in blue robes instead of red ones when there was a red Quaffle, but he saw him not pass, and saw the ball approaching –

He leaned out, not even trying to grab it, just to keep it from going through, and felt it smack into his wrist and bounce off. He knew he should go after it, but was more concerned with getting his balance back, since he had thrown his center of balance off for a second and now felt like he was going to fall. Not good, not good, and he was pretty sure the Aladren Chasers were good enough to get it back on their own, anyway, without letting the Crotali get in there and steal.

At least, he really, really hoped they were.
16 <font color="blue">David Wilkes, Keeper</font> Succeeding! 169 <font color="blue">David Wilkes, Keeper</font> 0 5


<font color="blue">Arthur Carey, Chaser</font>

December 29, 2011 12:37 AM
She had it again. Arthur supposed he should have expected it, when two things didn’t go his way in as many minutes. Now, this made three. He shrugged it off, reminding himself it was really a minor matter – it was hard to remember sometimes, playing the game; sometimes, he became emotional and had muddled, incoherent, and useless thoughts because of his emotions during the game, but he had been taught that emotions clouded his judgment and that he should proceed, whenever possible, in utter calm well before he ever came to Sonora, and so he did keep them pushed down even here as much as he could – and went back in, looking to get the Quaffle back.

He made an attempt when she passed to Mr. Bauer, but he was distracted by the pain in his leg, and so only just avoided colliding with her when she blocked him. Fair enough, fair enough; he’d attempted to do the same thing to her just a moment earlier. He smiled pleasantly enough and withdrew, waiting for the next opportunity to reclaim the Quaffle for Aladren and reserving his irritation for Mr. Wilkes if he dared to let a shot in, after Mr. Sawyer had only done so when he was taken completely aback and had not even really slipped since.

Calm irritation, though. Being openly antagonistic was stupid. It was the one thing he found incomprehensible about Eliza Bennett. Did she not realize that anyone could do anything to Miss Errant, and she’d be an easy choice to be made to take the fall for it because the whole school, at this point, knew that Miss Bennett hated her? The best thing she could have done would have been to appear to make very good friends with Miss Errant, then destroy her, only letting her know it had been Miss Bennett – if she absolutely had to gloat – after it was done, Miss Errant defeated, and she as secure as she could be once she opened her mouth in front of anyone.

Of course, he only knew the theory of these things, not the practice – the only person he truly had strong, lasting bad feelings toward was his grandfather, and he didn’t think he’d done the best job of concealing this, since Grandfather didn’t like him, either. Perhaps he should make a minor little enemy just to practice. He’d have to think on that later.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be Mr. Wilkes, not just now, anyway. His performance was not good enough to get him elevated to ‘David’ in Arthur’s internal vocabulary, the way the rest of the team had gained first names over the past three years, but he kept the Quaffle from going through the hoop. It was enough for now.

For now, when Arthur had to get the falling Quaffle before Miss Errant could lay hand to it again, and no doubt attempt to pay them back for the way Katrina had scored her ten points earlier in the game. He flew fast, ignoring the Keeper as he regained his balance in favor of snatching the red ball out of the air.

Now, to get back. He chose what seemed to him to be the most direct route, which was flying through the goal posts and looping back around where he had more room, rather than chancing it on a very narrow turn where he might collide with another player, maybe even one of his own. Once he was pointing in the right direction again, he accelerated, going so fast back toward the Crotalus goals that the ground was reduced to a streaky blur and he began to feel a little dizzy himself. They went fast as a matter of course, but this was pushing it even by that standard.

Still, nothing to be done about it. They had to get it back to the other end, or at least a considerable way back that way. Really, it was all just stalling for time while Arnold caught the Snitch….

He began to slow in order to have a chance of passing, since he didn’t think any of them were good enough to pass at that speed, they were not professionals yet, and blinked as he was pretty sure he saw his brother where his brother should not have been. It was not, however, exactly the moment for that, so he ignored the hallucination or actual Arnold and instead looked for the nearest other Aladren. Even at his reduced pace, he was still going faster than he really liked to with both hands off the Quaffle, but every inch counted, so he made both hands lift and start a direct pass to one side before he turned suddenly the other way and threw the Quaffle down, grabbing the broom again with first one hand and then the other as soon as it was done.

Very nice. Now to see if it had worked.
0 <font color="blue">Arthur Carey, Chaser</font> Good for you 0 <font color="blue">Arthur Carey, Chaser</font> 0 5