A wind slams sharp down the street, catching Xenophilius off-guard.
Loose leaf publications come flooding from his hands, whispering down the sidewalk, drawing a wince from the wizard as he starts off after them, crushing what he'd managed to hold onto beneath an arm. A few are snatched up off the damp concrete, moving as if to leap frog from page to page, before he remembers he is, you know. Magical. Struggling his wand from the pockets of his coat, he flicks it impatiently in the direction of scattered news pages. "Accio journalism!" It mostly half-succeeds -- some of them stop and drift on back in fragmented fluttering, while others languish where they've landed.
"At least that cuts the wheat from the chaff," he mutters, as he goes about collecting up the strewn pages.
a noon // streets of mog hill
Loose leaf publications come flooding from his hands, whispering down the sidewalk, drawing a wince from the wizard as he starts off after them, crushing what he'd managed to hold onto beneath an arm. A few are snatched up off the damp concrete, moving as if to leap frog from page to page, before he remembers he is, you know. Magical. Struggling his wand from the pockets of his coat, he flicks it impatiently in the direction of scattered news pages. "Accio journalism!" It mostly half-succeeds -- some of them stop and drift on back in fragmented fluttering, while others languish where they've landed.
"At least that cuts the wheat from the chaff," he mutters, as he goes about collecting up the strewn pages.