Soon it will be snowing, and by soon, one can take that to mean that the season is winding inevitably to the paler heart of winter. Currently, it's simply in suspension, with bruise-grey clouds and crisp air.
This patch of land is of that urban park variety, with wrought iron squaring it off from the cobblestone streets. The overcast noonday sun makes for an equal and grey distribution of light, but it's very English, Xenophilius thinks, and he has an automatic affection for anything that reminds him of home. Currently, he makes something of an unusual sight, and this time it's simply because he's holding a broom.
A traditional looking thing, with a cluster of brittle sticks secured in uniform to a long branch, sanded down and sturdy. Well-made but not store bought, it is possible he made the thing himself. He stands on the damp grass, currently holding the thing rested on both palms, as if checking its balance. His expression is one of curious contemplation, not really noticing the world around him.
A PARK... SOMEWHERE. FLYSIDE.
This patch of land is of that urban park variety, with wrought iron squaring it off from the cobblestone streets. The overcast noonday sun makes for an equal and grey distribution of light, but it's very English, Xenophilius thinks, and he has an automatic affection for anything that reminds him of home. Currently, he makes something of an unusual sight, and this time it's simply because he's holding a broom.
A traditional looking thing, with a cluster of brittle sticks secured in uniform to a long branch, sanded down and sturdy. Well-made but not store bought, it is possible he made the thing himself. He stands on the damp grass, currently holding the thing rested on both palms, as if checking its balance. His expression is one of curious contemplation, not really noticing the world around him.
Much.
[ CHANCE MEETING? DELIBERATE? YOU DECIDE. ]