(no subject)

[alan_shore]

Who: Alan Shore and some brave souls
What: A day in the life.
Where: Everywhere. (The El, Flyside, Aspic, the locale of your choice.)
When: Sukkardi
Notes: Format essentially stolen from Samm. Except for the part where I can't get that box thing to work.
Warnings: Smugness. Legalese. Gratuitous discussion of pie, probably.

Tag into one of the threads below or devise a scenario of your choosing.

Comments

Whatever, Wherever your little heart desires

[alan_shore]

[ooc: Go crazy! Alan gets around--I can work with pretty much anything.]

A PARK... SOMEWHERE. FLYSIDE.

[xenophilius]

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.

Much.

[ CHANCE MEETING? DELIBERATE? YOU DECIDE. ]

[alan_shore]

Alan's obliged to circle the park--or, at any rate, walk along a stretch of fence--before he finds the entrance, a gap in all that steadfast ironwork. He doesn't disguise his approach (snapped twigs aplenty can and do attest to that), but when he spots his friend, he stops short, leaving ample space between them. He'd been invited here, true, but trespassing on the man's thoughts is another matter entirely.

"Xenophilius." He says the name warmly, even as the chill air transmutes his exhalation into a white wisp.

[xenophilius]

Xenophilius is concentrating. One hand lowers, and the broom begins to tip, before he rights it again, pale eyebrows furrowed. He's going to have to do that charm again, maybe, or check with Snape that-- oh, someone just said his name.

Promptly forgetting his cautious handling of the item, he turns enough to spy Alan, hands removing from where it was holding up the broom -- and, of course, the broom hangs in place, hovering on thin air with only the slightest of wobbles. He is dressed not unusually, for him, in the quilt-patch coat of warm wool over trousers that show his ankles, more ordinary sweater above that.

"Good day, Alan," he greets. "How're you today?"