Amanda, Farouk, Wednesday afternoon
Aug. 22nd, 2007 01:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsFarouk comes across Amanda renewing the protection wards on the school, and they chat. Until she tells him she's a witch, at least.
It was a still summer afternoon, the air hot and heavy. The sort of afternoon all is quiet, most taking refuge in the shade, or the swimming pool, or inside with the air-conditioning. One particular individual, however, was not - a rattle of a spray can being shaken and then the tell-tale hiss of paint being sprayed revealed that someone was out and about. Someone who was muttering - or was it half-singing? - under her breath as she carefully went over the existing wall mural, outlining the edges in black. Amanda's hair was caught up in a pony tail, the bangs plastered against her forehead, the light cotton shirt she'd been wearing over her tank top tied around her waist. Every so often, she paused in what she was doing to take a swig of the water bottle sitting by her feet.
Farouk adored air conditioning. For his money it was the pinnacle of human evolution. His disdain for meditation, rather substantial at the best of times, was driven to the new and passionate heights as he puffed his way toward the boundary of the mansion grounds, sweating in the midday heat. He did not enjoy meditation and did not come easy to him. His mind was not structured for it, he supposed, lacked the peculiar discipline necessary to just let go and -be-. Always some intruded, something that needed to be thought over, analyzed, considered.
Still sometimes it was necessary. More so lately, as he had to speed up the periodic assessment of his shields and the limits of the power still left to him.
Amidst the clamor of the school, and with somebody showing up on his doorstop with annoying regularity, it proved even more taxing than usual. Thus there he was taking a strolel and slowly melting in the sun, searching for a semblance of a quite spot and... solitude. Goddamn it.
"Ahem. Hello, there."
Amanda jumped a little, and glanced over her shoulder at the stranger. "Um, hello," she replied, wondering if she was going to be hauled off to Xavier's office to explain why she was defacing mansion property. The fact Charles and Cain both knew what she was up to wasn't much of a help with the hordes of new faces turning up. "I s'pose you're wondering what I'm doing here..." she began, trying to think of a way to explain protection wards without the strange man thinking she was a nutcase.
Amahl looked at the girl in front of him, one hand awkwardly fingering the aerosol bottle as if unable to decide what to do with it, the mind behind the blue eyes almost audible as it furiously cycled and discarded the possible explanations for being there and doing that.
He suddenly felt the migraine that had been plaguing him for the last week ease and an unbidden grin tug the corner of his mouth upward. You had to take pleasure in life's little ridiculous moments when you could, he thought and sunk down onto the grass, looking up at the blonde with narrowed, amused eyes.
"Want some ice-cream?" He asked, patting his cooler proudly. "I have Cherry Garcia."
The surprise on her face was almost comical. "Uh, yeah, that'd be great," she said after a moment, plopping herself down on the grass beside him. She began to stick out her hand for him to shake, realised it was covered in paint, and wiped it on the back of her cut-off denim shorts before offering it again. "Amanda Sefton. I used to go to school here. You must be that new teacher who turned up just before everything went to hell back in June, yeah?"
"I must be." Farouk agreed amiably and offered her a cone. "Back for a visit? Nostalgia is a cruel mistress."
He claimed another cone for himself, and glanced at the now resplendent wall, his eyes pausing for a second and then darting back toward Amanda's face and crinkling at the corners. "And, by the way, if you are here to maintain the image and pride of the ferocious Pink Pistols, I understand completely and you can count on my discretion. there's no need for any... erm, drastic measures."
She snickered at that, pausing in her unwrapping of the ice cream cone. "Business call," she said by way of explanation. "Adding to the security of the place."
"Ah." Amahl said and took a bite of his own ice-cream, the cold burning his mouth for a second a startlingly enjoyable contrast to the sweltering day. Farouk sighed contentedly and patted his cooler again. He always believed in meditating with the maximum comfort possible.
"My name is Amahl Farouk, by the way. The New Guy is my Secret Indian Name." He twirled his cone and looked at the wall thoughtfully. "Security, hm? A lot of wild art critics roaming around, yes?"
"We'd be in the shite if there was - 'm no artist." She took a bite of her own cone and used the excuse of swallowing to figure out her tactics. Straight up front would work with this bloke, she decided. "'S a protection ward, to keep out hostile magical influences. I'm the local witch."
Farouk tugged on his mustahce. Personally he could never quite bring himself to take Wicca seriously. In his experience... he glanced at Amanda, cut-offs, paint-splattered, piercings and the tank-top inviting the world to 'sof off and die.' Well, there it was. Pity, she seemed like a bright kid, Maybe she'd grow out of it.
It certainly wasn't in his day-planner to engage her in a theological dispute. He sighed and got up, grunting slightly. "Well, I wish you luck, Ms. Sefton. "He offered the girl his hand, "It was a pleasure meeting you."
She rolled her eyes a little. So much for the direct approach. She shook his hand firmly, resisting the urge to summon George and weird him out. "Nice meeting you too, Mr. Farouk," she said. "Ta for the ice cream." She deliberately turned back to the wall, aware the scars on her back were perfectly visible. Let him take it how he would. Laying her hand on the slightly-damp paint, she concentrated. The entire painting glowed brightly for a second, before fading again - showy, perhaps, but there were levels to how mature she could be.
It was a still summer afternoon, the air hot and heavy. The sort of afternoon all is quiet, most taking refuge in the shade, or the swimming pool, or inside with the air-conditioning. One particular individual, however, was not - a rattle of a spray can being shaken and then the tell-tale hiss of paint being sprayed revealed that someone was out and about. Someone who was muttering - or was it half-singing? - under her breath as she carefully went over the existing wall mural, outlining the edges in black. Amanda's hair was caught up in a pony tail, the bangs plastered against her forehead, the light cotton shirt she'd been wearing over her tank top tied around her waist. Every so often, she paused in what she was doing to take a swig of the water bottle sitting by her feet.
Farouk adored air conditioning. For his money it was the pinnacle of human evolution. His disdain for meditation, rather substantial at the best of times, was driven to the new and passionate heights as he puffed his way toward the boundary of the mansion grounds, sweating in the midday heat. He did not enjoy meditation and did not come easy to him. His mind was not structured for it, he supposed, lacked the peculiar discipline necessary to just let go and -be-. Always some intruded, something that needed to be thought over, analyzed, considered.
Still sometimes it was necessary. More so lately, as he had to speed up the periodic assessment of his shields and the limits of the power still left to him.
Amidst the clamor of the school, and with somebody showing up on his doorstop with annoying regularity, it proved even more taxing than usual. Thus there he was taking a strolel and slowly melting in the sun, searching for a semblance of a quite spot and... solitude. Goddamn it.
"Ahem. Hello, there."
Amanda jumped a little, and glanced over her shoulder at the stranger. "Um, hello," she replied, wondering if she was going to be hauled off to Xavier's office to explain why she was defacing mansion property. The fact Charles and Cain both knew what she was up to wasn't much of a help with the hordes of new faces turning up. "I s'pose you're wondering what I'm doing here..." she began, trying to think of a way to explain protection wards without the strange man thinking she was a nutcase.
Amahl looked at the girl in front of him, one hand awkwardly fingering the aerosol bottle as if unable to decide what to do with it, the mind behind the blue eyes almost audible as it furiously cycled and discarded the possible explanations for being there and doing that.
He suddenly felt the migraine that had been plaguing him for the last week ease and an unbidden grin tug the corner of his mouth upward. You had to take pleasure in life's little ridiculous moments when you could, he thought and sunk down onto the grass, looking up at the blonde with narrowed, amused eyes.
"Want some ice-cream?" He asked, patting his cooler proudly. "I have Cherry Garcia."
The surprise on her face was almost comical. "Uh, yeah, that'd be great," she said after a moment, plopping herself down on the grass beside him. She began to stick out her hand for him to shake, realised it was covered in paint, and wiped it on the back of her cut-off denim shorts before offering it again. "Amanda Sefton. I used to go to school here. You must be that new teacher who turned up just before everything went to hell back in June, yeah?"
"I must be." Farouk agreed amiably and offered her a cone. "Back for a visit? Nostalgia is a cruel mistress."
He claimed another cone for himself, and glanced at the now resplendent wall, his eyes pausing for a second and then darting back toward Amanda's face and crinkling at the corners. "And, by the way, if you are here to maintain the image and pride of the ferocious Pink Pistols, I understand completely and you can count on my discretion. there's no need for any... erm, drastic measures."
She snickered at that, pausing in her unwrapping of the ice cream cone. "Business call," she said by way of explanation. "Adding to the security of the place."
"Ah." Amahl said and took a bite of his own ice-cream, the cold burning his mouth for a second a startlingly enjoyable contrast to the sweltering day. Farouk sighed contentedly and patted his cooler again. He always believed in meditating with the maximum comfort possible.
"My name is Amahl Farouk, by the way. The New Guy is my Secret Indian Name." He twirled his cone and looked at the wall thoughtfully. "Security, hm? A lot of wild art critics roaming around, yes?"
"We'd be in the shite if there was - 'm no artist." She took a bite of her own cone and used the excuse of swallowing to figure out her tactics. Straight up front would work with this bloke, she decided. "'S a protection ward, to keep out hostile magical influences. I'm the local witch."
Farouk tugged on his mustahce. Personally he could never quite bring himself to take Wicca seriously. In his experience... he glanced at Amanda, cut-offs, paint-splattered, piercings and the tank-top inviting the world to 'sof off and die.' Well, there it was. Pity, she seemed like a bright kid, Maybe she'd grow out of it.
It certainly wasn't in his day-planner to engage her in a theological dispute. He sighed and got up, grunting slightly. "Well, I wish you luck, Ms. Sefton. "He offered the girl his hand, "It was a pleasure meeting you."
She rolled her eyes a little. So much for the direct approach. She shook his hand firmly, resisting the urge to summon George and weird him out. "Nice meeting you too, Mr. Farouk," she said. "Ta for the ice cream." She deliberately turned back to the wall, aware the scars on her back were perfectly visible. Let him take it how he would. Laying her hand on the slightly-damp paint, she concentrated. The entire painting glowed brightly for a second, before fading again - showy, perhaps, but there were levels to how mature she could be.
