Thread: Seventh Floor: Battlements
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Old 05-15-2026, 02:39 PM   #2 (permalink)
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The battlements had easily become one of Jae's favorite places in the castle. Though, technically, it was outside of the castle.

It wasn't because of the history — though he supposed surviving a war did add a certain dramatic flair to the architecture — but because nobody really came up here unless they meant to. Too many stairs. Too much wind. Too little immediate entertainment for the average student and plenty of other distractions on the way to get here.

Which meant space. Space to think. Space to breathe. Space to move.

The late afternoon air curled cool against his skin as he balanced one foot atop an old wooden crate near the wall, head bowed slightly while he fiddled with the dial of a portable WWN radio resting beside him. Static crackled sharply through the speakers before dissolving into another station entirely — tinny wizarding adverts, some DJ from Dublin, more static.

"Non, non, non…" he muttered under his breath, brows knitting and lips puckering.

A quick flick of his wand followed, paired with a murmured adjustment charm he'd spent an embarrassing amount of time perfecting over the years specifically for this purpose. Another couple of minutes passed and, finally, the static gave way to a crisp beat layered beneath rapid Korean vocals.

"Ahh yeaaaaaaaah."

Jae stepped away from the crate, rolling one shoulder and then the other as the music settled into the open air around him. The warm-up started almost automatically by now — neck stretch, arms crossing over his chest, a slow bend at the waist before he sank into a loose crouch and bounced lightly back onto the balls of his feet. Even standing still, he rarely fully stood still.

The setting sunlight and scattered torchlight caught intermittently against the silver accents stitched into the oversized black hoodie, the fabric shifting with him as naturally as water. One foot slid back as his torso snapped forward into the rhythm, shoulders hitting the beat before the rest of him followed. A pivot. A glide. His hand cut cleanly through the air while his weight shifted seamlessly into the next sequence, the choreography carrying his favorite contradiction of precision wrapped inside something that looked effortless and the stones beneath him were just another stage.

A sharp turn whipped the hem of his hoodie outward as the choreography shifted into the chorus, shoulders hitting first, then the precise drag of his hand near his mouth in time with the lyric before he dropped low into the footwork. One palm skimmed briefly against the stone to steady the descent, only for him to drive straight back upward on the next beat, fluid and exact like the floor itself had bounced him back into motion.

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