Post by Bodi Lovegood on Jul 10, 2017 10:52:47 GMT -5
There was nothing melancholy about the Whomping Willow Pale Ale that sat in a dewy footed Pilsener before Bodi Lovegood's strained face. Quite on the contrary - the sunshine-hued malt had the character of a summer day: blue skies, citrus notes, and the kind of love that was reserved for dreamers watching clouds from a grassy hill. Actually, come to think of it, the magnitude of happiness this beer was offering was somewhat nauseating.
Bodi shot the bartender an apologetic look and took a sip of the chilled brew before returning his chin to carefully folded hands. Even Dogwood, his trusted wand, seemed depressed. The handsome 12" hovered to Bodi's right, periodically releasing a sigh that sounded like a strangled cat. What a pair they made. The sadness was not without reason. For a solid month, the crestfallen broom racer had gone everywhere and met everyone in an attempt to reignite his career. He tried to explain his actions in the last Annual Broom Race, seeking some form of mutual ground, but instead he found the occasional pat on the back and more often the door. Some companies wouldn't let him past reception.
"We'll rise above this, old friend," Bodi soothed, without breaking his concentrated gaze. "Yes, we've crossed off Nimbus and Firebolt. Moontrimmer. Comet. Silver Arrow. Not to mention Cleansweep, but let's be honest - that orange tunic attracts flitterbies like warts to a hag. There's still Tinderblast and Twigger. And we can always look overseas. Maybe to Canada." Bodi imbibed further in his ale, this time finding more of the optimism and joy it offered. And then, suddenly, he paused, as if his divine crystal ball clocked him a good one and turned on the lights. Lovegood looked in to his glass, then to the bartender, then to dear Dogwood...it made sense.
"You know, perhaps we've focused too much on the big names. Those tried, tested and true stalwarts that we've all come to love and cherish. Maybe there's a little fellow who started with a twig that grew in to a stick and now they want to test the mettle of their magic. Maybe I need to go...independent..." Bodi's right eyebrow arched and his face fell in to deep concentration. Independent. Bodi tried to think of a name but couldn't. That was the beautiful thing about artisans: they were often so deep in to their craft that they struggled with marketing.
Bodi shot the bartender an apologetic look and took a sip of the chilled brew before returning his chin to carefully folded hands. Even Dogwood, his trusted wand, seemed depressed. The handsome 12" hovered to Bodi's right, periodically releasing a sigh that sounded like a strangled cat. What a pair they made. The sadness was not without reason. For a solid month, the crestfallen broom racer had gone everywhere and met everyone in an attempt to reignite his career. He tried to explain his actions in the last Annual Broom Race, seeking some form of mutual ground, but instead he found the occasional pat on the back and more often the door. Some companies wouldn't let him past reception.
"We'll rise above this, old friend," Bodi soothed, without breaking his concentrated gaze. "Yes, we've crossed off Nimbus and Firebolt. Moontrimmer. Comet. Silver Arrow. Not to mention Cleansweep, but let's be honest - that orange tunic attracts flitterbies like warts to a hag. There's still Tinderblast and Twigger. And we can always look overseas. Maybe to Canada." Bodi imbibed further in his ale, this time finding more of the optimism and joy it offered. And then, suddenly, he paused, as if his divine crystal ball clocked him a good one and turned on the lights. Lovegood looked in to his glass, then to the bartender, then to dear Dogwood...it made sense.
"You know, perhaps we've focused too much on the big names. Those tried, tested and true stalwarts that we've all come to love and cherish. Maybe there's a little fellow who started with a twig that grew in to a stick and now they want to test the mettle of their magic. Maybe I need to go...independent..." Bodi's right eyebrow arched and his face fell in to deep concentration. Independent. Bodi tried to think of a name but couldn't. That was the beautiful thing about artisans: they were often so deep in to their craft that they struggled with marketing.