Practice was a disaster as usual. Unorganized, uncouth, and unimportant apparently too. Those who did have the sand to get up ‘early’ (as they claim) were lethargic and half-assed the entire time, as his team seemed to rely on their charm and cunning at game time – rather than arduous practice. It was true, a lot of them had natural talent, talent Bailian didn’t even have organically either, but still – they had no appreciation for the game, which made Bailian seethe. Talent was being wasted, and the underdogs left to pick up the slack come game time it seems. Bailian was not excruciatingly good at anything, something he realized when he was younger. While pessimistic, he thought it true, he wasn’t outlandishly amazing at school, seeing as he had to work hard for his grades (where others just slumped around and still got fair marks), he was the farthest thing from a social butterfly as could be possible, and even amazing talent on a broom was lost to him. Not to say he wasn’t a good player, as that is a huge lie, but he had to work, just as he did for everything, where he felt that all others just skated on down easy street. He had athleticism and good work ethic, making him an essential asset to his team, whether they liked him or not. He had focus, drive, incentive, and perseverance where others lacked and that is what made him who he was – no uncanny gifts bestowed to him. Still, he harbored jealousy to those who drifted about without any true qualms or weaknesses to speak of – it wasn’t right nor fair in his mind, not mention when they are given to the wrong sort of people.

So Bailian waited until his team left before getting a little bit of extra practice in. Bailian opted to take the school quidditch supplies back himself, and instead hung back as the rest of his team showered and warm themselves in front of the Slytherin fire. What had Bailian been doing while waiting for his vain counterparts to finally exit the showers? – Smoking. Ah yes, weakness could not be denied to Bailian either, despite his attempts at perfection. The difference, however, is that he made a good solid attempt at keeping his vices a splendid secret. So not only was he standing in the cold by himself with a trunk, but he was indulging himself in a cigarette – a nasty habit he picked up from some of the upperclassman he seldom socialized with. He could hear the bludgers underneath the trunk’s lid trying to burst out of their confines in excitement and joy, but he’d wait just a bit longer, to assure that nobody was around when he went to play.

Dousing his cigarette in the icy snow near his boot, he refastened his armguards by the laces along the interior of his forearm. He shifted his quidditch costume so that it was tighter around his neck as he placed his hands over his ears briefly to manually warm them before getting ready to take flight again. Easily he lifted up the trunk by it’s handles as he used his foot to pile his broom on top. Leaving the cover of the quidditch stands, he began to trod up the steep, steely steps of the stands as to better prepare his body to the coldness of the atmosphere as he went higher and higher. With his back to the pitch, he bent down to gently lower the trunk simultaneously as he shoved his crinkled carton of cheap cigarettes into his pant’s pocket. Rubbing his gloved hands together, he picked up his broom and wheeled around, scowling deeply at what he saw. “Hey horsefly, get off the pitch!” Bailian exclaimed. Of course, it had to be none other than his quidditch rival Dymphna, a.k.a The Shrimp (or apparently Horsefly today) attempting to take his field. Attempting being the key word.

Like a Venus flytrap snapping away at the prospect of a meal (quite relevant to the subject of insect species), her mouth, Bailian has come to observe, yaps and yowls far bigger than one would think considering the size of her head and body. Descending the incline of the stands towards the front row seats (broom in tow), he buried his free hand underneath his arm for warmth. Any fool would see that it wasn’t the most desired climate for quidditch, let alone just for solitary practice. Nevertheless, when Bailian sought something, he followed through, he wouldn’t be deterred by her defenses. Besides, the girl was hardly intimidating, despite how much she thought she was or wanted to be, with a petite nose, round eyes, and small stature, she’d probably have just as slim luck physically intimidating a fly. Still, she put up a hell of a verbal throw. Sadly she was trying to work it over on the wrong sort, as he had very similar tactics.

As if Bailian ever obliged to anyone - ever. Contradictory to a push-over, he was often the devil's advocate, the opposing force of any argument or debate. It was his way, and few agreeably saw things in the same light. One could say that meant he was close-minded to outside opinion, but in all truth he knew himself and knew his wants and needs - not mentioning the opinions of his peers were often unstudied and tied to the wanton dispersions of hormones, making them unreliable for anything but advice on the next bottle of rum and sex positions. None of those such things, for some peculiar reason (as it was physically obvious that testosterone has taken a hold of Bailian), entertained the young Davies boy at all. For as long as anyone could remember Bailian was as straight-laced as they came, and he's only seemed to grow more disdain for the frivolities of his counterparts over the past months.

“Spare me.” The broad brunette replied curtly, his thin lips curling into a faint scowl - the most common expression of Bailian Davies. “While I’m sure you find it fun to prattle and float around uselessly, I’ve actually got something to do on this pitch.” He said, tapping the tip of his broomstick down to stand beside him, his hand grappled around the high end with irritation. “Perhaps you can come back when you’re taller, Horsefly.” He concluded and with that statement mounted his broom for the quidditch stand ledge, dipping down to hover over the iced blades of grass below, obviously not going to see it any other way than his way. Dymphna’s words were not apparently going to sway him otherwise.