Durant wasn’t entirely sure why he’d entered himself into this outrageous and ridiculous competition. His only certainty was that he was going to win, in spite of the fact that he’d never actually brewed a potion before in his entire life.
Truth be told, he thought them quite pointless and messy. He didn’t understand why anybody in their right mind would actually choose to make potions and yet here he was so then, perhaps, he wasn’t in his right mind. He was starting to think that perhaps there was something wrong with him; he had twin daughters, his wife had died, he’d been spurned by some hussy who thought it best to run away with a boy than have a life – and family - with him and now… this.
His thinking was that he would show his face, prove that he was as brilliant as he thought knew he was, and make a fool of everyone who dared make a fool of him! A sound and logical plan for a sound and logical man, he thought.
The issue therein lied within the fact that he hadn’t brewed potions before. As the others began to work diligently on their potions, Durant stood there and just… watched. He couldn’t recognise the ingredients, but he could see what the others were doing. Clumsily, though attentively enough that he thought his potion could be passable, Durant began to brew his potion and it did sound rather cool, as if boast-worthy (which, of course, was Durant’s true motivation for all things in life); ‘Oh, look at me, I made a Draught of Living Death’. Ironically, if he could pull this off, Durant suspected he would be the life of the party!
Once he had strewn ingredients all over the table and crushed what it looked like he needed to crush, stirred what he needed to, and slapped the side of the cauldron with his hand when the others used their wands (which hurt quite a bit, thank you very much), Durant took a step back with premature celebration on his features admiring his work.
He wasn’t sure what the potion was meant to look like (or smell like, for that matter) but it very possibly probably looked like his potion currently did. Maybe.
Truth be told, he thought them quite pointless and messy. He didn’t understand why anybody in their right mind would actually choose to make potions and yet here he was so then, perhaps, he wasn’t in his right mind. He was starting to think that perhaps there was something wrong with him; he had twin daughters, his wife had died, he’d been spurned by some hussy who thought it best to run away with a boy than have a life – and family - with him and now… this.
His thinking was that he would show his face, prove that he was as brilliant as he thought knew he was, and make a fool of everyone who dared make a fool of him! A sound and logical plan for a sound and logical man, he thought.
The issue therein lied within the fact that he hadn’t brewed potions before. As the others began to work diligently on their potions, Durant stood there and just… watched. He couldn’t recognise the ingredients, but he could see what the others were doing. Clumsily, though attentively enough that he thought his potion could be passable, Durant began to brew his potion and it did sound rather cool, as if boast-worthy (which, of course, was Durant’s true motivation for all things in life); ‘Oh, look at me, I made a Draught of Living Death’. Ironically, if he could pull this off, Durant suspected he would be the life of the party!
Once he had strewn ingredients all over the table and crushed what it looked like he needed to crush, stirred what he needed to, and slapped the side of the cauldron with his hand when the others used their wands (which hurt quite a bit, thank you very much), Durant took a step back with premature celebration on his features admiring his work.
He wasn’t sure what the potion was meant to look like (or smell like, for that matter) but it very possibly probably looked like his potion currently did. Maybe.