Zinhle shuffled about the streets, a pout on her lips. She didn't like the UK. The food, the people, the bloody weather- all of it grated on her. The streets were damp and gray, the so called 'holiday fun' limited to flickering fairy lights that did little to brighten her mood. It made her relocation from South Africa seem more like a prison sentence, as opposed to an opportunity. Or perhaps it was her looming engagement that made everything seem more bleak, the holiday cheer not quite breaking through her frown. Seven months. Seven more months until her wedding. The thought made her stomach tighten. She thought she'd made her peace with it, but a big part of her still resented her father for the decision to arrange her, a spiteful vindication filling her that at least he'd gotten a lot of grief from the rest of the family for it.

Her boots thudded against the uneven cobblestones as she wandered, without direction. Before long, the musky scent of animals and perky jingle of bells caught her attention- she'd wound up by the sleigh rides. It seemed fun enough, but a familiar face in one of the sleighs cracked her hard exterior, the Gryffindor instantly springing up to sit next to her cousin. His familiar face was a balm against her own childish wallowing. "Howzit (How are you), Chief?" She chirped, leaning up to peck Arlo on the cheek, barely giving him time to register her presence. The affectionate nickname slipped out naturally, and she already felt her shoulders loosening, the cold seeming a bit less miserable. "You owe me a ride, hey." It had been a bit since she last caught up with the older Shacklebolt, after all. In spite of her abrupt manner of speaking, the fondness in her tone was clear.

tagged: Arlo Shacklebolt

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