Post by cal rodanthe on Jan 5, 2010 11:04:51 GMT -5
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CALLUM HORATIO RODANTHE.
NINETEEN & RESIDENT.
JOSH BEECH.
[/i] comfortable. what brings me here today? uh, maybe the fact my parents signed me up for this shit—i do coke. okay, there. i fuckin’ snort the shit and i drink but i’m not a fucking the alcoholic they seem to see me as. hey, i’m one big disappointment to them, that’s basically it."[/color][/ul]
"thank you for meeting with me. the fact that you're lying down on this couch means that we're past the hardest part. now tell me, what brings you here today? what is currently bothering you?"
"alright and how has this problem/these problems affected you in life? how have you changed as a person?"
"mmmm. i understand. now, could you tell me a little bit about your life? your childhood? things like that. please remember, everything you tell me is confidential."
"and tell me now, what is the biggest regret of your life?"
"that's a shame. now tell me the best thing that has ever happened to you."
"that sounds quite lovely. seeing as we're now on the topic of love -- are you seeing somebody? and is it love? if not, have you ever been in love and with who? what's your general opinion on love?"
"okay, i'm starting to understand you better but i'd like to know how you feel about yourself. are there any insecurities you have?"
"now describe how you see yourself personality wise and then tell me how others perceive you."
"tell me a secret."
"i know this might seem a little odd but i'd like to ask you about your drug habits. it's crucial in me decoding you as a person."
"oh no. it looks like we're running out of time. any last words?"
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hi, my name is yazmin, and i am 7teen. i've been roleplaying for a while and i also play jesus on dressed to digress. i like pudding.
We are darkness. You and I, we are untouchable, unforgettable... we are unmentionable. Do you see the fear in their eyes when they look at us? Their vision clouds, storms rolling in, eyes glazing over with fog; our nostrils flare and we smell the sweat and the terror and witness the rolling bead of perspiration and the quickening drumbeats of their hearts. Boom, boom, boom, like war drums but weaker, feebler, more broken—they are weak, and their time will come. We know that, yes, we know that. We pick and we choose and we ponder who lives and who dies; in our own mind, we are Gods, and we are untouchable. Zeus with his lightning bolts is throwing a fit against the sky, we notice. Smashing and hurling with his rage and his wrath, but we are untouchable, you see. He cannot harm us, cannot lay finger or strike of lightning upon us, because we know we are above him. That is the secret behind his rage and our peace, isn’t it? We know this, just like we know everything. We know everything because we are everywhere—we are one with the darkness: we are the darkness—
The weather is full of rage; the room is quiet and full of memories. They hang over his head like rainclouds threatening to break, brewing with the bitterness of the past, and he glances up occasionally to examine the ceiling, as if expecting the rain to cascade through the roof and the ceiling and down into his mind, but he remains dry and the memories do not swarm upon him yet. Felicianus listens to the deadbeat silence, the creaking of the house as it groans against the brutal English battery, and he reflects about how it differs from France. Lip curling, the clouds break and he is stricken by flashes of memory—of his mother stretched out naked before him, the Lestrange crest burning itself into the back of his eyelids, into the fabric of his soul—and he flinches faintly, fingers digging into the rich linen of the armchair, grounding him back to the present and the clashing orchestra of Heaven fighting Earth above in the sky.
On the table next to him, his owl hoots lowly, ruffling feathers as another loud echo breaks across the sky and thunder reigns like a deity beckoning to its people, booming commands of absolute obedience in return for his silence. He is silent without being told to be, brows furrowing in noiseless contemplation as he casts his eyes to the parchment discarded carelessly by the owl’s feet, fingers lifting from the arm of the chair to grasp it firmly and raise it to his face. The handwriting is spindly, sloped to the left with a feminine curve to it—her handwriting, he notes; he could recognise it out of thousands of letters (and the thousands he already has stacked upstairs and gathering dust); and so it is that his eyes take in the quill marks with emotionless, black greed. It is the response to his request for a meeting—her house, naturally, he does not really have a home in the true sense and meaning of the word—eloquently worded with spits of Russian here and there, as if she has put a great deal of time into it. Felicianus supposes she has, would expect no less of her, and folds it aside, rising absentmindedly whilst running his knuckles down the back of his owl—nameless, like he was for a while—who hoots lazily, feathers rustling again. In that same moment, he grabs his cloak and enters the night without looking back.
Above, thunder roars in anger. Evil should stay inside, but instead Evil wanders the streets, and thunder’s plan is foiled.
Puddles part beneath the weight of his shoes, rain drumming against his cloak, but nothing stops him. The harsh brutality of the weather reminds him of Siberia and the irony that he is returning to meet the little girl does not escape him, though now she is older, leaner, far more slender, with hips like a goddess, albeit it is perhaps going too far saying something like that. After all, he traded her off to Crouch—the dog that didn’t deserve her—and still cannot really understand why he did that, though he never admits this, never hints to it, instead using his power to take her to his bed. Rain splatters his face, dripping down his eyelashes, momentarily distracting him from his train of thought, and he turns a corner down an alley, the grime and mucus of years past streaming with water as much as he is, though the stench here is a mixture of death and sewer waste. Once the Muggles were gone, this, too, would be gone—every trace of filth would be eradicated. But not yet, he told himself, breaking from the alley and crossing the street, ducking under shelter provided by random sheets of tarpaulin clinging to the metal railings of precarious Muggle scaffolding. Their repairs could be done in a week if they were pure, he muses, before the rain falls relentlessly again as he leaves the brief sanctuary in favour of being drenched.
Fifteen steps, sixteen, seventeen—the houses all look the same, archaic, old and rusting in the new age scenery of the city. They are ghosts being framed by youth, peeling and folding in on themselves as they are nudged to the back of society and forgotten in favour of high rising towers, polished windows, art deco and anything else that strikes a designer’s fancy: in with the new, out with the old. He recognises them from his youth—that’s the only good thing about how history doesn’t change; he knows this street, knows the houses, knows the residents—and is comforted by their gothic appearances, hands rising into the rain to scrape against the walls and feel the rough, uneven granite beneath his fingertips. He swallows, breath easing down to his lungs, pumping oxygen and blood around his body like the machine he is, and approaches the last house on the street, ascending the stairs silently, carefully, meticulously. The door is as aged as the street, the knocker covered in mildew and rust, so he opts not to use it, rejecting history in favour of his fists against the wood, rapping once, twice, just for formality’s sake.
It swings open invitingly, though he is aware that he is expected, and steps into the gloom and out of the thunder, discarding his cloak neatly before hanging it up and murmuring a small spell of warmth to dry himself quickly. The droplets of water shrivel up like rose petals in autumn, and are gone before he can so much as blink, eyelashes once again dry so he is no longer loosely blinded by water, thus he can now progress down the hallway, already seeking out the Selwyn girl he brought from Russia. Footsteps applying low pressure to the staircase, he slinks to her bedroom like a panther hunting, fingers brushing the doorframe as his tips close around the doorknob and he turns it silently, slipping inside the room like a shadow, the darkness shrouding him though he cannot hide from her fierce, alert senses. It is one thing he holds dear to him – he is not hidden from her; she sees him, sees right through him, reads a part of his soul only she can understand, and a part of him treasures that. Only a part.
Pax is there, reminding him of Lamia in the green dress, and he exhales slowly and moves towards her, head lowering momentarily in faint acknowledgement and a fleeting fancy of respect. “I thought I would find you here.” He catches the last of what she says, a smile ghosting upon his features as he places one hand on her waist – the touch soft, subtle – and the other on her shoulder, murmuring his own response to the lingering echoes and whispers of her last statement. “Inlumina tenebras.” Light up the darkness.
