`what a ripe prototype [OPEN.]

[`narcissa virga black]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style,background-color: #d3d1d1; background:url(http://i53.tinypic.com/sutzmh.jpg); width: 300px; height: 400px; -moz-border-radius: 2em; border-radius: 2em; -webkit-border-radius: 2em; border: #d3d1d1 3px solid;] beautiful & dirty rich , Narcissa Black was enjoying one of the last excellent Saturdays of the year. The weather had been more than lovely since she’d returned to school for her fifth year but it was more than bound to turn nippy and frigid the nearer Halloween and her birthday came. She’d always despised her birthday. She was one of the youngest girls in her year, being sixteen in less than a month’s time. She could never have swimming parties or garden parties either to mark the occasion. She was in school, which most were, but it meant she hate to wait all the way until Christmas vacation to get her biggest birthday gifts! It was really entirely unfair. But for now, Cissa was determined to enjoy the warm weather. Next weekend was to be a Hogsmeade weekend and this one should have been devoted to studying. She really had meant to give that a good attempt. She’d packed up her books into her black leather bag and headed into the library. But she’d hardly gotten a few inches into her essay on Goblin Warfare in the 1700’s when it had become too hot to focus. She’d changed seats, she’d pulled off her sweater, and then she’d given up on the dusty old room. Narcissa had slipped down the stairs and outside, breathing the fresh air into her lungs. The moment she stepped onto the grass her pumps’ heals had slipped into the grass and gotten stuck, but Cissa was still in a good mood from the weather to let that get her down. In a rather un-Cissa like fashion, she pulled her shoes and stockings off, letting her toes slip into the grass. It felt wonderfully free; the sun on her face, the grass against her legs. Perhaps the sense of freedom from her oppressive mother (Narcissa did love her mother, but the woman could strangle her children with her constant lingering and obsession over their every movement) was just washing over her. Narcissa Black was in an amazingly good mood this Saturday morning. She slipped across the grounds and dropped her things beneath a sturdy-looking tree. And then she’d slipped to the ground and leaned against the oak. She absent-mindedly folded her sweater (having just tossed the thing into her bag when she’d become too hot in the library), watching the other students mingle on the lawns. There were a few playing Quidditch, the Pitch being closed to practices until after tryouts. Try outs were still lingering for a few teams (something about those pesky transfers needed an opportunity to prove themselves; Narcissa hadn’t met one and really wasn’t all that interested), so the fields weren’t open to practices. Some teams dearly needed all the practice they could get (the fumbling idiots in yellow were prime examples) while others were enjoying lazily tossing the balls back and forth with an air of absolute confidence (her own house’s team was a prime example of that). Some students were studying. Others were canoodling with their lovers or friends. There were even a few sitting on the edge of the Black Lake and tossing pieces of leftover breakfast into it for the squid. Whenever a bubble appeared on the otherwise calm surface the girls who had stuck their feet into the cool liquid squealed and pulled their little toes out; none of them wanted to lose an appendage to the beast. If Narcissa was a painter, she would paint the scene (omitting the Hufflepuffs, she supposed and the group of mudbloods positively freaking out about something called Veletision). It was a very nice Saturday, indeed. WORDS: 600 OUTFIT: click ! TAGS: open! credit to hay shay ! at caution 2.0

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[myron st.john wagtail]

[atrb=border, 0, true][atrb=style, width: 310px; padding:8px; border-left:#444 15px solid; border-bottom:#444 15px solid; border-right:#888 4px dotted; border-top:#888 4px dotted; background-color:lightgray;] give me fuel; give me fire Waggy didn’t do what Scotland classified as warm weather. At least not visibly. Considering the fact that he was used to ‘warm’ meaning that the removal of outerwear was actually required to avoid something like death, it was hardly to be expected. Some people found him slightly strange though, due to the fact that the sun could be bright in the sky and he would still be wearing more than one layer while outside. Then again, more than that amount of people just found him off period. Waggy didn’t give a damn about that anymore though. And he wasn’t going to let himself catch a chill from the sunny but still bloody cold weather that was the best this country provided. Hardly. Being ill was not nice in the slightest and hardly the best way to start the school year. (The best way the start was the school also was not, he had to add, the act of turning up to the fest with only half his uniform and drastically changed hair, but that was a petty detail) He was still outside though, which was a plus. Outside and casually watching the people that were hanging around with their little groupies, or friends, or minions, or whatever the word was... watching as they snogged and cuddled and... dipped their toes into the lake? Waggy pulled a face at that. How people could bear to get into the water of the lake in this weather, he had no idea. It was cold. But the point could still stand that he was out and lazing around in a fork of the branches of one of his favourite trees. A large oak, quite a nice build, with easy ways up and easy ways down and space for him to spread out and keep hidden all at the same time. One leg propped up with the joining foot pressing against another branch, and his guitar stretched over his lap, being gently coaxed into life by the alternating strokes and brushes of his finger pads. He looked chill. That was a word these people used, right? He had only been in this world for (less than) seven years. Knowing all the lingo was hardly something other people could exactly expect, was it? But he had scrapped that problem as well by making the persona that everyone knew as Waggy to be someone that knowing what to expect rarely happened for. He liked to change. Keep ‘em guessing. That was something of a game. It was better by seven steps in hell than the one which squirted gunky yuck into his face. He still hadn’t managed to win a round of that game. He strummed a chord absently, turning his head to peer contemplatively up through the branches of the tree above him as the sound died out. Music. He liked that as well. In fact, he liked it more than anything else (excluding, perhaps, his siblings and the summer in the better country – when they former weren’t being irritating and the latter wasn’t spent here and experienced only through postcards). Music was freedom and it was a link to reality that kept him grounded while he spent nine months out of each year here. Not that he disliked the place that was ‘here’ of course. Some of the stuff these people had come up with was amazing. And magic was fascinating. He was almost upset that this was his final little year to learn. Almost. He couldn’t exactly claim that he would miss the people here. But final year and all, should really be being polite (or whatever it was called). That wouldn’t be so hard, right? And if he actually wanted to do something like teach other people about his music, he’d have to talk to them first. That had been a part of his little plottage plan than he hadn’t quite figured out yet. So sue him. He wasn’t a Slytherin. Speaking of Slytherins... Movement had caught his attention, dragging it away from the leaves and the laughter and the occasional splashes around him. Movement of a figure taking a seat, a bit like him, beneath a tree. Beneath this tree; his tree. She had sat down on the grass beneath his posture and hadn’t seemed to have noticed him at all. How entertaining. Not that he would have been seen. He was in the smart house, after all. A familiar figure, little thing, younger than him and one of the high and mighty Slytherins that he’d always held in an attitude of something like bemusement. Of course, they weren’t the nicest bunch. His first three years here were evidence towards that. But they were students, and girls and boys (not that he was looking). And she looked alone. It would be a gentlemen thing, to help alleviate the feeling of being alone. Or so he presumed. Really, he didn’t know, but now that the idea of talking to another was in his mind, the worries and emotions which came with such a plan had been pushed to one side. No matter how foolish such a thing was, it had happened... and who was he to complain. And who was she to complain. She had sat down beneath him. It was insane. He knew this chick (in passing). And she hated, loathed (of course) people like him. It was utterly suicidal. A bit fun though. Hopefully. “Enjoying the sunshine, Sheila?” he inquired after a moment, tilting his head to look down at the blonde one beneath her. His voice was, thankfully, accent-less... but he could never quite get rid of the words. Or gain the will to get rid of the words. Why on earth would he want to do something like that? give me that which i desire • Tagged! cissa/open! • Words! 934 • Clothes! click! • MADE BY NYX