.aglow.

<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Out of Character</span>
<table class=ooc><tr><td>
Who- Zengeis Avertégan
What- Introductory thread. Just for fun.
Where- Dorm Hallway
When- Mia 39, 81379

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"speech"</span>
<span style='color:chartreuse'>thoughts</span>
<span style='color:chartreuse'>{thought speech}</span>
</td></tr></table>


Zengeis stretched languidly, flexing his bare toes, cracking the knuckles loudly. Feral yellow eyes her half hidden by an odd black beanie pulled low over his head; the hat was sewn to give the appearance of small cat ears poking up at the top, large ear flaps hanging down over the sides of his jaw. The draconic male lay on his back, a worn plastic bench his bed for the moment, a duffle bag his pillow. He was dressed in his usual clothes, a mid-riff cut mesh tee and his favourite pair of cargo pants; baggy and made of heavy black material, they were decorated with UV-reactive decals of green and white, held up by a studded belt –the only thing holding them up on his narrow hips- and covered with an abundance of pockets, zippers, and rings. A strange combination of raver and goth. Just like Zen himself. His feet made it impossible for Zen to wear conventional shoes, so instead he was wearing toe socks –minus the toes- and held up by a series of jelly bracelets and studded bands, more than a few of them stolen from his rave gear. His inner toe, much like the killing claw sported by the cretaceous era raptor of earth, was large and independently moving; armed with a huge curved claw, un-retractable and worked by a series of muscles and tendons that moved visibly under his scaled skin as the toe twitched and flexed.

The blue-marked pilot yawned, fingers idly playing over his bare stomach, stopping to gently rub the raised stitched that marred his belly scales. A hushed swear escaped his lips as the tip of one of his claws caught on a particularly raw section of flesh.

<span style='color:chartreuse'> “Vokc!"</span> he whispered hoarsely, a small frown flickering over his face. Today was not his day. He had gone through the process of registration that morning, arriving at the school just after the crack of dawn, and was now recognized as a student of the academy. Unfortunately the office staff would need to arrange for his various classes, meaning he was excused from attending any classes for the rest of today. Most other adolescents his age would probably be out hanging around in the courtyard scooping out possible friend material, but it was a bright and sunny day outside. Not exactly Zengeis’ preferred weather for being out and about. So Zen was doing what any other sun-fearing quazi-goth did during the day; napping until classes let out.

His saurian feet currently rested on the folded material of his jacket; a long trench coat-like affair he had custom made in his spare time. Varying hues of lime green suede fabric had been cut into long, thin rectangles, then the individual pieces sewn together so each rectangle lay vertically; side to side with itÂ’s neighbours. The coat was one of his most prized possessions, possibly the only thing heÂ’d ever sewed completely by hand (unless you counted the stitched in his neck). Somewhere, nestled in the folds of that coat nestled his ever present companion; a small male ficalt by the dubbance of Deminion, probably still asleep in one of the coat's many pockets.

Zengeis sighed, turning a keen ear in the direction of a partially open doorway only a few feet away. He had purposely positioned himself outside the doorway leading to the stairwell of the dormitories, the bench positioned so that anyone coming down from their classes would have to pass right by him –at least, if their rooms were on this floor- and hopefully provide some sort of entertainment in the form of people-watching. Of course, actual conversation would be something he’d try to avoid; although most students would be tired and lethargic after their long day of school work, they would still be a little too uppity for his tastes. His blue ringed tongue flicked out between his jaws, the pronged organ tasting the air with a few lazy swipes between his lips.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>“This place is so boring…"</span>

 

Zengeis blinked lazily, methodically surveying the girl in front of him. Zen usually picked who heÂ’d talk to with a quick glance, often completely ignoring them if they didnÂ’t meet up to his standards; actually quite shallow, in reality. The pants caught his eye; they seemed like his own, with that personal, homemade touch only wellcrafted clothing had. He liked them.

<span style='color:chartreuse'> “Hey."</span> He grunted, sitting up with a smooth, serpentine movement, propping himself up on his spined elbows. <span style='color:chartreuse'> “Just got here this morning."</span>

Zen absently reached for his coat, rummaging around in its soft recesses in search of his pet. A muffled squeak told him that his clawed fingers had just poked the small mammal’s furry body. Carefully pulling the animal out from his hiding place, he went to stick Deminion into one of the large side pockets of his pants. Demi, it seemed, had other plans, for he promptly squirmed out of his grasp and ran up Zengeis’ arm; using the multitude of armbelts Zen wore as a sort of ladder. He perched on the ‘dragon’s shoulder, tiny front paws clutching one of the three bondage collars Zen wore on his long neck.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>“You got a name?"</span> he queried, rubbing the velvety fur on the rodents nape.

 

Deminion did not seem pleased at the sudden arrival, chittering angrily and climbing up Zengeis' neck like a skilled mountaineer. The tri-eyed critter then proceeded to 'burrow' under the flap of Zen's hat and up into one of the hollow ears, where he promptly curled up into a ball.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"Telli lessla thes..."</span> Zen murmured in hushed ramathian. <span style='color:chartreuse'>"Call me Modem."</span> Zen said with a small nod, choosing to offer up his nickname in place of his birth title. Even if he had chosen to use his real name, he would have given on eof his middle names. Zengeis was never really big on everyone knowing his first name, close friends and family and that was it.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"Is it always this slow?"</span> he asked, tongue flicking out once again. The rings that banded the mucular appendage flashed breifly, giving off a quick burst of neon light, akin to the glow given off by the chemical reactions in a glowstick. The dual studs in his tongue were one of the few un-glowing or blacklight reactive ornamentations on his body.

 

<span style='color:#FFCE00'>"And what about those of us who run around naked normally?"</span>

For, as her norm, Sah`Dja sported no clothing. The soft transition of crimson from gold fur - to end at burnt fingertips and toes, the stylized black flames arcing over much of her right side, her wings a cloak or halo of feathers when need be, and the etched jade clasp in her left ear had always been threads enough for her. The purple satchel at her waist didnÂ’t count. Her question ended with a sly grin, one that did not expect a real answer. She wanted to sit in and nothing more. The pair had caught her eye during a casual exploration of the dorms, which - on its own - was no abnormal thing, but the particular detail that had done it for her was the scar pattern on the guy. She saw it for what it was, or at least appeared to be: the markings her trade would put on a corpse. That he was still alive and kicking suggest a number of possibilities, a few of which piqued her fickle curiosity.

Sah`Dja posted herself at the ‘foot’ of the bench and shifted her weight for a good, long stand. He smile preceded a vague and slight wave at the pair. You know, they really had sweet clothing, exotic to her eyes. Neither did she expect to discover the secret of those wounds, but perhaps a good time or two could be found instead.

<span style='color:#FFCE00'>"Yo."</span>

 

Zengeis stretched slowly, joints popping as they often did while he was in his bipedal stance. Another yawn split his maw, revealing rows of pearly whites set into tar gums; the black and white providing the perfect backdrop for the bioluminescent blue that glowed from his tongue and throat.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>“All the power to them."</span> He grinned lazily, plucking his hat from his head and freeing his stiff mohawk from the confines of its fleece lined interior. Demi squeaked and managed to cling to his hand before the hat was chucked on top of Zen's coat. As Zengeis went about his slow waking up process, his tail slid from atop the bench and began curling back towards his body. The glowing tip began searching through his pockets, as if with a will of it’s own, until it finally came up with a partially crushed carton of cigarettes. A single white and brown cylinder was selected and deposited in the waiting grasp of that prehensile tongue, which –in turn- brought the cig up into Zen’s open mouth. A lighter was passed in front of it, and then tucked back into the confines of a rear-pocket. All of this took very little time; one moment his mouth was empty, the next a lit coffin-nail dangled from the corner of his jaw.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>“And you are?"</span> he breathed, taking a long drag and exhaling a long wisp of smoke from his nostrils. The acrid smoke warmed his throat and burned his lungs, bringing for a sigh that was both releaved and pained. The cigarettes weren't run-of-the-mill; they were his own homemade stuff, laced with a few less than legal substances he bad developed a dependancy on in the last few years. As a result, the miasma that now drifted from the smouldering tip was a pale red, mixed with the normal grey.

 

Zengeis' breath was a raspy sigh as he exhaled his next lungful of burning relief. The smoke wafted out between his parted lips, hanging low in the atmosphere about his head. Each inhalation was bringing him closer to his goal: that lovely, fuzzy realm where everything seemed to take on new meaning and perspective. His lids slid down further over his metallic golden eyes; giving him the appearance that he 'wasn't all there', simply dozing in and out of reality in a drug-induced haze.

In actuallity, Zen couldn't be more alert. He knew that if he was caught smoking there would be hell to pay, even worse if they found out the cigs were jam packet with illegal narcotics. His large ears swivelled and twitched atop his skull, searching for any hint that a teacher or other authority figure might be approaching. Safe to say, Zen was not ungentlemanly in the presence of the fairer sex. Knocking the ash from the tip, he held out the cylinder to the gothic femme.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"Can I tempt you to try my coffin nails?"</span> He smirked, taloned fingers rolling the cig between their tips.

 

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"So..."</span> he breathed, ears flicking about atop his crown. <span style='color:chartreuse'>"What's an anubian doing in a scummy un-anubian place like this?"</span> he asked off handedly, with about as much regard as say... someone asking about the weather.

<span style='color:chartreuse'>"'Cause I was brought up being told that no self-respecting Anubi would set foot outside the desert...."</span> he elaborated, banded tongue curling about his muzzle briefly before slipping back into his glowing maw.

He yawned softly, rolling his shoulders in a movement that sent a rippling shiver down the length of his spine and into his tail. <span style='color:chartreuse'>"Not that I'm disrespectin' or making fun of you or something, just curious."</span> he muttered, reaching up to run a clawed hand through his mohawk. The last thing he had on his mind was bugging this chick about her lineage. Fuck, he got enough of that back in Ajita. If you lacked fur you were treated as though your dad was a alugha and mom a rapine. At least, that how it was in the area he grew up in. Deep down he envied the girl. She didn't have some half-dead bitch controlling her life day in and day out. She hadn't been cut open and then sewed back up, just so some hag could get her rocks off. He ended that train of thought with a deep wafting drag from his cig' followed by a quiet sigh of exhalation. Fucking vampires.