<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]i love you, a bushel and a peck</font></div> tria 40th, 81381. private for muerrin's nene. note that att is now a cult hero, due to his slaying of his sibling's killer and being the brother of rockstars. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]you bet your pretty neck, i do</font></div> White. Adjective. Morally pure; innocent. At one time, maybe. Other than his scelera, Attrius Infernus had not a scratch of white on him. His eyes were more accurate when it came to his personality and experiences - deep, easy to get lost in, pale blue, calculating, haunting. Att walked out of his last class – the tiny tattoo artistry room – and out into the Janardan campus. He made his way down the student-clogged street with an easy stride and cool, aloof confidence that kept anybody from saying anything to him – a lot of them recognized him, but none stopped him for an autograph - and he heard the occasional whisper of his name like butterfly wings against skin, but both feelings or sounds were fleeting and quickly over. He didn't turn around to find the source even once. The uncoordinated clatter of plastic flip-flops against cement. The click of pumps and business shoes. The subtle moan of the wind between tightly packed buildings. Whining children. Whining teenagers. A swirling soundtrack that built to a jaded crescendo all around him, as if it was tired of hearing itself play. Att slipped into the campus café, ordered himself a coffee, and sat down to draw some tattoo designs at a table. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">Whooo-ooo-ooo's got the crack? Ohh, I forgot how much I love writing with Nene. Ahhh. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;"> As usual, Nene sat alone. The waitress avoided visiting his small window table and the miniature pendragon had neither food nor drink set out before him. Fortunately, he wasn't bitter; in fact, he never even noticed that the waitress had given him one glance and then moved on in a hurry. He wasn't here to eat or drink -- he just liked the air conditioning. Instead of usual cafe-fare, on the table before him was laid out many tiny pieces to a presumably intricate machine. Occasionally he would pluck a napkin out of the dispenser on the side of the table and unfold it, laying it out and placing certain pieces on it, using a sharpie to mark a number beside each one. It was delicate work, sure, but did he have to be so aberrant about it? Somewhere in the very peripherals of sensation, he heard the solemn jingling of bells on the door as it opened, and then... he heard almost nothing. The whole establishment grew quieter by 50 decibels, and the only noise was hushed whispering and small, girlish giggles. He moved what looked like a tiny gear from one napkin to another, and labeled it 231. A chair scraped across the floor. Talking resumed. Nene squinted his silver eyes at the project before him. His goggles made it hard to see perfectly clearly, but he felt compelled to wear them when working with machinery, even if it was un-operational, and completely dissembled at that. But it was likely for the best, as a thin spring leapt from his fingers when he tried to pick it up. It jumped into the air, compelled by its own stored mechanical energy (the energy of compressed springs and stretched rubber), flying in a perfect parabolic arc away from the feydragon's table-- --and, with a small thwk, into the coffee cup of unsuspecting café patron Attrius Infernus. </div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]i am a goat in a boat</font></div> moomoo. <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]who's got the crack?</font></div> Att’s mind drifted like a sailboat caught in an ocean maelstrom, twirling and dancing in the wind and bobbing atop the murky waters filled with floating spores of sand, stirred by the raging waters. Atti, though in plain sight, was nowhere to be seen. His hands sketched out flowing lines in black ink and vibrant, well-pigmented color. His normally perceptive senses failed him, and ‘Rius didn't even hear the vaguest hints of another boat, so distantly absorbed was he in his own internal hurricane. Until he heard the distinctive ’plop’ of something landing in his coffee. And nobody could play statue like Atti could. A few drops spattered in a tragic arc of brown onto his face, and he wiped them away with a napkin. His eyes danced towards the red-haired feydragon, a pool of vast icy blue that reflected his imbroglio, reflected the inner artistic tempest. Swirling hues of aqua and the ever-shifting black glass of his pupil focused with an unusual intentness upon the figure before him. His hand twitched to life from the paper and he brushed his windswept hair from his face before replacing it once more, unconsciously, and picking the silvery spring from his drink. <font color= "#abcce4">“This is yours?"</font< he asked, glancing at the fey. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">I wanna be reckless But IÂ’m feeling so uptight Put your mama in a headlock, baby And do it right ;D </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;"> Nene's slender, vulpinesque head tilted back and then forward again as his gaze followed the flying spring, watching it tumble through air as if propelled from a very tiny diving board. It somersaulted three times and then performed a perfect jacknife dive into the black arden's coffee. 10! 10! 10! the audience would cry, pumping their fists into the air as all of the judges held up their big, bold scorecards, even the Russian judge who only begrudged it that perfect rating with a small, secret huff. The fey grabbed his goggles in pewter digits, pulling them down quickly around his neck. The crimson hair bubbling over his head bounced suddenly free from the elastic, and his wide-eyed stare of disbelief couple with his naturally disheveled appearance made him an uneasy sight for any eyes. He trained his silver orbs on Attrius's, then on the spring held in his fingers. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"Likely. I had a spring identical to that one in my hand about, um, about 11 and a half seconds ago, and now I don't anymore."</span> Nene had a peculiar way of answering the question he was asked, not the question that was inferred, and in the most accurate terms possible. This made him a difficult conversationalist, and as such most people who knew him tried to avoid conversation altogether.</div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]i am a goat in a boat</font></div> meow. 33 <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]who's got the crack?</font></div> What? thought the half-Yki as he absently picked a piece of lint off of his white Parallax shirt and rearranged his gray and unzipped hoodie, the former a sharp contrast against his skin, a shimmering ink-black in the light that filtered in from the sprawling window. Inhaling and exhaling once or twice, the boy got up and placed the still-wet spring on the fey's table. His hair hung around in face in long, chin-length curtains as he bent over, making eye contact with the male. Feral silver eyes pinned him like a butterfly to a wall. <font color= "#abcce4">"You're from the Nyonge, aren't you?"</font> he asked, cocking his head at an oblique angle and twisting his elegent neck. He still stood there, his fingers playing tic-ticka-tack on the metal surface of the table's lip. The red-haired male's dialect was familiar to him - Att's had changed into something similar to a Seattle accent, but nonetheless, the voice of another native was familiar to him. <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">Imperial Margarine- because we like it. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;"> Nene was entirely unperturbed by Atti's fixed gaze, his laser-beam, electric-flash, soul-consuming stare. Frankly, the feydragon was far too absorbed in the fact that coffee from the wet spring was currently seeping across the napkin onto which the other arden had placed it, thus potentially moistening the surrounding machine pieces and possibly obscuring his meticulous numbering system. He put his hands on either side of his head, gripping his hair as white-lined eyes flew open in sheer horror. The horror! He hurriedly plucked several napkins out of the dispenser and began packing them around the contamination point to prevent the spread of the infectious liquid, careful not to disturb the various other contents of the napkin. He almost didn't hear Attrius's question. Because of the intense attention he focused on damage control, most of his neurons had been redirected to the task and the audial information had trouble traveling from his eardrums to the hearing centers in his brain. But when it finally did, he looked up and returned the soul-consuming stare sharply. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"I am. What of it?"</span> </div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]i am a goat in a boat</font></div> 33 <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]who's got the crack?</font></div> Att maintained his calm despite Nene's seemingly unwelcoming reaction to his presence. He regarded her with a corrupted form of grandfatherly kindness, as though he were a child on the verge of a temper tantrum and Attrius was the wise adult. “I am. What of it?" Aha! His face rearranged itself into the hybrid child of a shadowy Colgate advertisement and an overly enthusiastic game show host, and he leaned forward to sit in across from the fey in a seat, reaching out one newly-bandaged and long arm to reclaim his coffee. Taking a long sip of the coffee, he smiled at Nene. He set his coffee down, and was instantly struck by a peculiar thought. Good ingredients, Attrius. The half-Yki frowned. He'd never been very good at cooking, and whenever his mother had started talking about cake and flour and baking, the figurative interpretation had always gone straight over his head. But if Atti wasn't very good at being flour – and he really wasn't – then perhaps he would do better as a cake. Not that, in the eyes of others, he might deserved the effort that went into baking, but he chose to stare someone he didn’t know in the face, and that, sadly, made him unique. Cake. So cake equals friends? Attrius grumbled under his breath in Ykili, wondering exactly when he had begun to think about food, and rose up momentarily to get a toffee-almond bar. The brownie-consistency sweetness made his tongue happy, and he glanced shyly at the red-haired feydragon. <font color= "#abcce4">“Guueeeeesss what. I’m from the Nyonge too."</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">3... 2... 1... NENE FREAK-OUT!!</div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;"> Ah. Nene breathed a sigh of relief when the other arden stood and left the table. Now he could work in the peace and solitude he needed to perform his delicate tasks, no disturbances to make him mislabel his pieces, no voices to distract him and make him forget a gear or spring. Sweet, sweet-- And then he was back. Nene silently cursed. The stranger had merely risen to get himself a confection from the baked goods counter. He looked up, his mercury eyes as narrow as the very last sliver of crescent moon before total darkness. The fey had an ability that other 'dragons rarely possessed, one that could put grandma off her tea. He had the ability to speak in italicized phrases. Now, many people had the ability to speak capilizations -- that was relatively easy compared to italics. All one had to do was emphasize each capitalized word very clearly. But to speak in italics, Nene's voice took on a subtle hidden edge, like a secret blade slipping from a sleeve into the palm of one's hand. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"Could you not eat your food right where I am working?"</span></div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/atttbl11.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f><div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ooc.]bulbous bouffont?</font></div> 33 *attempts to put the tattered scraps of nene's composure back together* <div align=left><font color= "#abcce4">[ic.]macedamia!</font></div> Of course there would always be darkness, Attrius realized, but there would always be something inhabiting it. Sometimes it seemed like a cat, a panther with its moon mad gait or a tiger with stripes of ash. Sometimes it was the curve of a wrist, or what was left of romance, still hiding in the drawer of some long-lost nightstand or carefully drawn in the margins of an old discarded calender. Sometimes it was even just a vapor trail speeding west, prophetic, over clouds aglow with dangerous light. Of course, those were only images, his images, and in the end they were born out of something much more akin to a voice, which though invisible to the eye and frequently unheard be the ear still continues, day and night, year after year, to sweep through them all. Just like they swept through his mother. Just like Pyemme swept through him. The Prince of Darkness focused his unnering, ice-blue gaze onto Nene, moving back so that any crumbs that fell would not go near the fey's work. <font color= "#abcce4">"Oh."</font> he said quietly to the red-head's words. <font color= "#abcce4">"Okay."</font> Brushing a strand of impossibly black hair aside, he curled his arm, resting on his elbow, his chin in the palm of his hand. <font color= "#abcce4">"I'm Atti. And whoooo are you?"</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;">Gazebo! </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#FFCCCC; line-height:13px;"> It was a battle of densities at that small cafe table. One might think that Nene, being the 'dragon with the considerably lesser volume, would therefore be more dense, but it in fact appeared to be Attrius who was winning, by introducing himself when the fey was so clearly hostile to his very presence. The Russian judge would be pleased by this disturbing upset. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"Um. Nene,"</span> he responded in a less severe tone than he had been using. It wasn't every day that someone went as far as to introduce himself to the fey; in fact, if he recalled correctly, it wasn't even every month. People who were willing -- or dense enough -- to push forward against Nene's strong, magnet-like repulsion were hard to find. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"You're from the Nyonges. You must be familiar with the fey,"</span> he said, engaging Atti in the idle chitchat he seemed to so desire. <span style='color:#FF6666'>"Most people here seem to think I'm going to enchant them, turn their heads into asses' heads or something."</span></div></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=398 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #99FF33;"><tr><td background="http://i140.photobucket.com/albums/r9/shrapnelserpent/reqtable2.jpg" height=100></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><fon, t color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color= "#99FF33"><div align=left><font color= "#CCFF66">[ooc.]you know you got the cure you know he went astray </font></div> Ahhhh. Sorry this took so long. I love you. And I can’t believe you know that song! *squees* <div align=left><font color= "#CCFF66">[ic.]you used to stay awake to drive the dreams he had away </font></div> He had a burn scar from the night when he was seven and he’d taken his mother pendant from the burning church behind them: a stiletto in the shape of an inverse cross on his left hand, a burning maze of twisted black seared into his palm. The necklace, charred black, hung between his collarbones. Him and Nene stared at each other, this unlikely twain, transfixed in the face of this collision between two worlds. Suddenly feeling vulnerable, Attrius lifted his aristocratic head a fraction higher. Rarely was the Antichrist unsure, but damn, was he unsure now. <font color= "#CCFF66">"I do. My mother had a feydragon friend, once,"</font> he confessed, sentences jagged with unease. The ebony-haired he-‘dragon wasn't used to expressing himself, and, truth be told, he was afraid. Afraid that somewhere along the road, he'd lost more than just his innocence. <font color= "#CCFF66">“Why the hell’d they think that?"</font> <br ></div></td></tr></table><center>
