<center><table width=350 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c249/miseryx/attop.png" height=198></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f> <div align=center></div> Mia 46, 81380. Rated PG-13; this thread contains coarse language. Private for Muerrin and Lucian. Lyrics credit to Crossfade. <div align=center></div> Crail Medhsjyta stared blankly ahead. From the back room burst an argument burning with a horde of coarse language. A few moments later, Prazen walked out, somber, and yet stoic. <font color= "#abcce4">“Fuck him,"</font> she hissed. <font color= "#abcce4">“Aeor... he was making out with some slut yesterday. I saw him."</font> She drifted into her twin brother’s arms; he wrapped his forelimbs tightly around her, and she hung her white crania against his powerful shoulders. __________ It was midnight in Aurius, and the stadium was crowded with ‘dragons. In the front row sat Attrius Infernus, and besides him, Pyemme Ryubi. The black ‘dragon wore baggy black cargo pants; they were so covered in pockets, he swore he could’ve stuffed half the pendragons there in them, his muscular chest bare. A silver-chained choker hung tight around his neck. A lustrous jet bang hung in front of his face, giving him a roguish and handsome appearance. Well, if he could get any more handsome. He’d sprayed cologne on his wrists; he held scents of a sensuous and sparkling masculine aura of marine notes, fruits, herbs and woods; he captured the essence of paradise. The ‘dragon smiled at PR, running black digits through his ebon mane. <font color= "#abcce4"> “You excited?"</font> he said. The dark-coated arden was a bit high on cocaine; he was almost shuddering. <font color= "#abcce4">“We have VIP passes for afterwards, too, you know."</font> He stretched stiffly, splaying his forelegs before him and tugging backward, arching his back. The seats in the front were far more luxurious then those behind them; they were of leather, plush and comfortable. Atti’s hand wandered to the gold one of Pyemme, and he gently laid it on top of her’s before taking it back. And then his head turned. For from the stage suddenly rippled flame in the shape of a curled serpent, fanged jaws gaping, twin-pronged tongue extended. Att gave a little gasp of surprise. The stage was flooded in light, and a single chord rang out, reverberating in the still air. That was when the crowd began to wildly scream. Crail stood in the front of the stage; when he saw Atti, he smiled and gave a little wink in his direction. The rockstar had his red and white guitar in hand, white-tipped digits grasping a black pick. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a black T-shirt hemmed with crimson thread. ‘Killswitch’ was printed on the chest in gothic letters. Att found Prazen a moment later; the white thill grinned at him. Crail’s fingers tapped on the white scratch plate, creating a soft rhythm. An amp cord was tightly plugged into the output socket; his fingers ran over the red body. He kissed the headstock; it had become an almost religious ritual before each concert. The band burst into song. It was powerful, jarring, burning with fierce passion. Attrius was dumbstruck. The swift, wild high notes ripped at the silence like tiny, panicked birds. His fingers remembered rhythms, patterns, drew song out of the dark. The flawless voice of the guitar, responsive to his power, touched him, as it always did, with wonder. His digits ran two-toned fire down the strings, moving almost inaudibly they were so blurred, following the wild singing of the winds. The notes boomed and broke like sea waves. They held an echo that haunted his memory. His maw split, and he began to sing. <font color= "#abcce4">“Looking back at me I see That I never really got it right I never stopped to think of you I'm always wrapped up in Things I cannot win You are the antidote that gets me by Something strong Like a drug that gets me high What I really meant to say Is I'm sorry for the way I am I never meant to be so cold..."</font> </div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · electric eyes and a seesaw brain</span></div><div align="justify"> I have created a monster. x_x Sorry, I never meant for it to be this long... I hope my post is at least enjoyable to read. x3 </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · the ghost of you and a phantom pain</span></div><div align="justify"> Pyemme couldn't tell whether she loved the concert scene, or absolutely hated it. Her psychologist's instincts were entirely baffled by the unruly throng of pendragons that swarmed around her like locusts, buzzing deliriously about in utter abandon. Everyone was drunk, high, or just plain ecstatic, screaming their heads off for the hell of it, making the stadium the least likely place to find a lukuo such as herself. She was too controlling to let loose, too calculating to appreciate the beauty in this chaos around her. Of course, another part of her adored the experience. That in her soul which was not psychologist, the small part that was able to rear its head on occasion, was jumping in joy. It had picked out tonight's wardrobe, a slinky black halter dress which only came down far enough below the curve of her rump to avoid violations of indecent exposure laws; it had done her silvery blonde hair into two loosely-woven buns; and it had painted deep, dark haloes of eye shadow around her orbs, so that her ice blue eyes seemed to sparkle like stars in the night sky. That in her soul which was not psychologist was having the time of its life. The arden beside her was smoking a joint with his girlfriend, it seemed. Pyemme couldn't help but smell the thick, tantalizing scent of nujeq smoke, silver and viscous as it curled through the air. The orange pendragon must have noticed her watching longingly, and offered her the joint, held out casually between index and middle fingers. She took it thoughtfully, noting the poor job of rolling that it had undergone. It was close the end, so she hit it very carefully. Immediately the golden lukuo started coughing. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Shit, that's like sucking an egg through a hose,"</span> she said once she finished hacking and was able to pass the joint back to the arden. He shrugged and handed it over to the girlfriend, who finished it with one more pull and flicked it onto the floor. Distractedly, Pyemme turned her attention back to Atti, whom she now realized she'd been neglecting. “You excited?" he asked, a bit too enthusiastically - she quirked an eyebrow at him, skeptically. Was no one here sober? <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Yeah,"</span> she said noncommittally, her thin lips turning upward in a faint smile. Her eyes traveled over the arden's body as he splayed it out dramatically, her gaze alighting on his bare chest as he raised it into the air and stretched his limbs to their fullest length. From his chest, Pyemme's eyes then traveled towards his tragically handsome face, upon which she dwelled for a moment. He really was a beautiful creature, she couldn't help thinking with a twinge of longing. Then her eyes traveled back down his sculpted figure, towards- She turned her head away quickly. What the shit am I doing? she asked herself mentally, in horror and disbelief. Was she really just admiring her roommate's body? Impossible. He was a subject of her studies, a patient in her psychiatric care. That sort of behavior was disgusting and, moreover, unprofessional. She couldn't let it persist. A warm pressure lighted on the back of her hand, causing a feeling like an electric jolt to shoot down through her wrist, up her arm, and directly into the pit of her stomach. She almost jumped in her seat, but managed to keep her composure. It was his hand, resting gently on hers. Don't do this to me, Atti... she wished silently, pressing her eyes shut in desperation. As if in answer to her message, the warmth was suddenly gone, and her hand was free. She let out a hushed sigh of relief and opened her eyes slowly. Quite without warning, a much-needed distraction presented itself in the form of elaborate pyrotechnics. A fiery serpent snapped at the audience before the brights went on behind the stage. Pyemme had to shield her eyes momentarily until they once again winked out, leaving the band standing onstage, as if they had materialed out of the white light. That was when the screaming ensued. The lukuo visibly winced, to have her ears assaulted by such noise, and it was not much better when the actual music began. All she could perceive clearly was the bass. The rest of the song was obscured by its amazing volume and the intense ringing in her ears which it produced. But the bass... its deep, rolling notes flowed through the ground like an uprising from the underworld, climbing up her legs and rattling the very core of her body. The notes came in waves, vibrating against her skin, gently in its higher register and violently as the tones plunged to their lowest range. The bassline was like a living creature, insatiable and relentless. It rocked her, invaded her, violated her... That in her soul which was not psychologist was having the time of its life. </div></span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=350 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c249/miseryx/attop.png" height=198></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f> <div align=center></div> We all have our rambling threads. :P Want to get into the romantic crap after this? <div align=center></div> Oftentimes the black-as-sin healer wondered if he'd said or done the wrong thing. He wondered now - in the face of Pyemme's silence - not if he'd committed such a crime, but what he could do to atone for his senseless blunder. Inwardly he cursed himself, berating the waterfall of emotion that should've been well frozen over. His muzzle parted, but the apology that should have emerged simply cowered and died in his throat. Died before it was born. Wordlessly, his muzzle spliced anew. There was no release of physical tension for him - he wouldn't allow himself such luxury. He simply stood, as still as a statue, denying himself the gesture that would have given him the barest measure of peace. He longed to clench his jaws until they ached, tense his muscles until they cramped. He allowed nothing of the kind. Pyemme. I'm sorry. Something within him argued. Something insisted that these things had to be said. He flung his gaze away from her for a moment, unaware as to whether the brief respite was for her benefit or for his own selfishness. He told himself he couldn't bear it. And forced himself to gaze upon her. To meet those glittering pools of arctic ice with his own gaze of liquid sky. The tremulous smile she offered him was answered, repaid with a smile of his own. A brief dip of his muzzle acknowledged this, and though he longed to venture closer, he remained where he stood. His eyes flashed with a stricken helplessness - he wanted to go to her. But the currents of baritone lay dormant. Silent. Attrius offered nothing in the way of sound. What he offered was a steadfast, chivalrous listener. One who should have kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself. The half-Yki pulled out a cigarette laced with cocaine as he watched PR take a shitty joint of nujeq and smoke it, laughing at her witty remark. A thin wisp of silky smoke issued from the opiate, creating ghastly whispers on the drug-tainted air. Contentment could soon be found dangling between his thumb and forefinger. He laid back, enjoying the nerve-soothing treat. Attrius took a small toke before glancing at the golden Luoko once more; he exhaled and grinned slightly. Blackened digits twirled the little cylinder of paper that emitted hazy miasma and vapor. The song ended with the crowd screaming boisterously; the next was softer and slower with a rich undercurrent of passion, the wail of his half-brother’s guitar reduced to an accompaniment. “Beauty queen of only eighteen, she had some trouble with herself He was always there to help her; she always belonged to someone else I drove for miles and miles and wound up at your door I've had you so many times, but somehow, I want more..." He remembered, suddenly, the song reawakening floods of memory. Outwardly, ‘Rius had kept his cool, but inwardly he was picking himself apart. To his own questions. The spilling of his past, like an insidious oil leak in the ocean of their intertwined conscious, had started as a careful pitter-patter of information and crescendoed to a cascade. Now he inhaled the drug-laced vapors- as bitter as his memories- before pressing his finger to the joint’s tip and sputtering its languid combustion. He turned then to look obliquely at her, tanzanite gaze grazing water-blue. <font color= "#abcce4">“This is your song,"</font> he said quietly, his baritone a trifle strained, husky with tightly-reined emotion. Rather than easing, the constriction that had so plagued his voice and heart seemed to intensify nigh unto aching. And so- as if altering his position would alleviate both the mysterious ache and the whirlwind of emotions stoked by his honey goddess- he relaxed. “…I don't mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile- and she will be loved She will be loved Tap on my window, knock on my door I want to make you feel beautiful I know I tend to get so insecure, it doesn't matter anymore…" Having regained his composure, Attrius offered his delicate counterpart a quiet smile with no trace of strife. He remained silent, listening intently to the quietude that both of them had yet to breach and cursing anew his lack. Atti wanted to tell her that because he had given himself to her already, there was little to no chance of his relapsing. He wanted to tell her that because he loved her so, he couldn't afford to malfunction again. He wanted to tell her that she did much, much more than "a little good". But he couldn't. The pendragon was sometimes taciturn by nature, and was now exquisitely uncommunicative about his emotions after her previous rejection of him when they had first met. But he did give her an answer, as nonverbal as it was. He leaned forward and sung softly, warm, sweet breath spilling over her velveteen, gold-ringed ear in an overture of affection, tongue stud winking softly in the wild lights. <font color= "#abcce4">"It's not always rainbows and butterflies, it's compromise that moves us along My heart is full and my door's always open You can come anytime you want I don't mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain Look for the girl with the broken smile, ask her if she wants to stay awhile - and she will be loved And she will be loved And she will be loved And she will be loved…"</font> Tap on my window, knock on my door. I want to make you feel beautiful. </div></td></tr></table><center>
Anila had been queuing for hours to get into the club but at last she was in, the mass amounts of smell invaded her senses. The think clouds of narcotics and smoke drifted about aimlessly as people took deep pulls in darkened corners. She herself hated drugs, she had seen to many good people go down the wrong path thanks to them. She waded through the sea of people forcefully, pushing shoulder to shoulder as she made her way to the front. At times like this she was glad of her feminism, her thin baggy blue pants and her thong straps showing on her hips. He ultra skin tight shirt all gave her an attractive look. The best thing about it she found was that she could get away with more than any man could. A push here, a nudge there. Even a full blown trip over, guys just wouldnÂ’t stand up to her or say no. She knew that she was being a bit mean, and normally she hated such things but most of these people were stoners and it hardly bothered her anyway. As she passed the bar the wafts of alcohol invaded her mind, causing her to lift some random drink that was just too tempting. Moving her body to the beat of the band, her hips swaying as she took a sip from the bitter, and sharp liquid. Her purred as the warm heat traveled down her throat before sticking the drink down on a counter before shimming her way to the front again. At last, after fighting against the tide of movement and vicious stares she was against the front bar. Her face was a glow with a grin the size of the moon, she wasnÂ’t the biggest fan of the band but she had been to a few of their gigs. She just loved the lyrics. Her body began to sway a little move, her feet moving as she became one with the already jumping crowd. She always liked to be part of the mosh pits, were the energy of the music could be felt most. Some random guy placed his hands on her hips, and for a moment she let their bodies move close and slow together. Before shoving them away and moving on a little.
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · the less I know, the better</span></div><div align="justify"> -holds self at gunpoint- Must... reply... This is not very good. Written at 5:30 AM. *points at timestamp* x_x;; </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · the faster I go, jet-setter</span></div><div align="justify"> If Pyemme had been paying attention, she would have noticed the most amazing array of expressions pass over her roommate's shadowy features. Regret, desire, humor, ache - they were all there, a procession of emotions ranging an unimaginable spectrum. Each one was a picture of perfection, crystalized momentarily on Attrius's beautiful face, lingering for only fractions of seconds before disappearing into oblivion. It was the psychologist's job, study, calling, and passion to note these miniscule expressions and analyze them silently. Unfortunately, at the moment she couldn't even keep her own face straight. The weed was kicking in, harder than she'd expected. It might have been stemmy and poorly-rolled, but the nujeq itself was quite good. Or, rather, effective. Already it was all she could do to keep from bursting out laughing - the way the bass player's hair swung round when he played, the way that kid climbing onto lighting pole just fell, the way she couldn't even feel her own toes: these things were all inexplicably hilarious. Her body felt filled with a strange vitality that was warm and cold at the same time, as if she possessed super'dragon strength but was also somehow paralyzed. She cast her golden gaze about, examining this chaotic new world around her; the stadium seemed to fill an entire universe, and the audience was an ocean of flesh. She flicked her ear in surprise as a warm gust of air passed over it, jerking her out of her reverie. The breath was accompanied by Atti's rich, baritone notes, delicately overlaying the band leader's own singing. For a moment, she was frozen, the same way as she had been when they'd first met in the courtyard. Her heart stopped cold in her chest, her eyes remained fixated on one point, far away on the stage, she could hardly move her limbs in protest, even if had she wanted to. There was something mesmerizing about the arden's ways that she couldn't resist - he was romantic and fearsome and tender all at once. Pyemme was helpless to react. The song soon came to a bittersweet ending, the sound of the last guitar chord ringing through the hall and eventually dying out under the cries of thousands of screaming fans. The thill was released from paralysis, her heart beginning once more to beat with unprecedented force, as if the muscle was trying to break free from her ribcage. She turned towards Attrius with widened, horror-stricken eyes, giving him a long and contemplative look as the colored lights sparkled mischievously in her azure irises. She knew what he was up to; how could she not? But it was unheard of, implausible, out of the question. She wanted to hit him with all the force she could muster, or scream at him from the very top of her voice. This couldn't be happening, he coudn't possibly... Her eyes searched his unblinkingly, then finally swiveled away. Her moonlit hair in its twin rolls bobbed as she turned her head away, looking resolutely off towards the stage. Her honey-furred arms wove themselves together, crossed indignantly over her chest like a warning sign. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"That's not my song,"</span> she said quietly, her voice carrying less weight than her body language. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"I don't have a song."</span> </div></span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=350 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c249/miseryx/attop.png" height=198></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f> <div align=center></div> ‘Tis okay. I thought it was really good. Lyrics credit to Green Day. The song goes perfectly with the situation. God, Att has bad self-esteem. n_n <div align=center></div> The song purled and rang to an end, the chord-notes hanging in the air with a sound like the rumble of the distant thunder, soon to be drowned by the flood of noise that was the crowd’s screams. “Dearly beloved, are you listening? I can't remember a word that you were saying Are we demented? Or am I disturbed? The space that's between us insane and insecure..." Now he faltered, and the words that his beloved goddess had spoken finally began to register. A new precision was taking over his senses now, a cold hand gripping his heart and squeezing maliciously. Confused, bewildered, he shook his head, icy eyes darting from Pyemme to the ground to the stage and back again in a tortured cycle. A hoarse whisper of desperation. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Pyemme... please, look at me..."</font> His eyes locked on her appalled and rancor-filled frame. <font color= "#abcce4"> "I’m sorry- "</font> His head hurt. It hurt. Lifting his head, flicking twin velveteen auds, Atti fixed his topaz-colored eyes on Pyemme’s back-turned head, his gaze seeking to lock on her own. Could you hear a heart break? The blackened ‘dragon had his answer, for he felt himself shatter within; felt something die inside. He swallowed hard against the pain. <font color= "#abcce4"> “Please,"</font> he whispered hoarsely. <font color= "#abcce4"> “I know I’m fucked up, Pye’."</font> His gaze drifted back towards her. He seemed intent; as though begging her for something. The regality was gone. The magnificence was lost. And his pride had been shattered under the blow she had unknowingly delivered. Unknowingly. Oh, Pyemme... “I don’t have a song." The bitter tang of anger and appellation tainted her scent, and it was all Att could do not to take himself away from the situation. He hadn't meant for this to happen. She seemed so fragile now, so vulnerable to him. And he wanted to steal her away. He wanted to love her- but he knew from the beginning that she would probably never love him in return. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Please forgive me..."</font> he said brokenly, his voice little more than a brittle baritone stutter of sound. He felt the fear building, felt a strange tensing in his muscles, the premonition that something wasn't right. He rose stiffly to his paws, every muscle stiffened to the point of pain, quivering with unrest and uncertainty. The tightening in Attrius’ chest grew painful, staggering. Everything had taken on a striking clarity, and the half-Yki was soon pressured by a sensory overload. “Oh therapy, can you please fill the void? Am I retarded? Or am I just overjoyed? Nobody's perfect and I stand accused For lack of a better word and that's my best excuse." He wanted to tell himself that he hadn't expected her to love him, but he had. And somehow, that made things much, much worse. But what could he do? He couldn't make her. And it would likely be better for the both of them if he let it be and pretended to be naught but a stranger. But he couldn’t. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Pyemme. I'm sorry,"</font> he murmured softly when he could speak again, lifting his aristocratic muzzle aloft and meeting her beautiful, beautiful gaze head on. His baritone voice was infinitely quiet, a little hoarse, and completely impersonal. <font color= "#abcce4"> “Sorry for what’s happened between us. For stripping you of your tourniquet."</font> There was nothing of the old warmth in his voice now, but he knew now that somewhere, somehow, he'd lost his chance and fallen from grace. She wouldn't notice. She couldn't care. It wasn't her fault. He turned away from her and hung his head. Att’s lower jaw quivered and then clenched tightly, grinding his molars against themselves until he was sure they would splinter in his mouth. It was as if she’d ripped a gaping hole in his chest. He was overwhelmed to a point that his eyes burned and begged to be sated with tears, but they went unshed as he gave her a weak smile. Fighters didn’t cry. Just as he was about to rise out of his seat and leave, he sat down again, and turned to gaze over his shoulder at her, ice-hued optics pricked with tears. Something within him argued. Something insisted that these things had to be said. That he had to hurt. To bleed out the poison before he could heal. <font color= "#abcce4"> "I love you."</font> Funny how the first time he admitted these words aloud might also be the last. Funny how she might never hear them. </div></td></tr></table><center>
<table width="350"><tr><td style="border: 1px solid #FFFFFF; background: transparent; padding: 5px;"><span style='font-size:8pt;line-height:100%'><span style='color:#CCCCFF'><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>out of character · ever high, never fall</span></div><div align="justify"> I decided to do a songpost, too. I'm not gonna powerplay the band, though - these lyrics have nothing to do with what's happening on stage, they just have to do with what's happening in Pyemme's heart. xD Credit goes to my home dawgs, Guster. :] </div><div align="right"><span style='color:#9966CC'>in character · you can do no wrong at all</span></div><div align="justify"> It's a warm summer breeze It's a weakness in your knees It's a perfect place above, Full of everlasting love Attrius's words did not fall on deaf ears. Though his whispers were lost, shattered by the crashing volume of sound generated by Killswitch, out of the corner of her eye Pyemme could make out the subtle movements of dark lips. She knew he was devastated, stricken, but by exactly what she couldn't tell. No longer than a half hour ago they had entered the stadium, a bit awkward at being together away from the Academy for the first time, and she had bequeathed him just two lines of dialogue. So why did his heart seem on the verge of breaking? She refused to meet his eyes, under the pretense that if she could ignore this situation, it would disappear. Eventually they would both regain sobriety, and maybe then, in the comfort of somewhere quiet and secluded enough where they wouldn't have to scream to be heard, they could discuss this. But no, somehow she knew this was impossible - by that time, she would have returned to being a scientist, and all lanes of communication between her voice and her heart would be once again closed. "Please forgive me..." She looked down at the littered floor beneath her shoes, in active defiance of the half-Yki's longing glare. Forgive him for what? He hadn't done anything wrong, and she hadn't reprimanded him. This was madness, utter mental chaos. Mind games. She felt as if her head and heart were being ruthlessly toyed with. She couldn't understand what was occurring here. Nothing to fear, nothing to hide You just say what's on your mind Needn't think before you speak This is how it's meant to be She turned her head upwards, her sextet of golden ear hoops glittering in the light as they swung about. She realized too late that this was a fatal error. The lukuo had wanted to tell him everything was all right, to placate his roiling emotions, and to remind him they were were both stoned. However, in meeting his gaze, she simply fell headlong into his trap. “Sorry for what’s happened between us. For stripping you of your tourniquet." It was ironic that he should use the term 'tourniquet.' Somewhere in the back of her intoxicated mind she recognized the heart-wrenching irony in this. Tourniquets were only to be used in dire emergencies, to stop bleeding. Permanently. Once a tourniquet was applied to a limb, it had to be amputated, so they were only called for when the appendage was already irrecoverable. When it was already lost and gone forever. Suddenly Pyemme felt a tingling sensation behind her eyes. They seemed to expand like balloons until they filled her eye sockets with an unbearable pressure. It felt as if her eyelids had to strain and swell to blink over the monstrous girth of her orbs. It was just the weed, she knew that. She'd had this feeling before. She brought her hands to her eyes, pressing the knuckles of her curled fingers against them gently, then just as quickly removing them in alarm. She stared at the fur of her fingers, incredulously. They were damp. She was crying. Ever high, never fall You can do no wrong at all In this heaven up above, Filled with everlasting love So enrapt was she in this revelation that the lukuo almost didn't notice when Attrius started to stand up, making to leave. She caught the movement in time, however, to look up and see his back turned to her, but his burning azure gaze staring straight into her shimmering, tear-filled eyes. She felt crushed under the weight of that gaze. "I love you." She felt another wave of tears washing over her, but managed to hold it in by pressing her eyes tightly shut. She swallowed hard, wanting so badly to speak but not knowing whether she could trust her voice to be clear, and not shudder. Instead, she reached out with a delicate hand, closing it over Attrius's, ever so delicately. <span style='color:#9966CC'>"Please don't go,"</span> she said softly. Though her voice was not loud enough to be heard over the music, the meaning in her words was echoed by an unmistakable look in her eyes. To the light... </div></span></span></td></tr></table>
<center><table width=350 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c249/miseryx/attop.png" height=198></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f> <div align=center></div> Blegh. I hated this post. <div align=center></div> The quickening of Pyemme's breath skipped across the space between them along with the accelerated thud of her heartbeat and for a moment, Attrius wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. "I never understood before I never knew what love was for My heart was broke My head was sore What a feeling..." The air was charged with words unspoken, questions that their beholders dared not give voice to, and the strange mutual attraction that neither fully understood. Atti groped desperately for words, muzzle working now and then as he tried to figure out what to say. But Pyemme had begun to speak - "Please don’t go." Att latched onto that final, fleeting syllable and hung on. His breath caught in his throat, voice stuttering and dying before it could give way to a single sound as her hand latched onto his. His heart took a great leap then, air rushing from his muzzle - had he really been holding his breath- and surging over her fur. His jowls parted as he quietly spoke her name, seeking to comfort and to question all at once. "Tied up in ancient history I didn't believe in destiny I look up you're standing next to me What a feeling..." <font color= "#abcce4">"Pyemme...?"</font> he murmured. <font color= "#abcce4">"Shh... don't cry..."</font> Fierce love laced his barely uttered nonsense, but that was all. Such a breathless utterance wasn't meant to shush her, but to comfort and to cradle her. <font color= "#abcce4"> "You and I are bound now. Our fates are spliced anew in the same way that broken bones heal. Bone grasping bone, marrow melding with marrow. We are amputees who have somehow found solace in one another's company. Amputees, helping each other to walk. To survive. And someday, to run." </font> Here was a chance at redemption. And furthermore... ...here was a chance to do things right. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Pyemme,"</font> Attrius said quietly. <font color= "#abcce4"> "I'm not sure if I'm doing anything right. All I know is that I might have lost everything. I can't take that chance again...so I have to tell you everything about me before it's too late. I don't know," he continued, "if I'm doing things the way they're meant to be done."</font> Abruptly, he fell silent, seemingly at a loss for words. "What a feeling in my soul Love burns brighter than sunshine Brighter than sunshine Let the rain fall I don't care I'm yours and suddenly you're mine Suddenly you're mine And it's brighter than sunshine." He chose his next words carefully, mulling them over in his mind for a moment before breaching the silence in earnest. Att was fond of language and of words, and always he chose each syllable with the utmost care. <font color= "#abcce4"> "You are my goddess..."</font> he began, silky voice hushed. His ice-blue gaze reached out to hold Pyemme's mirror one and seemed to spark with an inner flame. <font color= "#abcce4"> “I would go to the ends of the earth for you." </font> He turned to her then, a smile licking along the contours of his aristocratic face, his heart yet churning from the entirety of this rendezvous, but he was weary of his self-enforced restraint. If he couldn't break free of the chains that so bound him, then neither could she. He understood this in a roundabout way. The simple games of question and answer, touch and be touched, and action and reaction had drummed into his mind a backwards sort of comprehension. What he felt, said, or did provoked a stimulus from his counterpart, influencing what she felt, said, or did. This emotional set of laws governed his next set of words, and he inched nearer to her- trying, of course, to be as inconspicuous as possible- and let his fur mingle faintly with hers. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Pyemme,"</font> he said, baritone voice sliding into the barely settled silence. <font color= "#abcce4"> "I didn't understand before. I understand now." </font> He'd never pull away. </div></td></tr></table><center>
Anila was moving her body to the rhythm of the music for some time, new songs started and the band would play on. But all the time her body moved and swayed, her hips rocking her arms flowing. Whipping her head around back and forth with her hair all over the place, a fine, sweet coat of sweet beaded over her forehead. She and the crowd moved as one, a seething mass of energy that swam, jumped and bounced on the spot. Arms waved in the air and the occasional shirt lifted up. Anila saw more than one girl flash her assets at the band, not because they liked them but more because their were high as a kite. Plus being in a successful band was just general very attractive, Anila wasnÂ’t that much of a good time girl though. Adrenalin junkie though was one of her traits, and she had something a little more dramatic planned. Being right near the front of the bar she planned to achieve one of her life goals. With a little bit of bumping, flashing smiles and down right shoving she made her way up to the bar. Then with a heavy of her slender arms she lifted her self up, so her feet were resting on it and she was level with the stage. She could see some security guards at the edges of the stage beginning to move forwards to her but it didnÂ’t matter. The big muscle bound freaks were way to slow and she didnÂ’t plan on jumping at the stage anyway. Instead she stood up straight, balancing on the bar while the crowd pushed forward to fill her place. She wobbled a little, her arms going out in some T shape to stop her self from falling. Then she just let her self fall backwards. The hands of the crowd had only once choice, either catch her of let their owners be crushed. So as the crowd cheers carried on she about 10 hands suddenly grabbed her and held her in the air. She was crowd surfing, it was amazing. An adrenaline rush was flowing through her mind, and she swore she felt more than one hand grab her in places that it didnÂ’t need to. She didnÂ’t care though, the whole thing was mind blowing that it didnÂ’t bother her. She found her self being passed around until she landed in a more quite and less moving part of the crowd near so more talky people. She looked at one that seemed fairly good looking, nothing special though. Bare chest which was always nice and with some necklace or choker, she couldnÂ’t tell in the light, the pants her wore were kewl though. Baggy was good. He seemed to be having some kind of emotional moment with a girl of sorts, Anila looked at her with a smile. She was pretty. But she looked at their eyes for a moment, recognising that small pupil look and the glassy expression that made the eyes seem dead. "Stoners" She almost spat out, as she looked at them before turning around to look at the crowd and find a way back to the front. It was too crowded though, all moving together to create a wall of bodies that nothing could penetrate until it died down. So for now she was stuck with the drugged up people, she did not condone drugs of any kind. In her opinion, anyone who though they were smart yet did drugs was some kind of retard. She hated them with passion, she was always proud of herself that she had never even tried drugs. No even a cigarette, the idea of poisoning yourself and those around you didnÂ’t appeal to her.
<center><table width=350 bgcolor="#000000" cellpadding=5 cellspacing=0 style="border:1px solid #408bc4;"><tr><td background="http://i28.photobucket.com/albums/c249/miseryx/attop.png" height=198></td></tr><tr><td><div align=justify><font color=white style="font-family:verdana; font-size:10px; line-height:10.5px;"><font color=#244e6f> <div align=center></div> No, no. ‘Tis perfect. Your posts are wonderful. And don’t feel rushed... I hate labs too. (repost) Lucian has to re-reply, now. x( I don't like crashes. They make me sad. <div align=center></div> A strange, heavy feeling overwhelmed Pyemme's black knight as he sidled protectively- possessively?- up against his blue-blooded damsel. Ever so gently, he swept her into his bandaged arms and cradled her close. Just before gold brushed against black-burnished shoulder, Attrius met her eyes: intoxicating; clear as water. He watched as Pyemme's eyes softened and began to clear of tears, unaware that his own gaze- usually so intensely piercing that it had a tendency to arouse concern- had darkened to a soft powder blue. “My song is love Love to the loveless shown And it goes on You don't have to be alone..." His breath caught in his throat, voice stuttering and dying before it could give way to a single sound. And then he seemed to plunge forward with the stricken grace of a fallen angel, his face burying- warm and sweet- against hers, shielding her form from the world for a few precious moments. Somehow, Atti understood that this was the solace Pyemme had long been searching for, and he would give her all that he had to offer. He had promised to love her. To love her in any way she wanted- no, needed- to be loved. But here Att was stuck at a loss, for how did Pyemme want him to love her? Suddenly, he wanted to know everything. Everything that had come to pass, everything that would be. Desperately, he rubbed the warmth of his muzzle along her gold-brushed ruff and snaked his powerful neck upwards, leaning his cheek delicately against hers before he gently drew away and pulled back to look into her eyes. There, he searched for answers, the icy depths of his eyes probing her mirror gaze for a sign. Anything. Oh, my dear heart, tell me what you need, and I'll bring it. He slipped closer to her, lips parting sli- -well, what do you know? An interruption. “Stoners." His eyes narrowed and he could not help the brief flash of fangs that so contorted his maw. Fiercely protective, Attrius stretched to his fullest height, preening along the fur just at the nape of her neck, his face caressed by the velveteen slope of her neck. There was aught in his actions that told Pyemme, "You are worth the world to me." “Your heavy heart Is made of stone And it’s so hard to see clearly You don't have to be on your own You don't have to be on your own ..." The onyx ‘dragon wrenched back his lips in a feral grimace, the long line of his muzzle crumpled and contorted with tortured antipathy. Alabaster fangs curved wickedly forth in a fanfare of wrathful torment, raking through the air with a sudden, silent savagery that tore asunder any pretense of fair play. Obsidian flames danced down his spine, wild hackles creating a mane of frill and flare. His entire span of muscles were tense and coiled. A hiss of air seeped from clenched teeth, studded tongue pressing to the back of ivory cage as lungs exploded the sound from his inner cavities. It was fury as he had never felt before- protection of a loved one. <font color= "#abcce4">“You know what, bitch?"</font> snarled Att. <font color= "#abcce4"> “I think you’re a hypocrite. We might be doped, but it looks like you’re drunk."</font> His eyes darted to the lilac thill. <font color= "#abcce4">“So why don’t you just fuck off and mind your own business?"</font> he hissed. <font color= "#abcce4"> “You can go screw as many guys as you want, whore- they’re all smashed as much as you are."</font> The healer turned away from her, ignoring everything around them, and focused his tanzanite gaze on Pyemme once more. A tendril of thought hissed into his mind: what could he give that would salve Pyemme's trembling heart? A low purl slipped from his throat and washed over her delicate ears, the sweet rumble more of a purr than anything else. “And I'm not gonna take it back And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that You're the target that I’m aiming at..." And all that mattered, all that registered, was the meshing of two luxurious coats- gold and obsidian- as Attrius stood chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat with his goddess. His muzzle pressed against Pyemme’s chocolate-dipped one, and his pink slip of a tongue slid into her mouth for a moment, the silver stud flicking against her own salmon appendage. He drew back and kissed her lightly, lips brushing hers. <font color= "#abcce4">"Pyemme..."</font> he murmured softly. <font color= "#abcce4">"Oh, how I love you."</font> There was only one word greater than love. Her name. <font color= "#abcce4"> "Pyemme."</font> He drew a shuddering breath, stunned at the wonder of it all. “And I'm not gonna stand and wait Not gonna leave it until it’s too late On a platform I'm gonna stand and say That I'm nothing on my own And I love you, please come home." </div></td></tr></table><center>
<span style='width:100%;font-weight:bold; font-size:10px'>Out of Character</span> <table class='ooc'><tr><td>What can I say, so sorry this is late. The whole roll back thing threw me off so much and well I find it hard to keep up with both your posing skills. I'll try and make it up and thanks for being so patient. Sorry about the chat room too, I was watching Donnie Darko </td></tr></table> For a moment Anila almost felt sorry for the girl, how her expressions seemed so close to the edge of tears. She had forgotten how emotional unstable these drug addicts were, like time bombs of unpredictability, however just when she was about to mumble some apology the guy opened his mouth and reminded her whys he had first said it. Being a typical stoner he had opened his mouth and shouted off about something he knew nothing about. They were such jerks, how dare they be so rude. He looked disgusting too when he was angry, she had though he was sorta cute at first. If a little up himself. But now his face had contorted into some snarling thing in an attempt to be scary, repulsive more like. She mused about how people could be so different in a new situation, one of the philosophers she had studied had said. "Every one has a little bit of a devil and angel inside them, its up to them which side they show." That had really touched a nerve with her, conjuring up many memorise of her dad. The stoner. She matched his glare with an equally fierce one of her own. Her dagger stares piercing into his glazed eyes to see the anger there. She had the same anger though, hell has no fury. What he had said had disgusted her so much, calling her some drunken whore. In truth she was afraid to get drunk in these situations, unlike a lot of people she had moved form far away to janarden and didnÂ’t have any friends to go clubbing with. A girl who got drunk alone with crowds of hormone controlled lads was a fool, the one thing she wasnÂ’t. She wished desperately that she had a friend who would look out for her but it wasnÂ’t to be, so instead she had to enjoy the night on a natural high which was actually better for her. At least she would remember her nights out. And whore well, she hadnÂ’t even done anything with a guy yet. Any guy, ever. She knew she was a little timid of that sort of thing deep down, she might not dance like it but well dancing was a little different, an excuse to get close. And if he though he could go back to being all lovey dovey with his girl after saying that then he could just forget it. "First off IÂ’m not drunk you stupid pot head, if you werenÂ’t so high you might be able to see that. And second IÂ’m no whore, unlike you. I bet this is the third girl you have been working this week, take a girl from school out and tell her you love her. Awww so sweet, you dog you make me sick." All said in one agonising long breath that left her a little red at the cheeks, before spinning on her heels to walk away. She was threw with that one.
