tria 12th, 81381. gabriel and pyemme, whee. Gabriel’s fire was running out of kindling quickly and he didn't have the fuel to keep it going. Didn't have the energy to keep emotions from seeping into his apathetic facade. And so now, when the rocking of his stone blurred his vision, he lost himself in pounding music and wild dancing and drinks and men who meant nothing. He was hiding. Behind a wall. A fortification, a barricade. Impenetrable. Metal. Machinery. Instinct. Cursory. His train of thought was thrown far off of its tracks as he tossed a drink down his throat - one of many, many drinks he had had that night - and headed back towards the courtyard, the stones cool beneath his toes and the stars spinning overhead as he tried to keep himself from collapsing amidst the gyrating bodies dancing crazily all around him, his two-toned hair dampened with sweat, the high planes of his cheekbones flushed with exertion and too much drink. He continued to dance for a few moments until ‘dragon’s faces became blurred into one mass of color and motion, at which point part of him still had enough sense to make his way out of the mass of people and into the open air. He half stumbled, half sat down on a bench outside, his pale eyes unfocused as he watched everybody dance back inside, watched the horizon tilt and wondered almost hopelessly how nobody noticed that the world was slowly, quietly falling apart.
<table style="width:350; border:0; background:#000;"><tr><td><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;">This ended up being... strangely long. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="justify" style="font:arial 10px; color:#9999CC; line-height:13px;"> Pyemme hated clubs. They were places where pendragons were at their very worst -- the anonymousness of the dance hall brought out the sides of everyone that they must have thought were very witty, alluring, or sexual, when in reality their nightlife personas were simply classless and vulgar. She hated seeing everyone like this. Dirty, sweaty, scantily clad, promiscuous. It was a damn shame that people couldn't dance like civilized 'dragons anymore. So why was she to be found at a club? Her girlfriend, a singular Sweetie Lashire had dragged her there for moral support. When Pyemme was finally able to break away and flee the dance floor, the neon-orange thill was grinding shamelessly with a greasy-haired arden they both knew from Calculus II. It was disgusting. Despite herself, she had gotten dressed up for the night at the urging of Sweetie. She wore a straight black minidress that accentuated the model-chic featurelessness of her streamlined body, decorated with several silver chain belts slung low around her waist, black platform mary-janes, and two armfuls of thin silver bracelets. A bad decision -- because it appeared that she was making an effort (and also because Atti was not there, thus making it seem she was single) she had been hit on by all manner of arden that evening, and she was tired of fending off their advances. The cool night air was a refreshing and welcome change from the thick, stagnant ooze of the dance-hall atmosphere. Pyemme took a deep breath, closing her eyes and savoring every molecule of the clean, cold breeze. It ruffled her pale blonde hair for a moment, then disappeared, leaving the night perfectly still. From a nearby spot, she heard a small noise of shifting clothes, the creak of wood and a quiet exhalation. She looked to see someone sloughing over in a nearby bench quite unceremoniously. She squinted her ice-blue eyes, decorated with dramatic eyeshadow in a peacock palette. That arden... Pyemme recognized him, strangely, although she could not exactly remember where from. She had seen him with Atti. Were they friends? She strode over slowly, stopping at the side of the bench and leaning over slightly. Yes, the arden was very familiar, but for some reason they'd never actually met. And he was also very clearly drunk. <span style='color:#CCCCFF'>"You don't look too hot,"</span> she said with no regard for tact. They were, of course, at a club, and it was common knowledge that there was no tact to be found there. </div></td></tr></table>
Gabriel’s pale eyes stared vacantly at the lights outside the club, letting the brightness burn almost painfully into his retinas until he was seeing multicolored spots every time his lids eclipsed his eyes. He momentarily wondered if that was a malfunction — the brain, pupils, whatever couldn't swallow so much light and so some of it stayed on the outside, dancing in strangely-hued polka dots. The brain couldn't handle so much literal light — Gabriel was fairly sure that his brain couldn't handle so much allegorical brightness either. Overload. Not enough memory. Cannot complete. Gabe's eyes sparked at Pyemme, glad for her words. He wasn't sure he could handle any sort of heavier conversation without busting an artery in the process, but conversely, he was positive that he would bash his head in if she had turned out to be some torpid schoolgirl with an IQ of two who could hardly put a decent sentence together. This was a nice in between. Light, but it had potential. "Drank too much," he muttered, bouncing one of his feet lightly up and down as he bit his lower lip thoughtfully, a smile tugging at his lips.
