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[> [> [> [> [> An omnious landscape, a never ending calamity. -- Draco Malfoy, 22:22:10 03/30/02 Sat

As clear as the finest painting of dark shades, and as stinging as needles in one's spine, a small scene played itself like a movie through his mind, an 11-year-old future Slytherin seeking advice from his father before boarding the Hogwarts express, which gleamed a fine shade of pretenatural crimson. 'The colour of blood,' the young boy realised.

The father was sleek and towering, his fair hair almost a pastel gold, a silver if you will, framing the elevated features of undeniable aristocracy - or surely what aristocracy looked like in personfication - and its adjoined covering of alabaster that guised itself as earthly flesh; glacial-grey ooids inset themselves on that enchanting visage, and it even seemed to hold its kinsman in a swoon. Mince, lithe, effeminant, an earth-dwelling angel - all those things could've feasibly described Lucius Malfoy, but he, in the end, was none of them. He was not an immortal, no.

But try telling that to an 11-year-old Draco Malfoy, where the Malfoy patriarch may as well have been the sun in his proverbial azure atomsphere, was like trying to reason with a Manticore. Vows were exchanged that day, before his Wizarding education began with that significant train journey, that he would do the family proud and that, in the end, he would be loved no matter the outcome. So, what, now, when those promises were far gone and forgotten, the ones giving them now seperated by life and death?

What now, indeed.

The filtration of bustling chatter floated to the impish, perked audicles of the platinum-blond male, a male that was growing into a carbon-copy of the said father (and there was reason to believe that this was why it hurt to look in a mirror lately), dragging him kicking and screaming back into the present; he was on the threshhold of the seeming Hell that the Americans knew as 'The Gatherplace,' and there was obvious wavering as to whether he wanted to enter. He would be more than content to stay here, blocking entrances and exits of the others, if it meant that he could have life as he knew it back. You see, in the figments and dark recesses of his mind, there was a denial that was all-consuming but deceivingly inviting, like the hearth that he'd always curled by in his father's study, all golden flames and iridescent dancing shadows, and he longed to follow that inner warmth and latch onto it. He seemed frozen to the spot, the tendrils of argent grown out more and brushing the nape of his neck, silken now, and even framing his face as opposed to the usual method, and the cerulescent orbs were as unreadable as always but all the more distant. He was at a loss, stuck in a dilemma.

But, then, there was the conflicting pride that screamed at him not to. It berated, yet it guided, and the more he listened to it, the more it transformed itself into something other than mental superiority above all else. It took on the smooth, caressing drawl and mental image of the deceased patriach, and it soothed. He didn't try to shut the disembodied voice out; for all he knew, it -was- his father from beyond the grave, and he needed it like a being needs water when stranded in the desert, only surrounded by mirroring sands of gold as far as the oculars can perceive.

//So, little dragon, what are you going to do?// it cooed now, subliminally urging.

//I...I don't know, Father. What would you do?// the teen responded, with nothing short of saddened bitterness to his own mental voice.

//I'd be myself. You can do that. You can be that little demanding prat, the insufferable pureblood that lets no barb touch him, can't you?// The answering voice had almost been mocking.

//Yes,// his own voice growled back, reverbrating in his head.

And it seemed, that once more, the voice had guided him without his realising of it, and as in on winged feet, the slender legs shrouded in the cottony matieral of sable trousers began to move him forward, into the noisy area and piercing light.

He paused, however.

//Father?// He tried, again, needing an answer.

This time, the other voice seemed silent, however. Now, he felt more alone than he had in his whole, short life. He didn't bother to mask it just yet.

((OOC: Woo. No, he hasn't gone crazy. He's just compensating with his own loss mentally; yes, that is mental conversation, so none of the characters actually heard it, but if you want, they can notice something...'off'.. about him. ::sniggers:: Can't decide if it's just his mind filling a void or something actually speaking to him.))

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[> [> [> [> [> [> Complicated -- Adrian Smallwood, 22:45:15 03/30/02 Sat



His resplendent pink, meticulously spiked hair has begun to slowly revert to the natural dark brown tone it was before it had been tampered with. The boy springing from a beclouded, concealed past is secretly relieved that the mirthless prank incantation. It was no suffocated secret that he could be incredibly neurotic about his hair, perhaps since he feels he must appear charmingly toothsome all of the time. A dapper semblance gives him an invulnerable false sense of feeling insubjectible to the savage demons of society. He was more insecure than what one's eye might behold when it befalls him.

He contemplates his naturally chestnut but presently pink tressed companion meaningfully for a split second, although his mind is tangenting towards the words that had effluxed from the other's mouth. Be careful. The purposeful, almost gently admonishing reminder had certainly gotten its message across loud and clear, despite how lowly it had been spoken. The momentary exchange of two words and a glance had been only fully noted and comprehensible to the duo who transpired it. He briefly casts a final parting peer towards the pallor visaged, auburn haired girl that has managed to intrigue him so, detesting the discomfort he may have caused her.

His hazel gaze peregrinates elsewhere, and upon its aimless traveling, connects solidly with that of the sallow skinned stripling (Ron) who somewhat resembles the femme fatale he was captivated by. He dechipers the protective qualities that threaten dire consequence if he should harm the pale girl who he still hadn't met. The leer is recognized with relative ease, as he has seen that precise scowl upon the dismayed faces of many brothers, younger and older than their sisters, past. Big brother, he muses while uttering a cumbersomely heavy exhalation both inside and out; a true sigh of exasperation. The situation just seemed to be getting stickier and stickier.

Diverted abruptly from his thoughts at Hero's unceremonious approach, he is mildly startled by her sudden appearance - as he wasn't paying the least shred of attention. He anxiously had been gawking with brown eyebrows purposelessly raised at his dark denim clad knee. He manages with finesse to mask his minuscule amount of surprise as a body is perceived plopping down in front of him. Seeming to switch facades as rapidly as someone can blink, he sloppily grins at the coal black tressed comrade and fellow housemate. "You thought wrong." The profoundness of his comment strikes him, although only he could realize why. Many people seem to think wrong about Adrian Smallwood.

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> Isn't envy ugly? -- Alexia Hartam, 00:00:28 03/31/02 Sun

"Watch out, you've disturbed her royal highness."

The deep velvety alto chimes in from a nearby table. An athletic, golden haired girl turns slightly in her chair and nods her greeting to Cho and Lee. Her liquid sunshine hair tumults over her shoulder in her trademark ponytail as a small smile tugs at one corner of pale pink lips. Her perfectly sculptured face gives her a cold, haughty look, yet her gold eyes are warm and offer a small welcome. She continues quietly so they aren't heard over the din of the other's laughter, "You'll find that not all of us are so self absorbed. Or... unsympathetic."

She drops the subject of their school's demise; abiding, for the time being, to the Headmistress' request. She didn't see the sense of that order since problems left buried tended to fester and grow. With one more small nod she turns and faces forward again, returning her gaze to the rest of the newly arrived students.

Alexia normally kept her thoughts to herself, but she couldn't help but throw in her two cents on this one. The girl's acidic disposition was doing nothing to aid in this event. At least the Destructive Duo had lightened the mood. Her eyes rested on their now pink-tressed Headmistress. A ghost of a true smile flitted across her face before she went back to lazily scanning the crowd. Her eyes searching out and finding the infamous Harry Potter, or Fate's Whipping Boy as she long ago dubbed him. She then turned her golden gaze on his fellow students.

Misery, like any emotion, was contagious and the former Hogwarts students were all infected. This was understandable, but throwing them in with the already darker personalities of this school was not going to be pretty.

A mischievous smile tugged at the corner of her full lips, 'Amusing, intriguing, but not pretty.' Her eyes lit up with the possibilities, golden globes taking on a redder glow as her crimson flecked irises reflected her inner excitement. Just a while ago she'd complained that she was bored here, that looked like it was rapidly going to change.

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[> [> [> [> [> [> Amusement -- Hero Adair, 09:06:44 03/31/02 Sun

Bright gaze turned itself to that of the golden-tressed female who had taken residence (haha) not far from she. Grin was given, which soon erupted into a smile. Gaze roamed once more over the Hogwarts students, lips slowly unraveling from the smile to a sympathetic frown. Eyes grew dark and cloudy in thought, though what thoughts she had were interupted by a sudden realization of Adrian's glances toward once of females in the group. Eyes quickly found the femme, before turning their attention to he [Adrian] in mild shock. Brow was raised before oculars quickly returned to scanning the group, mood remaining sober as she took in their miserable states that she almost ached to cheer. Hand raised to twist a tendril of ebony tresses as gaze found the young male dubbed 'The Boy Who Lived'. Heart nearly wrenched when she spied he and his friend, though head tilted and sigh was given. Slender hands slipped through her hair before, once again, returning to the arms of the chair. Attention was given to the Headmistress, having not heard a reaction from her the entire time.

(OOC: Well...that was a load of nonsense and rambling. O.e I'm gonna be gone for a week (see OOC board) so Haley, if you would please speak and move both Hero and Kern for me. :) Love you all!)

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> Comatose -- Pandora Fallon, 20:22:34 03/31/02 Sun

The ennervated stoic randomly studies each sobered face in the coven from far and away, the expression on her own refined visage elusive unlike the transparently despondent crowd's contenances. Her mood swings from negative mood negative mood constantly, therefore cannot truly be intelligible. Her cold and venomous gaze is as distant from caring as where the newly arrived adolescents' home is. In their idle probing, her azure oculars seem lazy and utterly indifferent like the rest of her. Their comatose, inert rounds of those less fortunate in the sick cycled game called life fundamentally resemble her blackened, brackish emotions. Concentrating as she quickly undoes the ties that support the bun she had manuevered her silken, burnished hair into, she momentarily seems malaise. The look quickly disappears and her chocolate shaded tresses drop in an ambrosial way from their prim perch. The umber strands, as soft and fine as baby's hair, cataract nearly to the middle of the back of the feeble and allecting girl; just a bit past her bantam shoulderblades. With meditative mourn capering over her dolorous but regal and ravishing face, it is obvious that the intangible armor shrouding her is not a facade. It is as plain as day and just as real.

Shackled to her slothful lethargy by her chosen disinclination to even appear as if she is extant, the only barely palpable indication that she is alive are the motions that accompy survival of human beings (breathing and blinking, done rather listlessly by her). Her unfeeling violet eyes callously contemplate the lessers of stifled intellectual capacity, deriving a decayed form of ascendent achievement which feeds her significant superiority. Being scholastically ept is not the only matter she feels disdain over her inferiors. There is a varying myriad of assorted things that one could undergo pertaining to envy towards this wickedly complicated enigma called Pandora, but there are just as many reasons to be grateful one was not her, what with that viperously caustic disposition of her's and the wanton heart she possesses. She has no empathy; instead, immunity.

The pair of socially emulated, morally disgraceful pranksters are gambling frivolously in her far less comical view. Weaned of larkishly quipping farces aboriginally, her only "sense of humor" is a corpse, ironic one. Being so jejune and generally being a "normal" (depending on your definition of normal) child was a privelege she was thieved of when she abandoned the warm solace of the womb. For the nine painless months in the place of refuge inside of a surrogate mother (a friend of the family's; for the Fallon mistress vainly concluded that she could not risk befouling her effiminate figure), she had remained unscathed from the cruel ironies and dreadful demons of the reality; her innocence unmarred and pure, free from the corruption the world besmirches life with. Needless to say, the innocence tarnished until it had become nothingness, with the onset of time and the harsh frailties and human sin that escorted it. It had wasted her to the point where nothing but cynical jaundice and hate exsisted inside of her.

At this depth of melancholy mulling, she has swept her ambiance under the rug, so to speak. The congregation had been drowned into a pool of oblivion somewhere in a recess of her grimly and ominously overcast mind. A sort of stygian darkness had engulfed her from the inside out as she once again found herself lost on dour topics of philosophy, and everything physically around her evanesced. When she was reluctantly coaxed from her torpid stupor by an barely conscious yearn to see what had transpired, she found herself stranded in the same infernal, hopeless situation that has been her life since she could comprehend speech. It made her indignant to an extent where language failed. It was a poetic injustice that inspired her morbidity and perpetuated it. Her slight and delicate form shifts without motive, minuscule weight cocked slightly to one hip. Her dark stare is captivated by her slender and feminine shadow, and in a rare, momentary lapse of logic, she reaches out towards discreetly, as if it is will serve as a balm to her salted wounds. As if struck by the swarthy reflection of herself, she withdrawls the upper limb swiftly and resigns herself to looking bleak once more.

A slow swish of the polished wooden, mahogany doors opening had barely registered in her intricate brain. She eventually wills her cranium to angle askancely towards the one recently entered to imbibe an improved view of the happening. She regards the fairly complected boy in the same eerily passionless way that she beholds the rest of her species and anything else at that. However, she notes that he has mien of cultured poshness and perhaps faltering arrogance. The fey tone of blond his satiny hair is hued, the unique pigment of it, is a novelty to her. Remote intrigue, maybe? Evasive still is her doleful gaze, which recoils from him as quickly as it had betided him. The lissom frame of the tenebrous gamine seizes the advantage of being in close propiniquity of a nearby wall; leaning upon it with unspoken graciousness. The transplendent, divine amethyst toned orbs of the adolescent close in exhausation as she is lulled into a false sense of security with the support of the wall. Her essence is of ague odium and loathsome contempt. Her never jabbering jaws set with stubborn determination to defy anything anyone requests. If she would have been elsewhere, she would have hurled herself down and pleaded with the Earth, perhaps even cajoled it, to swallow her.

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> -- Draco Malfoy, 00:30:07 04/01/02 Mon


The voice didn't return, and by now, the pale teen knew to expect this sometimes; it was a fickle fixture, often times unwelcomed when it first made its unpredictable appearances, but in the same proverbial breath, it was a comfort sometimes, to hear the voice of...

Reality and fantasy were getting blurrier by the day, he knew, and mentally, he had to self-flagellate to maintain the tipsy homeostatis of his slender frame, allowing the ghostly thin slivers of flesh that served as eyelids to cover his oculars momentarily while he drank in the new sensory information here. He couldn't afford to abandon what took years to construct, the self-discipline and control, and let himself plummet into the encrouching shadows that seemed to leer and taunt when he was alone. Unlike these people, he had no one to 'lean on,' per se, no guiding hand anymore, and so he was forced to start anew...alone.

Alone.

It was not a familiar feeling and most definitely treated with an internal rage everytime it reared its head, which just so happened to be daily. And that was the voice's purpose, the disembodied being that mocked the deceased Malfoy patriarch's dazzling drawl; to ease the stabs at his heart, to erase to scars on his soul, that being thrown into a new situation alone, and without the usual protecting shelter, would inflict.

It worked...moderately.

Glacial-grey ooids pried themselves slowly back open with a determination now, an almost azure blaze, as he drew in a painful breath of air, the very oxygen stinging as if it was liquid rather. It hurt, the burden of carrying on what a Malfoy meant by himself, and the pugnant throb in his thoracic cavity signified it and intensified as the lead-like feeling in his lower appendages transmogrified into fluid, flowing flawlessness, a steady stride resulting, and picking out a seat, avoiding anyone he knew from Hogwarts just as he avoided any of the Americans that looked over zealous and a bit too perky for the premise of their arrival. He'd have none of their faux smiles and even faker condolences, especially the ones that'd melt over the refined twinge of an English accent that he seemed to be gifted with; money practically resided in every dictioned word uttered passed his preened, pallid labrums. And he knew it and could use it with an uncanny charm if need be, much like an incubus would with a victim. But here, he'd only use it amongst the worthy - were there worthy ones here?

Although it may have seemed so, the one [Pandora] who'd favoured him with a gaze had not gone unnotice entirely; that piercing vision had been felt upon his guarded form, and he'd oscillated his fair-topped pate to seek it out, catching her visage just as it'd turned away from him. Intrigued, he was, to say the least; it was little more than an acknowledgement, but all the same, a spark of...something...seemed to set off inside his aura, perplexing him. A challenge, a meaningful conquest, almost. Perhaps, someone, in time, that might hold some sort of promise that the mainstream did not hold. And absently, as it was, he'd chosen a seat nearby her, albeit a few chairs down, casual robes of perpetual sable splaying over the furnitures sides, now, in the mocking elegance of a waterfall, only lacking the ambience of hue.

Digits, pliant and elongated in their alabaster dermis, slowly threaded through his tidily disarrayed fringe of argent, metallicistic locks, and this action in itself seemed to buy him time to muddle over his options here; he could remain quiet and reserved, or do the clichéd ambitious thing and have a go at some form of...conversation...with the mysterious female. The pride, that nagging thing that hadn't left him and probably never would, vouched for the latter, and before he knew it, he was unceremoniously leaning back, that delicate posture contorting to his whims, visage containing elevated features seemingly chiselled in an ice sculpture looming toward the distant girl, and hissing what could determine their whole coexistence together: "Is this place always this full of doting idiots?" The reference was to the mindless babble, the seeming cliques, and well, just things he'd never placed himself amongst, really, and the smooth tone that carried it, foreign compared to the ones resounding around him, seemed to encompass a velvety texture that caressed the audicles.

If he'd gathered anything right, even a smidget of an inkling, he assumed that her detachment reflected her opinion upon this place, these people, which had to be at least half of what his current standing was as well. Slowly, his lips curved, as if trying the gesture out for the first time, in a smirk, ominous in quality, as he awaited the retort. This one would be unpredicted, he guessed, and he could either be scorned or affirmed by it.

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> This needle in my spine. -- Draco Malfoy, 00:33:08 04/01/02 Mon

((OOC: Sorry, this is the same post; just f00in' forgot to enter the subject on the last one. x.x Bloody hell.))

The voice didn't return, and by now, the pale teen knew to expect this sometimes; it was a fickle fixture, often times unwelcomed when it first made its unpredictable appearances, but in the same proverbial breath, it was a comfort sometimes, to hear the voice of...

Reality and fantasy were getting blurrier by the day, he knew, and mentally, he had to self-flagellate to maintain the tipsy homeostatis of his slender frame, allowing the ghostly thin slivers of flesh that served as eyelids to cover his oculars momentarily while he drank in the new sensory information here. He couldn't afford to abandon what took years to construct, the self-discipline and control, and let himself plummet into the encrouching shadows that seemed to leer and taunt when he was alone. Unlike these people, he had no one to 'lean on,' per se, no guiding hand anymore, and so he was forced to start anew...alone.

Alone.

It was not a familiar feeling and most definitely treated with an internal rage everytime it reared its head, which just so happened to be daily. And that was the voice's purpose, the disembodied being that mocked the deceased Malfoy patriarch's dazzling drawl; to ease the stabs at his heart, to erase to scars on his soul, that being thrown into a new situation alone, and without the usual protecting shelter, would inflict.

It worked...moderately.

Glacial-grey ooids pried themselves slowly back open with a determination now, an almost azure blaze, as he drew in a painful breath of air, the very oxygen stinging as if it was liquid rather. It hurt, the burden of carrying on what a Malfoy meant by himself, and the pugnant throb in his thoracic cavity signified it and intensified as the lead-like feeling in his lower appendages transmogrified into fluid, flowing flawlessness, a steady stride resulting, and picking out a seat, avoiding anyone he knew from Hogwarts just as he avoided any of the Americans that looked over zealous and a bit too perky for the premise of their arrival. He'd have none of their faux smiles and even faker condolences, especially the ones that'd melt over the refined twinge of an English accent that he seemed to be gifted with; money practically resided in every dictioned word uttered passed his preened, pallid labrums. And he knew it and could use it with an uncanny charm if need be, much like an incubus would with a victim. But here, he'd only use it amongst the worthy - were there worthy ones here?

Although it may have seemed so, the one [Pandora] who'd favoured him with a gaze had not gone unnotice entirely; that piercing vision had been felt upon his guarded form, and he'd oscillated his fair-topped pate to seek it out, catching her visage just as it'd turned away from him. Intrigued, he was, to say the least; it was little more than an acknowledgement, but all the same, a spark of...something...seemed to set off inside his aura, perplexing him. A challenge, a meaningful conquest, almost. Perhaps, someone, in time, that might hold some sort of promise that the mainstream did not hold. And absently, as it was, he'd chosen a seat nearby her, albeit a few chairs down, casual robes of perpetual sable splaying over the furnitures sides, now, in the mocking elegance of a waterfall, only lacking the ambience of hue.

Digits, pliant and elongated in their alabaster dermis, slowly threaded through his tidily disarrayed fringe of argent, metallicistic locks, and this action in itself seemed to buy him time to muddle over his options here; he could remain quiet and reserved, or do the clichéd ambitious thing and have a go at some form of...conversation...with the mysterious female. The pride, that nagging thing that hadn't left him and probably never would, vouched for the latter, and before he knew it, he was unceremoniously leaning back, that delicate posture contorting to his whims, visage containing elevated features seemingly chiselled in an ice sculpture looming toward the distant girl, and hissing what could determine their whole coexistence together: "Is this place always this full of doting idiots?" The reference was to the mindless babble, the seeming cliques, and well, just things he'd never placed himself amongst, really, and the smooth tone that carried it, foreign compared to the ones resounding around him, seemed to encompass a velvety texture that caressed the audicles.

If he'd gathered anything right, even a smidget of an inkling, he assumed that her detachment reflected her opinion upon this place, these people, which had to be at least half of what his current standing was as well. Slowly, his lips curved, as if trying the gesture out for the first time, in a smirk, ominous in quality, as he awaited the retort. This one would be unpredicted, he guessed, and he could either be scorned or affirmed by it.

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[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> Someone of sound mind? -- Pandora Fallon, 12:02:27 04/01/02 Mon

The steely orchid toned eyes scalded the evidently aristocratic male as his proximity increased, although her gaze remained evasively slippery to the hold. As his ebony clad dorsum was rotated towards her, she leisurely examined his gossamer locks, the light hue of the silken substance resembling a sort of remarkably light topaz. A pale honey hue; what one would assume angel hair to feyly resemble. Perhaps it was this alluring physical attribute that had first arrested her attention, and what a rare privelege for him that was. Amongst other things not gone unneglected in her preordained checklist for any type of affinity and kinship, the ostentatious, smoothly operating swagger he incorporated into his gait, a detail recognized as that of genteel warlock, furtherly heightened her expectations for him to be sufferable. One of the many ways she differed starkly from her more secretarian peers was that she deemed two individuals of opposing gender could rapportly connect on a basis of companionship that did not necessarily have to include romance.

Her knottily abstruse mind was reeling with the possibilities of not being isolated from any form of human interaction. The sudden optimism, a previously unexperienced emotion, that surged through her shocked her, overloading her with its novelty to the point where she detested it. The inverse of her prior, nearly positively described emotion, a new reprimand encroached upon the ray of light amongst a cluster of nimbus clouds, sending the lumination into terrified hibernation. She suddenly scourged herself inwardly for perhaps setting herself up for a fall, her gaze by sheer luck bidding his backside farewell to contemplate what is directly in front of her. It had been amply fortunate for her because precisely after that very moment, he craned about to issue speech to her in hopes of finding some sort of ballast to root himself to reality. Exhale assured she possessed no conception of the convicting slipping into mild pyschosis on his part since the tragedy he had endured over the timespan of the past months, for she was no clairvoyant. She didn't intend to probe into a, thus far, stranger.

Her lilac toned oculus' thin eyelids concealed the brilliantly bright amethyst windows to the soul; the soul uglied and spoiled, perhaps even rotting, from years of weather proofing from an life with such an unpredictable climate. This weather that caused her to construct a once flimsy, now nearly inpenetrable shell around herself, was of constant rain and sudden tempestuous squalls, provoked by the world's miasma and burdensome. The tragedies of human beings - not their tribulations, but their tremendous, greedy and conscienceless vices, were one of the elements that kept her withdrawn into a state of purdah. The weather had never been balmy or moderate. His intuition that her detachment was from how typical, mostly unexposed, and generally vapid their fellow students were was a contributing factor to her antisocialism. Ergo, his deducement is correct. There were thousands of other adverse explanations for her beguilingly labyrinthine approach to things, but the primary reason was she was ridiculously stubborn.

In the brief moment that her eyes are closed perhaps to escape the recently onset torture, she soon reversed the action and was caught off guard to see that the celestially embodied boy's haunting, wintry grey gaze had befallen her. He was strikingly august, what with all of his pallid characteristics that seemed to mesh together harmoniously to give one the impression of a cherub dwelling in a cheapened world that seemed unfit for the beauty it possessed. Her own image is not unlike it; except for the fact that her skin is bronzed by the sun's glory and her hair is of a more swarthy tone. Until he spoke, she remained lackadasically still and hushed, but when the words did efflux from his fleshy colored mouth, his image combined with his words enticed a galvanizing smirk to her copper roseate lips. His voice was richly satiny and euphonious, and the words he ennunicated with it pleased her to an ineffable extent, for it confirmed her suspicion that perhaps she was not utmostly alone. Her own voice is not trilling and is anything that is the antonym of strident... she speaks with a sort of soft huskiness. "The world is full of doting idiots." Never had truer words been spoken in her point of view. The blandly adorned smirk did not cease to exsist just yet as she lounged back into the wall in unrushed languor and contemplated him blandly, cogitating if she should give a less mazy reply. No, she concluded. She would leave the insolvable, perplexing puzzle that she obscurely is open ended.

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[> [> [> [> A Mind yet to Wonder.. -- Cho Chang, 11:39:25 04/01/02 Mon

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[> [> [> [> [> sometimes the unknowns in life remain as such -- Lee Jordan, 11:48:34 04/01/02 Mon

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[> [> [> [> [> [> You're right..< /font size=2> -- Cho Chang, 11:59:14 04/01/02 Mon