VoyForums
[ Show ]
Support VoyForums
[ Shrink ]
VoyForums Announcement: Programming and providing support for this service has been a labor of love since 1997. We are one of the few services online who values our users' privacy, and have never sold your information. We have even fought hard to defend your privacy in legal cases; however, we've done it with almost no financial support -- paying out of pocket to continue providing the service. Due to the issues imposed on us by advertisers, we also stopped hosting most ads on the forums many years ago. We hope you appreciate our efforts.

Show your support by donating any amount. (Note: We are still technically a for-profit company, so your contribution is not tax-deductible.) PayPal Acct: Feedback:

Donate to VoyForums (PayPal):

[ Login ] [ Contact Forum Admin ] [ Main index ] [ Post a new message ] [ Search | Check update time | Archives: [1] ]

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Date Posted: 20:22:34 03/31/02 Sun
Author: Pandora Fallon
Subject: Comatose
In reply to: Hero Adair 's message, "Amusement" on 09:06:44 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.

[ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ]

Replies:

[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> -- 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.


[ Edit | View ]

[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> 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.


[ Edit | View ]

[> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> [> 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.




[ Edit | View ]


[ Contact Forum Admin ]

Forum timezone: GMT-8
VF Version: 3.00b, ConfDB:
Before posting please read our privacy policy.
VoyForums(tm) is a Free Service from Voyager Info-Systems.
Copyright © 1998-2019 Voyager Info-Systems. All Rights Reserved.