Post by Deleted on Sept 1, 2013 14:11:54 GMT -5
But we did something we can never turn back right.
Lucius
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here we go <3
It was gaudy. Petite faces carved into wooden panels ornamented with fresh polish lined lower walls. Vintage vases were tucked into display in the corners of halls. The décor was imminent of wealth and Malfoy Manor had housed various influential personages throughout history. Fenrir hated it. His reflected visage in the tiles made him somewhat uneasy-hell he was stepping all over himself! Surfaces were unbearably neat and tidy; evey footfall created an unavoidable squeak and signaled his impending prescience. It was a place incapable of hunt and it denied every one of his wolfish instincts.
Clawing at facial whiskers Fenrir grunted out through his rotted mouth. You couldn’t touch a damn thing under the roof without risk of fracture. He could only look and what was the point in that? Looks rarely accomplished anything of value alone. And the smell! It wafted in as a ghoulish tickle beneath his nostril, drifting up and burning at his eyeballs. It was like a woman-but old and lame. He quickly turned, digging the balls of his feet into the flooring-the boots echoed out through the corridor. The Dark Lord always held his meetings here; the reason beyond Fenrir, Lucius was nothing more than a pretty little girl. And after having a more personal discussion with the Dark Lord-and having been gifted with a few additional physical pains-Fenrir found himself lost and pissy.
”The devil?...” he snarled, discovering yet another over-sized room. He assumed it to be the library as numerous shelves were stuffed with thick-spined texts. The odor of aged parchment was so strong the mutt found himself barely able to stifle a gag. His head snapped away and Fenrir lumbered back in the direction he had come from. Grey light poured into the hall-its source a cushioned window seat. The fabric was a pale blue with a swirled pattern stretching across-probably crafted of silk or some other ridiculous material. He sniffed. Sitting down Fenrir stewed in his own miserable luck. His bulky build swallowed nearly the entire seat. The tail end of his robes-which had never quite fit in the first place-was stretched taught across his lower back, threatening to split. He jerked his arms in search of comfort, hoping to loosen the seams. A simple charm to correct to the ill was not an option-he'd make it fit himself. A silly little spell would not assist him in his needs. Besides, he found it a more intimidating look and liked the display of his physical strength. For once, it appeared, brute force could not navigate his way out.
Clawing at facial whiskers Fenrir grunted out through his rotted mouth. You couldn’t touch a damn thing under the roof without risk of fracture. He could only look and what was the point in that? Looks rarely accomplished anything of value alone. And the smell! It wafted in as a ghoulish tickle beneath his nostril, drifting up and burning at his eyeballs. It was like a woman-but old and lame. He quickly turned, digging the balls of his feet into the flooring-the boots echoed out through the corridor. The Dark Lord always held his meetings here; the reason beyond Fenrir, Lucius was nothing more than a pretty little girl. And after having a more personal discussion with the Dark Lord-and having been gifted with a few additional physical pains-Fenrir found himself lost and pissy.
”The devil?...” he snarled, discovering yet another over-sized room. He assumed it to be the library as numerous shelves were stuffed with thick-spined texts. The odor of aged parchment was so strong the mutt found himself barely able to stifle a gag. His head snapped away and Fenrir lumbered back in the direction he had come from. Grey light poured into the hall-its source a cushioned window seat. The fabric was a pale blue with a swirled pattern stretching across-probably crafted of silk or some other ridiculous material. He sniffed. Sitting down Fenrir stewed in his own miserable luck. His bulky build swallowed nearly the entire seat. The tail end of his robes-which had never quite fit in the first place-was stretched taught across his lower back, threatening to split. He jerked his arms in search of comfort, hoping to loosen the seams. A simple charm to correct to the ill was not an option-he'd make it fit himself. A silly little spell would not assist him in his needs. Besides, he found it a more intimidating look and liked the display of his physical strength. For once, it appeared, brute force could not navigate his way out.
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