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bait_backup2010-11-01 01:00 am
like-a-boss.livejournal.com) wrote in bait_backup2010-11-01 01:00 am
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Some say it's a combat zone, trying to protect all the things that we own
*There had been offers, of course. Many in His circle had waxed lyrical on what an honour it would be and how His presence would be a profuse grace upon their homes.
These offers were staunchly disregarded, the most pathetic of these occasionally with a Cruciatus Curse.
Instead, their chosen space is small and windowless. An old, crumbling cellar paved in mossy stone and hung with dim gas lamps. A meticulously rendered map of Britain swallows one of the walls, its surface home to multitudes of agitated dots, some move erratically across the map, as if pacing, some stay very still, and occasionally some merely fade out of existence entirely, bleeding back into the parchment. Below it, hidden away in the corner, Regulus Black's small frame is swallowed by ink bottles and thick rolls of paper.
The meeting is over now, His intentions have been aired - however, the process of how has only just begun. The headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards will not be easy to take, much less in a month. Yet, there's an air of shrewd confidence to the room, discussions of strategy giving way to pockets of less efficient interaction. In the centre, Lord Voldemort himself is seated. For a man who has done everything in His power to cease being a man, He looks jarringly human on His perch, His long fingers folded, His spine against the chair's. Several of his followers, now standing, look distinctly uncomfortable with the arrangement, as if shell-shocked that something as normal as leaning back against a chair could possibly happen to a being whose gendered pronouns are pronounced with capitals.*
These offers were staunchly disregarded, the most pathetic of these occasionally with a Cruciatus Curse.
Instead, their chosen space is small and windowless. An old, crumbling cellar paved in mossy stone and hung with dim gas lamps. A meticulously rendered map of Britain swallows one of the walls, its surface home to multitudes of agitated dots, some move erratically across the map, as if pacing, some stay very still, and occasionally some merely fade out of existence entirely, bleeding back into the parchment. Below it, hidden away in the corner, Regulus Black's small frame is swallowed by ink bottles and thick rolls of paper.
The meeting is over now, His intentions have been aired - however, the process of how has only just begun. The headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards will not be easy to take, much less in a month. Yet, there's an air of shrewd confidence to the room, discussions of strategy giving way to pockets of less efficient interaction. In the centre, Lord Voldemort himself is seated. For a man who has done everything in His power to cease being a man, He looks jarringly human on His perch, His long fingers folded, His spine against the chair's. Several of his followers, now standing, look distinctly uncomfortable with the arrangement, as if shell-shocked that something as normal as leaning back against a chair could possibly happen to a being whose gendered pronouns are pronounced with capitals.*