Post by Gilbert Sacha Key on Aug 13, 2012 13:45:23 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,bTable][atrb=style, width:100px; background-image:url(http://i41.tinypic.com/s67p7b.png)][atrb=vAlign,top][style=border:10px solid #3b3b3b; border-radius:5px; height:100px; width:100px; margin:7px; background-image:url(http://i923.photobucket.com/albums/ad78/Katiabean/GILBERT-1.png);][/style][style=background-color:#3b3b3b; padding-top:5px; padding-bottom:5px; padding-left:15px; padding-right:15px; font-family: times new roman; font-size:10px; text-transform:uppercase; letter-spacing:2px; width:220px; transform:rotate(-90deg); -moz-transform:rotate(-90deg); -webkit-transform:rotate(-90deg); -o-transform:rotate(-90deg); color:#fff; text-shadow:1px 1px 2px #000; margin-left:-60px; margin-right:-160px; margin-top:100px; margin-bottom:-70px; border-radius:10px 0px 0px 10px; text-align:right;]in my field of paper flowers[classy=tyrannicide]candy cloud lullaby[/classy][/style] | [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,bTable][atrb=style, width:300px;][style=height:380px; overflow-y:auto; overflow-x:hidden; text-align:justify; font-family:arial; font-size:10px; padding-top:0px; padding-bottom:0px; padding-left:15px; padding-right:15px;]It was far too cold, and he hadn't brought any suitable covering for such weather, so really, he should've been heading back to his warm bed or finding an equally warm but less comforting place, such as a cafe, but truthfully, the view from the window of the partially rundown tower in which he sat was so much better. It must have been a birthday pary for one of the occupants of the city, as fireworks spiralled up into the air, shedding sparks in glittering particles. He loved the light - for starters, he was a plant so it was entirely understandable. Colour was also something that made the most perfect of sense to him, his eye was drawn to vivid, yet natural hues, and it reflected in his damp, adoring eyes. He laid a finger against the frosted glass, dragging it across and following the arching twist of the light before it exploded. His digit made a long, dusty streak, and he felt the drag of dirt particles and friction skittering across the end, before stopping in a blunt blob. Fortunately or unfortunately his finger could not explode in such a lavish style as the fireworks. He wasn't sure that he wanted it to, either, so it was probably more fortunate that he couldn't. Rebuttoning the expensive woolen blazer, he glanced to the left of him, into the darker shadows that haunted the large tower. It wasn't an atmosphere that Gilbert particularly enjoyed, and yet nor was it one that he particularly detested - all in all he really seemed to treat this location with a mild neglect; he used it for times when being on the ground was not adequate or when being strung up in a tree was not practical. But wasn't life merely about using others for ones own, personal gain? Life had turned into a game, the rules of which had been long forgotten. A game riven with manipulation and white lies. Gilbert had to admit that after the fourth demise of someone who had meant much to him, he was starting to wonder how people coped. His hands idly straightened the blazer, and he examined the heavy garment for a moment - it had been a gift from a little old homeless woman he had used to walk past. After one day taking her a blanket and some stew out of human decency, she'd given him the blazer, and he'd never really let the article of clothing out of his sight afterwards. Besides, it was his favourite hue - a rich, vibrant shade of dark green. Another reason he so loved the feel of the blazer was it's weight - warm and comforting, it seemed almost like a hug in cloth form. He had had far too little comfort within his nineteen years, and so to have something that could so effortlessly remind him of that was a bonus, however artificial it may have been. Condensation clouded the cracked window pane, and he twirled a finger through it - what he would give for a family enviroment, for a place to call home and someone who loved him. A tight, forced smile crossed his face - his father would have been annoyed at best to know that his desires were so... weak. Womanly, almost, to a point. Because really, Gilbert longed for belonging. That was something that fair maidens trapped in tall towers dreamed of, not elegant snake men who allured and entranced. The hand that had captured the condensation tightened into a fist. Anger seemed to bubble in his stomach like witches broth, and he closed his eyes. Leaning forwards and pressing his forehead to the cold glass of the cracked window only served to pitch his green locks into his face - his skin was icy to the touch without even the addition of the freezing glass, and so he leant back, sweeping a hand through his hair and sending it into a state of mild disarray. Even before the operation that had made him gijinka he had enjoyed the hue of green, and so when his hair had turned that rich shade he was in little protest to it. Even now however, he had to question his motives on keeping it green - would black not be a more mysterious color? And yet that was the color of darkness, a color that plants could not thrive within. So really, perhaps he should simply let his hair be, no matter his personal image. But the Serperior DNA would not let him simply ignore his outer image - pride was much too prominent to allow that. Gilbert stared for a long moment at his partial reflection in the mirror, every so often broken up by the hazy flashes of color. He would have to cut his hair soon - it was intensely shaggy and was overgrowing the mysterious, tantalizing image that he could give off; peering through his fringe was a particularly good one. In some ways strangely artistic, in some ways a complete pain. A sudden, dull thud sounded behind him, and the male almost started before realising that such an action would be at best, inelegant, so instead, he forced himself to remain calm and slowly turned, gazing into the darkness of the small, run down room. It had once been a library; huge, ornate bookcases stretched from floor to ceiling and upon every wall. Now, it was simply a room slowly dying; the few books that remained were either too badly waterstained to read or in a foreign language. Gilbert had managed to salvage a few that were vaguely legible, and had added them to a large solid chest just next to a once grand marble fireplace. Above, on the ceiling, a huge pastel rose made entirely of glass washed the room in comforting light - pink, which served to make the situation more intimate. He liked the atmosphere, the feeling of being so small in comparison to the vaulted ceilings and huge, plush armchairs - of being so completely in the right place. The male moved cautiously into the room, glancing around for the source of the thud, and frowning as he saw a book lying roughly four meters away from him, face down, the spine cruelly cracked against the ground, covers splayed and the pages within bent. He moved forwards, each action brimming with a practiced grace, kneeling beside the book to pluck it up from the ground, examining it. Ah, a romance novel, one of the drivelling types that no one really wanted to read and yet somehow were forced to through either it's undeniable popularity or the fact that none of his peers would discontinue going on about it. As he turned it to the first page, his stomach lurched, the book falling out of his fingertips. Tears sprang to the males eyes, and mortified with himself, he turned away, rubbing furiously. So it had been that book... A book that had made the male besides himself with sorrow, even though the storyline was simple. It was written about a boy and his lover, a lover who the boy thought had loved him. The boy gave his lover everything, and yet, when he went missing for a gap of ten days, his lover had found someone new to love once the boy had returned, and the boy was forced to change into a cold hearted machine, until he died. The book really should not have affected Gilbert so much, but as one who had gone through a scenario much similar to that, even in the time period, it made his heart ache and long for his beloved. Because even to the end in that book, he had never stopped loving that man. The boy had always loved his lover, even when the lover had betrayed him and sought pleasure in the arms of another. Gilbert picked up the book, striding over to the fire and casting the article into the fire, watching at the flames suckled and consumed their prey. The only noise for a while was the crackling of the fire, the way it popped and hissed as it feasted on the book. Gilbert turned away, unable to bear watching the book return to ash, and swept out of the tower, taking the stone steps two a time until he burst through the secret wooden door at it's base. He glanced at the sky, guessing it to be only about nine in the evening, and so headed down to the small, familiar coffee shop he so often sought refuge in when all else was crashing down around him. Thankfully the shop remained open, and he entered with barely a word in the direction of the counter, taking his usual seat at the juncture of the window and the wall, a place where the lace blinds sagged enough for him to gaze at the world outside without giving too much of his identity away. The barmaid brought over a simple, herbal tea - he was a regular to the shop and therefore they were used to his strange habits and quirks. He liked this place as a second resort other than the tower. The way that at the table he sat at, the intricately carved flower shaped brass scone cast him in a dull halo of gold, making his hair appear more vivid than ever and his whole appearance almost like one of the Michelangelo angels. The herbal tea he was served was more than delicious too - someone always seemed to add something new, something surprising, so that one blend was never the same than the last but just as enjoyable. He ran his tongue across a cold, pointed canine - although he was indeed merely human and not some mythical dracula-esque crossbreed, his canine teeth had become considerably sharper and a little longer; he presumed it to be some side effect of the snake-like gijinka he was. The slight pain as his toothbuds were pressed into the tooth was almost delightful, in some dark and sadistic way. He took a few more sips of the tea, finishing it in a few heedy mouthfuls before dangling the teacup from his long fingers; he examined the whimsical design, delightful little baroque swirls, accompanied by the odd fairy like creature carefully captured by a paintbrush and frozen into china. He placed the teacup back down onto the accompanying plate - it simply wouldn't do to break anything here - and dabbed at his mouth with an elegant little gesture, his napkin folded into the most precise of squares. Wasn't it funny how an action that was practiced for so many years would merely serve to enhance one's demeanor; make them appear almost graceful and with the elegance of a royal. Not that he needed such elegance; the balance and feline ease came naturally to him as a gijinka, especially one imbued with Serperior DNA. He stood, taking two bills from his pocket in an overexaggerated motion and leaving them on the table, the two notes as pristine and clean as if they had only just left the mint. He had rounded the price up far too high, but he found an immense satisfaction in occasionally throwing around a little money and watching the hapless humans scramble their wits together and attempt to befriend him. He felt a short, stark little laugh build in the bottom of his throat at his preconcieved notions, and raised a gloved hand to his mouth, covering it up as a throaty cough that was threatening to burst forwards. Lifting the gilded walking cane he so often took with him, he drew himself up, glancing around the small cafe once before slipping out through the side door into a darkened alleyway. Once out into the darkening streets, he took a cigarette from his pocket - a disgusting habit but a habit never the less. He lit the offending item, slipping it between his lips and dragging in on an inhale. The smoke blew out of his mouth almost automatically, and he felt those lean shoulders of his stretch and relax. He turned towards the entrance of the alleyway that ran along behind the cafe, feeling the warm gusts of air hit his face and sent his scarf flying in the darkness, green hair tousled. He turned his face up to the skies and exhaled, a long, drawn out breath. It was turning out to be a beautiful night. [/style] |
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