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Jul. 8th, 2006 10:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iambetadraconisI can't let him come with me I don't care what he says about how great a warrior brother is...
As always, the room is pitch black save for whatever light Rabastan invites in or decides to take up residence in his quarters. Working conditions, were he in his world. Everything he did for Voldemort was invariably conducted in darkness. In silence.
That's how it was supposed to be done. The night gave us anonymity, allowed us to carry out our grisly acts without anyone the wiser for it.
Swoop in, dispatch your prey, leave nothing but the Dark Mark behind to let them know you were there.
Morsmordre...
Now that Voldemort was back, people were seeing that sign more often these days, as his followers resumed their murderous pasttimes, leaving suffering in their wake.
And I'm going back, too. Because I have to go.
He pulls the sheathed sword up onto the bed. Onto his lap where he sits cross-legged on the bed.
She said I was quite good for an amateur.
He'd met a woman in the woods and they'd sparred as the sun began to set. She beat him, of course, but she also told him he was not an easy victory for her.
That means I'm sufficiently good enough with the blade to use it should I need it.
The blue light hovers over him.
Time to go. He won't like it that I've left without him, but it's better that he remain here while I suss things out back home. If things are safe I'll bring him. But right now I can't.
Mind made up, he reaches over to his nightstand, pulls out the drawer, collects quill, inkwell and parchment and sets to writing the note he'd leave at the bar before [he didn't like using the word despite it being an accurate description of what he intended to do] he snuck out the door and into his world.
He'll be angry but at least he'll be alive...
As always, the room is pitch black save for whatever light Rabastan invites in or decides to take up residence in his quarters. Working conditions, were he in his world. Everything he did for Voldemort was invariably conducted in darkness. In silence.
That's how it was supposed to be done. The night gave us anonymity, allowed us to carry out our grisly acts without anyone the wiser for it.
Swoop in, dispatch your prey, leave nothing but the Dark Mark behind to let them know you were there.
Morsmordre...
Now that Voldemort was back, people were seeing that sign more often these days, as his followers resumed their murderous pasttimes, leaving suffering in their wake.
And I'm going back, too. Because I have to go.
He pulls the sheathed sword up onto the bed. Onto his lap where he sits cross-legged on the bed.
She said I was quite good for an amateur.
He'd met a woman in the woods and they'd sparred as the sun began to set. She beat him, of course, but she also told him he was not an easy victory for her.
That means I'm sufficiently good enough with the blade to use it should I need it.
The blue light hovers over him.
Time to go. He won't like it that I've left without him, but it's better that he remain here while I suss things out back home. If things are safe I'll bring him. But right now I can't.
Mind made up, he reaches over to his nightstand, pulls out the drawer, collects quill, inkwell and parchment and sets to writing the note he'd leave at the bar before [he didn't like using the word despite it being an accurate description of what he intended to do] he snuck out the door and into his world.
He'll be angry but at least he'll be alive...
