Draco -- is that Draco? -- should have known better.

"Somehow," he says to himself, "Tenjou must be behind this."

Maybe Tenjou is some witty new insult for Harry.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Saionji reflects, a moment later, that some how-- for some reason-- he should have known better. He attempts not to ponder the whys of knowing better about ( Read more... )

Your server is: Valerie

Valerie's making the rounds, tray and notepad in hand. Feel free to flag her down.

When last we looked, the Revolution was spinning as planned. The thing about revolutions is you're going in circles. Cycles. The Dueling. Cycle. The same players over and over and over again until one-- skips-- the-- track.

This is not Tenjou Utena's entry post.

The rose petals are green. That's how you know ( Read more... )

[REVOLUTION: In Three Verses:

LONELY ROAD - NO WAY OUT - GLASS COFFIN

All of these were written by the previous mun; no credit should go to the current player. However, these can / will / may affect Saionji. Or maybe they already have. That's the joy of the Revolutionary Cycle-- it never-- really-- stops.Out in the rose garden, one rose falls. A ( Read more... )

Touga is sitting at a table with his chin resting on the backs of his interlocked fingers. Just watching the world pass him by.

Or he is watching the single white rose in a vase in front of him.

One has to wonder what he is thinking of.

Shiori has been busy these past months. She's almost finished her letter, for one thing. Now all that needs to be done is to send it to her. But how to accomplish that? Should she simply wait and see whether or not Juri shows up, or should she actually try and find some way to get it to her? Perhaps Tenjou-san would know, especially since she knows ( Read more... )

Saionji is sitting at a table; there's an empty bowl in front of him with chopsticks laying on top of it. His attention seems currently fixed on a small bit of wood that he's carving--into a leaf, it looks like, now that he's getting closer to being finished ( Read more... )

Anthy comes downstairs still rubbing the last traces of lotion into her hands, and picks up a tray of tea and samosas from the bar before she retreats to the couch.

She's tired, and her eyes are glazed with it. So she looks more like Anthy than ever.

It's dark outside.

It's bright inside.

Mostly.

But who stares at the wall?