// 021. ♥ [video] ♥
[Glistening red on the cobblestones - shiny and reflective in the lamplight - the hum of human voice as the camera pulls back, tilts and frames the shape of a heart. Her free hand spares a finger to trace its outline, and the trill of a laugh follows.
It is not the unstable cackle that some of you may recognize, but rather a sharp, dark, calculated thing. That finger pauses, pulls back and is lifted to her lips, pressed there in thought, as if to silence her own voice.
One should not speak in the presence of this majesty. One might be disrespectful if they did.
Flesh stripped and ripped away from the body that lies beside, the curve of bone that lies beneath - what's split apart and shining slick under gaslight.
A murmured word and the Forge flees her palm, floats beside and follows her movements as she rises. As if sentient, it spares a glance back down to the corpse of the man at her feet, at the whole of the damage done.]
Volemlumos.
[Light flares from her wand, illuminating the hollows of the husk of the man that now rises (without the aid of tails for Bellatrix has none those are of her Mistress' design) and floats upward, feet scraping the stones as his guts spill over and out, dropping down to obscure the signet heart. A beacon beneath the skin, mouth open as the light also spills from it (and from his eyes, less of a tangle than entrails) all fluidbright - a stream in and of itself.
Her eyes are also lit, with a fire that has not been seen since her arrival in Anatole, and any lingering wounds - no longer the labored breathing, the slower and left-favoring gait - no remnant of these things, they are but shadows diminished as the macabre lantern rises, guts trailing below like streamers. Reminiscent of tails, perhaps. She is thinking this very thing as she speaks.]
I have been away too long.
[Her eyes remain focused upward for just a moment before returning to the Forge that still floats, zooming in just a bit. If it seems to be following her wishes, this is not coincidence.]
Missed too much.
[She smiles now, all secrets and smugness. Somehow, it is almost intimate. And calm.]
But not everything is missed.
[Her lips are bloodbrushed from where her finger lately pressed, cheeks flushed with blood that's not broken through the surface of her skin - blood that is her own. (Some of the same bloodline that flows within that bitchdisgrace of a niece no doubt.]
I see you, Nymphadora.
How nice of you to join your husband. Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of meeting the two of you again for a repeat performance?
Later, perhaps. I have more important matters to attend to. I hope you don't mind waiting.
[And then her thoughts are focused somewhere else. Murmuring something that may or may not be familiar to some. Accio cor.? Yes, that's it. And indeed the heart has torn itself from its housing, if one is quick they might catch the rain of ribs that fall from high up as the organ speeds toward wand and by wand is directed to strike the ground, dead center of the bloodscript heart that had been left by another.
She hums again, turns and begins to walk away. There is sound and footfall, but the screen is now black.]
It is not the unstable cackle that some of you may recognize, but rather a sharp, dark, calculated thing. That finger pauses, pulls back and is lifted to her lips, pressed there in thought, as if to silence her own voice.
One should not speak in the presence of this majesty. One might be disrespectful if they did.
Flesh stripped and ripped away from the body that lies beside, the curve of bone that lies beneath - what's split apart and shining slick under gaslight.
A murmured word and the Forge flees her palm, floats beside and follows her movements as she rises. As if sentient, it spares a glance back down to the corpse of the man at her feet, at the whole of the damage done.]
Volemlumos.
[Light flares from her wand, illuminating the hollows of the husk of the man that now rises (without the aid of tails for Bellatrix has none those are of her Mistress' design) and floats upward, feet scraping the stones as his guts spill over and out, dropping down to obscure the signet heart. A beacon beneath the skin, mouth open as the light also spills from it (and from his eyes, less of a tangle than entrails) all fluidbright - a stream in and of itself.
Her eyes are also lit, with a fire that has not been seen since her arrival in Anatole, and any lingering wounds - no longer the labored breathing, the slower and left-favoring gait - no remnant of these things, they are but shadows diminished as the macabre lantern rises, guts trailing below like streamers. Reminiscent of tails, perhaps. She is thinking this very thing as she speaks.]
I have been away too long.
[Her eyes remain focused upward for just a moment before returning to the Forge that still floats, zooming in just a bit. If it seems to be following her wishes, this is not coincidence.]
Missed too much.
[She smiles now, all secrets and smugness. Somehow, it is almost intimate. And calm.]
But not everything is missed.
[Her lips are bloodbrushed from where her finger lately pressed, cheeks flushed with blood that's not broken through the surface of her skin - blood that is her own. (Some of the same bloodline that flows within that bitchdisgrace of a niece no doubt.]
I see you, Nymphadora.
How nice of you to join your husband. Perhaps I'll have the pleasure of meeting the two of you again for a repeat performance?
Later, perhaps. I have more important matters to attend to. I hope you don't mind waiting.
[And then her thoughts are focused somewhere else. Murmuring something that may or may not be familiar to some. Accio cor.? Yes, that's it. And indeed the heart has torn itself from its housing, if one is quick they might catch the rain of ribs that fall from high up as the organ speeds toward wand and by wand is directed to strike the ground, dead center of the bloodscript heart that had been left by another.
She hums again, turns and begins to walk away. There is sound and footfall, but the screen is now black.]