a sample post // all games
Is this to be presented in court, then? If you aren't the media, then I hardly think it prudent for this conversation to take place.
No, I don't have anything better to be doing.
Very well.
A glimmer of memory, the glittering black floors of the Department of Mysteries speckled with crumbled plaster from spells gone awry. It comes into focus only when vibrations can be felt through the solid floor -- the cadence of someone's approach -- and Lucius realises he has fallen, and hasn't gotten up in some time. Before his fingers can twitch in reflexive search for his wand, the toe of a boot suddenly swings back, forward, a pendulum that bursts bright white pain through his temple, the world turning around when he rolls. The sound of skittering wood drags his gaze towards where his wand has been toed out of reach, and picked up by someone else.
There is a certain point of no return that I think you will find most Death Eaters have crossed. It's the mark, you see. A branding. I wouldn't expect any of you to understand, in the same way none of you comprehend the esteem of the blood purity in your own veins.
Many of us were young, as well.
No, that isn't an excuse. What do you take me for? I do not lie when it is not necessary, I just have no reason to rant and rave for the headlines. I was a Death Eater. If I ever see England again, it will be because you all have failed, and the Dark Lord sees it fit to allow me to do so.
"'ere, Malfoy. Your home away from home."
They are expecting him to say something, to sneer, to demand, to insult. Lucius is choosing to give them none of this satisfaction as he lets an impassive stare fall on the square space allotted to him. The North Sea reeks outside the bars set into the stone wall, and morning frost still clings to the iron. At least no rats will be found creeping corner to corner, but his new friends, escorting him by the elbows to the doorway and rattling the chains off his wrists, are not much of an improvement. "Dinner'll be served on the dot of six o'clock, your highness," he's told.
Cretins.
I think what you are failing to grasp is that--
We were meant to win.
I've grown tired of this charade. Leave me.
No, I don't have anything better to be doing.
Very well.
A glimmer of memory, the glittering black floors of the Department of Mysteries speckled with crumbled plaster from spells gone awry. It comes into focus only when vibrations can be felt through the solid floor -- the cadence of someone's approach -- and Lucius realises he has fallen, and hasn't gotten up in some time. Before his fingers can twitch in reflexive search for his wand, the toe of a boot suddenly swings back, forward, a pendulum that bursts bright white pain through his temple, the world turning around when he rolls. The sound of skittering wood drags his gaze towards where his wand has been toed out of reach, and picked up by someone else.
There is a certain point of no return that I think you will find most Death Eaters have crossed. It's the mark, you see. A branding. I wouldn't expect any of you to understand, in the same way none of you comprehend the esteem of the blood purity in your own veins.
Many of us were young, as well.
No, that isn't an excuse. What do you take me for? I do not lie when it is not necessary, I just have no reason to rant and rave for the headlines. I was a Death Eater. If I ever see England again, it will be because you all have failed, and the Dark Lord sees it fit to allow me to do so.
"'ere, Malfoy. Your home away from home."
They are expecting him to say something, to sneer, to demand, to insult. Lucius is choosing to give them none of this satisfaction as he lets an impassive stare fall on the square space allotted to him. The North Sea reeks outside the bars set into the stone wall, and morning frost still clings to the iron. At least no rats will be found creeping corner to corner, but his new friends, escorting him by the elbows to the doorway and rattling the chains off his wrists, are not much of an improvement. "Dinner'll be served on the dot of six o'clock, your highness," he's told.
Cretins.
I think what you are failing to grasp is that--
We were meant to win.
I've grown tired of this charade. Leave me.