Guess who just got back today....

[inner_human]

Date: Friday, June 2, 2000
Time: Late morning
Character(s) Involved: Montague Morsus, Peregrin Derrick
Location: Arcadia Gallery
Rating: PG-13... just to be safe
Complete or Incomplete: Incomplete

Comments

[morsus_et_mors]

"One, two, three to six, seventh gate - forfeit the eight."

Montague sat lounging on his white irregular-shaped sofa in the personal quarters of his gallery. The day seemed to drag on and, honestly, there was not much for Montague to busy himself with. Rolling a Galleon between his fingers, he had his gaze fixed on the the moving picture re-enacting fictional Walpurgisnacht atrocities. How quaint, how prettily fitting.

"Master, there's a visitor - would you like me to show him to the gallery?" the doorman entered, head respectfully bowed. "No, no, do not bother, Janus, I'll bother myself." With a grin and barely constrained energy Montague rose up and exited his lounge room, swagger confident and just that slightest bit dangerous.

It was time to have fun.

Now-now, tall, very tall - taller than Montague himself - were there any familiars of his that were as tall? Scowling slightly, Montague moved closer, finally entering the hall and taking a closer look at his visitor

[inner_human]

And there he was.

Perry was surprised to see that Montague looked distinctly different, and yet very much the same. The lanky frame, the proud gait, and the sharply angled, attractive face. His voice was deeper, but still jovial and just a tad mocking. Perry had stiffened and raised his chin at the sight of him, but as Montague spoke, suddenly it felt like they were boys again, greeting each other after a long summer break.

And it helped his anxiety to think that Montague may be just a bit glad to see him.

Perry smirked, his posture relaxing slightly. He slipped his right hand into a pocket. "You're laying it on thick, aren't you? It's not even noon."

He raised his brows, taking in Montague's appearance, and said jokingly, "Well, you look... like an adult." He remembered a much younger Montague, after all.

[morsus_et_mors]

"Obviously - how many years was it?" Montague replied with a smirk matching Perry's, a friendly smirk, shared between friends, not offensive in the least. "I'd even go as far as prodding you to acknowledge I look better than yourself now, but I doubt your narcissistic self would ever cede to me." He grinned.

It really had been around five years since they've last properly met, not taking into consideration the smaller meetings that also ceased at about the same time. Had he missed Perry? Probably not, at least not on the surface (what was beneath it was unknown even to himself), but they had been very close by the Pureblood standards when they were both attending Hogwarts. Initially an attraction of like-minded individuals, it later on grew into a comfortable unimposing friendship, where neither of the sides was bound with whatever obligations usual relationships have

[inner_human]

"A fair few, I think." A fair few, indeed; five, to be more precise. It didn't seem like such a long time, even though it really was.

Hah, Montague was just as cocky as ever. "Don't press your advantage, mate. I still clean up pretty well." He ran a hand through his hair self-consciously, though it did little besides muss his hair in a different direction.

Perry just watched as Montague moved closer, but the moment the younger man entered his personal space he could feel his muscles tense, as if he expected to be attacked. But Montague did no such thing, and Perry met his gaze with a thoughtful frown; he, too, remembered the connection he and Montague once shared. Perry had had very few close friendships while he was in Hogwarts, simply due to lack of interest in the world around him. So it probably meant little to consider Montague his best friend; even now, Perry hesitated to use the term. But in a purely literal sense, it was perhaps the most fitting

[morsus_et_mors]

It was the unique smell of lust, fear, and absinthe that differentiated Montague's private study from any other room or hall in the large gallery. It's gothic build let its presence known even here, where one expected comfort and a safe haven from the world of visitors and entertainment. The ceiling was far too high for it to be considered normal - its corners lost in the artificial dim fog, an optical illusion - windows tapered and ogive, made of stained glass.

"Welcome into the personal universe of one Montague Morsus," the former Slytherin announced, standing in the centre of the room, hands thrown apart in an attempt to grasp the vast expanse. His eyes glittered with sincere mirth, the tension of previous minutes as if completely forgotten. His embroidered tunic billowed from the effort before enveloping his slender height - and he was a beautiful butterfly (a Morpho, you see) hidden in a thick cocoon of white

[inner_human]

The personal universe of one Montague Morsus certainly looked the part, Perry thought as he followed his friend in. The room felt bigger than life--even more so as Montague over-exaggerated its grandeur by throwing out his arms. Perry rolled his eyes and directed his attention to admiring the Old World architecture, the trompe l'oeil-esque ceiling (though Perry didn't notice the optical illusion right away), and then his head slowly turned to the white couch that Montague pointed out.

'Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.' Strange enough that that thought should enter Perry's head at this moment--especially since he had already entered the spider's parlor. And really, was Montague a spider? Weren't they the happiest of friends? That previous tense moment had ended a little too quickly and left Perry feeling like a rabbit ready to bolt at the slightest sudden move.

Nevertheless, he sat.

"All right," Perry said, getting comfortable... but not too comfortable. "I'm prepared

[morsus_et_mors]

And came the sound of Archangel Gabriel's trumpets, as he soared above the hanged heads of sinners and saints alike - heralding the forthcoming of Judgement Day. He was dressed in the white brocade Armani suit and his wings were polished, shining like crystals in the un-scorching light of the dying sun. Behind him were hordes of Seraphims and Grigories, all thousands-eyed, four-headed, and four-winged - dreadful in their silent readiness to strike and destroy and annihilate. And the air was filled with specks of diamont dust, the azure of the sky pitched with black of bonfires - and trunks of the dead stuck out like branches of rotten trees. It was the Famine, all stylish red, her hair dishevelled - always hungry for more and more