Post by zerein on Nov 6, 2010 3:32:34 GMT -5
It was another prison to break the mould of; another institution he had been sent away to by his single-minded comical excuses for parents. His father, a loud minded bureaucrat, up against his mother, a viciously buttoned down practitioner of torture to rival those put into good use during the holocaust. They made most venomous instructors seem like sweet angels to wash upon the shores of their vile expectations. His knuckles were held together and sounded a soft cracking noise near his chest as he strode, chin down and glassy eyes focused ahead of him.
Oh, how he loathed the petty games his mother played. It wouldn't be much longer until he was stretched down in such an eloquent display of respect with the tilt of his head and the bow of his chest to prove his unrivaled obedience to the witch, having exhausted all her prior engagements to send the bastard away. It was, after all, much better in his mind to be born from a softer woman he never knew than to possibly think in his first moments that he had passed between the loins of such a vulture.
If it was going to be a game set up by her, it would be well challenged by him in every way he could imagine, and oh, what a match it was turning out to be.
The building had a very refined and distinct look to it, a modern cut yet an institution that blended well into its charming, although dull and aged, scenery. It was details he didn't bother to pay attention to. They would soon be forgotten, along with every other place he had been to before and had done nothing but drop in with such theatrics and individualism on their parade of conformity with such alluring charm. His smile seemed to drive most of the people that entered a heated debate with him mad, and whether it be a broken nose or a few misplaced teeth, their anger only fueled his victory.
It was a little past lunch, and most of the students were gently focused little on their meals and more on their mindless chatter on topics he ignored for the most part. His thick dark navy jacket was an elaborate display of buttons, straps and buckles that all shockingly had a purpose (much unlike modern north american apparel) that came to stop only an inch before the floor. Only two basic buttons were cared to be done up in this dramatic climate adjustment of such weather in the comparison of what he had recently come from. His hat was left off and well tucked away in the house he would be residing in. The only extra addition beyond the basic white tee and black form-fitting slacks would be the rare beauty of a seven-string guitar that rested on his back, sitting in a rather slanted upside-down position with the neck poised gingerly beneath his grasp.
The air about him held the traces of a dignified gentleman, fighting precariously beneath the onslaught of his quick wit and cynical humour at the sarcastic expense of those around him. It certainly lead others on to judge at the first glance they gave him to be nothing but trouble beneath his short brow-length ebony locks. His green-blue glassy eyes were held to look past the tip of his nose as his head tilted up while he slowly approached a crowded table, a grin curling the edge of his lip upwards on one side. Introductions were his specialty when it came to first impressions of arrogance and ignorance, leaving him no choice to live up to what he would consider an astounding reputation for illustrating the finer points of what most mainstream would call 'making a statement'.
Well, there wasn't much room at the tables for both him and his deep cherry-stained classic, so it looked as if he had to make some.
He approached some students from behind and reached a hand forward, placing it down calmly on the table beside a plate that belonged to a young woman with homely looks. A smile came out to answer her puzzled expression as his hand shot across the surface with trained fingertips to send four to five of the plates in their row flying from in front of them to clatter to the ground off the closest edge of the wooden tabletop. A few watching stared in shock to follow the expressions of some who the act was done to, and like a prince that reeked of feigned innocence, he leaned in and cooed for them to vacate his so-claimed spot. A few had shot from their seats to challenge this, but like every nearly instigated fight, there was always some voice of reason to tirelessly blow the steam from what would've been a righteous sock to the jaw. The group had left entirely, leaving only those who weren't involved with the unfortunate affair on the other side eating while most eyes traced his every move.
Like in any good board game, the first move made always defines the type of player you're up against.
he flicked away a few clumps of food that had spilt from their messy eating habits and from the horrid act and sat down on the surface, pulling his guitar from behind him with his hand that had never moved from its neck to let it rest atop his lap. A pick rested nicely between his lips, pulled from his pocket after his charming display. He never dared to use the pick, his fingertips were well-adapted to plucking the strings to give it that sweet resonating sound he just adored. Instead it was merely a tool used to satisfy an oral fixation. A solemn strike of the strings brought his eyes to rest closed for a moment before he began to nibble at the rim of his pick. His hands glided over the instrument to play one of his most favourite and relaxed songs as if nothing ever took place.
Oh, how he loathed the petty games his mother played. It wouldn't be much longer until he was stretched down in such an eloquent display of respect with the tilt of his head and the bow of his chest to prove his unrivaled obedience to the witch, having exhausted all her prior engagements to send the bastard away. It was, after all, much better in his mind to be born from a softer woman he never knew than to possibly think in his first moments that he had passed between the loins of such a vulture.
If it was going to be a game set up by her, it would be well challenged by him in every way he could imagine, and oh, what a match it was turning out to be.
The building had a very refined and distinct look to it, a modern cut yet an institution that blended well into its charming, although dull and aged, scenery. It was details he didn't bother to pay attention to. They would soon be forgotten, along with every other place he had been to before and had done nothing but drop in with such theatrics and individualism on their parade of conformity with such alluring charm. His smile seemed to drive most of the people that entered a heated debate with him mad, and whether it be a broken nose or a few misplaced teeth, their anger only fueled his victory.
It was a little past lunch, and most of the students were gently focused little on their meals and more on their mindless chatter on topics he ignored for the most part. His thick dark navy jacket was an elaborate display of buttons, straps and buckles that all shockingly had a purpose (much unlike modern north american apparel) that came to stop only an inch before the floor. Only two basic buttons were cared to be done up in this dramatic climate adjustment of such weather in the comparison of what he had recently come from. His hat was left off and well tucked away in the house he would be residing in. The only extra addition beyond the basic white tee and black form-fitting slacks would be the rare beauty of a seven-string guitar that rested on his back, sitting in a rather slanted upside-down position with the neck poised gingerly beneath his grasp.
The air about him held the traces of a dignified gentleman, fighting precariously beneath the onslaught of his quick wit and cynical humour at the sarcastic expense of those around him. It certainly lead others on to judge at the first glance they gave him to be nothing but trouble beneath his short brow-length ebony locks. His green-blue glassy eyes were held to look past the tip of his nose as his head tilted up while he slowly approached a crowded table, a grin curling the edge of his lip upwards on one side. Introductions were his specialty when it came to first impressions of arrogance and ignorance, leaving him no choice to live up to what he would consider an astounding reputation for illustrating the finer points of what most mainstream would call 'making a statement'.
Well, there wasn't much room at the tables for both him and his deep cherry-stained classic, so it looked as if he had to make some.
He approached some students from behind and reached a hand forward, placing it down calmly on the table beside a plate that belonged to a young woman with homely looks. A smile came out to answer her puzzled expression as his hand shot across the surface with trained fingertips to send four to five of the plates in their row flying from in front of them to clatter to the ground off the closest edge of the wooden tabletop. A few watching stared in shock to follow the expressions of some who the act was done to, and like a prince that reeked of feigned innocence, he leaned in and cooed for them to vacate his so-claimed spot. A few had shot from their seats to challenge this, but like every nearly instigated fight, there was always some voice of reason to tirelessly blow the steam from what would've been a righteous sock to the jaw. The group had left entirely, leaving only those who weren't involved with the unfortunate affair on the other side eating while most eyes traced his every move.
Like in any good board game, the first move made always defines the type of player you're up against.
he flicked away a few clumps of food that had spilt from their messy eating habits and from the horrid act and sat down on the surface, pulling his guitar from behind him with his hand that had never moved from its neck to let it rest atop his lap. A pick rested nicely between his lips, pulled from his pocket after his charming display. He never dared to use the pick, his fingertips were well-adapted to plucking the strings to give it that sweet resonating sound he just adored. Instead it was merely a tool used to satisfy an oral fixation. A solemn strike of the strings brought his eyes to rest closed for a moment before he began to nibble at the rim of his pick. His hands glided over the instrument to play one of his most favourite and relaxed songs as if nothing ever took place.