Post by TEAGAN TEAGAN TEAGAN TEAGAN TE on Sept 21, 2008 19:51:37 GMT -5
It was sunset. Teagan did not care for the sunset--she much preferred the night, the beautiful sunless night. She cared not for the lurid strip of violet separating the bold, hot red-orange and cold indigo blue. She cared not for the rainbow charade that dazzled the clouds with its glory. Was the image too magical? Was the sight too welcoming, hopeful? It certainly appeared the physical representation of Emily Dickinson's poem "Hope," though this was no bird at all but a vast net that no feathered thing ever escaped.
The Monolayre crossed her arms before her belly, gazing over the tree tops of Fenrir's Wood as she balanced on the balcony's ledge. She was not being completely reckless, though, sitting there with her back against a wall; she let one leg dangle inside the stone barrier.
It was as if falling would make any difference at all.
The head girl sighed, her dark violet eyes glaring. The warm evening wind tousled her short hair; since school started, her butchered red locks already grew out by one more inch. She could almost dare to think of it as fashionable, but then would she have to be brutal to it again? Did fashion really attract people to others? That was what Hollywood films always suggested. After dressing in skintight black and changing her hair and putting on thick makeup in Greece, the heroine made the boy she liked lust after her so badly he could not stand to be away from her and consequently chased her throughout the finale.
Were Teagan's depressed eyes and unfriendliness scare away everyone, whether she looked nice or not? Surely, fashion could not compete.
She leaned her head back against the cold rock, inhaling until the expansion of her lungs made her chest ache. She pushed the warm air out of the o of her mouth, her plush lips pouting.
She gazed forward now, not seeing anything. Who would bother her? She locked the tower door when she stepped out, never mind that it was hours before curfew and the charm she used was basic, easy to break. Was it her patrol tonight? Was it Cobalt's, Lucre's? Did it matter?
It was her seventh year, her final year of school. She had no fun with it. This was supposed to be the grandest year, the greatest year, the most flamboyant year for party-goers. Would she even go to the Halloween party at Dovie's shop? She could think of no costume to wear. It was irrelevant.
Teagan was dissatisfied. There were seven deadly sins. If she satisfied those, would she be happy? After death, she could be punished thoroughly. How would it be any different than life?
The first sin to pop into her mind was that of gluttony. She was a glutton for magic and magic knowledge, certainly. For some things, she had no desire at all. For others--spells, books--she could hardly go without, and she often overdid herself with them. She would practice magic until she could hardly walk. She would read until she was hardly conscience.
Of course, she was proud. She had to be, right? There had to be pride somewhere. Pride was surely what kept her from sharing her impeding thoughts, her occasionally helpful ideas, the little bits of advice she might think up. Teagan pulled her knee closer and turned her head down.
There was greed, too. She was greedy for knowledge, right, like any ravenclaw should be? She had a high position in the school. As far as the students went, she was ranked the highest, only on par with Cobalt as far as statuses went. If she let Darren put her in fluffy dresses and sacrificed a few shreds of dignity, then she had plenty of money as well. One could even say she had power. She made potions and kept them to herself. She was greedy, yes.
Sloth was a deadly sin. Was she a sloth? She sat here, brooding. The Monolayre decided that had to be the greatest proof she was a sloth indeed. Assuming she could imagine anymore reasons, they were unnecessary.
Three more sins, she thought moodily, her pretty eyes flicking out at the intense, smothering blue of the sky. Envy. She had envy. She had envy for those dead, already past this mountain of challenge. They no longer had to push themselves through life, through school. She envied her mother and father most of all. They died quickly. She envied her sister, though not as much. Her coy, orange-haired Kira died, but she suffered more and saw their mangled parents broken and diced first. They all got to die that afternoon. All Teagan received was temporary amnesia.
The ravenclaw had lust, all right, as that slytherin pervert Lucre so graciously pointed out to her. Sexual lust intimidated her. It made her frightened. Her lust for violence, though, was something that devilish slytherin did not know enough about at first. She was careful about restraining herself at school--yeah, sure, she tossed a person off a tower or threw someone into a lake, et cetera, but she neither got herself suspended or expelled in the three years or so she stayed at FFU.
Wrath was probably her greatest sin. That jerk made her happy for a time, made her voluntarily relax her guard even, and made her trust just a little. She rewarded him by threatening to kill him the next time he ever touched her.
That thought made her smirk--she was quite an unfair creature. She snickered to herself and pulled up her leg to its partner. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and her glittering eyes looked out into the night. Her guard was down now, and she did not even need help. Did it matter if she kept herself safe or not? She was already precariously balanced like this, curled comfortably on the cold, stone ledge.
She had all seven deadly sins, as far as she was concerned--she was more than a bit biased, after all--but Teagan remained deeply dissatisfied. Would she never find comfort throughout her life? She only felt truly calm while brewing elixirs or occasionally while flying.
Then, she pictured Vincent Van Gogh's painting Starry Night in her mind's eye, anxious to change the topic of her over-thinking over-active brain. There were a few specks of stars overhead, a crescent moon. There were some mountains as well, and even Fenrir's Wood completed it. Drakborough could be the little town, the little town beneath the swirls. Perhaps the Castille del Nosferatu could even be the tall, black-brown vine-like mass in the front of the painting. The head girl's vantage point would be from the far back right side of the painting, though. It was hardly majestic.
The night was hardly majestic. It only made everything less intense, made the colors silence themselves; it condemned them to their dullest tones. It was no mystery, despite what romanticists described. She could hear the throngs of insects below, hasty to mate during their short lifespans. Mosquitoes left painful itchy red marks on their prey's skin.
There was nothing magical about the night, and that was why she liked it.
The breeze ruffled her short red hair. She only stared listlessly over the tree tops. Even this sanctuary would soon be gone.
DERP!The Monolayre crossed her arms before her belly, gazing over the tree tops of Fenrir's Wood as she balanced on the balcony's ledge. She was not being completely reckless, though, sitting there with her back against a wall; she let one leg dangle inside the stone barrier.
It was as if falling would make any difference at all.
The head girl sighed, her dark violet eyes glaring. The warm evening wind tousled her short hair; since school started, her butchered red locks already grew out by one more inch. She could almost dare to think of it as fashionable, but then would she have to be brutal to it again? Did fashion really attract people to others? That was what Hollywood films always suggested. After dressing in skintight black and changing her hair and putting on thick makeup in Greece, the heroine made the boy she liked lust after her so badly he could not stand to be away from her and consequently chased her throughout the finale.
Were Teagan's depressed eyes and unfriendliness scare away everyone, whether she looked nice or not? Surely, fashion could not compete.
She leaned her head back against the cold rock, inhaling until the expansion of her lungs made her chest ache. She pushed the warm air out of the o of her mouth, her plush lips pouting.
She gazed forward now, not seeing anything. Who would bother her? She locked the tower door when she stepped out, never mind that it was hours before curfew and the charm she used was basic, easy to break. Was it her patrol tonight? Was it Cobalt's, Lucre's? Did it matter?
It was her seventh year, her final year of school. She had no fun with it. This was supposed to be the grandest year, the greatest year, the most flamboyant year for party-goers. Would she even go to the Halloween party at Dovie's shop? She could think of no costume to wear. It was irrelevant.
Teagan was dissatisfied. There were seven deadly sins. If she satisfied those, would she be happy? After death, she could be punished thoroughly. How would it be any different than life?
The first sin to pop into her mind was that of gluttony. She was a glutton for magic and magic knowledge, certainly. For some things, she had no desire at all. For others--spells, books--she could hardly go without, and she often overdid herself with them. She would practice magic until she could hardly walk. She would read until she was hardly conscience.
Of course, she was proud. She had to be, right? There had to be pride somewhere. Pride was surely what kept her from sharing her impeding thoughts, her occasionally helpful ideas, the little bits of advice she might think up. Teagan pulled her knee closer and turned her head down.
There was greed, too. She was greedy for knowledge, right, like any ravenclaw should be? She had a high position in the school. As far as the students went, she was ranked the highest, only on par with Cobalt as far as statuses went. If she let Darren put her in fluffy dresses and sacrificed a few shreds of dignity, then she had plenty of money as well. One could even say she had power. She made potions and kept them to herself. She was greedy, yes.
Sloth was a deadly sin. Was she a sloth? She sat here, brooding. The Monolayre decided that had to be the greatest proof she was a sloth indeed. Assuming she could imagine anymore reasons, they were unnecessary.
Three more sins, she thought moodily, her pretty eyes flicking out at the intense, smothering blue of the sky. Envy. She had envy. She had envy for those dead, already past this mountain of challenge. They no longer had to push themselves through life, through school. She envied her mother and father most of all. They died quickly. She envied her sister, though not as much. Her coy, orange-haired Kira died, but she suffered more and saw their mangled parents broken and diced first. They all got to die that afternoon. All Teagan received was temporary amnesia.
The ravenclaw had lust, all right, as that slytherin pervert Lucre so graciously pointed out to her. Sexual lust intimidated her. It made her frightened. Her lust for violence, though, was something that devilish slytherin did not know enough about at first. She was careful about restraining herself at school--yeah, sure, she tossed a person off a tower or threw someone into a lake, et cetera, but she neither got herself suspended or expelled in the three years or so she stayed at FFU.
Wrath was probably her greatest sin. That jerk made her happy for a time, made her voluntarily relax her guard even, and made her trust just a little. She rewarded him by threatening to kill him the next time he ever touched her.
That thought made her smirk--she was quite an unfair creature. She snickered to herself and pulled up her leg to its partner. She wrapped her arms around her legs, and her glittering eyes looked out into the night. Her guard was down now, and she did not even need help. Did it matter if she kept herself safe or not? She was already precariously balanced like this, curled comfortably on the cold, stone ledge.
She had all seven deadly sins, as far as she was concerned--she was more than a bit biased, after all--but Teagan remained deeply dissatisfied. Would she never find comfort throughout her life? She only felt truly calm while brewing elixirs or occasionally while flying.
Then, she pictured Vincent Van Gogh's painting Starry Night in her mind's eye, anxious to change the topic of her over-thinking over-active brain. There were a few specks of stars overhead, a crescent moon. There were some mountains as well, and even Fenrir's Wood completed it. Drakborough could be the little town, the little town beneath the swirls. Perhaps the Castille del Nosferatu could even be the tall, black-brown vine-like mass in the front of the painting. The head girl's vantage point would be from the far back right side of the painting, though. It was hardly majestic.
The night was hardly majestic. It only made everything less intense, made the colors silence themselves; it condemned them to their dullest tones. It was no mystery, despite what romanticists described. She could hear the throngs of insects below, hasty to mate during their short lifespans. Mosquitoes left painful itchy red marks on their prey's skin.
There was nothing magical about the night, and that was why she liked it.
The breeze ruffled her short red hair. She only stared listlessly over the tree tops. Even this sanctuary would soon be gone.