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Painted Days: Festivus for the rest of us!

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His eyes will find us there! Those eyes that burn! [16 Feb 2007|11:59pm]


( OOC: Inspiration struck, so guys if you feel RPish, please go ahead. I'm sorry I momentarily stole characters. I just got a little too eager. <3<3 Sistahs. Yes. I watched it again and the movie forced me to do this =[ )

As they hurried out to the roof, he replied slowly, carefully for what seemed the umpteenth time to a terrified Christine, expression concerned. “There is …no Phantom of the Opera.” His voice a gentle, low vibrato as he walked slowly to her. There was a being, a real, murderous being ..but he was certainly no Phantom, no magical Ghost at all. Christine shouldn’t fear he might get to her ..after all, they were safe now, what had happened, had happened at the park, and this devil, only otherwise lurked below the Ballet House, the roof was their sanctuary.

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Police [28 Dec 2005|07:13pm]

He lay in the snow, thick pelt more than ample protection against the biting cold, though feeling the occassional chill as brief winds ruffled his fur. Alone, but knowing well that the rest of his pack would be in easy earshot, naught but a swift run away... as it always was. As it always had to be. Cocking a brow, Maugrim tilted his head ever slightly to one side, peering upwards with one eye through finely slitted lids... for all the world looking as though he'd merely shifted gently in sleep. But that sharp, gold-eyed gaze followed the quick, regular movement of a squirrel, running along the length of a pine bough, towering above.

The squirrel was small and light of foot; it didn't disturb the layers of caked on slow in the slightest, not even when it dug its heels in to an abrupt halt midway. A bird- a small one, a robin perhaps, though the wolf couldn't quite tell purely from the small fluttery silhouette. He couldn't hear the whispered conversation shared between the two, so high above and with the rustling in the wind carrying their words off through the trees, but he watched them closely. He took note of the squirrel's quick glances to either side, he noted the bird's restless hopping and fidgeting of its wings. The meeting was the work of a few moments.

When both parties had gone their separate ways, Maugrim grunted lowly and pulled himself to his feet. A slow, heavy shake disloged some of the snow from his fur, and he set off at a low slung trot through the forest. His life was a good one.
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And wakes imagination... [23 Nov 2005|10:15am]

A set of burning eyes are fixed upon the collie's every footfall, unblinking and full of ancient, endless longing. The Phantom knows this place near as well as he knows every passage, every stairwell, every hidden nook and rafter and trapdoor of the old Opera House, and so no thoughts go into his own silent tread... his feet know the way. His ears twitch at the sound of the sharply closing gate, but he doesn't otherwise startle. The black shepherd's mind is too full.

Merging with the world's growing darkness, the Phantom stalks the object of his desires.

(Only just discovered this, and was Overwhelmingly Compelled to reply.)
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A scene =3 [04 Jun 2005|03:22pm]

[ mood | eerie ]

A graveyard is always a quiet place, and that's to say nothing about a graveyard in winter, especially during that hour of the day when the sun has gone to rest but the last of its light lingers on.

Shadows that but a few moments before had stretched beyond imagination suddenly merge and dissolve into ambient nothing; the brilliant white of recent snowfall fades and darkens, reflecting the deepening blue of the sky around. Black branches hang heavy, icicles sparkle dimly. Frost clings to the scattered bunches of flowers, dropped by some lucky gravestones. Most sit heavy with moss, angels and crosses, pillars and simple slabs, and all are topped with the glistening whiteness.

Who would come here, to this silent, lifeless place? Who comes here, as darkness stirs?

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