in the DARKNESS of a dimly lit alley, cam stands tall and without fear. they know of the dealings done here, the DANGER they put themselves in… but petty criminals are but cannon fodder for them. small fish to fry, with but a witch’s whisper. no, cam deals with head honchos ONLY. they draw their pale purple cigarette from their lips, exhaling it’s perfumed scent ( a herbal alternative to FOUL nicotine ) — and look to the back entrance of the nightclub. as halloway and his bodyguard exit, cam calls:
❝ Monsieur Martin ! ❞ softly do they purr, their ‘r’s rolling like MOLTEN toffee ( but twice as saccharine ). ❝ You know, you could really do with a bin or something here. I’ve nowhere to put my cigarette, and I hate to litter. ❞ they look around the alleyway; they jest of course. the whole DAMNED area was a bin. dirty, gross, revolting — and not just literally ( though they pity the underbelly of their louboutins nonetheless ). remnants of tortured spirits pulled at the edges of their cerebral cortex, some demanding vengeance, most begging for release. at this, cam hushes them all. (‘SOON’, the witch thinks. )
Tristan rolled his eyes as he sat through History of Magic class, bored yet again with the professor. Monsieur Martin continued to drone on and Tristan looked around the room, wondering if there were any girls in there that hadn’t yet caught his eye. His game had been off since the incident with Giselle, but he was not incapable of charming his way to a witch. When class let out, he strode out to the hallway and leaned against the wall, wishing that he wouldn’t get expelled for smoking the Muggle cigarettes he had become accustomed to. He let out a sigh.