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“This whole place smells of shit, and Dagny has smelt much shit in her time.” The giant German grunted, running a calloused hand across her bare stomach, as she looked around the town. “Usually Dagny would care not for it, but this shit smells dead.”

Zoe stood in the park, frowning to herself after giving yet another human directions – probably the fifth in a matter of minutes. “Do we not have town maps any more…?” She muttered more to herself than anything, glancing around as the frown stayed fixed on her face.

What do you mean I can't order 500 teacups!?

“I- did you just hang up on me!?” Nikolai threw the phone down in distaste, grumpily.  "Well that was just rude…“ he muttered to himself, suddenly looking up and realizing he had been shouting in the middle of the street.  He shifted awkwardly, hoping no one had overheard him.

People celebrate what they want to see more of.

Appearances By Regulus Black |
Location→ Lestrange manor
Time Frame→ Regulus is not so much a party animal as wasted on a party.

There was a third glass of wine in front of him. Regulus frowned at it slightly, already feeling flushed from the other two and knowing perfectly well that champagne was going to appear at any moment. Who thought it was a good idea to serve so much alcohol to the Dark Lord’s followers Regulus would never know–but he assumed it would at least make the evening after dinner more interesting than it might have been otherwise.

He flicked his eyes up and over to the head of the table to survey Bellatrix. She looked happy enough, he decided, though Regulus wasn’t entirely sure how much was real. Pure blood marriages were rarely love matches but Bellatrix was one of the women he never imagined married–in love, or otherwise.

Beside him someone laughed, chortling about the way Edgar Bone’s children dropped, boneless, on the ground. The thought chilled him slightly and he reached out immediately to grab two small napkins placed in the middle of the table. They were the cloth kind, of course, but he doubted Bellatrix would really care what happened to them.

Distractions were so much more important here. Not the ones that itched under his skin like–like fixing the crooked tilt of Aunt Druella’s fork or counting the candles. Those wouldn’t last long enough, they’d be too short, and then he’d be stuck listening to the other guests and thinking it seems like a waste to kill children.

It was a treacherous thought. One he didn’t want and knew he shouldn’t have. So he settled a napkin on his knee and turned his eyes to Milton Mulciber. Beady eyes, he thought  and a sloped nose. The nub of a quill was easy enough to pinch between his index and thumb. This, he knew, was likely inappropriate–but tapping his foot to a twenty-six beat was inappropriate and fiddling with is robes was inappropriate and fixing the awful haphazard way the table was set was inappropriate.

Perhaps he should have tried eating instead. But he couldn’t.

Celebrate What they Want to See More of : One|Two|Three|Four|Five|Six

Sky interrupted the man who was rigidly reciting his line from his script, unable to bear the agony of having to listen any longer. “No, no, no, Randal, your diction is absolute rubbish.” She sat up on the sofa, staring at him with a creased forehead. “Do you want me to cast you from my life? I quite easily can.” Sky told him, to which he immediately responded with a nervous shake of his head. Sky stared at him for a while longer, then sighed, standing up from the prop and taking off the wig, the lightest of blonde locks falling down and around her shoulders. “I suppose we should end our little game today, everyone. Blame Randal for ruining it, ignore him for the rest of the day if you must.” She gracefully hopped from the stage as the other vampires all filed out.

Nikolai was sitting in the apothecary, muttering to some plants in the back.  Jemima had gone out quickly, and so he was ‘in charge,’ despite the outrageously black mood that had taken over him.  “No don’t wilt you disgusting specimen of plant, that’s pathetic!” he murmured to a variety of different herbs in front of him.  His eyes furrowed and he started grumbling louder, when he suddenly heard the little tinkle of the bell from the front door.  He stiffened slightly, hoping to hear the typical greetings of Jemima, but when seconds passed he sighed.  His eyes narrowed.  "No, don’t come in, please don’t come in,“ he whispered, but when he heard sounds coming from the shop he sighed. 

"Who is it and what do you want?” He uttered violently, before charging out into the main shop to see who had arrived.

Too Little Too Late || Late Afternoon || Open Mini Para

Finally, a spot of justice. Alastor Moody was grateful that the Wizengamot had seen through Mulciber’s obvious lies and grateful that they had decided to put him into Azkaban, but it all felt like too little too late. What about the countless other Death Eaters who had walked free after donating a large sum of money to the rebuilding of the Ministry? Or the Death Eaters who had sold out their comrades for a bargain? Moody grimaced as he reflected back on all of the trials he’d attended that ended differently. He had been gauging interest in reviving the Order, but had yet to make a real move. Instead of dwelling on thoughts that would make him angrier (this was neither the time nor the place, he reminded himself) Alastor Moody slowed his steps to look over the crowd. 

The number of people was not a surprise to him, but rather the people themselves cam as rather a shock. There were equal amounts of ex-Death Eaters and ex-Order members alike. After containing a shudder at the phrase ex-Order members, Alastor Moody resolved to stay. He found a seat on a bench lining the wall and settled in for what was sure to be some quality people watching.