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Post by Lord Voldemort on Jul 19, 2010 22:37:53 GMT -5
His decaying body hunched in his chair, the soft firelight illuminating the severity of his tommyrot. He listened to the creaking of the manor, the occasional howl of despair coming either from the dungeons or the room he had trapped the Murder twin in. Neither of these noises bothered him in the least. What did, however, were the sounds of fighting. Every one of his higher ranked Death Eaters were battling over his position. It hung over him like a dark cloud. It reminded him that his reign was ending. The only reason he was yet to be overthrown, they still believed him powerful enough to kill them. Maybe he was, or maybe they were taking this time to secure the new heirarchy.
His eyes darted around the room, taking in everything around him. He never knew when his body would reach its limit and he would be expelled from it once again. The laborous and time-consuming body buliding process was something he didn't want to go through again. Gathering the needed ingredients, setting the traps for the new Potter brats. Besides, there was no telling if he would be revived again. His recruits were much stronger and independent than they had been, and more willing for power. It was likely he would be cast aside like a useless food wrapper and it would be a matter of time before he was erased from the memory of every human's mind. His dream of total domination would never be achieved. Not by him, anyway.
Scowling, he began the slow task of moving. His movements were slowing with the progression of the decomposition of his body. His sleeve moved almost effortlessly against his wrinkling skin, revealing from the snake up, his fading Dark Mark. His wand was heavy in his hand, and it shook as it moved toward the black ink. He breathed in in a hiss as the cold alabaster of his wand pressed to his skin.
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Post by Sergei Imran Zakhaiev on Jul 20, 2010 12:41:33 GMT -5
Through the tranquility of the peacefull woods, one could hear the trampling of a bear. His roar was ferocious, and the inhabitants, not used to such a predator, shook with fear. Rabbits, they fell down as easy prey to his violence. Birds, a little harder and not even that satisfying to begin with with all those feathers. Mice, out with the stomp of his foot.
But above all these, the bloodthirst was strongest for humans.
In the rare chances that the man in control of the black bear was found and his identity made known to a victim, it was then that he would strike with a bear. It was a more primitive way of taking the lives of his victim, yes, but it was one he didn't mind. One could even say that you could see the fire of joy behind the one eye he could still call his own...
The bear was about to strike down on another woodland creature when his left front leg began to burn with a strange intensity. The bear blinked his one eye in understanding, transforming in a split second back into the six foot three aging Russian man, Sergei Zakhaiev.
He pulled his wand out of his pocket in an instand and dissapeared in a wisp of black smoke, surging up into the sky.
Zakhaiev appeared outside of the Drawing Room, knowing that Lord Voldemort had called in the remaining Death Eaters for a meeting. It was well known that he was losing his power, withering more and more every day. Some of the Death Eaters fought for his position of power, but Sergei, he would wait until everyone was vulnerable to strike.
His much scarred hand twisted the brass handle and Zakhaiev made his way into the Drawing Room.
"My Lord." he said, his voice thick with his Russian accent, taking one of the chairs near him (as he was a highly respected Death Eater, of course, he had benefits) and sitting promptly in it.[/size]
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