rabastan lestrange (alwaid) wrote in beforethewarrpg, @ 2011-07-15 18:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | rabastan lestrange |
Who: Rabastan, the Dark Lord, presence of at least inner circle DEs is implied
What: an audience, in which Rabastan makes a bid for his Mark.
When: Friday.
Where: the Dark Lord's audience chamber.
Warnings: mentions of violence.
Status: complete log (DEs who were present can feel free to react)
There were advantages to being a Lestrange, even the younger son. With his connections, Rabastan had managed to gain an audience with the Dark Lord himself. He knew that this was a privilege, one that he had not yet earned, and perhaps his only chance to prove himself as worthy of the Dark Lord's attention. Despite being only seventeen, he was born to a family that had bred him to make the world cower in terror and kneel at his feet, plead for a mercy that he did not have. He did not count himself better than the Dark Lord, nor those who were already Marked, but nevertheless - the name Rabastan Lestrange was already something to be reckoned with. And after tonight, it would be even more so. He was prepared.
He was early, and waited on the Dark Lord's pleasure until he was shown into the room. Shadowy figures lined the room; he probably knew many of them, but paid them no attention. As he moved forward, calculating his gait perfectly to ensure that he appeared eager and purposeful yet managed to convey a sense of drama to the occasion, he felt their gazes on him. His blood sang with it, loving the spotlight, but he had eyes only for the Dark Lord.
Upon gaining what he gauged to be the appropriate distance from the Dark Lord's chair - throne, really - Rabastan stopped, and knelt. He held his head bowed for an extended, silent moment, conveying his utmost respect better than any speech possibly could. He waited until he was bidden to lift his head and speak.
He had very few words. What the custom was for a man attempting to pledge himself to the Dark Lord's service, Rabastan had only a very dim idea, but he prepared his words carefully.
"My lord," he said, respect and awe and confidence in his tone, "I have heard that you can look into a man's soul, into a man's mind. If you would do me the great honor of looking into my mind now, my lord, I would be forever grateful. What I have to offer is for your eyes alone."
It all rested on this moment. For a second, Rabastan was not entirely confident that the Dark Lord would heed his request. But then, the faintest of sensations in his mind, magic entering his consciousness - and it began.
Rabastan had always had a gift for showmanship. His attention to detail was legendary, his ability to gauge his audience and entertain them had served him incredibly well. Tonight, he was outdoing his own flair for the dramatic. He was putting on a show inside his mind.
Of course, the images, the memories that he conjured for the Dark Lord were actions that he had already performed; murders that he had committed this summer. He drew them out one by one, artfully, displaying them with pride, without moving a muscle. He had wanted to deliver a message to the Dark Lord, but he had not assumed that the man - the legend - would deign to leave his throne and come to the Muggle world to watch the display. He had only to sit and look, to see what Rabastan had done.
Muggles, all of them, that much was clear. There were many of them, all of them dead. What varied were the details. Some of them, Rabastan had hunted; some he had tortured; others he had befriended or seduced. There was dancing, conversation in more than one language, deception, until they all met their deaths at his hands - some of them literally, though the majority of them were killed with his wand. It was made all the more grotesque by the polite niceties dropped here and there, by the craftsmanship with which he had planned the show inside his mind.
And then, the climax of his masterpiece - a small group of Muggles racing, running for their lives, chased by curses thrown by a ruffled but relatively calm-looking Rabastan following them, his eyes lit with the thrill of the chase. He drove them down a pre-planned pathway the way tribesmen might force a herd of wild cattle into a gorge or over a cliff, until they met their deaths at the dead end of an alleyway. And as their bodies burned, the firelight lit up the words painted in blood on the stone wall that had impeded them. Rabastan fixed the image of them inside his mind and held it as tightly as his lungs were holding his breath, so that the Dark Lord could read them:
My lord, I am yours to command.