mosiah h. capper. (nightcapper) wrote in changedrpg, @ 2011-07-28 02:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | !date: 1997 - july, mercy macnair, mosiah capper |
Who: Mosiah Capper and Mercy Macnair
When: July 27th, 10:00 pm
Where: La Langue du Serpent. A small dive bar near Hyde Park. Appears to muggles to be a dead-end alley. Caters primarily to purists.
What: drinks and catching up.
Rating: PG, maybe PG-13 for language?
Open/Closed: closed.
It had been some time since he'd last seen his best friend. Longer, anyway, than they usually went without seeing each other. During that interim period, Mosiah had been really rather busy doing menial tasks for the older Death Eaters. Nothing important or even worth mentioning, mostly he was still trying to convince them that he was ready should they ever need him for anything without seeming too overtly eager, lest he seem naive. In truth, he had spent a great deal of his time holed up in his flat in Westminster drinking and writing of all things. A few weeks ago there had been a boy -- a man, rather, who had spent a few nights there. But, as was the nature of those things, Mosiah had sent him on his merry way before anything had an opportunity to get out of hand.
In the absence of anything better to do when he wasn't answering owls for the Ministry, he had taken to writing. Well, he wrote when he wasn't playing the violin and played the violin when he wasn't writing, and the two almost never happened unless he was drinking, which he very rarely wasn't. He wrote nonsensical things. Rambling manifestos about the plight of the pureblooded wizard and long-winded denouncements of Albus Dumbledore who, to his mind, was the face of the madness that was the attempted assassination of the spirit of pride in the Wizarding community. Such literature took up scrolls upon scrolls of his parchment and even more hours of his time and before he'd realised it, his flat had come to resemble something distinctly Parisian. There were days when, if he didn't have work, he would not leave his words or his drink unless it was to answer the call of his instrument.
These days he looked less and less like the boy he was raised as and much more like something slightly resembling a bohemian. He was the very picture of a privileged, pureblooded boy who was 'slumming' for the joy of it. Despite being small, his flat was exquisitely furnished and had too many pieces of art and the like to belong to someone actually living the lifestyle he was playing at living. And, but for that, and his expensive clothing that he wore like one might wear rags, there was no difference.
There was much to discuss with Mercy, though. He had come to some sort of revelation in his maddened writings that he was bursting to share with someone and he could think of no one better than the only person who knew all of his secrets from his own lips. He waited for her at a table in near the back of the dimly lit lounge. Though it was considered something of a dive in the aristocratic circles he ran with, the bar was honestly much nicer than any pub he'd ever passed on the street. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and the black lacquered floors and walls were peppered with forest green couches and everything had accents of silver. His hands itched just slightly for a quill, but it would be a bit much, even for him, to be seen in public looking the way he did when he wrote. Instead he finished his first drink (though it wasn't his first of the evening) and ordered a second.