zenobia bulstrode (zenobia) wrote in disorderic, @ 2017-10-01 21:29:00 |
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Entry tags: | !!! group: death eaters, zenobia bulstrode |
WHO: Zenobia Bulstrode, and guests.
WHAT: A ritual.
WHEN: This afternoon.
WHERE: Zenobia's laboratory, Castillo Bulstrode.
WARNINGS: Necromancy, corpses, light gore.
The creation of an inferius was a particularly complex form of magic. Zenobia called it The Tartarean Art, because it sounded more impressive than 'necromancy' and therefore made her sound very impressive. It also was an art, at least insofar as she was concerned—she'd seen many sloppy inferi over the decades, but a Zenobia Bulstrode Original was an inferius you could count on for horror of visage, speed of step, and cruelty of vision. She'd already made several for tonight's entertainment at Rabastan's behest, but now she was focused on the centrepiece. Johnson Wadcock. What a name. Honestly, they'd done him a favour. Now he was swathed in his Keeper's robes, looking every inch the quidditch star he'd been except for the fact that he was a sallow, half-rotted corpse with milky, hateful eyes and a face permanently frozen in a rictus of agony. But otherwise, you know. A star. Cannons vs. Magpies. Zenobia felt a bit bad for the fans, of course, though she'd always been partial to the Harpies herself. Ah well. The ruby-encrusted knife cut thricewise around her palm, and she pressed her bleeding hand to the dead man's mouth. "By Gorgo and Mormo of the thousand-faced moon," she chanted. "I call to the ancients, to the wild ones, the goddesses of dusk and night. I call to the traveller who sings in the crossroads. I--" "Zenobia!" her husband called, poking his head around the corner. She nearly dropped her sacramental knife. Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned. "Busy, dear." Georg Bulstrode ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. "Oh! Er. Sorry, darling. I just... did you want them well-done, or rare?" He spared a glance for the thing on the table. "The hamburgers, I mean. For... you know, for dinner with the Gamps." Zenobia sighed. "Rare. It's always rare, you know that." "I just wanted to check!" Georg smiled, looked at the body again, made a queasy little sound, and then turned for the door. "Thirty minute warning for company!" he reminded her, and then he was gone. Hm. She'd have to pick up the pace. She turned back to the corpse and placed her bleeding hand again over its mouth. "Excuse me, Mr. Wadcock. Where were we?" |