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Scribblings on the wall

a fine waste of ink

Name:
Dest
Birthdate:
20 May 1983
Alright, fine. Given the number of friends I am making, I reckon I need to be less cryptic in my info box, just so you, my Gentle Reader, know what you are getting yourself into when you click on the add as friend icon - and you'll know who has added you as well. These are the keywords: Tolkien, children fantasy novels, books, broadway, jazz, Asian, debates, religion, politics, art. Oh yes, slash.

I love Tolkien. I worship Tolkien. I am obsessed with Tolkien - so occasionally I make very long self-indulgent treatises on one aspect or another of Tolkien's Middle Earth. Do not start me on Tolkien - I have no willpower to resist discussing Tolkien ever. On the upside, if you have homework on Tolkien, I am probably just the sucker you need.

When I am not obsessed by Tolkien, I write fanfiction in the Harry Potter and less frequently, in the Middle Earth fandoms - usually slash, because I just like male characters more. These are selectively locked, so have no fear if you are not so inclined. Even if I forget to selectively lock, they always come with warnings and will be under a cut. I however have very little time in between work, Tolkien and my reading to do much writing these days. I read a lot, primarily children fantasy novels, but I have been known to diversify.

I love my arts, so I do paint, draw and sketch, though my favourite medium's still pastel pencils. Chinese brush painting is my latest craze. I love my music - I love it insanely, but my taste in music is a tad eclectic and eccentric. I have no interest in pop at all: I love classical, broadway musicals, old school jazz especially of the New Orleans and old Hollywood variety.

The rest? Well, you'll know from my whines if you stay around long enough. *grin*
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- He strolled casually across the blistered pools of forgotten waste, dipping his toes, only, just, barely into the scent of death. It had been decades since he had partake in a hunt of any sort - these days, he simply wait for willing prey - but tonight, he had a promise to keep. Not that he could be lured out of his comfort with a string of meaningless words that could bind him about as tightly as cobwebs. No, the whirling wisp of blood in the air had been such an irresistible temptation that he might as well make good his promise.

He could not remember the last time he had walked under the full moon. It was too predictable - a wolf crossing the moor into a pitiful excuse of a graveyard in full moonlight. Too many of his kind had already fallen to presumptuous bullets misguided by the willful imagination of faithless fools, who cried out in a hypocritical fear of the bloodlust of werewolves. He would not and could not be one of them, as he silently scoffed at the hunters and the hunted. Moonlight had no power over him, he had made sure of that two centuries ago. He took his form at will, a skill well polished by his deep hatred for the crippling senses of his two-legged self. Nothing happened but he willed it so.

Save one thing, he mused, as his senses picked up another presence. Coming to a halt next to a rotting tree, he rolled his canine eyes at the inexcusable stench of the bog. He could barely picked out the scent of the other, but he did not need his corporal senses in this matter.

He growled low in his throat, the human voice strangely strangled, when the other finally stepped out of the last shadow.

"You are late, Padfoot."-



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