mental drought [o]

[PAVO VERRUCOSUS]

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[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=style, background: url(http://img25.imageshack.us/img25/5995/watercolortemplate.jpg); width: 450px; padding: 20px; margin-top: -30px; -webkit-border-radius: 20px; -moz-border-radius: 20px, bTable][atrb=style, color: 1d1921; padding: 10px; background: #fde8f9; opacity: 0.4; font-family: Tahoma; word-spacing: 1px; -webkit-border-radius: 20px; -moz-border-radius: 20px; border: 1px dashed #a291b2] ○ ○ ○ It was quiet. The weather was nice, for being as cold as it was anyways. He had even found himself a fairly secluded area to tuck himself away in, as far as he could tell. His muse should have been able to pull inspiration from thin air, under these conditions. So why wasn't it, dammit? The young blond had been out here for quite literally hours, and he'd yet to have even the slightest inkling of some kind of inspiration. There were several untouched scrolls actually scattered about his feet. He just couldn't write. It was as if his muse had simply up and left. Leaving him behind to try in vain to force silent music onto paper. In fact, he was almost positive that this was what had happened. Hell, the dried up well of a writer didn't even move to snatch at the scrolls when a slight gust of wind brushed them aside. It wasn't as if he'd be using them at this rate. Making a soft sigh in his discontent, Pavo wilted like a dried flower. If his hair were paler, he might have even looked like one. Slumped over dejectedly where he'd seated himself. Anyone else might have thought he was insane. Pavo was sitting in the snow with his legs tucked under himself, and his back resting lightly against the trunk of a tree that had already lost it's leaves quite some time ago. The cold didn't bother him. Not anymore, at least. He'd been out in it long enough to go numb, you see. Yes, he would probably regret it later, seeing as some sort of illness would be inevitable, but he thought it would have been worth it if he could just... Find something that would inspire him to write. At least to get him started. "Hnnn... I hope this is isn't a lasting thing." The writer mumbled his concerns out loud to himself. Frowning only slightly, he nibbled at his own bottom lip in his agitation. Maybe his mind was simply... Tired? Yes, maybe. He hadn't been sleeping well lately, after all. But... But he didn't want to sleep. Oh, this was stupid. This was hopeless. This was... A problem that needed to be fixed. Sooner or later. He really was such a lazy thing, as much as he would deny it... ○ tagged open ○ word count short ○ notes lame intro... orz ○ ○ ○ Template by JAWN of AA, OTE, DMB and TC

[LOA SHERATAN]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,480px,true][atrb=cellpadding,10px,true][atrb=cellspacing,10px,true][atrb=align,center] i like it rough AND I'M A HARD GIRL, LOVING ME IS LIKE CHEWING ON PEARLS. TAGS: pavo/open, I LIKE IT ROUGH by lady gaga, NOTES: idk, pan. |: It wasn't often that the haphazard youth found his way in this clean part of the city where the well-groomed patricians milled about like hens in their glorified coop. He had followed men and women up these paths; pursued the bejeweled hems of their robes with a hyena's grin on his face. Though not a native who claimed natural adaption to the scenery, the vagrant child knew this city like the back of his hand. The pretty politician nests, the ugly slums, the entertainment alleys... Oh, he knew it all. Like a rat, he was always slinking just out of sight with those sly, gleaming eyes watching to pluck apart something writhing and vulnerable. It was nothing besides his strange, constant curiosity that lured him here to this tame part of town. Nothing but his eccentric wiles that had him swathed in robes of virgin white and a shawl wrapped over his head. Even a veil was draped across the lower-half of his face, masking the crooked grin that, no doubt, curved his lips. Just a little something he'd borrowed off the floor of someone's villa bedroom. Surely, it was only expected to try it on in a little stroll, hm? The snow crunched under his feet as he made his way into the gardens. Such was a refuge for artists of paint, pen, and philosophy; their own little Eden cradling the seedlings of muse and inspiration. Loa smirked behind his veil, his outlined eyes narrowing when he bit his lip to restrain an amused giggle. He so often considered himself an artist of his own design; a man who could paint masterpieces with the flick of a wrist in which his tool would be gripped with creative ease. It was often that he lured his canvasses into alleys all dank and dark, painting across them and adorning them in the beauty that he alone would lavish them in. Red. Oh, such beautiful red. Sometimes the green of bile, the yellow of churned acid, the foam of choking saliva... My oh my.~ Mustn't let his mind wander into daydreams, now. He'd be no better than those aged senators who thought themselves philosophers in this quiet little paradise. One hand, misleadingly graceful, tugged at his robes to keep them close in the chill of the wind. Not that he minded... The bite of the cold was so inviting on his light-caramel skin. Should he have shivered, it would have been out of a masochist's anticipation. Oh, what have we here? The strange foreigner glanced to the side and grinned. There was a blond under a tree, muttering about something or rather. Such a pretty thing... Was it female? Loa made a slow approach, eyelids lowered halfway as was usual of the languid thief. He bent slightly at the knees to scoop up one of the scrolls that the wind had teased aside, caressing it tenderly with his fingers as a woman might with an infant child. As he loomed closer, he deduced that the adolescent could be either sex. It was the very slight structure of his shoulders and hips that had his suspicions tempted toward the male persuasion. Loa had observed enough bodies to feel confident in his decision. Though, yes, he supposed he could be surprised... Nothing wrong with that, of course. His grin even widened at the thought. "Writer's block~?" purred the cunning creature as he twirled the scroll lazily in his fingers. Despite the nature of his stolen attire, he did not hide the sly, hunter's tone of voice that couldn't possibly belong to a slim young woman. He tugged down the veil as he shifted to sit beside the precious little darling with flaxen hair, even tapping his forehead with the scroll of parchment he seemed quite amused with holding for one unexplained reason or another. "Maybe you just haven't found the right inspiration. Better fix that, little dovelet." Petnames were a specialty of this exotic beastling. He blamed his mother. "Go find something interesting. Sitting around in these gardens is just a bore, you know. A bore.~" That said, he licked his lips and lowered his voice into a growl. Not of hostile intentions, mind you, but more like some sort of distorted purr that got caught in his chest. His teeth found the end of the scroll as he observed his company in those lazy, amused eyes. A few harmless nibbles, a pretty, supple stranger, and a nice, nipping cold to prickle across his flesh. Really, Loa was quite pleased with where he'd found himself at the moment. THIS TEMPLATE WAS MADE BY COMATOSE OF ON THE EDGE!