Post by OLIVER LIONELL STONE on Apr 26, 2011 18:31:43 GMT -5
if god's the game that you're playing,
well you must get more acquainted
EIGHT-NINE-FIVE;OPEN;PARAMORE;SMEE;EXCUSE THE RANDOMNESS, PLEASE.
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The pounding of the music was something people liked. It was a carving, a thrill like a drug. Within an instant, people swarmed, appearing from what seemed like thin air, their numbers multiplying. Fists would fly. Lips would lock. Tongues would wrestle within their mouths. Some would fall upon the floor and others would stand within the corner. Some were wallflowers. Others were wild. There would be cocaine. There would be alcohol. Needles would litter the ground with bodies of sweating, hardly breathing life forms that polluted the very room. Their hands would hold their cups, while other dropped it, still full, and the liquid would drain from their plastic containers. People made love wherever they fell, laughing and drunk. Girls would tease the boys. Boys would flirt with the girls. Everything was perfect. But, one would guess that was why they called it the nightlife.
People considered it a lifestyle. It was more then just some choice to them. It made them feel good; empowered even. They ruled the moon, the stars. They conquered their terrible days and fed off the need to be different. "To be reborn," they say. But to some, it was more complicated then that.
Oliver was one of those who looked for it. He craved it. He wanted it. The thrill of the pulsating, hard-rock voice and deep-throated cries of singers and the beating of the drums seemed almost hypnotizing. That never meant, however, that he would confirm in the party and begin beating his head on some invisible counter, throwing himself about, running into friends, before beating them senseless. He would never try to go that far -- ever. That was his friends' job, the Kings. They would fight and never cease until one collapsed, bloodied and bruised, broken. Oh, the glory days of young adulthood. Still, Oliver Stone had never fully enjoyed that life as much as he had hoped. Perhaps if there weren't too many things that would -- and could -- have gone wrong. He might even consider enjoying it now a-days. It would be different, though. Hardly any of his friends were alive, rotting away in the earth while there he was, walking around completely healthy. It was the war -- always the war: powerful weaponry of the military against the everlasting power of magick.
God, he hated that. Magick was the better way. It was always the better way. Those days before anything and everything magick-related was outlawed. Those were the better days, and Oliver would drink to that. He was a warlock, after all -- magick is his life.
Of course, his father and brother had to leave him to fend for himself and join the military. Why would he conform to those ghastly laws? Even so, Oliver had managed to live his life to fullest. He became one of the most powerful warlocks of his day. He even created his own little group of outlaws. How else could one so young gain so power, after all? There was hardly anyone about these days, though. That was rather depressing, not being able to torment and tease. Still, the ginger-haired young man would venture off into the empty lots and bury a cat alive, or simply piss on the church's walls. He was a rebel, after all. An anarchist, if you will. And he was proud of it. Nevertheless, within those brilliant blue eyes, was a human being who knew what was right and what was wrong.
Not that that mattered to him.
His dark canvas shoes thumped silently against the wet cobblestone as he made his way down the streets of Bludhaven. A cigarette dangled from his scarred lip, the smoke rolling like a silvery snake towards the sky as he blew the tobacco-scented smoke through his flared nostrils. Few lampposts were lit as he journeyed alone through the Black Market, strolling past the untrustworthy men and women who gallivanted through the city to steal and con, sell and gain what tokens they could. Huddled in a leather jacket and burnt umber-and-brown striped sweater, Oliver looked rather normal this night. He adorned skinny jeans and his dark-gray Converse. He held the cigarette between his index and middle finger before taking a long drag, the spiked shoulders glistening in the dim lampposts as his shoulders rolled. His lips remained pursed, his eyes dark and glossy as he moved down the alley, eyeing each item with minor curiosity. His orange-hair was combed, though it hung in slight waves upon his head.
He began his search for something, something rumored to be powerful and everlasting. Of course, Oliver doubted anyone would actually carry the dried heartstring of a dragon and a unicorn horn (both of which were crushed and mixed with the tears of a phoenix) to create the perfect elixir of immortality. "Vinyl records! Top of the line for you here, mate! Great quality!" One of the vender's said, as Oliver past him, his toothless grin dark. Dirt and grease stained his clothing and skin, his hair matted beneath the wool cap upon his head. "Vinyl records!" Several other people threw out their offers of silk shirts from China and the perfect wand supposedly from Babylon, yet no one had given out any hint of the elixir. Not a soul.
