Post by Cyrus Thorn on Feb 28, 2009 1:38:35 GMT
He was so pleased he had managed to purchase the boots. They were perfect – just perfect. Cyrus had first laid eyes on them a few weeks ago on his way to a class. There they had been hugging the feet of a rather dashing young man in a portrait. But now – now they hugged the feet of Cyrus Thorn. He angled his left foot smugly to one side, admiringly the classy black leather with a smirk. The boots had a square heel that was fairly low, and ever-so-slightly pointy toes. Around half of each boot an elegant silver buckle tightened the leather. He adored the boots. After asking the young man in the portrait where they came from, he had, without any hesitation or doubt, sent owls to as many people as he knew who had any connections near or around Pennsylvania – not many, as you can imagine. But with a few bribes and threats, a couple of quick pushes and a few words of, ahem, encouragement, shall we say, the right people had been lined up to find the maker of the boots. Amazingly the old man that crafted them for a living so many years before had one pair left. They were extremely old and were soon stolen from his wrinkled and stained hands just so a Slytherin seventh year could wear them… but Cyrus didn’t care; they looked frigging brilliant.
Of course you couldn’t look at Cyrus and only admire his feet – he did look handsome overall. Surprisingly he wasn’t in a tuxedo or even in a perfectly matching suit. Instead he wore a pair of dark black trousers of light material that was thick yet easy to move about in. He wore a very dark grey shirt beneath a perfectly tailored black blazer jacket. And around his neck was the Cyrus signature item of clothing – a scarf, this time small and of white silk, casually coifed around his neck. He had completely disregarded any thought to dressing up for the midsummer dream theme and was the epitome of ‘smart casual - with extra class and arrogance’. Naturally all of this happened to be what Cyrus himself saw when he looked in the mirror – perhaps others would just see a tall skinny kid in some shiny clothes with some ultra-shiny boots and a too-feminine scarf. This thought did not, of course, cross Cyrus’ own mind and never would. Although the boots were beautifully shiny.
Blind date. As he descended the steps towards the great hall his mind flickered to what he knew about his date. He had not received the slip of paper with his chosen partner himself as doing so meant being jostled by hyper-active Hufflepuffs as he waited in the queue, presuming that was how the school had arranged the ball. Instead he had assigned a fifth year to get the name for him. The boy, thinking this meant he was ‘in’, had done so without complaint. But later in the Common Room when Cyrus had asked the name of his date he knew he had asked the wrong boy – this one had clearly been at the Firewhisky. Ridiculous. Was there no-one left he could rely on? And this kid was just fifteen or sixteen. He reminded Cyrus of a boy in his own year when he had been a little younger, unable to keep from the drink. With flushed cheeks the fifth year had stuttered a name to Cyrus – “Jazz Cubber…” before trailing off. Cyrus didn’t bother doing anything about the kid, more focused on who Jazz was… did he know her? He wasn’t sure. There were, he was sure, quite a few Jasmines in his year. He couldn’t recall any of them making a clear impression on him and sighed. Perhaps this would be a boring night. He found his mind wandering away from Jazz Cubber, to the daft Slytherin girl he’d come to know more about lately – Olivia. She always did that. Found her way into his head. Stupid, stupid – that’s what it was. Just stupid. Who was she going to the party with? Not that Cyrus cared; he never cared. But curiosity killed the cat but amused the dog, so Cy always encouraged it.
Arriving in the Great Hall Cyrus paid no attention whatsoever to the surroundings, despite the lavishly decorated forest-scene, which was presumably meant to convey the midsummer night’s dream atmosphere. The students around him got the same treatment, the odd lower year scowling as he walked swiftly past them, ruining their friend-circles, where immature couples huddled with other couples and giggled in a very ridiculous manner. As he crossed the Hall Cyrus seized two glasses of an odd, sweet-smelling drink from a hovering silver tray. He was a little late to the party, as always, and there were only a few partner-less girls dotted around the outskirts of the room, where they were meant to be swept of their feet by the male. Most were far too young, too frightened, or Cyrus knew them well enough to know they were not Jazz Cubber. But one stood with her back to Cyrus, the elegant folds of her long dress sweeping the floor gently, a slender (yet oddly athletic…) figure leaning casually against the wall, looking out across the grounds from the window. Smirking to himself, Cyrus Thorn approached. He held both glasses in one hand without spilling a drop of their contents and placed on hand on the girl’s shoulder, his eyes twinkling. She would either turn and slap him, which certainly would be entertaining – or she might play along, which was pretty boring but, with enough drink, might result in an OK night.
“And can this be the beautiful Jazz, as promised? Have a drink, darling… I’m Cyrus Thorn. It’s a pleasure, truly.” He drawled the words casually in a tone that he thought to be ‘sexy’, his eyelids low as he waited for Jazz Cubber to turn around. He hoped she was at least nice to look at. But oh, how wrong Cyrus was.
Of course you couldn’t look at Cyrus and only admire his feet – he did look handsome overall. Surprisingly he wasn’t in a tuxedo or even in a perfectly matching suit. Instead he wore a pair of dark black trousers of light material that was thick yet easy to move about in. He wore a very dark grey shirt beneath a perfectly tailored black blazer jacket. And around his neck was the Cyrus signature item of clothing – a scarf, this time small and of white silk, casually coifed around his neck. He had completely disregarded any thought to dressing up for the midsummer dream theme and was the epitome of ‘smart casual - with extra class and arrogance’. Naturally all of this happened to be what Cyrus himself saw when he looked in the mirror – perhaps others would just see a tall skinny kid in some shiny clothes with some ultra-shiny boots and a too-feminine scarf. This thought did not, of course, cross Cyrus’ own mind and never would. Although the boots were beautifully shiny.
Blind date. As he descended the steps towards the great hall his mind flickered to what he knew about his date. He had not received the slip of paper with his chosen partner himself as doing so meant being jostled by hyper-active Hufflepuffs as he waited in the queue, presuming that was how the school had arranged the ball. Instead he had assigned a fifth year to get the name for him. The boy, thinking this meant he was ‘in’, had done so without complaint. But later in the Common Room when Cyrus had asked the name of his date he knew he had asked the wrong boy – this one had clearly been at the Firewhisky. Ridiculous. Was there no-one left he could rely on? And this kid was just fifteen or sixteen. He reminded Cyrus of a boy in his own year when he had been a little younger, unable to keep from the drink. With flushed cheeks the fifth year had stuttered a name to Cyrus – “Jazz Cubber…” before trailing off. Cyrus didn’t bother doing anything about the kid, more focused on who Jazz was… did he know her? He wasn’t sure. There were, he was sure, quite a few Jasmines in his year. He couldn’t recall any of them making a clear impression on him and sighed. Perhaps this would be a boring night. He found his mind wandering away from Jazz Cubber, to the daft Slytherin girl he’d come to know more about lately – Olivia. She always did that. Found her way into his head. Stupid, stupid – that’s what it was. Just stupid. Who was she going to the party with? Not that Cyrus cared; he never cared. But curiosity killed the cat but amused the dog, so Cy always encouraged it.
Arriving in the Great Hall Cyrus paid no attention whatsoever to the surroundings, despite the lavishly decorated forest-scene, which was presumably meant to convey the midsummer night’s dream atmosphere. The students around him got the same treatment, the odd lower year scowling as he walked swiftly past them, ruining their friend-circles, where immature couples huddled with other couples and giggled in a very ridiculous manner. As he crossed the Hall Cyrus seized two glasses of an odd, sweet-smelling drink from a hovering silver tray. He was a little late to the party, as always, and there were only a few partner-less girls dotted around the outskirts of the room, where they were meant to be swept of their feet by the male. Most were far too young, too frightened, or Cyrus knew them well enough to know they were not Jazz Cubber. But one stood with her back to Cyrus, the elegant folds of her long dress sweeping the floor gently, a slender (yet oddly athletic…) figure leaning casually against the wall, looking out across the grounds from the window. Smirking to himself, Cyrus Thorn approached. He held both glasses in one hand without spilling a drop of their contents and placed on hand on the girl’s shoulder, his eyes twinkling. She would either turn and slap him, which certainly would be entertaining – or she might play along, which was pretty boring but, with enough drink, might result in an OK night.
“And can this be the beautiful Jazz, as promised? Have a drink, darling… I’m Cyrus Thorn. It’s a pleasure, truly.” He drawled the words casually in a tone that he thought to be ‘sexy’, his eyelids low as he waited for Jazz Cubber to turn around. He hoped she was at least nice to look at. But oh, how wrong Cyrus was.