αвn'∂αк

Tori | Ringo Dorm, Room 018 | { associated with Kerria Academy RP }

[inboxstuff]

Send me symbols to learn more about my muse

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[huracxn]

   This was all far too new. From the piece of paper in his hand that was his schedule to the means of dorming. Everything new to his eyes. Perched on the windowsill a cigar lightly smoking between his lips, keeping the window partially open so he could get back in; even if he was somewhat close to the ground level. Walking around through the door would be a-- hassle. An ash placed next his hip. This much easier to keep whatever alarm from sounding from the smoking, and he much less, to get in trouble for.

     Eyes flickering over the area around the building from the analyzing of the paper before him, quiet for the moment being except that small sound. The sound that required something of concentration to hear -- to try and make out what it could be in the short distance. Sound of a bug trying to communicate? Sound of mute bellowing to the wind? That would have been odd to see. Yet, it couldn't have been any that. The sound was nice, melodic and somehow a comfort to the ears. Or was meant to sound that way. Perhaps a sign to leave his form room as it would do him no good to sit on the window all day?

   What harm could leaving possibly have done. None was the simplest answer to that as it would come no other way. A last inhale of the thick roll of tobacco before he moved to snuff it out efficiently and climb back in through the window to leave, normally. Folding the paper schedule into a small enough shape to fit in his pocket, sure enough he had managed to memorise the numbers on the paper as he headed outside of the dorms. Heading in some random direction; exploring in meager terms. Lost in some sort of way.

"Great." he muttered to himself looking in another direction, bumping into another form before him. Just wonderful. Taking a step back in recoil, he'd glance to the other. "Ah, gomen'nasai."

[huracxn]

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?

"Hm." The melodic hum sounded in thought — wandering thought of his possessions. Whether on him or otherwise. Bringing a hand up to brush through the pink strands and over the branded strand of it. Running the fingers thoughtfully over the feather at the end. "My hair feathers." He was rather fond of those.