Post by Deleted on Nov 12, 2011 23:39:46 GMT -5
The sky was a gloomy shade of grey with a temperature to match. The dark clouds had obstructed the sun long ago and quickly blocked any rays of sun that threatened to spill through. A light, but chilly breeze sent chills down the spines of the ill-prepared every couple of minutes or so. Malachai had already seen more than a handful of women walk by shivering from their short skirts and knee-high boots used to overcompensate. He would never understand females and their fashion sense. He’d be damned before wearing pieces of fabric that showed off one’s wealth instead of their intelligence. His own outfit of choice was better suited to the conditions. A long-sleeved black shirt hung loosely off of his bony shoulders, covered by a large bomber jacket of the same color. His dark blue jeans were too big for his waist, but the brown leather belt snuggly kept denim in place, though made him look as if he had lost a significant amount of weight and had failed to purchase new jeans to accommodate the weight loss. Finally, his bulky work boots completed the shady look Malachai was accustomed to having. Nearly every passerby had given him the double take before quickening their pace to move away from him faster. He was exceptionally good at tuning them out. In these uncertain times, he knew his appearance raised eyebrows. This country in particular was skittish if someone even coughed the wrong way. He had actually gotten kicked out of a deli earlier after his nasty habit of hacking after two cigarettes in a row had disturbed patrons in front of and behind him in line. It wasn’t the first time he had ever been asked to leave a public establishment, but was for the reason he had been.
The episode from earlier had left a painful hankering to go back home. Ireland had been Malachai’s home for all of his life. With the exception of travels for business, which never lasted more than a week at times, this was the first time ever establishing roots outside of his home country. The transition wasn’t going smoothly either. He had been down on his luck ever since setting foot in the immigration offices of the poorly organized International Magic Cooperation office. Not only had he been forced to spend his entire day in the crammed space with about fifty other foreigners, but he had been given the run around about the faded Dark Mark on his arm for another hour or two afterwards. Even if he had it concealed, the bastards would have found it which would have made explaining things even more difficult than it had been. Malachai had never seen any reason for hiding who he was. He had for so long been proud of his ranking on the Dark side. Plus it was always a right way to shut people up when they felt it necessary to continue to bother him well after they had worn out their welcome. Nowadays though, it was a frustrating reminder of his past. A past where loyalty meant nothing when new powers took over. A past where those new powers preferred to introduce new individuals whom they knew personally into the tight group that encompassed the Dark Lord, especially when most of them had been teenagers barely out of magical school. The memory always sickened him, knowing that all of his hard work had been cast aside to make room for the Dark Lord’s younger sister and her overly prideful friends. A lot of good that had done Morgan considering the only one out of the pitiful group left had been that younger bloke who had nothing going for him other than impressive drinking habits.
But that was the past. Malachai was looking forward to his future. So much that he was willing to endure the hours of waiting and questioning to secure residency in Austria, a country far worse than his own and certainly less homey. In addition to his hatred for the country, his future was back where he had left it in Ireland. The little blond haired boy was waiting for him, whether he knew it or not, and Malachai would stop at nothing to get him back permanently in his life. He would make whatever sacrifices were needed to prove that he was a stable parent the young child could rely on for support, guidance and especially, love. The latter was a new feeling that he was still getting used to, but the excitement in his child’s eyes after coming back to see him made it a lot easier. His selfishness could be put to the side. His abhorrence of the unfamiliar could be dealt with. Even his dislike of any food or drink that wasn’t Irish could be put on the backburner until he could be reunited with his country and his son. He had to remember that all of this was for him. The turning over of a new leaf, the application to join the organization he would have never seen for himself, the over-priced cigarettes, everything. Everything was for Blaine. One day when the tot was old enough to understand, Malachai would tell him everything that he had done to secure his place back by his side. He just wanted Blaine to see that there was someone in his life that had recognized their wrongs and spent their entire life making it up to him. The lack of acknowledgement for so long would be a memory that forever haunted Malachai’s life, but he was strangely grateful for it. It was his motivation, his drive. For now, he would do his best to not let it consume him. He had many more years with Blaine to be stuck with regrets.
His cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth, light smoke coming from the red end of the tobacco rod as he scoured through the pocket of his jacket to find three sickles. The cashier at the small newsstand he was at looked at him impatiently. Malachai hated being rushed. He was a paying customer who had every intention of purchasing the edition of the Timestopper he had picked up. He was noble in that fact, a far cry from actions he had done as a teenager. Huffing, his fingers finally grazed the rough texture of the coins. Pulling them from his pocket, he placed them down rather roughly on the counter of the stand. “Word of advice mate,” he said, keeping his lips firmly around the cigarette as he folded the newspaper under his arm. “Never rush a paying customer, eh?” The man said nothing in return. Smirking, the index and middle finger of his right hand went to his mouth to secure the stick as he took a long puff from it. “Not all of us are DeathEaters.” With that, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth as he blew a tobacco cloud in the cashier’s direction. Malachai turned on his heel and walked away as the man began cursing in a slew of German profanities. The double entendre amused him. Even if it wasn’t currently correct, it had been his life from a young age. He had no doubt in his ability to still cast one of the advanced spells he had been taught in training. Old habits die hard sometimes. He didn’t think he could blame himself if he slipped up every once in awhile. He was still human after all. The man wasn’t worth it though, not over dirty looks due to impatience. He had matured somewhat in his old age.
The air was cold enough outside to cause Malachai’s breath to appear, similar to the bursts of smoke he exhaled whenever he had taken a drag from his cancer stick. His jacket was keeping his upper half nice and toasty, but his baggy pants weren’t doing the same for the lower. He was used to the cold, but times even came for him when he was forced to admit defeat and find someplace to warm his bones for awhile. A dimly light sign to the right of him caught his eye. Mirage Lounge. His brow furrowed as he studied it. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Regardless, a drink was a good way to start the warming up process. Steering towards the door, he quickly latched onto the handle and pulled it open, entering quickly to avoid a gust of wind coming right for him. Warmth washed over Malachai as the door shut behind him. As his eyes took in the massive bar before him, another smirk found its way to his lips as he took one last puff from his cigarette. Finding a nearby ashtray, he extinguished the end and dropped the butt into the metal holder. The place was quiet, which he thoroughly enjoyed. He wasn’t a fan of the club or noisy bar scene. He was a private person who enjoyed his peace. Quiet bars offered just that, besides his other favorite thing alcohol. Shuffling off to a table near the bar, he took a seat with the bartender coming to his side almost instantly. “Double shot of Jameson, light rocks and no straw.” He didn’t need something as worthless as a straw to gain him access to his favorite Irish whiskey in small increments. Once his order was placed, he leaned into the padded backing of his booth and pulled the newspaper from underneath his arm. Unfolding it, his eyes began to scan the wording of the front page to find an article worthy of his attention.
The episode from earlier had left a painful hankering to go back home. Ireland had been Malachai’s home for all of his life. With the exception of travels for business, which never lasted more than a week at times, this was the first time ever establishing roots outside of his home country. The transition wasn’t going smoothly either. He had been down on his luck ever since setting foot in the immigration offices of the poorly organized International Magic Cooperation office. Not only had he been forced to spend his entire day in the crammed space with about fifty other foreigners, but he had been given the run around about the faded Dark Mark on his arm for another hour or two afterwards. Even if he had it concealed, the bastards would have found it which would have made explaining things even more difficult than it had been. Malachai had never seen any reason for hiding who he was. He had for so long been proud of his ranking on the Dark side. Plus it was always a right way to shut people up when they felt it necessary to continue to bother him well after they had worn out their welcome. Nowadays though, it was a frustrating reminder of his past. A past where loyalty meant nothing when new powers took over. A past where those new powers preferred to introduce new individuals whom they knew personally into the tight group that encompassed the Dark Lord, especially when most of them had been teenagers barely out of magical school. The memory always sickened him, knowing that all of his hard work had been cast aside to make room for the Dark Lord’s younger sister and her overly prideful friends. A lot of good that had done Morgan considering the only one out of the pitiful group left had been that younger bloke who had nothing going for him other than impressive drinking habits.
But that was the past. Malachai was looking forward to his future. So much that he was willing to endure the hours of waiting and questioning to secure residency in Austria, a country far worse than his own and certainly less homey. In addition to his hatred for the country, his future was back where he had left it in Ireland. The little blond haired boy was waiting for him, whether he knew it or not, and Malachai would stop at nothing to get him back permanently in his life. He would make whatever sacrifices were needed to prove that he was a stable parent the young child could rely on for support, guidance and especially, love. The latter was a new feeling that he was still getting used to, but the excitement in his child’s eyes after coming back to see him made it a lot easier. His selfishness could be put to the side. His abhorrence of the unfamiliar could be dealt with. Even his dislike of any food or drink that wasn’t Irish could be put on the backburner until he could be reunited with his country and his son. He had to remember that all of this was for him. The turning over of a new leaf, the application to join the organization he would have never seen for himself, the over-priced cigarettes, everything. Everything was for Blaine. One day when the tot was old enough to understand, Malachai would tell him everything that he had done to secure his place back by his side. He just wanted Blaine to see that there was someone in his life that had recognized their wrongs and spent their entire life making it up to him. The lack of acknowledgement for so long would be a memory that forever haunted Malachai’s life, but he was strangely grateful for it. It was his motivation, his drive. For now, he would do his best to not let it consume him. He had many more years with Blaine to be stuck with regrets.
His cigarette hung limply from the side of his mouth, light smoke coming from the red end of the tobacco rod as he scoured through the pocket of his jacket to find three sickles. The cashier at the small newsstand he was at looked at him impatiently. Malachai hated being rushed. He was a paying customer who had every intention of purchasing the edition of the Timestopper he had picked up. He was noble in that fact, a far cry from actions he had done as a teenager. Huffing, his fingers finally grazed the rough texture of the coins. Pulling them from his pocket, he placed them down rather roughly on the counter of the stand. “Word of advice mate,” he said, keeping his lips firmly around the cigarette as he folded the newspaper under his arm. “Never rush a paying customer, eh?” The man said nothing in return. Smirking, the index and middle finger of his right hand went to his mouth to secure the stick as he took a long puff from it. “Not all of us are DeathEaters.” With that, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth as he blew a tobacco cloud in the cashier’s direction. Malachai turned on his heel and walked away as the man began cursing in a slew of German profanities. The double entendre amused him. Even if it wasn’t currently correct, it had been his life from a young age. He had no doubt in his ability to still cast one of the advanced spells he had been taught in training. Old habits die hard sometimes. He didn’t think he could blame himself if he slipped up every once in awhile. He was still human after all. The man wasn’t worth it though, not over dirty looks due to impatience. He had matured somewhat in his old age.
The air was cold enough outside to cause Malachai’s breath to appear, similar to the bursts of smoke he exhaled whenever he had taken a drag from his cancer stick. His jacket was keeping his upper half nice and toasty, but his baggy pants weren’t doing the same for the lower. He was used to the cold, but times even came for him when he was forced to admit defeat and find someplace to warm his bones for awhile. A dimly light sign to the right of him caught his eye. Mirage Lounge. His brow furrowed as he studied it. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Regardless, a drink was a good way to start the warming up process. Steering towards the door, he quickly latched onto the handle and pulled it open, entering quickly to avoid a gust of wind coming right for him. Warmth washed over Malachai as the door shut behind him. As his eyes took in the massive bar before him, another smirk found its way to his lips as he took one last puff from his cigarette. Finding a nearby ashtray, he extinguished the end and dropped the butt into the metal holder. The place was quiet, which he thoroughly enjoyed. He wasn’t a fan of the club or noisy bar scene. He was a private person who enjoyed his peace. Quiet bars offered just that, besides his other favorite thing alcohol. Shuffling off to a table near the bar, he took a seat with the bartender coming to his side almost instantly. “Double shot of Jameson, light rocks and no straw.” He didn’t need something as worthless as a straw to gain him access to his favorite Irish whiskey in small increments. Once his order was placed, he leaned into the padded backing of his booth and pulled the newspaper from underneath his arm. Unfolding it, his eyes began to scan the wording of the front page to find an article worthy of his attention.