10-30-2007, 06:03 PM
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If life had taken a different turn somewhere along the line, Poe very well might have become a sort of wanna-be scholar. From the earliest days of comprehension, the D’Angelo had been utterly mesmerized by the books Misery left in the corners of the den, and later, the stacks in this very library. For a sheltered girl, books were a great resource for knowledge, opening worlds that would have been well beyond her reach and mind otherwise. But when that shelter was enveloped by a flaming pyre, she ran and never came back to it. At least not in the same way, as was evident by the train of thought running through her as she moved between the shelves. She appreciated the works, and was not immune to their draw, but life itself had proven to be a much more effective teacher, and until recently, had not given her a long enough weekend to pick something else up. Without the duties of a pack, or the companionship to seduce her into nights of music, wine and endless conversation, (not to mention the chilling weather) she began to crave the tales that came from between two paper covers. Like many of her adventures found, the source of this interest was not terribly far from her home in the city, and it took her only an hour to walk to this building. With a slowly shrinking candle to guide her between paper towers, she scanned the spines for something to snag her attention. Treasure Island did just that, also sneaking a smile across her lips and distracting her just long enough for a hot roll of wax to dribble the short distance of flame to thumb, leaking under her black nail. “Gyeh!” she shouted in the shock of pain, tossing the stick to the ground, and rather inconveniently at an open book on the floor. “Shit!” she shouted just as abruptly, waving her burnt hand fervently at her side as she reached for the book she had been admiring with her right. Down it slammed on the flame with enough force to create an echo through the dark laneways, and splatter wet wax across the carpet and splatter a couple of book spines. “Asshat…” she muttered from a scrunched up face, stepping and poking at the very brief site of chaos with ratty-heeled stocking feet in a sort of regretful triumph. Could have been a brilliant scholar, really. |