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[rideofthefearlings]

[ The screen turns on to show nothing but an almost completely black room. If the viewer watches long enough, their eyes might adjust to see dull shapes of what could be furniture but it's hard to tell. Then something darker than the gloom, a black-on-black shadow, moves past the screen and a voice comes across. For some, it will be audible and some, perhaps not. ]

What a charming little city you all have here. So bright and colourful, so full of life.

[ A disembodied mouth appears against the blackness of the background, grinning a razor smile. It's followed shortly after by a pair of bright gold eyes, the voice low and amused and confident, ]

And yet like most things there is a touch of darkness to it. With that in mind I pose a riddle, for those of you who choose to play along: when is a captive not a captive and a cage not a cage?

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((OOC: Remember to check out his permissions post for whether your character can see/hear him. Thank you!))

Comments

[rideofthefearlings]

I could get used to that kind of backhanded compliment.

[hexuality]

I'm very good at them.

[rideofthefearlings]

You should be. They're not so very different from lies, are they?

[hexuality]

Maybe. Dementors don't talk, as far as I know. They just— [Suck.] Feed. You've got more of a face than one.

[She can see you, Pitch, and she doesn't like it. It leaves a chill up her spine, enough that she's got her wand gripped out of sight of the camera.]

[rideofthefearlings]

Then perhaps it's time for another riddle: what is like nothing you've known by sight or name and yet something you've never gotten away from?

[hexuality]

Can't tell you if it hasn't got a name.

[rideofthefearlings]

Another lie. Should I be keeping score?

[hexuality]

You're not giving me any answers, mate, why should I?

[rideofthefearlings]

[ Pitch moves back from the video screen slightly, appearing to lean on nothing at all. His figure is still hard to make out, a black-on-black shape so it's entirely possible he's just leaning on a shadow itself, somehow made solid at will. ]

Because you're supposed to be the clever one, Ginevra.

[hexuality]

[Fuck. The word is caught on her tongue, bitten back out of sheer stubborn will, but the spike of alarm (fear, Ginny, let's not lie) that bolts through her is even harder to deny. It isn't even the way he looks, difficult as he is to discern in the darkness, but her name—]

No one calls me that.

[But Tom did, once.]

And I never told you.

[rideofthefearlings]

[ Pitch is rather gratified to be able to feel that surge of fear (it helps, always, when he has eye contact) and it's an oily smile that promises that could be only the beginning, that there are things she wants to keep buried far more than her full name. He also mimics not just her words but a good sound of her accent too. ]

You haven't given me any introduction, mate, why shouldn't I?

[hexuality]

Shut up.

[Composure, Weasley. Under the table, her wand is sparking in her hand and she drops her gaze to it, breathes out, rubs the scorch marks from the carpet with her shoe. Then she glances back up and she's steadier, because letting herself be rattled and showing it not an option.]

Since you're going to be so rude and forward about it, it's Ginny.

[rideofthefearlings]

Ginny, then.

[ Doesn't seem put off at all by being told to shut up, or at least a good enough actor to not let it show. ]

My name is Pitch Black.

[hexuality]

Creative.