Snippet #1838374

"Torture provokes to divorce sanity...horror, mummifies victims who plead..."

Isabelle Vieira leaned her elbow on her knee, resting her cheek on the knuckles of her fist as she murmured along the lyrics of Suffocation's Bind Torture Kill--which was, at that moment, being blasted into her head via headphones buried in her ears, as always at obscene volumes that could only cause one to wonder how it was she had yet to sustain hearing damage. Well, she could've cared less. Nothing would stop her from listening to her music as loud as she damn well wanted. And of course, she was alone in this particular cabin. It'd been that way the last two years, she did not expect it to change now. Nobody really wanted to spend the entire trip being glared murderously at and listening to the music being played at outrageous volumes such that anyone in the cabin could hear it perfectly fine. Well, that suited her just as well--what did she care? Don't need anyone else taking up the space around me, she mused to herself as she glared out the porthole and into the depths of the waters.

"You judge my world, your views have been mistaken...the sickness stems, deeper than it seems..."

The woman who refused to be known by any name but 'Izzie' had not seen fit to change into her robes, bunched up in a mess and laid out on the vacant seat beside her, quite yet. In point of fact, she never wore the damn things, not up until they were pulling up at the school and the Clan Leader would be having a fucking hissy fit if Izzie didn't put the damn robes on. And though normally Izzie had absolutely no problems with pissing off the Clan Leader (she rather enjoyed it), the last time it'd happened it turned into one whole shitfest and members of the staff got involved, so it seemed she'd have to put on the outdated, inhibiting, absolutely idiotic clothing. At least on the way she could wear whatever the fuck she liked--which she was. A dark green button up shirt she'd bought off a surplus store a few years back, the upper portion of a uniform, hung on her broad shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to expose an assortment of spiked and studded wrist bands wrapped over the tattooed skin of her wrists and forearms; unbuttoned, the plackets drifting aside to reveal a black shirt emblazoned across with the logo of Napalm Death set over the trademark skull and bar code image. Her lower body was clothed in a pair of heavy denim jeans, torn and patched in a couple of areas; around the waist of the jeans was wrapped a copper bullet belt, from which hung a number of chains of varying weight and length. And finally, tucked under the jeans, her feet were clad in shin-high harness boots, completing an image of a Muggle delinquent who, Izzie was guessing, would have been the last person anyone would assume to be a witch.

It was probably a pointless endeavour to put it all on when she was invariably going to end up wearing robes over it--but she figured it was worth the horrified, stunned looks she got from the other assorted witches and wizards in those few seconds before she slid those god-forsaken robes over the outfit. And anyway, at the very least, she was gonna wear whatever the hell she wanted under the robes if she had to. That much the school couldn't really stop anyone from doing.

"Lunacy dictates my being, enslaved until my demise surrenders me...until then I must feed the demons--fuel my rage, and commence to haunting you..."

As the song approached its breakdown, Izzie caught sight of the familiar marker that was set alongside the submarine's path--the signal that it was time to begin departing the cabins and heading up to the doors. With an irate exhalation of breath, Izzie stood, stretching her arms out briefly before turning to glare down at those cursed robes as though she would've liked nothing more than to rip them to shreds with her own two hands. Wouldn't that be the day, she mocked silently as she reached out to roughly grab the pitch black robes and slide them on over her 'real clothes', as she was fond of putting it. She reached her inked hands up to pull her hair out of the robes, and then paused before reaching down into the pocket of her jeans, withdrawing a single hair band; silently, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail that fell down to the centre of her back, allowing a few loose clumps of hair to sway around the sides of her head.

That done, the twenty year old witch shoved her music player, still blasting music, into the pocket of her robes, and then exited the cabin to begin making her way towards the doors of the submarine. First and second year students, excited to be going to Diunitati for their first time--or returning for their first time--flocked around her enthusiastically, distressing the young witch. "Move," she snarled, physically moving aside a few of the damn twerps as if they were little more than twigs--which was an easy conception to fall into when you were a good few inches taller than most of those present and significantly more physically built. Well, that was the fault of the witches and wizards--wasn't Izzie's fault if they ended up built like twigs because they thought they could depend on magic for everything and anything. She still got a few reproaching glares from some of the students around her for her behaviour, but...Hell, I can't think of a time when I wasn't getting reproachful glares, she thought with a smirk. Even before Diuinitati. She was used to it, so even when the hostility was practically palpable, she merely cast her dark, heavy-lidded eyes forward and continued to make her way towards the doors of the submarine--eager to return to Diuinitati. Every moment of the two months in which she'd had to leave the school behind and return to what little she did have out in the Muggle world had been spent in dire anticipation of the moment in which she would finally be able to return to the school--when she would finally be able to again immerse herself in what felt like a completely different world, a better world, a far happier world.