Antubis From Kingdom Hospital

[do-me-a-solid.livejournal.com]

( Time is nature's way of keeping everything from happening at once. )

Working in the Hospital Wing

[methleigh.livejournal.com]

Severus has just rearranged his potions stores, moving some of the more commonly prepared potions for general healing to his quarters in the hospital wing. As Head of House he has encountered enough alarmed and pained children to have a very good idea of likely ailments. Already he has had house-elves remove the cheerful whitewash from the dark castle stone and put up dark green Slytherin curtains with silver trim. He is at his hospital desk with a pile of books at his side, beginning to work anatomical diagrams for the corridors onto large sheets of parchment. He uses green ink for the text and black for the drawing, with read showing general structures. Everyone who enters should have the opportunity to arrive a little less ignorant than when he or she arrives, he thinks. He is Head of the Hospital Wing and makes it Policy. His bony fingers hold the parchment steady and there is a steady but varying sound of scratching from the quill. He is working on an exploded view of the structure of the chest. Pleased with the activity, he whistles between his teeth in an equally scratchy, hissing way as he works.

Open RP: Incoming!

[ijk-mno.livejournal.com]

His ankle is a lot better than it could be, he's aware.  Professor Snape's salves helped with that.  But it is still a lot worse than it could have been, say, if he hadn't been shoved badly through a floo and landed on it wrong.

Which is why L is now trying to make his way to Ravenclaw, on crutches.  It's a lot harder than he remembered it being.  (He's had a few tennis sprains in his time.)  Probably, because this time he's in wizarding robes and a cloak.  He's moving quickly, because he wants to just give up and lie down (and maybe yell into his pillow.)  The effect is ineffectual and miserable.

Help would be appreciated.  But if you're hindering his progress?  Well, get in his way at your own risk.

Application; Santi, Devil's Backbone

[ahogarse.livejournal.com]

There’s something in the sorting room. Something, the sort of thing that goes bump in the night.
There’s blood in the air, in the Sorting Room. Is he a hobgoblin? Not really. But he creeps like one. He isn’t sure how he’s gotten here. The aura of confusion, fear and anger is palpable, even to those without a teaspoon of psychic ability, sixth sense, whatever you want to call it.
You can’t see the hand that hesitantly picks up the pen, to write. Or maybe you can. Or maybe you can just see the bones, and the faint haze of grey skin surrounding them.

( Me llamo Santi. )