sheldor the CONQUEROR
Heart of Gold
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Post: 45429043_31 created on Sun Jan 11, 2009 10:43 pmPosted: Sun Jan 11, 2009 10:43 pm
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 g a s p a r d D'ARTOIS Gaspard stood at the corner of the street, watching through tinted aviator lenses as he watched the traffic passing through, busy as always. A man dressed in severe black clothing stood just behind and to his side, wearing a somber expression and dark sunglasses, his hands clasped behind his back. He served as the count's bodyguard while traveling. Not that he suspected anything might happen, but it was good to plan ahead. If anything happened, at least he had a well-trained guard dog to take care of things for him. The man was silent, playing the invisible servant, which is just what Gaspard wanted. He hadn't hired the man as a companion. He didn't have to pay for human company. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers. He was smartly dressed in a pair of black dress pants, cut so the leg was not skin-tight, but still comfortably snug, a white button-down long-sleeve shirt with the first few buttons left undone so the collar was agape, the sleeves rolled up almost to the elbow. He wore an expensive pea coat over that, buttoned completely against the cold, a thin scarf wrapped around his neck. He was clean-shaven, and his dark brown hair was carefully styled to look fashionably disheveled. He rolled his free wrist so he could read the time, and sniffed once, looking around. Ch. Genovia. Once the sign allowed, he glanced both ways and then crossed the street as the traffic stopped, the man in all black trailing at an unobtrusive distance. Ten AM, on the dot. Lying in his path was an expensive, ritzy coffee shop; his destination. He had a sort of ritual for whenever he visited Genovia, which was not very often. He always woke up early, preferring to rise around 8 AM. After waking, he would clean up and then spend time walking around town to recall all the sights and elaborate inwardly on all the things he hated about this country, all the reasons why he didn't want to be here (for he would never admit to anyone how much he missed the lovely Genovia). He would stop for coffee at ten, have a snack, then return to his lodgings for lunch. He was one much given for plans, for carefully structured schedules, organization and tradition. As he sat at a single table, he leaned back into the chair and ignored the few paparazzi that had nothing better to do than take pictures of celebrities, which in this part of the world included the members of the royal family, no matter how removed. It was troublesome, to be sure, but he had learned long ago to ignore it. It was warmer here than back at his more permanent home, but he still felt a chill as a vagrant breeze blew past the storefront. Despite the weather, he was in a good mood. He liked the winter; the snow was beautiful, and he loved the way cold air smelled. He grinned into his cup of coffee, thinking about the reason he was here. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- An hour later found him in his own lodgings, taking tea in his informal sitting room while watching television, frowning over the fine china filled with the finest jasmine tea straight from China. His senses reeled and suddenly he found that even the fragrant foreign tea could not appease him. Setting it down on a matching plate with a c***k, throwing his most poisonous glare at the screen. It was through sheer self-control and good breeding that he didn't just throw the teacup into the television in his frustration. His features were not soft, but angular and he had a very attractive face when he chose to bestow upon it a pleasant expression. Lately, however, he had mostly been in a surly mood whenever he wasn't away from the castle or the media. The biggest news (and they just had to reiterate it every hour, of course) was of the crown princess Heather's wedding to some dumb fop of a duke, something Finch or other, he didn't care to keep it straight. It wasn't because he was jealous of their marriage; he set little store by women. Women were, in his rather limited experience, folly and vapid little creatures that held no substance and nothing worth his while. To marry would be...an end to his happiness, he supposed. He supposed he could understand why this rogue was marrying the princess. He was only a duke, and by doing so he became the Queen's consort, King by marriage. He rather thought that maybe he ought to have designed such a plot; marry the clumsy, witless girl that had been thrust into the position without the years of grooming he had received, and effectively secure what his poor father had lost. What he, in association, had lost. He had lost everything, and yet this girl had gained it all; she again had her father, though his health might be failing. She had the country, the birthright, a home, the palace, and now the crown. It sickened him to no small amount, and he stood up and turned off the television, throwing the remote down on the couch, staring balefully at his family coat of arms above the fireplace--the traditional wolf raised onto it's hind legs, with jasper for eyes. His namesake. It's not fair. It's just not fair... his expression softened but a brief moment, turning genuinely sorrowful in light of the puerile thought. He wiped the expression off his face just as he blocked the thought out of his mind, schooling his features into masked perfection, impassive and indifferent with a hint to the beginning of a smile ot inspire positive results. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing about the room, thinking. He couldn't sit and think, he always had to be active to distract himself enough so his mind could work in comparitive silence. He thumped an irritable fist on the mantle, huffing. A wicked grin spread across his face, and his eyes gleamed with an idea. The wicked contortion of his features was not altogether unpleasant, though it was an overall chilling effect. He grabbed his things and set out for a presumably innocent strole about the castle gardens. After a three weeks visit to Genovia, he supposed it was high time to informally introduce himself to the heir to the throne, and set into motion his scheme... ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Because it was a short ride from his lodgings to the castle, and he did love to be on horseback, he decided to take Ralintel, his freisan stallion, black as night, for some exercise. It took him a bit longer than normal to allow for his desire to see the sights on his way, and for the snowy paths. He did not wish to arrive in disarray, of course. A fine figure he would make perched upon the stallion's tall shoulder, but it would not save him if he looked as though he had made an extraordinary amount of exertion just to arrive. He forgot everything as he few down the forrested lane, a snowy carpet dampening the sound of the horse's hooves, the faint wind whistling in his ears and biting at his cheeks, ruffling his hair and his coat, falling into a rhythmic harmony with Ralintel, nothing but the rush experienced occupying his thoughts, leaving little room for his obsessive brooding. When he arrived, he worried with the collar of his shirt and the fall of his hair, though there was no need; he already looked presentable. He handed his equine companion to an obliging servant, and contrived to find the princess' whereabouts as innocently as possible. He managed to discover that she was currently exercising her pet dog in the gardens, and he headed for that direction, taking a circumspect route so that he might seem to happen upon her by accident. Gaspard wore a pair of sturdy black boots to ward away the damp and cold snow, and he walked with deliberate hesitation as he contemplated the beauty of these strictly designed gardens. He spotted a female's figure approach a bench and sit down, though he could not, at this distance, be sure it was her. He pulled a small book from the inside pocket of his jacket and began to peruse some random page. He made sure he kept her in sight in his peripheral vision, approaching her at an angle though he appeared to be quite concentrated upon whatever verse he was reading, brow furrowed in concentration. As he was a few yards away from her, he stopped and shifted, glancing up and doing a double-take as if completely surprised, and his face showed mild shock. He stowed away the book back into his pocket, and strode forward, stopping a yard before her and clasped his hands behind his back, striking perhaps a most regal pose. He placed one hand upon his chest and bowed at the waist. "Your highness," he offered her his most charming smile, straightening his back. "I apologize if I have intruded upon your personal space...these are beautiful gardens, even in the wintertime. I don't believe we have been really introduced; I am Gaspard, comte d'Artois. You must call me Jasper, of course; if it pleases you." He grinned at her.     |
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As she walked into the backroom, she began to undress. She unbuttoned the vest and pulled the shirt off over her head, folding them and stepped out of her skirt, placing them in a locked drawer and kicked off her shoes into the corner. She opened another drawer (these served in lieu of her locker), animating everything so it worked quickly, the key turning itself, the drawer jumping open, the clothing standing up and in a line by order of layers. First, a shirt leapt over to her and slipped itself on, a black cotton shirt that covered nothing below her chest, revealing her midriff. It stretched up to wrap her neck, ending just at her jawline, extending down her arms to her wrist. The back looked as if it should zip up, but there was no zipper, and material dangled down past her wrist to flap over her fingers. Exerting her will upon the cloth, it fused together in the back and formed seamless gloves that fit her hands perfectly. Normally it might be awkward to move about in, but allowing for her powers she could make it stretch as needed with her movement. Next came a sauntering pair of opaque leggings (also black) and a similar process was followed, clothing her body from hip to toe. She grabbed a pair of fingerless dark gray gloves and pulled them on over her hands while her boots danced over and shaped around her legs, on the left was a knee-high leather boot that had laces working up the front that would have taken hours if she had to lace them, and a thick platform. On her right, a complicated pattern of leather and metal crept up her leg and ended mid-thigh, all black and silver. It had a similar platform at the bottom to keep her on even ground, but this boot was not just for looks; it had little hidden pockets of different items that she could use in a fight if she had to. There were tiny skeletons and random bits of bone, the metal on the boot was in vicious slivers that could be removed, and a number of other things. She made them flat so that they did not make the boot seem too bulky, but would resume their accustomed forms when she needed them.
Wesley didn’t like to drink—someone had to keep a clear mind in case of emergency! 
