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CHARLES BLACKWOOD; PERFORMING EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT AT 7 PM
xxxxxxxA smartly-dressed young man stood in front of the brick wall, a smug smile accentuating the dimple in his cheek as he read through it, his face plastered beneath the words. Brilliant. Oh you handsome devil, you. he thought to himself, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of his jacket. He was wearing his best suit, in black and creamy white, newly shined shoes and a classy hat to top it all off. He had naturally dark brown hair that he wore short, stormy gray eyes, and a fair complexion. He cut an impressive figure, tall but graceful with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. There was nothing awkward about him; even at his most dramatic, he was smooth. He had a bright and ready smile and a high-class character. He was the illustrious Charles Blackwood; the traveling magician.
xxxxxxxReaching a hand into his waistcoat pocket, his fingers brushed against the cold metallic surface of his pocket watch. He slipped it out of the pocket and the chain clinked as he checked the time. Six o'clock. Evening. He still had half an hour before he was supposed to meet with--what was her name? Camille? Something like that. Either way she was bound to be some lovely French pastry. Mmm. He loved this country; they certainly knew what love was really all about. He had never been much for the traditional romance of England; prim and proper. Actually, he had found that the British restrained their emotions in all things. If one were to speak their mind or act with passion, it would be scandalous and cause for a great influx of gossip. He had never been serious about women because women were simply too serious for him. He supposed that eventually he might find someone that fight right in with his personality, but he hoped he didn't meet her for a good ten years. He wasn't looking to settle down anytime soon; he was only twenty-three, after all. He had been born and raised in France, and he supposed that is why he had not fit in with the popular culture of England. He had lived there ever since he had exiled himself from his family when he was seventeen. He had been young and naive, but now he was more versed in the ways of the world. Throwing himself into life completely on his own and separated from the luxury he had been accustomed to his entire life, he had to learn everything, from how to sleep outside and how to find the best deal on food, he took pride in the fact that he could live comfortably no matter what his earnings. If nothing else, he'd just find a rich patroness to take care of him for awhile. He was always desired at parties, anyway, which was good for food.
xxxxxxxThe day he left his parents chateau in France was the time he first ceased to be Richard Crozier. At that point, it was in name only that he changed; since then he had ceased to be a Crozier mind, body, and soul, and he vowed that there was only one way he would ever return to that life, and he didn't want to think about it. He was having too much fun as a traveler; he was no gypsy, he was rarely discriminated against for his choice of trade. His upbringing allowed him more experience in the world of gentility than your average traveling performer. He had a thorough background; his manners and knowledge of etiquette were impeccable, his education had been extensive, and he had gained valuable street knowledge. His intelligence was, so to speak, complete. He was an accomplished young man; he could play a variety of instruments, had a pleasurable singing voice, fluency in three languages, mastery of sums, an avid reader and talented writer, and was able to perform magic for people (in various literal and figurative ways). He did not consider his childhood a waste of time; it had proved itself very valuable. It had helped him more than he had ever thought it could, and was a particular advantage over other performers. Had their skills been on the same level, he would win over any audience with his charisma and ability to maintain genteel conversation upon a variety of educated topics.
xxxxxxxHis life was full of leisure time, and nothing was on a very rigid schedule. He hated monotony; his happiness required novelty and a certain measure of unpredictability. Though he knew that being punctual was important in many cases, he couldn't help it--everything had to be on his time, on his schedule. He wouldn't allow anyone to control his life without express permission. The only time he would arrive early anywhere was if he was to perform and needed to set up. He was a professional through and through, and very proud of his work. He was a creature of fancy and spur-of-the-moment decisions, someone who didn't look before he leapt. He played everything by ear, his actions rarely the works of careful consideration and was not one to make...plans. He decided to go against his usual habits and go early. What else was he going to do? He had nothing interesting thrown his way, and so his only choice would be to actively avoid going to dinner early. Besides, he was feeling rather hungry....lunch was wearing thin, and he was not wearing his most comfortable clothing, this suit created for the visual effect rather than comfort. He hoped she was a damn angel because he was not only arriving early, but wearing his very best. He didn't want to get off on a bad start with the people in the town, after all. He had tickets to sell!
xxxxxxxIt was only a ten minute walk from his apartment to L'Ouette, the fancy restaurant he was to meet this Frenchwoman at. He leaned against the wall outside, staring up into the cloudy sky. Although the sun was not to be seen, it had still been rather blinding out--perhaps the clouds amplified the brightness of the sun's rays. Sighing, he tapped his feet. Had twenty minutes passed yet? He figured he would wait for another few seconds before sitting down at the table without her. Just as he pushed off the wall, placing his pocket watch back into his pocket, he spotted a lovely woman approaching him. Offering her his most charming smile, he bowed in greeting to her as she introduced herself as Camille Royer. "Enchanted, Mademoiselle Camille. You may call me Charles, of course." He was glad she had not presented her hand for him to kiss; he hated when females expected it, and she did not seem like the timid type. He loved flirting with timid women because they reacted so splendidly. He could make old ladies blush and young women flush; but he knew where to draw the line and seeing as how he liked his face intact, tended to feel out the characters of the women before he made any advances. She seemed a bit serious for his tastes, and he hoped she wasn't just another snob.
xxxxxxx"Shall we, Mademoiselle?" He was careful to allow his fluency in French to be tempered by a British accent. He had lived there long enough now that it wasn't difficult, but he had begun to relapse into his old ways as he had traveled through France. No matter the mastery of the language, it took longer than just a week for a born and bred Englishman to lose his accent, and he did want to keep up pretenses for as long as possible. It was not always unavoidable, but rather unpleasant to be discovered as a fraud in one way or another. He held the door open and offered his arm to her and led her into the restaurant. The host led them to their table and Charles settled himself, ready for wherever the night took him.
