4 ♕ The latest trend is painting a self-portrait

[airshipswank]

[ Welcome, dear reader, to our most humble and festive OOC note! In this post you shall be provided with three exceptional interaction opportunities! Observe, enjoy and kindly specify which part your response pertains to, should context not make it abundantly clear. ♥ ]

[1. It's a lovely and warm December morning in the mansion. The Duke of

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ACTION while we still have use of the subject line. I'd say something witty, but the character limi-

[thestormcomes]

[It is a lovely and crisp December morning outside. A fellow named Athos slogs his way through the snowy grounds, oblivious to the landscape that surrounds him. A sensible fellow, he is wearing the most appropriate winter clothes and a fur-lined cape, because this weather is much harsher than the late months he's spent in La Fère.

Occasionally, he will pause on his walk to take in the sights and marvel at how fucking cold it is.

Although, in his frequent obliviousness, he might run into someone without meaning to.]

[starshipsail]

[ George stands next to a tree, one glove taken off to trace its bark with cautious fingers, marvelling at its texture and most importantly colour: Brown. A simple and pale brown, but a brown regardless, one that does not exist in the gardens on the other side. ]

So beautiful...

[ His musings are interrupted by an outcry of pain; his own, as he is struck down by a passer-by and trips, falling into the snow and remaining there, startled. ]

[thestormcomes]

[...well, that does put a damper on getting through this event unscathed, without embarrassing himself.]

Ah, je suis- je suis tellement désolé, Monsieur.

[Athos is a noble man, he isn't about to let the poor whoever-it-is lie there on the frozen ground. Stooping, he grabs hold of one of the fellow's arms and lifts him upright, brushing snow from his shoulders.]

It was my mistake, I did not see you there.

[His manner of speaking is slightly stilted, mostly because making small-talk isn't Athos' forte.]

Are you well?

(I was already bracing myself for the subject line's absence back there)

[starshipsail]

[ Whoever-it-is recovers as soon as he hears himself addressed. ]

Please, don't apologise, I was too preoccupied-

[ He takes the hand without raising his head, brushes off and straightens the man's coat where he fears his inconsiderate behaviour might have disturbed its appearance. ]

I didn't notice your approach, I should have removed myself on time, it was entirely my--

[ He looks up and freezes. ]

(But now I find that I must revel in it once more.)

[starshipsail]

[ Wide eyes stare into Athos' face. ]

M-my...

(For you never know how long it shall be with us still.)

[starshipsail]

My Lord!

[ George falls down on one knee, bowed, not daring to look up or speak another word. ]

(/sobs quietly into an embroidered handkerchief)

[thestormcomes]

I thought I told you not to call me that.

[Athos frowns almost immediately, because Buckingham is mocking him again, as always, on bended knee this time around, and-

And his hair is loose, his beard is cropped short, his everything is a little more disheveled.

This is not Buckingham.]

...who are you?

[starshipsail]

[ George doesn't dare move an inch from his position, let alone look up as he speaks. ]

George, my--

[ He almost chokes on the word. Do not call him My Lord. He doesn't know why. He doesn't know what else. He merely stammers for a moment before he catches himself. ]

George. George Villiers of Brooksby, were Brooksby to exist here which it does not.

[ Another honorific bitten back. He falls silent again. ]

[thestormcomes]

Georges Villiers.

[It takes him a moment, but Athos has always prided himself in his ability to figure things out fairly quickly. This is not Lord Buckingham. People here are in possession of mirror-selves on the other side of the looking glass. Strange things tend to happen during events, ergo-]

You're Buckingham's mirror.

[A beat.]

For God's sake, the ground is frozen. Get to your feet, sir.

[starshipsail]

I- I am.

[ George stands up hastily, failing to steady the fingers plucking on his own vest as he looks at Athos expectantly. ]

[thestormcomes]

[Athos stares back, awkward and at odds with himself as to whether or not he ought to really open conversation with someone who looks so much like Buckingham. Would it bother the duke if he did? That's the real question.

Another frown.]

Are you all right?

[He's certainly fidgeting a lot.]

[starshipsail]

Am I...

[ Why ever wouldn't he be all right? George loses the last of resolve to stand straight (no pun intended) and blinks, confused in the moment before an answer occurs to him. ]

Oh! Oh, yes of course, I--

[ He hastily brushes the snow off his clothes, turning a little in an attempt to show himself uninjured. ]

I'm all right, perfectly all right, you--

[ His eyes fall on an item in the snow, one previously unmentioned, yet no less under his arm at the time he fell: A small sketchbook.

In one quick motion George picks it up and lets it disappear under his vest. ]

You're too kind to ask, Monsieur.

[ His voice falters, unable to hide how desperate he is for Monsieur to be more acceptable than his previous faux-pas. ]

[thestormcomes]

Athos will do just fine. Formalities are unnecessary here.

[Particularly in this circumstance. And how much less talkative George is than Buckingham! It's something to ponder over, really. Athos is certain he has yet to see the man smile, smugly or not.

Eyes flickering to the small booklet as George scrambles to tuck it away beneath his vest, the Musketeer straightens his posture and raises an inquisitive eyebrow.]

Was that something important?

[starshipsail]

If... you wish.

[ Oh, he is so not happy reducing the Comte to that, but it's hardly his place to object.

At least the thought doesn't linger too long. ]

Only a book I use for my sketches.

[ George fetches it as quickly as he let it disappear and offers it to Athos without hesitation. ]

I didn't mean to hide it, only I didn't deem it important to you. My mistake, perhaps. I apologise.

[thestormcomes]

[Taking the book carefully, Athos flips it open and turns the pages.

Drawings.

Lots of drawings, places and people, mostly people from his side. Understandable, given that there can't be much for a mirror-version to do but wait around. Some he can recognize, others he doesn't. Several are of him. Fairly good likenesses, as well.]

You've kept rather close watch, haven't you?

[Athos observes mildly, mostly wondering when these were drawn and why anyone would draw them in the first place. Images of him participating in his favorite pastime, drinking, another very good one of his face, sketches of a figure slumped or quietly brooding, the posture unmistakeable.

But there is something written further in the frenzied lines of the artist that implies a desire to capture as much as possible before the subject moves away. His gaze darts up from the book to meet George's eyes.]

May I have one?

[For a man who is admittedly not very vain, a portrait is something worth keeping, and a picture says a thousand words