Out of Otherways
George has just come from a mindless evening wasted at court - forcing himself to stay in his assumed character for hours on end - playing the pretty young fop, the empty headed young lord for the ladies. Hours where he had to dance with chattering, gossiping young women, paying empty compliments and kissing hands, at last he can retire to his rooms. He shuts the door behind him, and finally away from prying eyes and ears, he lets the phony, hated identity drop, throws himself down on the plush bed, and lies on his back staring up at the ceiling.
'You know, you're really just annoyed that Alanna wasn't there tonight.' his subconscious whispers to him, which he considers adding a scathing retort, before discarding the idea as an exercise in futility. To distract himself, he sets about undoing the lacings on his dress shirt, pulling first the over shirt, followed by the undershirt over his head. He flops back down on the bed, and stifles a curse of vexation when there is a knock on the door.
"Yes?" he calls.
'You know, you're really just annoyed that Alanna wasn't there tonight.' his subconscious whispers to him, which he considers adding a scathing retort, before discarding the idea as an exercise in futility. To distract himself, he sets about undoing the lacings on his dress shirt, pulling first the over shirt, followed by the undershirt over his head. He flops back down on the bed, and stifles a curse of vexation when there is a knock on the door.
"Yes?" he calls.