Here's a handsome fellow who may resemble a fallen angel, clad in a heavy white winter coat, taking his morning constitutional. He calls it getting a breath of fresh air, though he seems to be muddling the matter because there's a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.
At the moment, he's gazing off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the newcomer. Or he might know he's there, but he's pretending he doesn't.
Well, isn't he pretty. Some other time Rupert might enjoy some unabashed flirting, but right now he needs information.
"Excuse me, sir." Rupert presses his hand to his own chest and takes a shaky breath. He's already dressed like a nobleman, so the image of a lost noble young man who just doesn't know how to cope with the harsh and frightening world outside his manor is an easy one to project. Besides; it's fun. "Can you tell me where I am? I seem to have lost my way."
The tall gent turns, taking the cigarette from his lips and blowing a plume of smoke and vapor into the air.
Hmmm, a shivering young man in the cold, and a pretty, well-dressed one as well: he has very good taste, if you'll pardon the pun. This could get very interesting.
"I've heard it called the Mansion, and it likely has a name of its own, but that name is known only to the powers at play here," he replies.
Oh, Rupert doesn't like that one bit. A mansion ought to have a name and a lord with titles. A man such as this--well-dressed and refined enough to be a candidate for that lord, or one of his higher-ranked servants--ought to begin an introduction by offering his own name, then the name of the manor, and the lord thereof.
The only upside to his statement is the hint about the powers at play. If there are powers at play, then Rupert may befriend them and gain power of his own from them.
"This is not Bohemia," Rupert states, and it isn't a question, not really. It does not look like Bohemia. It is not the proper season for Bohemia. The inhabitants do not possess the manners of Bohemia (nor of far more civilized Ruritania, for that matter). And there remains something off about the entire place.
Rupert looks him over, immediately concluding that the Warden is a wealthy man of ostentatious (and questionable) taste, and no true royal. He can afford Tyrian purple but has none of the carriage or mannerisms of a noble. But he evidently has some interest in clothing, both Rupert's and his own. Very well, Rupert can play along.
"What, this old thing?" Rupert flirts, dusting snow off his jacket. "The latest fashion from Strelsau."
"Rupert of Hentzau." Making a polite but cursory bow--perfectly executed, displaying only gallantry on the surface, but a trained eye (of the nobility of the 18th or 19th century) would pick up an element of mockery and elitism that he doesn't intend the Warden to notice.
"Are you a man of fashion?" he asks, direly tempted to mock him for his failings in that arena. Not everyone can be an exquisitely-dressed young man of the 19th century, but that doesn't mean Rupert won't judge them for the lack.
Rupert is hungry, although it irritates him that he might have to make his own lunch.
As he walks in, he isn't even certain this room is a kitchen, not that he's very familiar with kitchens in the first place. But that is definitely food being prepared. "Good afternoon," he says, flashing a charming smile and helping himself to half of Phoenix's sandwich.
Rupert isn't royalty, merely nobility. Disappointed by the failure to acquire food, he leans back against the counter and watches Phoenix. "Forgive me," he drawls, offering an apologetic look as though he is a perfectly decent and polite person who is simply driven half to madness by hunger and privation. "I mistook you for a kind and generous soul. Perhaps you can direct me to where one might purchase food, in a place such as this."
If he ventures into the library, in one nook, he may find a strange sight: a girl in Regency-era garb holding two good-sized carving knives with the blades at right angles to each other at arms' length, bashing the flats of the blades against each other. And there's a very focused pucker on her pretty face, thus she's not crazy, or at the least, there's a method to her madness.
No, Catherine Morland has not gone nuts, she's doing research for a book she's writing: her typist has done some things that are just as bizarre in the name of research for things she's writing.
Oh, look at that. A pretty young lady--properly dressed--and peculiarly armed.
Mad girls, Rupert can assure you, are loads of fun in bed, and he has no reason to fear a woman with a pair of knives. Poor lass is more likely to hurt herself than Rupert, even if she was trying. He's going to have to try to take those away from her--for her own good.
"Good afternoon," Rupert greets her, leaning in the doorway with a wolfish smile and openly admiring her form.
She turns to him, lowering the knives, and she'll blush, deep pink, looking down at them, utterly embarassed. "Oh... I did not know that I had had an audience," she says, sputtering a bit. "I am a writer of novels, you see, and my story needed a sword fight. I have never witnessed one and so I thought to simulate one so that I might describe the sound if not the action."
If he looks behind her, he might spy a writing desk and several scattered notebooks, quill pens, inkwells and papers.
"I see." Rupert takes a step into the room, slowly drawing the sword he wears at his belt. It's a beautiful weapon, of 19th century Ruritanian craftsmanship. "Perhaps I can help."
He offers the hilt to her. If she takes it, he might gently adjust her grip, and then step behind her with one hand on her arm and another on her waist to correct her stance, lips very close to her ear. But he is, of course, a perfect gentleman and couldn't possibly have anything on his mind other than his generous offer to educate her on topics of swordplay. "If you wish to understand a sword fight, you must always start with correct posture."
Because the typist obviously wouldn't feel right without a little virgin sacrifice every once in a while. She'll be in the main room, trying to focus on a banal romance novel.
But it just doesn't hold her attention for long...
Bored, bored, oh look a pretty girl! Very lovely, despite being an Oriental, and Rupert has never seduced an Oriental. It could be highly diverting.
Affecting a stagger as he enters, Rupert makes his way painfully to a couch and lowers himself down upon it, acting as though he is in great pain and has not even noticed the lovely young lady who he expects to leap to his assistance. Lovely young ladies always enjoy playing nurse, at least in Rupert's experience.
His typist was only disappointed she couldn't find an even more offensive period-correct term for him to use.
He has never personally seen a Japanese girl before, only some Chinamen who once performed a show of illusions and fireworks for the King in Strelsau. All he really knows on the topic is that the scientists of the day have unquestionably proven that while clever, Orientals are less intelligent, stalwart and noble than Caucasians. He's certain it's through no fault of their own, but one can't argue with science.
"Forgive me," Rupert pants, making a show of trying to be strong in order that he might not offend her delicate sensibilities with his silly pain. "An illness of the lungs, that saps my strength. I will be fine. I would not wish to impose upon such a fair young maiden."
(I feel like 90% of Rupert's tags need an 'I AM SO SORRY' modifier attached.)
Comments 232
At the moment, he's gazing off into the distance, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the newcomer. Or he might know he's there, but he's pretending he doesn't.
Reply
"Excuse me, sir." Rupert presses his hand to his own chest and takes a shaky breath. He's already dressed like a nobleman, so the image of a lost noble young man who just doesn't know how to cope with the harsh and frightening world outside his manor is an easy one to project. Besides; it's fun. "Can you tell me where I am? I seem to have lost my way."
Reply
Hmmm, a shivering young man in the cold, and a pretty, well-dressed one as well: he has very good taste, if you'll pardon the pun. This could get very interesting.
"I've heard it called the Mansion, and it likely has a name of its own, but that name is known only to the powers at play here," he replies.
Reply
The only upside to his statement is the hint about the powers at play. If there are powers at play, then Rupert may befriend them and gain power of his own from them.
"This is not Bohemia," Rupert states, and it isn't a question, not really. It does not look like Bohemia. It is not the proper season for Bohemia. The inhabitants do not possess the manners of Bohemia (nor of far more civilized Ruritania, for that matter). And there remains something off about the entire place.
Reply
Warden never did anything half, especially in the clothing department. He spots Rupert, notices his fine royal garb.
"Hmmmm. Nice but not suited for the elements."
Reply
"What, this old thing?" Rupert flirts, dusting snow off his jacket. "The latest fashion from Strelsau."
Reply
That's what makes it so great.
"Very nice..." Warden notes. "Pardon my manners..." He takes off his hat and bows.
"I am the The Warden..." Yes, that is actually his name.
Reply
"Are you a man of fashion?" he asks, direly tempted to mock him for his failings in that arena. Not everyone can be an exquisitely-dressed young man of the 19th century, but that doesn't mean Rupert won't judge them for the lack.
Reply
He's not drop-dead handsome, but he is charming in low-key way.
Reply
As he walks in, he isn't even certain this room is a kitchen, not that he's very familiar with kitchens in the first place. But that is definitely food being prepared. "Good afternoon," he says, flashing a charming smile and helping himself to half of Phoenix's sandwich.
Reply
"Hey, that was mine!"
Rupert better learn that in this place, there's no servants here. Even if you're royalty.
Reply
Reply
No, Catherine Morland has not gone nuts, she's doing research for a book she's writing: her typist has done some things that are just as bizarre in the name of research for things she's writing.
Reply
Mad girls, Rupert can assure you, are loads of fun in bed, and he has no reason to fear a woman with a pair of knives. Poor lass is more likely to hurt herself than Rupert, even if she was trying. He's going to have to try to take those away from her--for her own good.
"Good afternoon," Rupert greets her, leaning in the doorway with a wolfish smile and openly admiring her form.
Reply
If he looks behind her, he might spy a writing desk and several scattered notebooks, quill pens, inkwells and papers.
Reply
He offers the hilt to her. If she takes it, he might gently adjust her grip, and then step behind her with one hand on her arm and another on her waist to correct her stance, lips very close to her ear. But he is, of course, a perfect gentleman and couldn't possibly have anything on his mind other than his generous offer to educate her on topics of swordplay. "If you wish to understand a sword fight, you must always start with correct posture."
Reply
But it just doesn't hold her attention for long...
Reply
Affecting a stagger as he enters, Rupert makes his way painfully to a couch and lowers himself down upon it, acting as though he is in great pain and has not even noticed the lovely young lady who he expects to leap to his assistance. Lovely young ladies always enjoy playing nurse, at least in Rupert's experience.
Reply
And it works, Yukio puts down her book and goes toward the ailing man.
"Are you fine? Is there anything you need at all?"
Reply
He has never personally seen a Japanese girl before, only some Chinamen who once performed a show of illusions and fireworks for the King in Strelsau. All he really knows on the topic is that the scientists of the day have unquestionably proven that while clever, Orientals are less intelligent, stalwart and noble than Caucasians. He's certain it's through no fault of their own, but one can't argue with science.
"Forgive me," Rupert pants, making a show of trying to be strong in order that he might not offend her delicate sensibilities with his silly pain. "An illness of the lungs, that saps my strength. I will be fine. I would not wish to impose upon such a fair young maiden."
(I feel like 90% of Rupert's tags need an 'I AM SO SORRY' modifier attached.)
Reply
Leave a comment