Always keep a spare clean handkerchief. Balthier mops himself up. He throws the monographed cotton over his shoulder.
Balthier likes this hotel. He almost always stays here. It's very Art Nouveau, constructed in that time far in America's history when Chicago and New York fought over the skies. He's always had a fondness for naturalistic art, and finds it amusing the movement that thought to turn industrially produced skyscrapers into handcrafted shafts of individualist ego. The maid has seen far worse on the carpet. He's more worried about what he's done to his pants, handkerchief rescue strategy aside. The drycleaners here are murderous little thugs, and thieves besides. Slack immigration policies have a lot to answer for.
Balthier sets his phone next to the laptop. He still remembers needing cables. Not now. Ties that bind. He ignores the exchange for the moment and all the warning bells ringing in the back of his mind. The last time he felt like this -- yes, possibly back when he was sixteen. He supposes that says something about maturity, and how much of it he's earned.
Balthier opens the recording of the conversation and hits play.
He rocks back in his chair and smiles at the elaborate cornices. Rufus's moans should be set to music. Something classical. Something portentous. Balthier does not think about the plummeting red line.
Recording uploaded, Balthier picks up the phone and makes a call. Americans make the best use of paparazzi for publicity, but the British are not so far behind.
Balthier wonders, on this current market, how much Rufus values his pride at.
Re: *cackles* I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M DOING, BY THE WAY
Balthier likes this hotel. He almost always stays here. It's very Art Nouveau, constructed in that time far in America's history when Chicago and New York fought over the skies. He's always had a fondness for naturalistic art, and finds it amusing the movement that thought to turn industrially produced skyscrapers into handcrafted shafts of individualist ego. The maid has seen far worse on the carpet. He's more worried about what he's done to his pants, handkerchief rescue strategy aside. The drycleaners here are murderous little thugs, and thieves besides. Slack immigration policies have a lot to answer for.
Balthier sets his phone next to the laptop. He still remembers needing cables. Not now. Ties that bind. He ignores the exchange for the moment and all the warning bells ringing in the back of his mind. The last time he felt like this -- yes, possibly back when he was sixteen. He supposes that says something about maturity, and how much of it he's earned.
Balthier opens the recording of the conversation and hits play.
He rocks back in his chair and smiles at the elaborate cornices. Rufus's moans should be set to music. Something classical. Something portentous. Balthier does not think about the plummeting red line.
Recording uploaded, Balthier picks up the phone and makes a call. Americans make the best use of paparazzi for publicity, but the British are not so far behind.
Balthier wonders, on this current market, how much Rufus values his pride at.