Gilbert could see the thoughts running around like a small rodent in her head. Even behind a mask the woman’s eyes were miraculously expressive, characteristic of intelligence marred by… a feeling he got from her. There was still some air of madness however, and it pulled him closer a step.
Her words, for all their bravado, were odd on his ear. The last time he’d heard this accent was closer to the 1850s… maybe? In a part of the Netherlands, no… was it a Duchy by then? Ugh, Gilbert had long since stopped keeping Europe’s dynasties straight. They never lasted long enough for it to matter anyway. Silly humans and their silly thrones. The point was— she wasn’t Prussian, that much was evident. An interesting tidbit, however useless.
Lips curling up into a bit of a grin, Gilbert resisted the urge to flash pointed canines under his mask at the woman. The room was dimly lit enough that she might not see him for what he was, but he wasn’t willing to risk it yet. He liked to play with his meals before they expired. (Even if he wasn’t particularly hungry at the moment. It had been a long time since Gilbert had thrown up from overindulgence and he’d happily like to keep it that way.) “I’m built into the property’s... security, you might say,” he hummed evasively. “It’s my job to ensure wayward souls don’t wander into areas that are off limits to guests.” And it was true, technically. All paths here were his paths. He was, for all intents and purposes, both Lord Westenra and an anonymous bodyguard in one.
“So I’ll ask again, schmetterling,” he took another step closer to the woman. “Have you lost something I can help you find? Or shall I escort you back to the ballroom?” This time there was no restraint in the grin Gilbert flashed her. Pointed canines gleamed under the dull chandelier (that really needed to be dusted, duly noted). He proffered the woman his arm, calmly, and inclined his head towards the door.
Her words, for all their bravado, were odd on his ear. The last time he’d heard this accent was closer to the 1850s… maybe? In a part of the Netherlands, no… was it a Duchy by then? Ugh, Gilbert had long since stopped keeping Europe’s dynasties straight. They never lasted long enough for it to matter anyway. Silly humans and their silly thrones. The point was— she wasn’t Prussian, that much was evident. An interesting tidbit, however useless.
Lips curling up into a bit of a grin, Gilbert resisted the urge to flash pointed canines under his mask at the woman. The room was dimly lit enough that she might not see him for what he was, but he wasn’t willing to risk it yet. He liked to play with his meals before they expired. (Even if he wasn’t particularly hungry at the moment. It had been a long time since Gilbert had thrown up from overindulgence and he’d happily like to keep it that way.) “I’m built into the property’s... security, you might say,” he hummed evasively. “It’s my job to ensure wayward souls don’t wander into areas that are off limits to guests.” And it was true, technically. All paths here were his paths. He was, for all intents and purposes, both Lord Westenra and an anonymous bodyguard in one.
“So I’ll ask again, schmetterling,” he took another step closer to the woman. “Have you lost something I can help you find? Or shall I escort you back to the ballroom?” This time there was no restraint in the grin Gilbert flashed her. Pointed canines gleamed under the dull chandelier (that really needed to be dusted, duly noted). He proffered the woman his arm, calmly, and inclined his head towards the door.