- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- I love vampire role-plays. I like sci-fi with a distopian plot. I like yaoi quite well, but I do het pairings just as often. A touch of romance is good but I prefer romantic comedy to straight romance.
Maximilien sat down on the chair stiffly. He was used to being instructed by the artist to sit or stand in whatever manner most suited them. He'd never met one so blasé about their sitter's pose. Had she no vision or was she a careless genius? The answer to that question would not inform him on how to pose, however.
It would have to be something comfortable, he supposed, if he was to be in that position for hours on end. This was why he opposed sitting for portraits where possible. It was such a waste of time when better things could be done. He finally settled for crossing his legs. It would have been quite natural to place his hat on his knee but…where was his hat? It seemed to have gotten lost in the confusion of events. Perhaps it was just forgotten in the other room or perhaps it was much further away, left in the room where his friends could find him and to which his sister sent letters. Would he ever return? In the absence of his hat, he folded his hands somberly in his lap.
Then the woman set about adjusting the lamps. She had remarkable control over the position and strength of her lamps, creating the precise atmosphere she desired. He knew several artist friends who would sacrifice cherished limbs for such a level of control. Perhaps she was a genius who happened to be careless after all.
When she had fixed the light in the room to her exact vision, she admonished him to "hold still" and stepped away. She placed her device on a tripod and stood behind it. After several moments of silence, she informed him that there would be a click and instructed him to look at the circular glass plate in the front of the device. It was an ominous black, like a glossy abyss in which he could vaguely see himself reflected. Despite his trepidation, Maximilien focused on the plate and there was indeed a soft clicking noise and another.
"Annnnnd....done. At least, your part is, for now." The woman straightened and smiled. Finished? They were finished? How was this possible? And yet the woman stepped away from the tripod and approached a desk, not quite trusting him enough to turn her back on him completely. She opened what Maximilien at first took for a thin volume only to discover that it was not a book but another device rather like the brick-weapon. Shapes appeared on the brightly glowing screen but Maximilien could not make them out clearly.
Maximilien stood and approached the woman and her mysterious machine. He kept himself a little apart from her to not disturb her work, standing comfortably at attention with his hands folded behind his back.
"Wanna see?" the woman asked.
Maximilien had to admit that he was curious what sort of portrait could be taken in a matter of seconds. He took his glasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket and carefully threaded them through the strands of his peruke. His eyes looked very large and very green behind the lenses. He stepped forward to observe the image, then immediately recoiled.
"Mon Dieu," he gasped.
There was his image as clear and stark as if he were looking into a mirror frozen at a moment in the past. Every detail that a generous artist might soften was revealed—every hair out of place, every tiny scar, every worn-out patch in his garments. It was a humiliating testament to his mediocrity as a human figure. He wished he could request for these portraits to be destroyed but this was the price for the woman's help. So, he said nothing about the portrait.
Gently, he tugged at his glasses and disentangled them from the hairs of his peruke without mussing it. He folded them and returned them to his jacket pocket. "Now that the portrait has been taken," he said, "will you help me, Mademoiselle?"
It would have to be something comfortable, he supposed, if he was to be in that position for hours on end. This was why he opposed sitting for portraits where possible. It was such a waste of time when better things could be done. He finally settled for crossing his legs. It would have been quite natural to place his hat on his knee but…where was his hat? It seemed to have gotten lost in the confusion of events. Perhaps it was just forgotten in the other room or perhaps it was much further away, left in the room where his friends could find him and to which his sister sent letters. Would he ever return? In the absence of his hat, he folded his hands somberly in his lap.
Then the woman set about adjusting the lamps. She had remarkable control over the position and strength of her lamps, creating the precise atmosphere she desired. He knew several artist friends who would sacrifice cherished limbs for such a level of control. Perhaps she was a genius who happened to be careless after all.
When she had fixed the light in the room to her exact vision, she admonished him to "hold still" and stepped away. She placed her device on a tripod and stood behind it. After several moments of silence, she informed him that there would be a click and instructed him to look at the circular glass plate in the front of the device. It was an ominous black, like a glossy abyss in which he could vaguely see himself reflected. Despite his trepidation, Maximilien focused on the plate and there was indeed a soft clicking noise and another.
"Annnnnd....done. At least, your part is, for now." The woman straightened and smiled. Finished? They were finished? How was this possible? And yet the woman stepped away from the tripod and approached a desk, not quite trusting him enough to turn her back on him completely. She opened what Maximilien at first took for a thin volume only to discover that it was not a book but another device rather like the brick-weapon. Shapes appeared on the brightly glowing screen but Maximilien could not make them out clearly.
Maximilien stood and approached the woman and her mysterious machine. He kept himself a little apart from her to not disturb her work, standing comfortably at attention with his hands folded behind his back.
"Wanna see?" the woman asked.
Maximilien had to admit that he was curious what sort of portrait could be taken in a matter of seconds. He took his glasses out of the breast pocket of his jacket and carefully threaded them through the strands of his peruke. His eyes looked very large and very green behind the lenses. He stepped forward to observe the image, then immediately recoiled.
"Mon Dieu," he gasped.
There was his image as clear and stark as if he were looking into a mirror frozen at a moment in the past. Every detail that a generous artist might soften was revealed—every hair out of place, every tiny scar, every worn-out patch in his garments. It was a humiliating testament to his mediocrity as a human figure. He wished he could request for these portraits to be destroyed but this was the price for the woman's help. So, he said nothing about the portrait.
Gently, he tugged at his glasses and disentangled them from the hairs of his peruke without mussing it. He folded them and returned them to his jacket pocket. "Now that the portrait has been taken," he said, "will you help me, Mademoiselle?"