Much Ado About Two-Ply
Every great hero, Clayton had decided, was eventually called upon to bear a burden beneath his station. Today, that burden came in packs of twelve, quilted for comfort. He did not consider himself a 'fetcher of things'. At home there were staff, and if all else failed, he could always manipulate Gyle to showcase his virtues and do the task for him. Yes, what a poor, helpless younger sibling he was; he'd muse at times with hidden glee.
But now, in this wasteland of castle grounds and ministerial cabins, people considered it a good life lesson to have the kids look out for their own supplies. He had really tried to hype himself up when he drew the proverbial shorter stick. He considered that many of the greats had gone on quests for lesser causes; he was certain of it. Admittedly, he could not think of any in that moment.
So he dressed himself accordingly. A simple billowing white shirt and a pair of brown corduroy pants tucked into two curl-toed boots. He considered it his agricultural attire. Not that he had ever spent even one second of his life digging his fingers in the mud. It was simply what he wore when he was playing the part of the ordinary medieval citizen, the common man, as they say. Usually, this was around the times when Gyle wanted to play along but still play the authority within the scene. Though he did not know if he ought to consider his current companion playing the role of authority in this scene.
At his side stalked Declan Blackwell, with all the enthusiasm of a pallbearer who had just learned the coffin was his. If Clay was to be the gallant hero of this particular tale, then Declan appeared determined to play the approaching storm cloud. "So..." Clay finally broke the silence. "Are you always this cheerful, or am I getting special treatment?" His face broke open with a confident grin.
Much Ado About Two-Ply
@Clayton Lamont
The necessities of man; how cumbersome.
More specifically in this case, he rued the human need to ‘go,’ as it were, and the further complications that came with it. To even greater specification, he was not pleased to be here, yet again plodding through the sun en route to retrieving toilet paper for his cabin. Were two people truly essential for such a task? Surely the fair-haired stooge at his side could manage a few rolls on his lonesome, or perhaps his clone would have been a better match to accompany him. In theory, one mind operating two separate bodies would derive greater efficiency, would it not?
Truthfully, he knew next to nothing about the blonde with whom he’d been assigned to share this stroll, nor the other who used his face. One thing that could not be denied was that they, in all their glory, were Lamonts. Despite Declan’s best efforts, even he had been unable to avoid learning that much. Their method of ensuring that knowledge spread was reminiscent of a tutor he’d once had, who preferred to pound core principals into his head, like a nail under the blunt force of a hammer — driven deeper, again and again…
He rather thought he’d kill the boy if he heard the name once more today, especially now. The heat wasn’t especially helpful for his cheerful mood.
As the half-blood had predicted, little time passed before the Lamont opened his mouth, though not for the purpose of again proclaiming his heritage; not yet, anyway.
Declan spared half a glance toward the toothy grin that curled the boy’s tone, his own gaze concealed by sunglasses, as ever. He suspected the blonde’s jovial nature as nothing more than a presentation, a show for the benefit of whomever needed to like or respect him in the moment. Then again, he had no proof of such a thing, save for his own skepticism and the corruption of human nature. It wasn’t as though Lamont here would be the only one with secrets to hide, and besides, he wouldn’t have liked him either way.
”You bring out the best in me,” Declan replied, the words dry enough to wither.
As per usual, the dhampir’s attire contradicted general summer norms. Long pants and his signature black sweatshirt shielded his skin from burning, hood obscuring as much of his face as possible. He hadn’t volunteered to be here; far from it. Rather, he’d been all but dragged from his room — like a bat from its cave — and sent on this bedeviled errand. He might have resisted the matter more, but for a desire to lay low for the remainder of camp. Reparations had to be made toward that effort after his initial entrance.
”You don’t want to be doing this,” he was reasonably certain, ”I don’t want to be doing this. Let’s not make it worse with unwanted conversation.” Kindly shut up. Tact never had been a virtue he strove for.
Much Ado About Two-Ply
"Oh, good." He nodded. "I was worried this might get awkward."
Looking away from Declan, Clay raised both eyebrows in annoyance and let out a sigh of feigned relief. This guy was making this trek feel way longer than it needed to be. What was wrong with a little back-and-forth improv to warm up the scene? "Fine by me." He relented. "We can walk in complete companionable silence." He waved his hand about as if to say it was nothing to him.
Sadly, Clayton managed perhaps three steps. "Are the sunglasses and cowl part of that arrangement, or can I ask about those?"
He did not exactly understand what his cabin co-habitant was going for. Dark and broody was all fine and dandy. But Declan looked like someone had told him sunlight was optional and he'd taken it personally. Clayton literally couldn't fathom how this kid had enough black fabric on him to curtain a small stage.
Clay could not help but wonder what his mother would have to say about his attire. Then again, perhaps she would have encouraged him to follow suit. It would please her to see her imminent successor hide their shared gift. Another mother would have been proud; his grew only more and more jealous. Without intention or warning, Clayton's hair began to flow into an almost mocking pitch-black. As if his head had been soaked in a bucket of ink. It looked wet and greasy, sticking to his sweaty brow.
"I brought a few spare robes, you know. If you're not allergic to colours." Clayton joked, thinking to himself how Declan seemed to have taken one look at a colour wheel and rejected the entire premise. He sized him up and realized Declan was for sure taller. "Maybe they'd work as a vest or something."