Well. It had been a long time since /that/ happened.
Back in Asil 9, the hallway in the manor had been known to act strangely, which was to say deposit Henri or any one of his courtiers in places besides the expected; sometimes space stations and sometimes fantastical bars and sometimes the homes of other people in other times who may or may not have been surprised to see a bunch of well-dressed courtiers come moseying through their sitting rooms.
The beach house was a new one as far as Henri knew at the moment. Nevermind that his villa had not contained any portals or rips in spacetime as far as he knew before that moment, but he would have remembered anything near a beach. And well, he did, but that had been more of a palace and had a staff of talking snails. At the moment, he didn't even see one regular snail.
Henri shakily combed his hair back so the breeze wouldn't tangle it into his face. It took him two tries, but he did get it fastened.
He had expected he would live out his days without seeing the seashore again. If he had meant to attend meetings in town that afternoon, well, someone would excuse him. He would not let this chance pass him by sans enjoyment.
Perhaps there was a beach chair he could, ahem, borrow? But, creaking knees be damned, he resolved to at least have one little stroll along the surf.
(OOC: Henri has a form of atypical Parkinson's. While he prefers the ladies, he is an equal opportunity flirt.)
Henri Duclos
Back in Asil 9, the hallway in the manor had been known to act strangely, which was to say deposit Henri or any one of his courtiers in places besides the expected; sometimes space stations and sometimes fantastical bars and sometimes the homes of other people in other times who may or may not have been surprised to see a bunch of well-dressed courtiers come moseying through their sitting rooms.
The beach house was a new one as far as Henri knew at the moment. Nevermind that his villa had not contained any portals or rips in spacetime as far as he knew before that moment, but he would have remembered anything near a beach. And well, he did, but that had been more of a palace and had a staff of talking snails. At the moment, he didn't even see one regular snail.
Henri shakily combed his hair back so the breeze wouldn't tangle it into his face. It took him two tries, but he did get it fastened.
He had expected he would live out his days without seeing the seashore again. If he had meant to attend meetings in town that afternoon, well, someone would excuse him. He would not let this chance pass him by sans enjoyment.
Perhaps there was a beach chair he could, ahem, borrow? But, creaking knees be damned, he resolved to at least have one little stroll along the surf.
(OOC: Henri has a form of atypical Parkinson's. While he prefers the ladies, he is an equal opportunity flirt.)