[The kind of man who finds it important to dress well is almost certainly the same kind of man who curates his image in what likeness he pleases. What he presents to others is meticulously chosen. Nikolai understands all too well the drive to impress. Being the second born son was already a fetter, and being purportedly illegitimate at that was more weight he had needed to shed.
He hears the splash of water as Damian slips into the water and sinks lower. From the corner of his eye he catches the litany of scars scattered over the man's skin — which is not what he had expected to find beneath that pristine white suit. He cannot help but wonder how such a gruesome tapestry came to be, but has little time to contemplate this further before a hand is offered to him.
The social circles he runs in tend not to be of the handshaking sort. A kiss brushed to the knuckles, a bow, a moi tsar, are more often aimed his way. But he had spent plenty of time in Ketterdam too, a city full of deal-makers. (Although, this is certainly the first time he's been naked during all this.) He returns the shake with a politely firm grip.]
Nikolai Lanstov. A pleasure. I can't recall the last time I made an acquaintance while in the bath.
[How rarely he has to introduce himself, too. So many new experiences in one day...
Underneath the grin, he remains, of course, uncomfortably conscious of his hand and the scars it bears. Each fingertip is seamed with a dark ridge of damaged tissue, as if something had split them open. The veins show nearly black through the skin, a stain which seeps down his wrists. The handshake is brief, and his hand drops back into the water at once.]
no subject
He hears the splash of water as Damian slips into the water and sinks lower. From the corner of his eye he catches the litany of scars scattered over the man's skin — which is not what he had expected to find beneath that pristine white suit. He cannot help but wonder how such a gruesome tapestry came to be, but has little time to contemplate this further before a hand is offered to him.
The social circles he runs in tend not to be of the handshaking sort. A kiss brushed to the knuckles, a bow, a moi tsar, are more often aimed his way. But he had spent plenty of time in Ketterdam too, a city full of deal-makers. (Although, this is certainly the first time he's been naked during all this.) He returns the shake with a politely firm grip.]
Nikolai Lanstov. A pleasure. I can't recall the last time I made an acquaintance while in the bath.
[How rarely he has to introduce himself, too. So many new experiences in one day...
Underneath the grin, he remains, of course, uncomfortably conscious of his hand and the scars it bears. Each fingertip is seamed with a dark ridge of damaged tissue, as if something had split them open. The veins show nearly black through the skin, a stain which seeps down his wrists. The handshake is brief, and his hand drops back into the water at once.]