Bertram Wilberforce Wooster is what one might call a man on a mission. A preaux chevalier kitted up to the proverbial teeth and ready to wield sword and spear to more than usually devastating effect-- if said p. c.'s armour consisted of a particularly natty pair of spongebags and an acidic yellow cravat looped 'round the throat in place of his
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Charlotte La Bouff either never got this memo, or has simply chosen to forget it, because at this very moment she is walking down the road with her nose in a book. Snow White, to be exact. She's read it before, of course (or at least has in her backstory, which counts as much as anything) but fairy tales never get old, as far as she's concerned. However, because she's reading while walking, she doesn't notice Bertie until the last moment, and only just manages to not crash into him.
"Oh, 'scuse me, sorry sugar, I didn't see you there."
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When he collects himself, though, he knuckles the brim of his hat like a gentleman, giving her a quite genuine smile. Whatever sort of a funk he'd been in earlier, a Wooster is always pleased to see a chum.
'What ho, Miss Lottie! Think nothing of it. I, too, was embroiled in the realms internal rather than the ground under the old podalic appendages.' He gives a genial tap to the paving stones with his walking stick. 'Taking the air with an improving book, eh? Jolly good.'
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Some of the inhabitants of the old L. of F. find it the rummiest thing imaginable, being of a fictional nature and still having access to the pages they sprang from, but Bertie's mostly unmoved by the whole thing. He'd always been in the habit of jotting down his adventures for posterity, anyway; it's hardly any different from that. And somebody must read them, out there in the real world, otherwise he should hardly be here in the first place.
And speaking of...
He sneaks a quick glim 'round, before leaning in with a conspiratorial air. 'I say, have you heard the rumours that've been sneaking around the place?'
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He quickly decided on a course of action. He was heading for the Diogenes Club. Blissful silence was a fair trade off for the distinct possibility that someone would be murdered and some twat with a pipe would swan in and figure out who'd done it. There also could be hard drugs available. God bless the Victorians.
With his intentions clear in his mind, he stalks down the street, not pausing as he digs a crumpled fag from his pocket. It's as he's searching for a pack of matches that he bumps into a man walking in the opposite direction.
"Watch it, will you?"
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