He didn't state an opinion, but Arthur just smiles quietly.
"You owe no explanation to me ol' chap!" Arthur busies himself with looking for coffee, and more importantly, the source of the blood and the rest. There are infinite potatoes in this kitchen. And are those American hot dogs? Bizarre. "But maybe one to Max. Try writing him a letter. If the humans and others," because this ship has all sorts of fantastical creatures on board! "Are getting in your way specifically, they can't stop a letter."
Okay, now his inner asshole is showing. "Of course if you're illiterate, you might need to send a courier instead." He knows the vampire isn't illiterate. Not that he'd care terribly if he was, Jean d'Arc is, but the only reason Arthur isn't helping him is because the Frenchman wouldn't want Arthur's help. But usually vampires can't get away with anything less than the highest aristocratic values. Comte's 'children' were an exception, hardly the rule. "Terribly romantic." His outer asshole is showing an obscene level now. "Like Cyrano de Bergerac." Wait. 1897, what year is it again? He reflexively goes to check his dates mentally before remembering, he's not in Paris, this is fine. "A trusted courier conveying well wishes of ownership," it's a wonder that the missing sarcasm is so loud in its unvoiced subtext, "Just make sure they aren't prettier or it will end up so very Twelfth Night." Ew. Stupid Elizabethan rotter, he shouldn't have mentioned him. Forget Shakespeare.
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"You owe no explanation to me ol' chap!" Arthur busies himself with looking for coffee, and more importantly, the source of the blood and the rest. There are infinite potatoes in this kitchen. And are those American hot dogs? Bizarre. "But maybe one to Max. Try writing him a letter. If the humans and others," because this ship has all sorts of fantastical creatures on board! "Are getting in your way specifically, they can't stop a letter."
Okay, now his inner asshole is showing. "Of course if you're illiterate, you might need to send a courier instead." He knows the vampire isn't illiterate. Not that he'd care terribly if he was, Jean d'Arc is, but the only reason Arthur isn't helping him is because the Frenchman wouldn't want Arthur's help. But usually vampires can't get away with anything less than the highest aristocratic values. Comte's 'children' were an exception, hardly the rule. "Terribly romantic." His outer asshole is showing an obscene level now. "Like Cyrano de Bergerac." Wait. 1897, what year is it again? He reflexively goes to check his dates mentally before remembering, he's not in Paris, this is fine. "A trusted courier conveying well wishes of ownership," it's a wonder that the missing sarcasm is so loud in its unvoiced subtext, "Just make sure they aren't prettier or it will end up so very Twelfth Night." Ew. Stupid Elizabethan rotter, he shouldn't have mentioned him. Forget Shakespeare.