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[sup]ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ: ᴀʏʟᴇᴀɴɴᴀ [@ayzrules], ᴊᴏʜɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ [@shylarah][/sup][/center]
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[indent][indent][indent]Growing up, his father often said that he was he was a monster wearing a boy’s skin — a [i]changeling[/i].

But when it came to his youngest, the King of Argenyonne did always have a flair for the dramatic.

As a child, Dirk would often hear his father mutter disparaging remarks about him under his breath, saying things about how much he took after his mother, about how having him was a [i]mistake[/i]. At first, the young prince was perplexed. How could a [i]person[/i] be a mistake? And didn’t all fathers love their children? Dirk knew the man was capable of warmth. After all, he saw how happy the King looked whenever he was around Prince Moritz, Nicolas, Julius, and Princess Claudia. None of that kindness, however, ever extended to him. Rather than treating him like a son, King Andreas only saw Dirk as an inconvenience.

Even so, Dirk would often try to impress the King, to show him that he was just as worthy of love as the rest of his siblings. But it seemed that matter what he did, it was never good enough — [i]he[/i] was never good enough. And every little mistake he made was magnified tenfold under the scrutiny of his father. But as the years passed, Dirk’s desperation to please turned into apathy. If the King was content to act as if he didn’t exist, then there was no point in keeping up the charade, was there?

And so, the already precocious Dirk became a hellraiser. Gone were the days of stiff-collared shirts and delicate ballads on his favourite pianoforte. Instead, what replaced them were guitar solos loud enough to thunder through the entirety of Tjällhofte Castle’s residential wing, and all the way up to the heavens. Dirk also became known for his [i]outrageous[/i] disregard for the standard dressing conventions of Argenyonne. Over the course of a year, he allowed his hair to grow long, far longer than a [i]proper gentleman’s[/i] had any business being. Much like his mother, he had thick, dark hair that began to curl past a certain length.

It was also around this time that Dirk began to cultivate his own style of dress. He’d always hated the shirts, vests, and jackets he’d been made to wear — all of them in grey, white, or navy. Imagine that! An entire closet full of the same, boring thing, and it was a very large closet indeed.

Now, much of it has been usurped by pieces that were a little more… unorthodox. It’s no secret that the youngest Prince of Argenyonne had a soft spot for anything silken, embroidered, or both at the same time.

Which was why Dirk found himself rather puzzled by the expression his valet was making. Was it confusion? No, perhaps [i]mortification[/i] would be a better word to describe the goggling, slack-jawed look that the man’s face appeared to be frozen in.

[b][i]“Your Highness…! I beg your understanding, but you simply cannot wear [i]that[/i] to the ball!”[/i][/b]

[color=C1D6C8][b][i]“Why? What’s wrong with it?” Dirk asks simply, without looking away from his reflection in the mirror.[/i][/b][/color]

The young prince was clad in a loose, silk shirt of pearlescent white, unbuttoned [i]just enough[/i] to show off his collarbone, and the thin, silver chain hanging around his neck. The front of the shirt was casually half-tucked waistband of his trousers, which was a gift from one of the most sought-after designers of Argenyonne (who also happened to be a relative on his mother’s side). Made from the finest Borsian cotton, it was dyed a pale, dusty pink, and cut off right above the ankles.

Over his shoulders was a billowing, grey greatcoat, cut from lighter material than your usual fare; and as Dirk does a spin in front of the mirror, the layers of chiffon on the hem flutters in the breeze. The coat is just a little too big for him – he has to keep shrugging his shoulders to keep it from slipping – but the entire ensemble seemed to give him the appearance of a rakish [i]boulevardier[/i], or perhaps a pirate that was [i]exceptionally[/i] fashionable. His feet, however, were still bare. No point stomping about in his boots when he hasn’t even decided what to wear yet, right?

[b][i]“It’s a little…”[/i][/b] The valet’s voice trails off, hands anxiously clasping and unclasping as he frets over how to speak without offending. In the end, he settles for a suggestion, rather than criticism. [b][i]“Why don’t we try something a little more [i]conventional[/i]?”[/i][/b]

At the mere mention of conventional, Dirk almost seems [i]offended[/i]. Deciding to take a break from preening in the mirror, he pads towards his valet, steps rendered soundless by the plush carpet.

[color=C1D6C8][b][i]“Klaus,”[/i][/b][/color] he begins, voice tinged with the stern, somber gravity that his father often spoke with. It was a useful skill to have when it came to dealing with household staff. [color=C1D6C8][b][i]“You [i]must[/i] know the importance of making a strong first impression.”[/i][/b][/color]

[b][i]“Well, yes but—”[/i][/b]

[color=C1D6C8][b][i]“I know, I know. It wouldn’t do to have a prince making a fool himself in front of hundreds, would it?”[/i][/b][/color] Once, twice, Dirk nods in understanding. Then, he all but dances away, swinging open the door to the walk-in closet, and spins around to face his valet once again. [color=C1D6C8][b][i]“But these are just clothes, man. Worst case scenario: they’ll be talking about how Prince Diederik dresses like a charlatan who swindles poor, innocent heiresses out of their inheritance.”[/i][/b][/color]

For a moment, Klaus is speechless, but that was sort of the norm for him. It was then that Dirk seized his change to fling a linen cloak over Klaus’ head, which earns him yet another strangled [i]‘Your Highness!’[/i] from the valet as he struggled to free himself. Dirk just laughs, grabs his favorite pair of boots, and starts pulling them on.

[color=C1D6C8][b][i]“Lighten up, Klaus. No time to waste!”[/i][/b][/color]

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The trip to the ballroom is uneventful. After all, there wasn’t much mischief he could get up to flanked by not one, not two, but [i]four[/i] bodyguards. All of them were dressed in identical black suits, and really, they had to weigh at least a ton between them. Once or twice, Dirk had tried to make them laugh by cracking a joke about how they all looked exactly the same, but he might as well have been talking to a brick wall.

It’s a welcome relief when they made it to their destination, mostly because of how three of his bodyguards – along with Klaus – were made to remain outside. Dirk would’ve gladly flung himself from the third-floor balcony if he had them following him around all day. Still, he’s a little caught off guard when the herald announced his arrival. Was he supposed to bow, curtsey, do a little dance? Due to Dirk being fifth in line to inherit the throne, his teachers had been exceptionally lax when it came to lessons on etiquette. And right now, as he was being put on the spot, he almost regretted not paying more attention to their teachings

But at the sight of Princess Ayleanna, instinct takes over, and Dirk sinks into a bow that was only slightly off-balance. There’s a radiant smile on his face when he straightens once again, reaching up to push a few stray locks out of his face. The beaded bracelets around his wrists made a jangling sort of noise whenever he gestured.

[color=C1D6C8][b]“It’s great to be here, Princess. You look dazzling this afternoon.”[/b][/color] Dirk’s accent is a strange mixture of Argenweise, Borsian, and a touch of something else that was difficult to place. Aciran, maybe? He has, after all, picked up most of the local dialect from watching Aciran-produced movies. Dirk couldn’t help but feel that the subjects they broached were often more practical than things like: [i]I would like to know where the nearest zoo is[/i].

With another, better-practiced bow, he takes his leave of Princess Lea. It’s an easy matter to lose his bodyguard in the crowd, ducking and weaving like he does; and eventually, Dirk finds himself standing next to someone with real, honest-to-goodness blue hair. For a second or two, he mentally rifles through the names and faces he’d been made to memorise before he came here, though his efforts soon come to naught. Whoever this was, they weren’t royalty, and that was perfect by him.

[color=C1D6C8][b]“Mind if I have one?”[/b][/color] Dirk asks, and plucks a glass of champagne from the tray the man was holding. He eyes him curiously, head tilting to the side like an inquisitive cat, before the corners of his mouth quirk up in the beginnings of a smile. [color=C1D6C8][b]“I like your hair. It’s sick.”[/b][/color][/indent][/indent][/indent]
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