Henry Knight
Don't contaminate my tomorrow with today!
Wed Sep 17, 2014 16:08
140.228.133.11

The Reference Centre served as a sufficiently silent area in which Henry could plot. At fifteen years old now--nearly sixteen--he was maturing, preparing more realistically for the life of the patriarchy that one day he would assume. It was a life of duty, of responsibility. And it was a life of power. He was very excited.

The dark-haired boy could not wait until he gained control of the family. As soon as he was of age (and also Uncle Oliver was dead), it was all going to be his. In this world, there were Haves and Have-Nots, and Henry very much enjoyed being a Have. In fact, he was one of the most Haves of all time. The Knights were filthy rich! He had inheritance money from his late grandfather stored in a personal account, not to mention what he would get when his remaining uncles and his father died.

But of course, those men all had something Henry did not yet: a wife. As his teenage years progressed, he was beginning to notice females more frequently as more than just his inferiors; they were also somewhat pleasant to look at. He especially liked when they kept their mouths shut. A woman’s closed lips were so remarkable. Henry wanted to know more about what mysteries these lips could perform, and as a young man of status, it was almost required he have a little fun.

The trouble was, their lips would not always stay shut. All of the women the dark-haired Aquila had met along the way had a nasty habit of speaking. It was actually to the level of difficulty for him to find a tolerable individual that the search seemed almost worthless. He had remained untouched this long for that reason; when one hated everyone, one had an incredibly difficult time selecting a lover.

For now, he would resolve himself to the aspects of adulthood he was certain to enjoy: the unlimited, crushing authority accompanying the title of Knight patriarch. It was only years away, almost within his grasps and he daydreamed about the day it arrived. The image of himself sealing deals with the likes of Alec Edwards moved him greatly; oh, he was so proud of his future self!

His table shook suddenly, ripping him out of his reverie and back into reality. Evidently, a passerby had bumped into his table. Surely it was an accident, but Henry did not really care. The buffoon was obviously a graceless shoebuckle and deserved a good berating. “What was that about?” he demanded, London in his tongue and disgust in his words.

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