Sword Crossed Lovers

Armor Befitting A Warrior Prince

Skipping out the front door and slinging his leg over his horse, the man clicks his heels into the horse's sides and takes off. The hooves collide with the Italian cobblestones and he clicks his way into town. The windy streets from the Capulet Estate lead to a courtyard area where the Capulet Prince had clashed with the Montague dogs earlier the other day. He smirks as a commoner looks up at him and immediately recognizes him. The woman backs away and lets him pass, her head bowed in respect but also fear.

Approaching the blacksmith's, Tybalt slips out of the saddle and ties his horse to the post. He unties the pouch of coins from his hip and tosses them onto the boy's. "I am here to pay for my armor," he asserts strongly, locking eyes with the scrawny lad.
"Coming right up, Prince Capulet," he bows, then scurrying away to fetch his work.

He returns shortly after to find Tybalt tapping his fingers strongly against the table, impatience oozing from him in short bursts. "Forgive me the wait, sir."
"I am a paying customer, a prompt service is what I pay for and why my House has kept you in service all these years," he snarls back, the cat clawing at the table. The blacksmith gulps. "Forgive me. The master blacksmith passed recently. I am still making up all of the orders."
"Perhaps my House will take their patronage elsewhere," breathes Tybalt harshly, turning his back on the blacksmith.
"He was my father," pleads the boy, his eyes staring desperately into the back of Tybalt's skull. The Capulet turns slowly to face him, his eyes dark and menacing. "We have all lost souls to this fair city," he hisses. "You are not the only one, boy. Now for my armor."

Gazing on the model in his chambers as Peter places the last piece on it, Tybalt smiles. The aesthetic design of the red in the hardened leather fits nicely with his House and passion.
"It suits thee, sir," echoes Peter to Tybalt's thoughts. He nods. "The clasp in the front is handy. I've never seen such placement before."
"It hooks your dagger into the pockets better than thy belt," adds Peter, clasping the last clip onto the model. Tybalt nods approvingly. "I will be ready for the season's ball in this. Has my Uncle sent out the invitations yet?"
"I believe he has, sir. Shall you grace the maidens with thy presence?" asks Peter with a childishly mocking tone. Tybalt playfully swats his shoulder and he chuckles. "I shalt or else my Uncle would throw a fit. He knows how many more guests will attend if I proclaim I shall follow suit."
"Very well, sir," replies the manservant, looking deeply into Tybalt's eyes with a shimmer of happiness.

By the afternoon Tybalt was growing tiresome and restless with remaining on the vast Capulet grounds. His uncle dislikes him wandering the city of Verona in fear of the Montagues. However, he fears not for his nephew's safety, more so the safety of the Montagues.

Alone, the Capulet Prince strides calmly through the garden, his right hand on the hilt of his dagger. The red leather keeping it at his side reflects much of his personality, the small carvings of dragons and violence on the sheath preaching tales of past scuffles. He traces some of the marks out of habit as he walks and admires the natural beauty.