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Feb. 29th, 2016 11:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
whuppityThe clock has stopped with its hands pointing to midnight and, attempting to fix the problem, is Gold, hunched earnestly over its open casing with springs and wires gathered at his elbow. He can't honestly claim to have made any real progress just yet. Despite his best efforts - replacing the broken barrel, adjusting the weight of the pendulum, removing the lock pin entirely - he hasn't managed to coax either a tick or a tock from the old timepiece. And he's beginning to have his suspicions.
It was magic that broke this clock. He can feel the lingering weight of it tingling through his gloves to his fingertips and it isn't until he begins to probe at it with his own that he understands why.
Of course.
This was the clock that chimed for Cinderella, the one that sat on the mantel of her fireplace when it struck midnight. It seems that the affects of fairy magic lingers and, perhaps if he's careful, Gold can extract some of that power, to bottle and store it for a later date. He picks up a delicate pair of tweezers from the array of tools organized on his workbench and sets about picking apart the pins and cogs holding the mechanics of the clock together.
Only to pause as the tip grazes a spring.
He straightens on his stool, his hands pausing over his work. He's convinced he heard something, a quiet breath in his ear, the faint trace of a word on the wind.
Only a little paranoid - not least because of the many wards he has protecting the perimeter of his shop - he turns to glance behind him, half-expecting to find a shape leaning against the large spinning wheel in the corner or lording over the doorway. Something green, perhaps? Feminine? He doesn't release the breath he's been holding when he finds the room empty, his lips instead thinning into a tense line.
There's something the matter and Gold doesn't need either his magic or his many long years of experience to know it. He simply knows, the thought buried deep in the marrow of his bones. With slow, measured movements, he draws the apron he wears to protect the expensive fabric of his suit over his head, folding it neatly onto the bench.
He listens.
Rumplestiltskin.
There it is again. A faint tug of magic, pulling with an ever delicate touch at the bond between him and his dagger. It pulls at the both of them, so lightly that perhaps if he cared to Gold might even have been able to ignore it.
But no one has dared to summon him in a good long while.
He takes up his cane - the one he carries more out of habit than necessity these days - and, in a swirl of purple smoke, lets his magic guide him to the source of the sound.
He appears in the Plaza, a short-ish man with shoulder length hair, impeccably dressed in a black three-piece, leaning on a gold-tipped cane.
"Well," he drawls in lieu of a greeting, apparently thoroughly unimpressed with his findings, "this is going to cost you a pretty penny."
It was magic that broke this clock. He can feel the lingering weight of it tingling through his gloves to his fingertips and it isn't until he begins to probe at it with his own that he understands why.
Of course.
This was the clock that chimed for Cinderella, the one that sat on the mantel of her fireplace when it struck midnight. It seems that the affects of fairy magic lingers and, perhaps if he's careful, Gold can extract some of that power, to bottle and store it for a later date. He picks up a delicate pair of tweezers from the array of tools organized on his workbench and sets about picking apart the pins and cogs holding the mechanics of the clock together.
Only to pause as the tip grazes a spring.
He straightens on his stool, his hands pausing over his work. He's convinced he heard something, a quiet breath in his ear, the faint trace of a word on the wind.
Only a little paranoid - not least because of the many wards he has protecting the perimeter of his shop - he turns to glance behind him, half-expecting to find a shape leaning against the large spinning wheel in the corner or lording over the doorway. Something green, perhaps? Feminine? He doesn't release the breath he's been holding when he finds the room empty, his lips instead thinning into a tense line.
There's something the matter and Gold doesn't need either his magic or his many long years of experience to know it. He simply knows, the thought buried deep in the marrow of his bones. With slow, measured movements, he draws the apron he wears to protect the expensive fabric of his suit over his head, folding it neatly onto the bench.
He listens.
Rumplestiltskin.
There it is again. A faint tug of magic, pulling with an ever delicate touch at the bond between him and his dagger. It pulls at the both of them, so lightly that perhaps if he cared to Gold might even have been able to ignore it.
But no one has dared to summon him in a good long while.
He takes up his cane - the one he carries more out of habit than necessity these days - and, in a swirl of purple smoke, lets his magic guide him to the source of the sound.
He appears in the Plaza, a short-ish man with shoulder length hair, impeccably dressed in a black three-piece, leaning on a gold-tipped cane.
"Well," he drawls in lieu of a greeting, apparently thoroughly unimpressed with his findings, "this is going to cost you a pretty penny."
