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@ask-jeandescole
Ask Jean Descole! (and friends!)
Welcome!
This is a Professor Layton roleplay-ask blog featuring Jean Descole and Professor Hershel Layton! There are spoilers for the whole series on this blog. The characters are personal interpretation, but are kept as close as possible to canon with minimal creative liberties taken for roleplay purposes. Open interaction on all posts unless otherwise stated.
Go wild. More info below.
descole you sexy hunk of ass...
Question for Hershel! What's it like staying on the Bostonius with Descole? Getting along with each other?
//congrats, you got a ficlet instead
"It seems fate would have it that our paths should cross once more… and just in the nick of time, by all appearances." Descole observed, crossing his arms as he studied the familiar figure before him. There on the sectional sat a one Professor Hershel Layton, blood trickling slowly down his face from a fresh wound on his cheek that Raymond was dutifully dabbing with a cotton ball covered in antiseptic solution. The man had chosen the same spot in which he had always sat the year prior during their previous adventures together, as if resuming right where they'd left off. It felt so familiar, so… normal, to see him there. And yet…
Despite the circumstances, the fellow archaeologist laughed softly in return to the masked man's statement, though the sound was rather weak. Descole wondered if that was due to the injury or the circumstance in which he now found himself. Both, perhaps, he mused with a frown. He doubted the man had ever wanted to see him again, and yet… here they now were: forced to share space as the proverbial elephant in the room loomed over both their heads.
"Indeed. I am not so sure that the outcome of that situation would have been as favorable had you not shown up when you did. Thank you-… Descole." Layton responded with seemingly sincere gratitude, though he lingered on the masked man's name, as if he had wanted to say something else instead but caught himself. Descole had a gut feeling that he knew what that something was.
"Yes, well… Let us not linger on the hypothetical," The scientist dismissed the statement quickly, as if trying to banish it from his own mind. Despite everything, the very possibility that he may not have reached Layton in time sickened him, his gaze fixed on the thin trail of blood slithering down his younger brother's face. It reminded him of too much. Too much to bear. He forced his eyes away, needing this exchange to move along. "You are welcome," He added in haste. Hershel responded by nodding slightly in wordless acknowledgment.
And then the silence fell, thick and weighty. It lingered for an uncomfortably long pause, broken only by the butler tending to the Professor's wound.
"... I will make some tea after I am finished here. Earl Grey, a splash of milk, no sugar if my memory is not mistaken?" He offered with tentative joviality, obviously attempting to break the tension.
"Ah, yes... That sounds lovely, Raymond. Thank you." Hershel graciously accepted. Raymond seemed satisfied with this answer, a smile on his face as he chuckled an affirmative. The costumed man shuffled lightly in place, pressing his thumb to the corner of his lips. That was when Hershel looked directly at him, meeting his eyes dead on despite the mask he wore. There was no searching. Layton knew the dead man's face that lay beneath. "Descole..." He began. The owner of the name in question lowered his hand and braced himself internally, readying for an uncomfortable confrontation.
"Whatever it is that you have to say, Layton-..." The scientist warned, tone gruff and unfriendly. He was clearly about to discourage the other from continuing, but paused suddenly. Something changed in his expression then, evidently causing him to reconsider as with a heavy sigh, his metaphorical hackles relaxed and he lowered his head in defeat. He didn't want to fight, but knowing Layton, he undoubtedly had a thousand questions, a thousand accusations. A finger to point a thousand times. After all of the suffering he'd caused, Descole surely owed him whatever closure he was seeking. "... Out with it. Let's get this over with."
The other man blinked once, then twice, studying the other for a moment. A small smile crept onto his features as a peculiar twinkle took up residence in his eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked up into something like a smirk. Descole frowned. He couldn't tell what this was, what this meant. Layton looked... amused. Was he toying with him? He hadn't thought that Hershel had it in him to be quite so cruel, if that were the case. He couldn't quite discern how that made him feel, knowing that they had that vice in common.
"Descole," Hershel's patient voice almost startled him, "I'm glad to see you again."
"I..." The masked man could feel an unfamiliar sort of panic rise in his chest. He felt vulnerable in a way he wasn't used to, confusion breeding fear at unprecedented speeds. He covered his mouth and looked away. After everything? How could you say that? "I don't... understand. What are you on about?" I used you. You can't be glad to see me.
"I was worried for you. After you disappeared, I thought..." Layton trailed off, letting the pause fill in the blank. He averted his gaze for a moment, closing his eyes. Descole's mouth hung open slightly, though no sound escaped.
Worried? You were worried about me? I never wanted you to worry. I wanted to avoid causing you more stress, more pain, more suffering...
"... So I decided to come find you. I had to know you were safe. I couldn't rest; I had to see you for myself." Professor Layton concluded.
"You... That's what brought you all the way out here?" Desmond's voice was thin.
"Yes."
"... I never meant to worry you, Layton."
Raymond stepped back after smoothing down medical tape securely to a square of gauze over the wound on the Professor's face. With a quick and silent bow, he retreated, leaving the two alone.
"You could have at least written a letter. I'm certain you have my address," Layton pointed out as he stood, facing the other man fully. He took a slow step toward him. His tone wasn't accusatory, merely an observation. Even so, Desmond felt like his ribcage was being stripped bare and pried open, leaving his organs vulnerable for any scavenger to pick apart if they wanted. When he didn't respond, Layton continued, standing still in place, looking right through Descole's measly mask with a straight face as he delivered his killing blow:
"Is there a reason you don't want me in your life, Desmond?"
"... I wanted you to be happy, brother."
Character added!
Looks like there's someone else on the Bostonius now...
Professor Layton is available for asks!
Hello Mr. Descole, I hope you are well. I was wondering what a genius like you does for fun in your free time. Do you have any hobbies? If you don’t mind me asking, I am rather curious.
Best regards
Miss V.
Descole hummed, his tone amiable. ""Genius." Such flattery—not that it's without merit, of course. What a pleasant change of pace," His words carried a purring undertone; seeing that the mysterious and definitely not-at-all vampiric inquirer seemed to be attempting to appeal to him with honeyed words, he decided to play along to see where she was attempting to lead. "And an amusing question, to boot. How naïve of you to think I have free time. If you know anything about me, you know it's highly unusual for me to have a moment to spare for frivolous matters." He chuckled softly, tilting his head at her. While his smile and tone were playful, his eyes flickered beneath the shadowed hollows of his mask, fixing her with a studying intensity that he hadn't afforded to the previous askers; he hadn't felt the need with them. In his lengthy experience, someone who would make the effort to be particularly polite and flattering either wanted something from him or had a malicious hidden agenda. Sizing her up, he wondered which one it would be. He wouldn't be overly forthcoming until he knew the answer...
Dear Mr Jean. Do you like to dance? And if so, what kind of dances?
"It's Mister Descole to you, if you must... and I suppose that depends on the circumstances." He muttered. This question seemed to put him off a bit; his tone was much flatter than it had been with the previous inquiry. How long had it been since he'd danced and truly enjoyed it? As long as his family had been gone, he supposed. Truthfully, one of his favourite things to do was dance... which is why he gleefully did so every chance he had—with his wife. He could remember spinning her around and around in their kitchen with the lights dimmed. Her joyful laugh rang in his ears as if she were in the very room in which he now sat. His stomach twisted—he felt ill.
Biting back the nausea, he cleared his throat roughly. He would show no such feelings; Descole would keep his voice smooth, confident, self-assured. Desmond had no place here. Desmond has no place at all as a dead man, the masked scientist reminded himself. "I've no reason at all to go flaunting myself around like that. I prefer keeping eyes off of me, thank you. Let the toy soldiers do the dancing and the enemy fire will surely follow them." Descole thought of Randall, of Janice. They had no problems fulfilling their roles with glee, dancing and twirling to the beat of his drum, so to speak. He let out a half-hearted huff of a scoff. How pitiful...
Out of all of the schemes they committed (the specter, the eternal life game, etc) which is Des' favorite?
"Ooh! Why, that's an excellent question, my dear inquirer," The masked man shifted, leaning back against the lavender-red leather cushion of the Bostonius's living room sectional. He steepled his fingers and hummed thoughtfully, a pleasant tone to his voice as he mulled over the options. "I was quite proud of the presentation of the Masked Gentleman's dark miracles—but that pitiful Ascot boy nearly ruined everything with his borderline lethal stupidity." Descole clicked his tongue, a bitterness in the way he almost spat Randall's surname. His gaze wandered as he tapped his chin, recalling the finale of his little escapade in Monte d'Or within his mind's eye. Truthfully, it was nearly everyone's finale thanks to Ascot's impulsivity, he thought to himself.
Descole cleared his throat as he continued, "The Spectre... Yes, I had great fun designing that wonderful creation of mine... but oh! The Detra-Giant—now there is a point of pride!" He held his cheeks, his grin growing wide with a certain giddiness in his tone as a perhaps somewhat unsettling laughter bubbled out of him. "The game for eternal life was fun enough. Watching Layton solve my puzzles and eliminate the rest of the pitiful... competition—if you could call them that—was quite amusing. I've truly enjoyed playing these games with him. He makes for a brilliant opponent whose intellect rivals my own. However, it goes without saying, of course, that the pièce de résistance was my magnificent masterwork of a machine. The time I spent designing, building, and testing my beautiful beast, making sure everything would go according to plan... Truly, I believe she was one of my greatest artistic achievements yet!" With one hand on his chest over his heart, he waved his other arm out in a presenting gesture. He seemed thoroughly excited about the interest in his work.
A soft, distant-sounding chuckle came from somewhere else in the airship; obviously, Raymond was listening in with interest as well. Descole snapped out from his giddy state, appearing a bit flushed. He seemed to have become a tad carried away. He turned back to you, posture drooping a bit.
"Ahem. Anyway... Yes, that plan was flawless. Everything was utterly perfect. I made thorough certainty of it... all save for one minor oversight. And... of course, I have some regrets regarding my... performance, during the finale..." He tapped his index finger on the cushion, looking off to the side somewhere, his brow furrowed with some discontent at whatever he was picturing in his mind at that moment, "But if I must pick one... then yes, the search for Ambrosia—the City of Harmony. That is my final answer. I hope you are satisfied." He cleared his throat and folded both his arms and legs. Perhaps he had enjoyed this a bit too much...
