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Description

Quick doodle of Gideon Stark, Tintin’s unwelcome adventure sidekick in my fic, The Seal of Cagliostro. I do love this asshole.
—
‘He was a tall man and elegantly dressed in ivory tails and matching trousers, with a gold embroidered waistcoat and red cravat. His copper coloured hair was slicked back with too much pencil pomade and his thin moustache and goatee gave him an almost comical look of villainy.
Tintin could not pinpoint why, but he felt an immediate and visceral dislike of the man. Perhaps it was something in the way he smiled at the room as if he was in on a private joke and only he knew the punchline. He carried an air of carefree flamboyancy, the sort Tintin had become accustomed to when dealing with the very rich, but it was almost too practised, too showy, to strike him as the genuine article. Beneath the thin façade was a fox spying on a chicken coup, sharp eyes darting through the crowds, seeking out a weakness in the fence.
“I say, could it really be Tintin? The intrepid little reporter from Brussels?” he asked eagerly, staring in obvious surprise.
Tintin bristled in irritation and glanced wildly around for the Captain, but it seemed his sly old friend had made himself scarce.
“Gideon Stark,” the man introduced himself brightly, offering a hand. Noting Tintin’s hesitation, Gideon grinned and cocked an eyebrow, cheekily. “I’d offer to kiss your hand too if I didn’t think you’d be even less inclined to accept than Madame Baudelaire was.”
Reluctantly, Tintin shook the man’s handwith a tight smile. “A pleasure, Mr Stark,” he bit out.
Gideon grinned and tightened his grip. “All mine, I assure you.”
Yes, Tintin thought ruefully, on that we can most certainly agree.’

Description

Quick doodle of Gideon Stark, Tintin’s unwelcome adventure sidekick in my fic, The Seal of Cagliostro. I do love this asshole.
—
‘He was a tall man and elegantly dressed in ivory tails and matching trousers, with a gold embroidered waistcoat and red cravat. His copper coloured hair was slicked back with too much pencil pomade and his thin moustache and goatee gave him an almost comical look of villainy.
Tintin could not pinpoint why, but he felt an immediate and visceral dislike of the man. Perhaps it was something in the way he smiled at the room as if he was in on a private joke and only he knew the punchline. He carried an air of carefree flamboyancy, the sort Tintin had become accustomed to when dealing with the very rich, but it was almost too practised, too showy, to strike him as the genuine article. Beneath the thin façade was a fox spying on a chicken coup, sharp eyes darting through the crowds, seeking out a weakness in the fence.
“I say, could it really be Tintin? The intrepid little reporter from Brussels?” he asked eagerly, staring in obvious surprise.
Tintin bristled in irritation and glanced wildly around for the Captain, but it seemed his sly old friend had made himself scarce.
“Gideon Stark,” the man introduced himself brightly, offering a hand. Noting Tintin’s hesitation, Gideon grinned and cocked an eyebrow, cheekily. “I’d offer to kiss your hand too if I didn’t think you’d be even less inclined to accept than Madame Baudelaire was.”
Reluctantly, Tintin shook the man’s handwith a tight smile. “A pleasure, Mr Stark,” he bit out.
Gideon grinned and tightened his grip. “All mine, I assure you.”
Yes, Tintin thought ruefully, on that we can most certainly agree.’