Our Deliverance [Artsydaze & Niseht]

[Artsydaze]

This night was surprisingly clear for a London night as the Baron Veronel strolled, unseen, down the narrow alleys of the city, bypassing some prostitute and even a murder or two as he walked past the less reputable nooks and crannies of the sulphurous capital. Tonight was special, tonight he would start his plan.

Reaching the uncomfortably lit main street, the one leading to Lord Byron's scandalous little fete he ran over his plan one last time, making sure it was as flawless as it could be. It was, of course, as he passed over a decade thinking and plotting for it's smooth success and thus had worked through any loopholes that could reasonably be worked over and smoothed out. This was it. He was there.

Ascending the marble stair leading to the decadent manor, the auburn haired baron made his way through the guard without trouble and gave his long dark coat to a passing servant, stepping forward to be announced as was his right and obligation. That too passed swiftly as he walked forward once more, sweeping his cool grey eyes over the assembled crown, as fashionably late as always. This was his arena, this was his chance of renewal.

Snatching a champagne flute from a nearby platter wielding waiter, he advanced on his first prey. It was finally time...

[Niseht]

Rowan W. Hatherson was extremely intimate with boredom.
Judging by how bored he currently was though, he wondered if he was in fact having a sexual fulfillment act with it right now and everyone around him was just too polite to mention it or look to closely at it.
This was of course fine in Rowans mind, he just had to keep reminding himself that there were plenty of people here as well who were in similar circumstances with the feeling (she had a way of entertaining numerous people at once), and he had to restrain himself from eyeing around to see who was being quite so intimate with it, because of course that would just be improper of him when he was in this kind of company.

And he knew everything that he should or shouldn't do in this company, Lord Bryon's company.
He should have his gloriously shaded blond hair slicked back, in proper condition and just as neat as his outfit. He should have his brown eyes open, attentive, focused on whatever was immediately brought to his attention but acknowledging everything else that was happening around him.
He should be quiet, clear, confident, well-mannered, pretty, obedient, proudly humble, perfect.

And he was, or at least close enough to it, closer he thought then many of the people here.
But there were 4th sons to tend to from a higher-ups scandalous second mistress, wild second sons who were passed off to other families paid or bribed to handle them better, and 5th sons from a man who just didn't appear to understand the idea of not having any more children because the next was just going to have it even harder then the previous.
There was no room for the third son of a family that had only recently reached this circle, a family that still after three generations received congratulations for making it here and amused glances that clearly said 'oh my, so you're still around then are you?, we thought the better stuff would be like poison to your kind, that you would just perish from the splendor of it all."

No room for a third son in a family that had gone from the top of a dirt heap to being dirt in a castle.
It didn't matter how quiet, clear, and confident and well-mannered and pretty and proudly humble and perfect he was.
Behind his gentlemanly smile to an elder woman passing by him, he gritted his teeth in annoyance.
He made himself stop that hidden anger sign though as he glided back over to the entrance area where the higher officials were coming in fashionable late as always, missing the gossip about them that always happened before they arrived.
He could be so useful under the care of anyone of them, if they would just allow themselves to be used by him then he would practically be puddy in their own hands in return.
The thought annoyed him more then he thought it would.

[Artsydaze]

Young men were plentiful tonight as, as always the infamous writer turned lord could amass as much attention as he could scandal. Lord Cecil Everett Veronel, First Baron Veronel, could not care less for the scandal however, as he had ways to remove such dark stains from his person. He was untouchable in London and took sadistic pleasure in keeping that fact to himself, letting lesser beings crawl in filth and shame as they tried to bring him down for his often radical thoughts. Fools were only here for his entertainment, he often thought in the privacy of his own mind, the last bastion of his privacy and sanity.

As he glided through the opulent ballroom, seeking prospects from the giggling fools making up the most of the wanton mass, Baron Veronel thought of what he would have to look into in his new prospective apprentice. Well mannered and bred should be a must of course, but not too high born for he would have to keep the power in the resulting relationship. He should therefore be out of the succession race, oh so vital to the aristocracy's development. Young and still malleable, but not too malleable would also be taken as a boon as an old man was of no use to him. Intelligence and wits would be also vital in their future endeavours for Cecil would not stand a boorish brute as a protege.
Health should also not be an issue for a doomed endeavour was not worth his precious time and effort.

As he finished his inner check-list, he gazed about the room and found his gaze struck by a blond young man about ten years younger than himself, a strange hunger in his eyes, a hunger for power, a hunger like his own. Taking one more flute of champagne and a delicate sip of the golden liquid he set out for his hunt, starting with one Rowan W. Hatherson.

“Good evening, I am afraid we have not been introduced?” He said, the smooth tenor of his voice laced with idle curiosity.

This young man may be a good one to start with, the others could surely wait for a few moments, could they not?

[Niseht]

"good evening, I am afraid we have not been introduced?" The man said, and Rowan felt a thrill deep down in his core.
He pushed his lips up in a smile, right side sliding up a tad bit more to make it look more natural, more real. He bowed his head, closing his eyes for the briefest moment before looking back up at the man, naturally craning his head up but making the gesture look smooth, as if to that yes, he looked up at things, but he still stared them directly back in the eyes.

"Good evening, I believe you're right sir, allow me to introduce myself; I am Rowan Williams Hatherson, pleased to make your acquaintance." It was important that Rowan introduced himself to this man in this manner, because he was both younger and of lower rank. He was used to the speech pattern though, he was younger and less powerful then many people already. ***

From that, it was the slightest tilt of the head to look interested, so his hair fell correctly so he looked more fetching, but he had to straighten out his spine more, so as to not look childish and small. They were small gestures, but they were practiced, and the results with these techniques were often better, though they hadn't ever accomplished their goal; but this man might change that.
No matter what Rowan could use this situation for his gain, even if the man left him here with no proposal, no interest, there would be other people interested now, wanting to know what one elite person had seen in him. They were nosy that way, wanting to always keep up on the others trends, favors, likes, habits, ideas, and interests.

"Are you enjoying yourself this evening, sir-....?" He let the silence after the title stretch tactfully; it was a polite title to be addressed by but also regally begged for the full title of the person he was addressing in this case.

[Artsydaze]

A dark laugh burst softly from pale lips as Cecil saw a bit of his past self in the young man before him, for he too had risen up from nothing, and he therefore knew that a few helping hands were needed to make a name of oneself in this elitist society. His interest was now picked, but not too much, never too much for only disappointment would come for too high an expectation. Inclining his head gracefully, not one auburn strand falling out of place, he presented himself as was his station.

“Baron Veronel, yes, I believe I've met your father, Lord Hatherson? He did not mention you, unfortunately, but I expect to remedy that and learn to know you better in the future. You seems to hold an hunger similar to mine...” With that another dark laugh, this one nearly silent as he nodded his head regally once more to the youth.

“Until then, Mr. Hatherson...” A bland but surprisingly knowing smile later and he was on his way, making a note of the few things he learned about one of his new prospects in the few moments they met.

“Ah! Lord Byron! Just the man I was looking for!” He said a few moments later, spotting the writer surrounded by pleasant company. After all, the hose must always be greeted and subtly interrogated for a good hunt to be made...

The night passed in a whirlwind of waltzes, champagne and polite conversation tainted with knowing smiles and innuendos and soon he was back inside his dark mansion, one of his prospects on his arm for further acknowledgement. He would have to get to know each of the ten young men he met tonight until he settled on the very best and that process would takes over a year, he knew, but he was young still and patient.

Furthermore, the chase was the best part of a hunt...

[Niseht]

Rowan had to hold back from grinding his teeth upon hearing that his father hadn't mentioned him; of course he hadn't, probably wrapped up talking about his first and second son, how talented they were. Their family hadn't gotten to even this position in the elite society by being fools, they knew where to place their money and resources. It was logical for his father to mention the first two, they had a better chance at succeeding then he did.
But now that wasn't important, the right thing to focus on was now, and now the man had focused on him, not his brothers. Baron Veronel, that had been his title hadn't it? Did he know it, he could swear he had at least heard the name before, but where from? He would need to research the man later to find out how he could truly benefit him.
But even then, his comment about having similar hungers....it was odd. Wasn't Rowan acting the perfect, well-mannered guest? How had this man seen trough anything? It was true, his hunger to prove himself, to earn a life better then what anyone predicted he could get, was a burning, starving ache in the pit of his stomach that made him bite and snatch at any chances like this. It didn't matter if the food was just the scraps off someone else's plate that had been left behind or tossed carelessly to him, he knew how to snatch it like a starving dog and consume every last trace of potential there could possibly be on it.
And somehow, this man knew that, and it made him uneasy in his core, where the hungry fire still burned, never satisfied, at least not yet.

Surprising himself, he found he was cursing the man internally, cursing him and blessing him at the same time, both reactions caused by the hope the man was giving him, was using against him.
"Lord Veronel." Rowan said politely, shoving the thoughts aside as he dipped his head again as the man left him all alone, surrounded by the people that had already given up on him long ago.

[Artsydaze]

On a crisp November night a man was penning a letter on his opulent desk, soft music trickling through the well furnished study as elegant strokes of a fountain pen danced on expensive vellum, crafting a polite letter to various young men the sender met a few weeks prior. That man was Baron Veronel, a reclusive man of expensive tastes that was currently looking for a young protege to expound upon his dark work. The work of a sorcerer, crafter of runes and intimate of numerology, he and his compatriots were a shadowy society of sometimes ominous intents, a fact they kept well under wraps. Tonight he would send invitations to promising young men and, in the process, would fuel his dark ambitions.

One such potential recruit was one Rowan W Hatherson, third son of a minor lord that had an impressively crafted facade and a hunger to better himself, someone that would do very well under his tutelage. The bait had been cast in Lord Byron's little ball earlier, now to see if the hook was taken as well...

Mr Hatherson... he started, the words flowing gracefully and swiftly from his inked pen, the result being a perfectly proper invitation to a house-call in his manor the following evening. Putting the resulting missive in a equally expensive envelope and sealing it with the help of hot wax and his signet ring, he addressed the letter to it's recipient and stood, making his way to a waiting servant by his study's door.

“Bring this to Mr. Rowan W. Hatherson, and be swift about it.” He ordered frostily, his light grey eyes slightly disdainful as he saw the lower class man fawn over him. How he despised the servant class... scoffing, he made his way to his smoking parlour, acquiring a glass of good brandy and making himself comfortable on a decadently decorated lounging couch, making himself at home on the stuffed furniture.

[Niseht]

Rowan and his closest brother were having lessons from their dance instructor, a woman who Rowan had learned early on to look past the large bosom off and see the despicable black heart beneath it. His other two brothers weren't gifted with these realizations yet, but Rowan was suspecting that his eldest was slowly coming to his senses. He blamed it mostly on the fact that he spent the most time with the woman, a widowed Mrs. Merrald (she was quick to make sure people paid the respect to her due to the Mrs. status, but even faster to point out the widowed part; the entire thing had basically blended until it formed her name altogether).
His eldest brother would only receive dance and etiquette lessons from her for two hours later in the evening, after all his other studies and duties had been accomplished. Michael, the brother with him now, would be forced to endure only one hour of dance with Rowan, before departing with their father to get more in the field experience, leaving Rowan to deal with an additional three hours in her presence, including his brunch.
And really, brunches shouldn't be held in the company of the likes of the Widowed Mrs. Merrald.

Both he and Michael were in the midst of showing the Widowed Mrs. Merrald their straight backs and perfectly aligned legs and hips; to prove as they did each lesson that the conditioning she had put into their poise hadn't vanished and gone to waste in the timespan of one night, when a servant knocked and opened the door into the room they were using.
The widowed Mrs. Merrald shot him a particularly severe look, one of the many that was always on her face and that was in deep contrast to the general softness of her curved body. The servant bowed to attempt to appease her, which it didn't, before waving another man in that Rowan was not familiar with at all, though it was obvious from the way he dressed that he was the servant of someone important, though not theirs.

The new servant came forward and extended from his care a letter; Rowan expected it go to (the Widowed) Mrs. Merrald, or at least his elder brother, but instead it was passed to his hands, his name inscribed on the envelope and no one else's. Rowan shot the servant a contemplative and appreciative look; he always thought when looking at the lower classes that just a few generations ago that had been his families lifestyle, that was how people viewed them as in the upper ranks. "From the Baron Veronel, Mr. Hatherson." The new servant said with a bow before standing at attention, apparently attempting to ignore whatever faces his brother and instructor had at the moment. Rowan ignored it as well, but with far more ease, due to his astonishment, then glee.
Yes, this had been the moment he had been waiting for!
He tore the envelope open carefully, taking the moment to appreciate the elegant wax seal on it, before reading what it contained. He had hoped, with the dangerous hope and attention that the man had given him, that this might happen soon. And here it was, in his hands; a chance. an opportunity, in the form of a house call from a man that he in equal parts adored and hated already.
Adored as he had been the one to give him this smidget of a opportunity that he had craved for so long, and yet loathed as he had seen something in him that made Rowan squirm remembering, and that there had been so few things to learn about him.
Rowan had tried, oh boy had he sleuthed and asked and listened and peeked and probed at anything and anyone he could, but there were so few things about this baron. Rumors were scarce about him, either due to lack of or because people simply could not bring themselves to discuss the man he could not decide. but there was always the repeating knowledge of his power, of his influence.
Rowan allowed a smile to finally grace his features, and while it might have been facing the servant it was really aimed at himself, at his future, at whatever this infuriatingly glorious man had planned.
"Please inform the Baron Veronel that I am eager to meet him again, and look forward to this house call." So many things to plan, the clothes, the hair, the items, conversation starters,...
oh lord, he was already planning and worrying about this more then a female with her first meeting with a supposed suitor! He took off one of his rings and gave it to the servant.
"You may present this to him as proof that you really did meet with me and accomplish your task."