[ P ] man of the hour

The splendour decorating the hall of the Calyx manor was beyond what Valther expected for a dinner party. It was a feast befitting a king’s birthday, not the adoption of a child from the streets. It was another way for Cecil Calyx to demonstrate his wealth and status and really paint the picture of rags to riches. Gold candelabra lit with precious flames, lighting the room in an amber glow. A feast of goose, venison and hare filled the long mahogany table on platters of silver. Various other fruits, meats and foods that Valther couldn't pronounce. He took a little from each, ignoring the lingering stares.

'He was skin and bones when he first came here,' Cecil loudly proclaimed and then fell silent in anticipation of praise for his good deed. The satisfied smile rose to his face when the first compliments began to shower him. 'You're such a good man. What a wonderful thing you’ve done for that poor child. He eats so well now.' Like the buzzing of flies they swarmed around him, talking about him and not to him. Nobility was extended to him through his bond with Cecil, but he was not one of them. They looked upon him with curiosity and pity, not reverence and respect as they did for the hero of the day. It wasn't a party for Valther. It was an ode to the man’s ego and they sang along dutifully.

Valther could no longer handle the sea of eyes and voices. It was suffocating. His tongue was practically chewed to a nub with how much he restrained his disdain for the upper class. One day soon they would be raising toasts in his name and fighting for his attention. Cecil Calyx would be nothing more than a footnote in Valther Calyx’s story.

code: elyon | art: ashon

his grin was always halfway a smile—

Baptista is...predictably, drunk.

Not so much that he is particularly obvious—he rather has a talent for maintaining appearances through heavy states of inebriation—but enough that his eyes are glassy and this dull affair is a bit less...stuffy. This is not the sort of party that he typically attends, but he's been sent in his brother's stead; he's meant to be on his best behavior as a representative of Sussex. Blah, blah, blah. Gods, Augustine is infuriatingly pedantic these days. Naturally, the first thing he'd done on his arrival after schmoozing the host was to start imbibing the wine.

By this point, he is leaned back lazily in his chair in a slightly-less-than-appropriate manner, picking strips of meat and fruit from his claws in between long sips of wine and wearing a faintly bemused expression all the while. He could easily be mistaken for enamored along with the other guests, but no praise falls from his lips, and no pity is spared for Valther. This is all just a show for Baptista—another game to play.

Baptista's gaze slides across the table towards the "guest of honor," who is steadfastly ignoring all the clamoring around him. Valther looks like he would rather be anywhere else. He hides a smirk behind the rim of his glass, quirking a brow before he leans forward, an elbow resting on the table. "Chin up, kid," he quips amongst the chatter with a wink, looking for all the world like he's about to let the young wolf in on a secret.

Rather than impart some sage wisdom, Baptista Scowcroft smiles slyly and discreetly kicks out a foot beneath the table, tripping the waiter who was leaning in with a pitcher of wine. The wolf all but faceplants into the table, and wine and pitcher both go flying, splashing across anyone in the immediate vicinity, himself included. Baptista has to strongly resist the urge to laugh, and instead feigns shock and panic with the rest of them, leaping from his seat and just generally feeding the level of chaos in the room.

He hopes Valther is smart enough to recognize a distraction when he sees one. He should count himself lucky that Baptista is feeling so helpful tonight—he's just given him a free hall pass out of this dreadful affair.

—and halfway a threat

code // art

The way Cecil conducted the whole crowd like he was a maestro would have been mildly impressive to the former street urchin if there had been any sincerity behind the greasy compliments and sycophant smiles. They all wanted a piece of scraps of attention that he threw to them and they were willing to sacrifice their pride for it. The clink of glasses and raucous laughter around the table was a sign that the party was far from over. Despite his advanced years, Cecil Calyx's parties were famous for continuing until dawn. The old bastard could drink as much as a horse and still walk steadily on all fours. Valther looked away in time to see another gazing in his direction. A patchy man splayed over the table as if he was a resident of the manor himself.

There was a mistiness to his gaze that Valther recognised as inebriation. ”Chin up, kid,” came the words of encouragement. He hated any reference being made to his age, but the hot headed pup had matured enough to silence the flames that licked beneath his tongue to fire off a retort. Instead he watched, sensing that the drunk man was about to put on a show. When the chaos descended, glass crashed and the crowd was showered by wine, Valther made a beeline for the back door and breathed in the fresh verdant scent of the Calyx garden. He climbed atop the stone grave marker and stretched out like a lazy cat, dirt brown eyes watching the doorway for a patchy faced miscreant. A toothy grin lined his dark features and a laugh rumbled in his chest. “You're full of surprises,” he remarked, lifting a paw and waving it at him. “That was a risky move. I could rat you out… “ he pointed out, voice lowering as if he was considering what to do. “Maybe I should. Save that poor man from Cecil’s wrath,” Valther lamented with a sigh, features not at all sympathetic or full of sorrow for the servant. The grin on his face was utterly devious. He was merely playing games with the stranger who had technically done him a favour, but Valther wasn't so easily impressed. He wanted to see if the man’s antics were merely drunken mischief that he would later regret or if he was a little twisted too.

code: elyon | art: ashon

his grin was always halfway a smile—

It doesn't take Baptista long to follow, utilizing the chaos to his advantage just as cleanly as Valther had to duck out of the party, barely withholding a smirk as he goes. Gatherings like this one are always so dreadfully dull. The only interesting wolf here is the one who had clearly been loathing every second of it, so his favor isn't exactly chivalrous—Baptista wants his curiosity sated.

His mismatched eyes are already searching when he steps out the door, finding the murky young wolf grinning and laughing in his direction, lounged upon a stone marker. Baptista heads in his direction, matching his expression with a smirk of his own, a tooth flashing at the initial comment. As he nears, Valther's voice drops, his words implying a threat that does nothing to deter the amusement sparked in the nobleman's eyes. He simply looks the other wolf up and down in pointed perusal, and then lazily comments, "you don't look like a rat."

At the mention of saving the servant from Cecil's sour attitude, Baptista snorts dismissively, shrugging a shoulder. "Please. If he gets fired, I've done him a favor," the pale wolf quips, unconcerned about the fate of hired help. And he's not wrong. Cecil is a bore—no doubt he's also a horrendous boss. "But by all means, go earn yourself some favor in the eyes of daddy dearest," Baptista challenges with a glint in his eyes, that boyish smirk slowly crawling back across his lips.

—and halfway a threat

code // art

One umber paw crossed elegantly over the other while his whisky brown eyes watched the jester that he had summoned to his court with menace glittering in their dark depths. Valther held his head high, perched on his stone throne as his tail swayed lazily, tapping a gentle beat against the grave. He was more in his element out in the garden than he had been during the party, thrown like a bone to the starving wolves for Cecil's entertainment. For now he would have to settle with tormenting one of his father's guests to soothe his irritable mood. A cursory glance from odd gemstone eyes, bursting with colour unlike the muddy hues that regarded him was enough for the jester to proclaim. You don't look like a rat. Nicer words than he had been expecting from one of Cecil's guests. His folded ear twitched and his lips twisted into a wry grin. “That's the nicest thing someone's ever said to me,” he scoffed, words dripping with sarcasm despite it being the truth.

“I can play many parts when I need to. Rat, fox, snake. It depends on the situation,” he hummed thoughtfully, drumming his claws of a fore paw against the stone and making a clicking noise. That wry grin of his became more than a little wicked when the patchwork jester suggested that he had done the servant a favour by getting him fired. If only that was true…

“I never said he would be fired. Cecil worked very hard to acquire his toys. He’d only release them if death granted them that mercy,” he let that information loose like an arrow, knowing full well how hard Cecil had worked to keep his image clean despite the dirty deeds he committed under everyone's noses. “The boy might be lucky if he can walk tomorrow. Too bad for him,” he stated bluntly, not at all interested in saving the servant from his miserable fate and he’d never intended to. It wasn't the time for him to grab his hero cape just yet. There was work to be done. “Make me laugh and I might consider pardoning you,” he offered, his grin softening into a playful smirk. He wondered if the patchwork jester would play along.

code: elyon | art: ashon

his grin was always halfway a smile—

"You need better friends, then," Baptista returns with a snort, half amused and half serious. What a miserable existence it would be, to only be marginally better than a rat. Although, judging by the way Cecil seems to keep a vice grip on the young wolf, friends are likely few and far between. His head tips idly to the side as Valther goes on, claiming his talent for playing whatever role he likes; Baptista smirks but says nothing, leaning onto his haunches so that he can lounge his spine against the broad base of a tree.

He picks lazily at his nails, cleaning scraps of meat and dirt from them, his colored ear flicking towards the sooty canine, who is considerably more chatty now that he's been freed from the confines of Cecil's dreary party. A brow arches, eyes flitting up to meet the ruddy brown gaze with open curiosity. "Well shit," he comments, something of a drawl, and his tone lacks any true sense of concern; he's a little dumbfounded, but not particularly bothered by the revelation. "Probably should've been more careful where he was stepping, then," Baptista muses with a shrug, and returns to cleaning his nails.

And then the younger of the two has the audacity to demand that Baptista make him laugh, as though the Scowcroft is here to be his personal entertainment. He barks a laugh, his lips curling into his own wickedly amused smirk. "I don't recall begging your forgiveness," he mentions with a shrug. "Keep at it, though, I'm sure you'll manage to intimidate some gullible asshole with your newfound status soon enough." He finishes with a wink, his smirk never faltering. He has to give Valther props for effort, but Baptista is no bumbling buffoon of a noble; most days, he's hardly a nobleman at all.

—and halfway a threat

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A floppy ear twitched at the mention of friends and a sly grin creeped up one side of his mouth. “I choose my friends carefully. When someone worthy proves themselves then maybe I will grant them the honour,” he remarked, brown eyes glinting with intention. Friendship didn't hold the same innocent meaning that most engaged in. If there was nothing to gain from such a relationship then no matter how fond he was of someone, he would turn his back on them. The streets had shown him that a friend could be an enemy the next day especially where survival was concerned. Sentiment held no place in his heart. It had died and withered the day his father rejected his existence.

“Since you're attending this farce of a celebration, I assume you’re a noble then?” Valther asked, eyes narrowing in thought. The man had a penchant for mischief and didn't seem to be too concerned with the welfare of the servant that he had tripped, Valther could only assume that his morals were almost as lacking as his own. Not uncommon for a wolf with the pedigree and privilege who could get away with such behaviour. Power corrupted, but so did weakness. His own weakness had forced him to become who he was.

His shoulders rolled lazily and he let out a disappointed sigh when his net failed to catch the older noble. In time he would wield enough influence to make anyone dance to his song. “Do you lack the wit to crack a joke? I must have been mistaken then. Maybe you are as boring as the ancient relics shambling around inside,” he sighed again, shaking his head in disbelief. It was a mischievous taunt to encourage the other in playing along.

code: elyon | art: ashon