Cyril Vaughn

INTRODUCTION

Goodness, CYRIL VAUGHN has arrived in London. HE is THIRTY-FOUR YEARS OLD, of the FALMOUTH VAUGHNS. Though they are RETURNED to the Season, we can only describe them as CHARMING and TALENTED, dear reader. Accompanied by HIS FATHER, EDGAR VAUGHN and HIS BROTHER, JASPER VAUGHN, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their FICKLE NATURE.

NAVIGATION

Biography [X]

Plots & Connections [X]

Images [X]

Self-Paras [X]

Tasks Completed [X]

Meme Replies [X]

A miniature! He had not even thought of that. Surely that was rather intimate a gift - although perhaps not, perhaps gentlemen of the Ton gave ladies a miniature as soon as they declared their intentions to court them… 

No. He was getting ahead of himself again. “A formal portrait. If you are successful, however, I may have need of a miniature in the future…” It was so strange, to be in the Ton and actually spending his money on such luxuries. “What a talent, to be able to capture a person’s likeness on such a small canvass…”  

The laugh was worth the quip, as banal as it was. There he was, the real man under the surface. Fascinating. Cyril loved faces, there was a reason he specialized in portraiture. “Well I suppose we’ll see if you agree with me at the end of the work. I also happily would make a portrait of your lady, once you have one of course. You can see the range of sizes on the wall there. For a stately portrait I recommend the second to largest. It usually is large enough to be seen on the wall of any stately manor or residence, although more than one man has selected the larger for the portrait of their bride or daughter in which case I suggest for the purpose of uniformity through the ages that all key members of the family select the larger size.”

Dealing with these kinds of details was extremely tedious to Cyril but it must be done before he could dive into the part he enjoyed the most, painting. “Now for the sitting, I have a process. Not everyone enjoys it but I find for best results to stick to it so to speak. The first session is a single hour, where I sketch you in various positions and arrangements around your home. Indoor, outdoor, until you get a feel for where you would like to sit and the nature of light in your home. I once painted a Comte in his kitchen as the light was most superior. We can do standing portraits but most find it hard to stand in position for any length of time. So sitting is usually preferable. Then there will two four hour sessions or four two hour sessions, depending on your tolerance. Then I retreat to my studio, where I will finish the piece.” 

Cyril paused, letting that information soak in for a moment before continuing, “Is that acceptable to you?”

He needed a portrait that befit his title. He wanted a portrait that truly behaved his character. It seemed there was only one artist worthy of the job.

“No trouble at all!” He was lying, he had gotten terribly lost on the way over, but that was to be expected. He could never find his way around the strange London streets, and had begun giving himself extra time to ensure he could get lost and still arrive as planned.

“I am mighty pleased to meet you, Mr. Vaughn. I will admit, it has been so long since I had a portrait done, I am quite unsure how one proceeds and acts for it! I have been assured you are the best for actually capturing a person in such a way that their insides shine through!”

Cyril’s gaze ran over the man’s face and found it interesting indeed. He had a sort of handsomeness found among many a London dandy but unlike the others, he had a degree of ... dare he say ... roughness to him. He looked like a man who had lived a life rather than floated through it. 

Oh this would be a good one.

“Quite alright. I’m currently available and would be delighted to have the commission.” He replied with a nod and then couldn’t help but smile at the compliment, “If you are trying to soften me up, good Sir, I assure you my rates are based on size and not flattery.” He joked, hoping the man would smile. He wanted to see the expression to determine what he would capture in the man’s eyes.  

“So I assume you are to be the subject? If so, is this a formal portrait or one to be done to present to the young lady you are courting, more of a miniature perhaps?” 

When Edward was younger, promenade was perhaps his lest favourite activity; the endless formalities were a bore. He’d have much rather been off riding, or reading in the study. But over the many years since he’s childhood, the man had come to see the pleasure in it. Mind you, it would never be his favourite activity, but he enjoyed the endless green that laid before him. It made him melancholy for the fields of Lanchester. He would always be a country boy at heart. After all some of his fondest memories took place in the fields just minutes from his family’s estate. His cousin, who had grown up more like a brother, and himself would spend hours entertaining themselves, creating wild adventures for the two of them to go on. 

Edward walked alongside his mother, and sister. Exchanging pleasantries when appropriate, they carried out walking for around twenty minutes until his mother had struck up a converstation with an old friend. Edward had taken the opportunity to excuse himself and wonder off towards the bridge. When he arrived, he walked over to the railing and looked down, just as ducks swam underneath to get to the other side. The water was murky, yet clear, and brought with it serenity. A new season always came with pressure. 

At thirty-four, Edward knows his mother wished for him to be married. Especially now that his father was no longer with them. She had told him as much before they had left home, never one to coddle him. It was time, he stopped avoiding finding a bride and buckled down and just did it. As if it was that easy, if it was he would be married by now. It wasn’t that Edward needed a love-match, no, he needed a partner. Someone who could walk by his side, and understood the responsibility he bared as head of the house. If he made a mistake, picked the wrong person then he’d be damned to a life of misery and so would his bride. 

He took a deep breath, sucking the air through his nose and letting it escape through his mouth. “There isn’t a view in all of London quite as beautiful as Hyde Park bridge. I could visit an infinite amount of times and I know I would be impressed by the view each and every time,” Edward said to the person beside him. 

They had met before. In some prior season that Cyril could only barely recall, largely because he had been substantially intoxicated the entire time. A sober version of a Season was admittedly far more dull. Edward Sterling was pretty enough to be fuckable but boring enough that Cyril couldn’t muster the mental effort of trying to seduce him. He wondered if Sterling grew more interesting when drunk or if the boring seeped through to his very core.

He wouldn’t mind painting him, his face was interesting enough but trapped in a room with the man for hours. That would simply never due. At least not while Cyril was entirely sober, which he generally was when painting.

The conversation was banal enough that had anyone else said it, he would have readily agreed. However, it was Sterling, and he couldn’t bring himself to simply agree with the man. Not for all the views in all of London.

“There are many fine views in London.” Cyril replied with a soft laugh, “But I would say that the Hyde Park bridge scarcely makes the list as the most lovely. It is... banal at best. Pretty enough in shape and structure to please the masses but lacks any element of intrigue to make the view anything other than dull after say the 100th viewing.”

Perhaps it’s that the windows are thrown open to let in a cross breeze, or that the empire’s divine ruler isn’t present (though the threat of her arrival is always a possibility), but the state room has a rare lightness to it. The air is energized by expectation, rather than riddled with tension. Footmen drift about the room carrying gold trays laden canapés, and for those in need of refreshment to calm their nerves, drinks. 

At the far end of the room, the doors swing open. A gaggle of ladies enters. A few are clearly experienced at court, they fan themselves coquettishly, eyes already darting around to assess the room. Those guests who run in the right circles might recognize a several of the Queen’s favorites: Lady Kedley, Lady Tolly, Lady Holston.  

At the front of the group, in an embroidered dress of pale yellow, is a less familiar face. She appears almost birdlike in the doorway, poised to flutter into the room, expression open and eager.

The doorman confirms suspicion: “Her Royal Highness, Princess Amelia Augusta of England.”

A footman steps forward and bends his head to his fellow. The simple, routine announcement sets off a whispered argument. Hints of Ireland and proper title meet the ears of those closest to the door.

“I do hope,” a quiet voice says, pitched just above the fray. The conversation eases as the room realizes the Princess speaking. “That chief among my many titles, whether that be Princess or Emily, I am considered welcome.”

And just like that, the matter is resolved.

“Your Majesty,” Lady Kedley says smoothly, guiding the group to begin their rounds around the room. “Might I present Lady Tilbury?”

Details were Cyril’s bread and butter so attending at Buckingham Palace for any reason was always a mix of reactions. He found people dressed in their finest and carefully made up was always an interesting sight. However, he could never mistake the apprehension in their eyes, the quaver of their hands, and the intensity of the speculation.

Still, he often found himself in a corner, sketchbook propped open just enough to draw a few lines, capturing moments, expressions, the line of a gown, especially if the style were new or daring in some way. The sparkle of an eye, a turn of a cheek, were always interesting to him. He had just risen to capture a new glass of refreshments when he found himself quite accidentally in the direct path of the Princess herself. 

The pencil in his hand tumbled to the floor and rolled to a stop mere inches from her skirt. Propriety had never troubled him overly but this was beyond the pale even for him and he knew it. His cheeks warmed slightly as he bowed. “Your Highness, it appears that I was so struck with your beauty as to lose all my good sense. Please accept my sincere apologies.” 

A friend nudged his shoulder and whispered in a sotto voice, “Introduce yourself.”

Cyril couldn’t help but laugh softly at that almost whisper which the lovely princess surely heard. He was truly making a bumble of the moment. He grinned and bowed slightly again, “Cyril Vaughn, playing the role of fool it seems this day. I’d greatly appreciate it if you resisted beheading me just this once. I will endeavour to do better should I ever be granted an opportunity to say hello to you again in future. 

The easel was set up in a shaded spot near a small folly. He rarely painted in public spaces but it was an assignment for the Academy. He was to capture movement and the light of the day. He had four sheets pinned to the easel and began to move between each as he captured difference scenes, each in rapid strokes and bright lines. 

A pair of young ladies in vivid gowns walking near the river, with their black gowned maids trailing behind yet so similar in manner and demeanour. A young family picnicking on the lawn as a young child toddled nearby, looking amiable. A man seated, pontificating while a younger woman, likely a daughter, maybe a wife, looked bored and annoyed. An eager looking young lady, her own notepad in hand, taking in the scenes before her with eager eyes, the softness of her dress, rustling slightly in the breeze.

His movements were quick and economical. It wasn’t his usual style but the point of such assignments was to capture the world in different ways. Once the people were centred, sketched ever so slightly, he began to move to the scenery around them, the dapple of sunlight, the cool darkening effect of shade under the trees and pretty little picnicking areas. 

@tonyofledeclune​

The apartments were in a respectable area, not far from the Viscount’s residence in Mayfair. The building was full of dissolute artists including sculptors, painters and opera singers. All residents in this building were men or at least presented as such, to allow them to claim a residence. Cyril loved his unit. The light was perfection to his mind and the accommodations comfortable enough to suit Cyril.

He was a little surprised that this particular potential client was willing to meet with him at his studio. He always offered it as a possible location but few accepted. One wall of his studio was covered in a few pieces, just enough to highlight some of his skills, which were, admittedly impressive. Otherwise there were shelves of paint, buckets and jars of brushes, a few palettes scattered across the table and a large shelf containing all the sketchbook.

“Hello there Mr. Fraser. Glad to meet you.” Cyril granted with good cheer. “Hope you didn’t have a hard time finding my studio?”

Another formal party where propriety was all consuming, the drinks tepid and the food on offer was slightly stale. Since his return to the fold and his father’s intended plan to marry off his vagrant of a son as soon as possible, Cyril had tried to play along. His valet was in heaven with such new attire. Cyril, unable to help himself, insisted that his clothing at least have some unique qualities, running contrary to the current austere fashion for men. His cravat was elaborately embroidered, as was the edging on his jacket. 

Looking around, he spotted a sight for very sore and weary eyes. He crossed the floor and without waiting for the proper introduction, settled himself into the settee next to the lovely redhead, his dear friend and notorious beauty. “Henpeck.” he crooned as he leaned in, a fraction too close to be proper, “You must come see my latest work. My new work in capturing the subtle tones of English morning light has been progressing nicely.” 

In fact some might claim his skills to be bordering on mastery but Cyril never saw himself that way. He was a perpetual student. There was always room for improvement, always, but he was still proud of elements of his work, especially if he felt they had progressed since the last effort. 

He pressed into her hand a small sketch, torn from his sketchbook, featuring a maiden that was obviously her, and a group of salivating young dandies with ears like hound dogs, giving her chase. 

THE FIFTH TASK ✦ FAVORITE THINGS

His Easel. It packs up to precisely the right size and has a sturdy handle.

His Palette. It fits perfectly in his hand and he has had it for years. 

A Miniature Portrait. It was found on his mother’s person upon her death and Cyril has kept it since that day. It was his first attempt at a portrait of her and to be frank, it isn’t terribly good. It barely looked like the woman. But he was only 10 at the time. He loved his mother who encouraged him to pursue his dreams and always encouraged his talents. 

Strawberry tart. There is no finer dessert in his humble opinion - tastes as marvellous licked off a lover’s skin as it does off of a plate. 

His Sketchbook. He always has one at his fingertips because you never know when inspiration may strike. 

Lumpia Shanghai. His favourite dish that his mother prepared every year for him, personally, on his birthday. It never fails to remind him of her. 

His Apartment. When life at the Viscount’s residence becomes too constricting, Cyril retreats to his small apartment. It is meant to be a studio only but Cyril and his beleaguered valet often spend days, weeks or months in the place.

His studio room. The light is perfection, his bed only a room away and he can remain there for days at a time, losing himself in his task and painting as inspiration strikes. 

TASK SIX ⬥ SKILL CHECK

@hughxhoward​

“Do you see this colour... do you?” Cyril held it up and into the light that cast broad shadows around the table. “That would take four different shades to produce and it might still never have quite the right shade, the right tone, that is the trick my friends, to see if the colour may be brought to life! To trick the eye into deceit such they feel they could touch it, caress the skin, feel the wet of the liquor.”

He turned and captured the cheek of a handsome man seated near his table, “See ... the blue of his eyes. The perfection of that contrast but see... see here the bump along the side of his nose makes him, I would argue even more handsome than perfect symmetry. If you were to decline to include such a detail, would it even be his face? Would it be him that you were capturing or a fantasy of what the man could be?”

Cyril then paused and released the man. “I apologize good Sir. I hope I did not offend, I was just trying to explain ... ah never mind... Would you like to join us? I shall buy you your next drink for having the wherewithal to tolerate this group of pretenders.” 

The Vaughn Family 

Viscount Falmouth, Edgar Vaughn (Alec Mapa FC)

Viscountess Falmouth, Honour Vaughn, deceased. (Agot Isidro FC)

Cyril Vaughn, the heir to the title (Manny Jacinto FC)

Jasper Vaughn (Derrick Monasterio FC)

Verity Vaughn (Kathryn Bernado FC)

Westley Vaughn (Ronnie Alonte FC)

Xavier Vaughn (Daniel Padilla FC)