Post by oliver kennedy on Aug 31, 2009 21:52:31 GMT -5
oliver dane kennedy
[/b][/color][/size] A Mr. Oliver Kennedy at the dear age of twenty-five has found himself upon the most curious of situations - entering into London's most tantalizing gossip. "[/i][/color][/font][/size][/ul][/blockquote]
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W R I T E R .
name: melinda
RP experience: i do believe we established that a while ago
how did you find us?: i was attacked and dragged here and then decided to just stick around because kate fed me muffins
age: old enough
gender: a lady
P O R T R A I T .
eye color: bright blue with green undertones
hair color: chestnut
height: 5'11"
body type: lean with more muscle than is typical of his class
distinguishing features: a thin snaking scar along his right shoulder, his smile
fashion style:
M A N N E R S .
profession: n/a
adoration for:
distaste for:
dreams:
fears:
secrets:
main:
P A S T .
family:
main:
Deception is always felt most acutely when it is at the hands of family.
- - - - -
“Son, if I might have a word.” As was always the case with Patrick Kennedy, his words were not a request. Oliver had not thought to question his father as he stepped into the familiar study, a worn tweed cap twisted within his hands. Closing the door behind them, Patrick motioned for his son to have a seat and Oliver obliged with a despondent sigh. Surely whatever his father wished to discuss could wait until later – Oliver was certain it had to do with finances or an equally dull topic that held no interest. He watched his father move silently toward the bar and set two crystal tumblers on a tray before pouring them each a shot of brandy. “I see you are meeting friends. I won’t delay you for long.”
Oliver glanced at his worn brown trousers and starched white linen shirt and shrugged as his father turned. He held no delusions that his father approved of some of the company he kept – working class boys who would spend much of the evening whittling away the small sum they had earned during the day. His father believed them to be beneath them –ambitionless and frivolous. For Oliver they were a welcome break from the pompous rules of society. He was confident that he used them as freely as they used him. “Davenport had a dinner,” he replied with an easy smile hoping that the mention of his father’s esteemed colleague’s son would garner him favor.
His father did not reply, setting a glass before Oliver on the heavy mahogany desk. Patrick paused, taking a lengthy sip before striding toward the window and staring out at the pristine lawn. A soft pink blush blossomed through the cherry trees, creating a canopy over his mother’s beloved bench. “You are no longer a boy, Oliver,” Patrick began, turning to face his son. His gray eyes were penetrating, searching for any sign of weakness in his eldest. It was a gaze that Oliver knew had contributed to his success – one that showed no thought of wavering. He stared at his lap, twisting his cap into a thick rope. “It is time you start behaving as a man.” Again, Oliver said nothing. His father’s temper was volatile and easily heated. “Do you know what I am speaking of?”
Nodding meekly, Oliver cleared his throat. “I will stay in tonight if that is what you prefer.”
“I would prefer that every night if you mean to associate with those miscreants.” Patrick sighed, his eyes lingering upon his sons face with the faintest whisper of affection before he drowned it with another sip of brandy. “But that is not what I wish to discuss with you.” Oliver looked up in surprise. “This matter concerns your sister and her upcoming season.”
The annoyed grimace that pulled at Oliver’s features was not unnoticed by his father despite his attempt to mask it with a greedy gulp of his drink. Ever since his sister, Rosaline, turned sixteen all he had been made to hear of was her impending season. He knew more about silks and lace than he cared for. He knew his duty as her brother, of the dances he would be made to share with her for appearances. Most recently she had taken to pestering their parents about making her debut in London as a “proper” lady. More than once he had been reprimanded for his attempts to point out the contrary. Rosaline’s form was better suited to a bowl of fruit than the soft, slender curves of what he deemed a desirable lady to have. Her auburn hair was frizzy and coarse; her temperament one of a shrew. She was forever nagging him to straighten his shirtwaist or smooth his unruly hair. Oliver was certain she didn’t have an intelligent thought in her mind. Despite his duty to guard her against an undesired match, he pitied the fool who would take her hand. A smirk teased the corners of his lips with that thought – perhaps he could con the first near-blind barrister they encountered into taking her off their hands. “…have decided she shall have her season in London after all.”
His father’s voice broke through his reverie and Oliver stared at him, perplexed. “Son,” he sighed, “when are you going to get your head out of the clouds? Solid footing is what you need – is what you’ll get in London.”
“In London?”
“Did you not hear a word I said? It is no matter. Your mother and I have decided that your sister shall make her debut in London. She may make a most advantageous marriage there. You, my scatterbrained son, shall act as her chaperone for the journey and for the duration of your stay.”
“But – but I’ve plans!” Oliver sputtered.
“Plans,” Patrick scoffed. “To what? Gallivant about with servants and tarnish the family name? I have been much too lax with you my son. It is time to stop your antics and become a man. Besides, perhaps you will find a titled young lady who can tame your wild heart.” Oliver frowned. Anything that appealed to his sister immediately earned his distaste. The ‘titled’ young ladies his father spoke of would become her friends. He would be made to endure them at balls and garden parties, making polite conversation about the weather. With Rosaline’s constant presence he would have no opportunity to make friends of his own. Even before he boarded the steamer Oliver Kennedy was certain that he would hate England. As he met his father’s unfailing stare he knew that his fate had been sealed. “At the end of her…season”—Oliver grimaced over the word—“we can return to Boston?”
“At the end of the season you may not wish to.”
Though he did not utter the words, Oliver was certain that he would want nothing more than to return to America.
The journey to London was arduous. Rosaline spent much of the crossing confined to her cabin with unyielding sea sickness. When he was not ordering weak tea and unbuttered toast for her, Oliver occupied himself by roaming the decks. He quickly befriended the crew and was a frequent attendant at their nightly poker games. As they neared the distant shore that held so much dread for the young man, Rosaline began to mend. With her health came her insistent demands – he was to escort her for a tour about the decks or listen to her butcher poetry with her whiny voice. The only fortunate aspect to her ailment was that she had lost weight and had gained a more pleasing figure. If she could maintain it, he thought wryly, perhaps he could return to Boston sooner than his father had planned.
Unbeknownst to either Kennedy was their father’s true intentions to sending them to England. Together they fell into an effortless pattern, Oliver detesting every minute of it. Still, he played the part of distinguished gentleman, much to his sister’s surprise and their cousin’s pleasure. If Oliver was honest to himself, London was not as horrible as he had imagined it would be. True, it was dreary with its unfailing gray skies and chilling drizzle but the young ladies were fair and the ale in the taverns was never in short supply. He managed to acquaint himself with the sons of several affluent families, garnering him invitations to several prestigious gentlemen’s clubs. The brief correspondences he did share with his father were filled with praise that he had finally taken his rightful place within the family. Though the admiration warmed him, Oliver could not shake the unnerving sense that there was something he was not privy to.
All it took was one letter to change everything.
It was an uncharacteristically sunny day when the post arrived. Soft wisps of white were painted across the pristine blue sky. When the butler handed him the letter, Oliver assumed it was another letter from his father and tucked it carelessly in the pocket of his trousers before making his way to the park. He wanted to enjoy the warm sun as it kissed his skin while it lasted. The serenity of the park was a welcome distraction from Rosaline’s shrill nagging. She had taken to mothering him and he likened her to a hen, much to the amusement of his newfound friends. For her part, Adelaide did not understand why none of her brother’s companions paid her the least bit of interest. Oliver assumed he was protecting them from a miserable future.
With a breathy chuckle at his sister’s expense, Oliver lay on the grass and pulled the crumpled envelope from his pocket. A thrill of excitement coursed through him as he recognized his dear cousin, Fredrick’s script. But the words hastily scrawled upon the paper did not fill him with joy. His cousin wrote of the war that was tearing his beloved country apart. He told of the despicable south and their ridiculous notions. He detailed the glory of battle and the bitter reality of death. Most of all, he defended Oliver’s absence alongside him. As the words inked themselves onto his heart, not even the sun could erase the chill that snaked along his spine.
His fist closed around the letter as he hastily returned home. Without pausing to remove his jacket he bellowed that he required a pen and paper immediately. Settling at his cousin’s writing desk, Oliver placed the crumbled letter beside the pristine paper the servant had placed before him. His anger was written in the deep indentations of his letters; in the hasty smears of ink. He demanded to return home so that he could prove his worth in battle. If his father wished him to be a man he would do so by taking up arms and not watching his sister dance around like a stuffed pig. When he was finished he addressed the envelope and handed it to a servant to post immediately before going about the business of preparing for the long journey home. Oliver never thought to question his ability to return.
When his father’s reply arrived some weeks later, it was not what Oliver imagined it would be. …This is not a war of logic. It has rendered even the most logical of men fools. I will not have my only son cavorting with such barbarians. Though I cannot stop you from returning, know this: I am a man of my word, Oliver. When I say that no son of mine shall fight in this war know that your allegiance to a cause you know nothing of will mean you are no longer a part of my family. Your fight will not end with this war. You shall have to remake yourself with no name, no fortune. We both know that is something you are incapable of. Perhaps the friends I once warned against will come to your aide… The letter had continued, his father berating him and exposing his ever flaw. By the time he had finished, Oliver Kennedy knew he had no choice but to remain in London and play the fool.
As time passes, Oliver slips further and further from himself. He will take on any challenge and cares little for any reputation he might earn. He exists to remake himself into anything besides who he is. A man would stand up to his father, would fight alongside friends and family.
Though he is certain that he is not a man, Oliver is still waiting to discover what is left.
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E T C .
play-by: colton haynes
password: "sitting on the beach, smoking a cigarette, drinking a beer, checking out the laaaaaaadies."
rp sample:[/blockquote][/size]
