𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐄𝐓𝐇 ; 𝗪𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘂𝗻𝗶!𝗮𝘂

▬ un

There was one very definite positive to this school his father was sending him to: he wouldn't have to see said father — for generous stretches at a time, at least. Of course, he still had his... affliction to deal with. Knowing his father, there were two things his father might do: offer him no help whatsoever to make him suffer through his classes or assign him a scribe intended to humiliate him and remind him at every waking moment of the reason he was so helpless. But there wasn't much choice. He despised his father, and the feeling was very much mutual. Besides, it was very likely his only chance at going to university. He might not be studying exactly what he had in mind for himself or be doing anything other than getting out of his father's way, but he would make the most of it. Maybe even make some friends.

It wasn't like he'd set out to disappoint his father. Or gamble away half — okay, most... fine, ALL — of their money. He really did want to be at university and learn and all that bullshit. Every single person at that school was just so dull or stuffy or chronically anxious or some ungodly combination of any and all of that that it made his pants itch. Perhaps it was time to make a change, though — save what could be saved and make the most of the opportunity that had cost his father's life savings. Maybe he'd join the choir. Or the theater department. How much trouble could he even get in if his free time was actually spent at university, anyway?

—

Wylan collected the last of his things in a messenger bag sitting lonely on his recently emptied bed. There wasn't much to collect, after all — it wasn't like he needed any more reminders of the house he was desperate to leave behind with this move. The most important items (as well as clothes) had already been shipped off in great big crates Wylan had long since last seen.

Picking up the bag with its worn brown leather (it was in and of itself possibly Wylan's most prized possession anyway; it had belonged to his mother before she died and Wylan cherished it more than life), Wylan took in the sights of his bedroom for what he promised himself would be the last time.

Empty bed, stripped of both sheets and pillow, peeling brown floral wallpaper (specifically in the corner by where the wardrobe sat) where he'd picked at it when he was little and his father had been in one of his moods, the desk where he had been both slapped and taunted for the simple fact that he couldn't read or write, and the very ornate door that never locked but Wylan had still figured out a way of blocking off if he so desired. Every inch of the room was permeated by the stench of memories that Wylan was all too happy to be leaving as memories, locked away in a dusty corner of his mind.

Some shout from the maid downstairs met Wylan's ears. Without so much as an uttered farewell, he passed his father's office — the door closed and locked despite the shuffling of feet within, not that Wylan even bothered to try the doorknob — and down the stairs, through the grand front door (after a smiled thank you to the maid handing him his lunch), before onto a coach altogether much nicer than he'd learned to expect from his father.

Black leather seats rimmed in copper detailing were a nice touch, along with the grumbling face of his escort — not a man he'd met before, but then again, his father cycled through the low-level servants like nobody's business. It was all too likely that the man had been hired for this job alone.

Closing the latch behind him, Wylan sat down.

"Lovely day," he said brightly, clutching his hands on top of the messenger bag upon his lap. The man opposite him said nothing.

His eyes looked out from under a dark bowler hat, and the majority of his face was covered by a thick mustache curling slightly at its ends, and an altogether large nose with a bit taken out at the middle, where a pair of spectacles would rest. His clothing looked, at the same time, poor and put-together. He wore a slightly off-white buttoned shirt, not buttoned at the top two buttons, with a dingy but fashionable vest, which also had the misfortune of not being fully buttoned. Or rather, it was rather fortunate for it, as it didn't seem like it would have managed the trip.