chaos is a ladder

         The flickering of half-melted candles reflects on the intricate fabric of her gown, a shimmering composition which makes the princess appear as though she is walking with molten silver dripping down her womanly form. It makes her feel both desirable and powerful, the excess of wealth spent on her gown had been well used, the seamstress of many talents forming something enviable — it was a gown designed to be looked at. 

A half-sigh parts her lips, cerulean irises scanning the crowd cunningly in search of a particular stature. It is the kindness of a masquerade that she should be granted vague anonymity, although there is little to be done about her distinquishable features. Her need to see him is frustrating, maddening. Long ago Arabella made a vow never to love or depend on the affection of a man, so why does she now think so often of Mario? She reminds herself that she doesn’t love him, it’s lust, admiration and some respect. But she MOST DEFINITELY not love him!  

Her Italian lover is no where to be seen. Annoyingly. 

Arabella purses her lips, fingers twitching at her side. She had hoped for a dance, but instead she cannot find the bloody bastard. A dance with a desperate lord in dire need of a woman’s warmth and affection is shunned, her elegant nose turning up at his advances in favour of walking towards the gilded archway. The decoration of the room is resplendant, and all around her lovers cling in intimate dances. 

Despite her agitation, Arabella does not hasten. Instead, she floats around corridors aas though she is a mere whisp of a thing, a ghost or goddess - untoucable from the mere mortals. Her fingers trace over carved wood, strength used to push against the weight of the crafted oak. It is a rich and malevolent sight which greets her. 

Her heart hammers in her chest, her figure becoming staturesque as she watches the events unforld before her sapphire gaze. Her dangerous stallion reveals more of his sharpened edges and for a moment she cannot speak. Arabella thinks that the victim is vaguley familiar, she’s certainly seen him in Scotland. “ What do we have here? “ The question does not require an answer. Her mind has already concluded the facts surrounding this. Her eyes close briefly, a decision is made and then she looks him daringly in the eyes.

       “ — continue, ” she orders slowly, breathing through her words. It’s curiosity and fear which causes her hands to shake, but she refuses to nervously fidget. Instead, she takes a small step forward, although some would argue that the wise decision would be to leave. But she wants to see how far he will go, the monster behind the man. 

If he had the heart to view the world through another’s eyes, Mario might have recognized the scene playing out as a kind of fairy-tale. That is, a fairy-tale before it had been watered down for the masses and simplified for the Sunday school crowd: flagrant with corrupted nobility, resplendent with pretty princesses and foreign aristocrats acting not quite the part of the villain, but certainly not the hero, monsters lurking behind innocent faces and the truly naive squirming against the cold stone, half-alive and begging for mercy.

The room was now cloaked in something dark, dragged up from between the sanctity they stood upon and the underworld itself, enveloping them both in curiosity and bloodlust, equal parts god and devil. Mario couldn’t help but smirk at her permission, privately deeming the single word some kind of accomplishment, an absolution to his sins, a remedy to his fears. 

“As the goddess commands,” he spoke in a low voice, a small nod cementing the future written by the arc of her mouth. Actions made in haste would not do anymore, his initial plan no longer viable in the presence of an audience who deserved a show. Mario had learned long ago that the best kills were the ones you could savor. There was no rest for the wicked, after all, and this yearning to watch blood spill and hear screams echo was his inherent guide, growing stronger around the hedonistic and hapless alike. 

“Unaccustomed seems a small word to describe it. I would say the most grandiose affair I have been a witness to previous to this would look mundane next to this. And yet I would prefer it,” the woman admitted. “My king did not seem to need such fripperies to attract a good woman. And if a woman needs such displays to be impressed, she hardly seems one worth trusting.” Maybe it was just the stark difference in cultures between this and her own, but she could not see the use or attraction of all this splendor. resources being wasted here could be used in so many better ways.

“A warrior who prefers the mundane? An unlikely pairing.” Mario mused playfully, this time catching more of the elusive accent he couldn’t quite place, as the words brought out a certain feminine edge that his ears had not heard the first time around. The ambassador looked closer as the knight discussed festivities that sounded entirely too boring for Mario’s tastes. Truthfully, there was only one reason to throw such an extravagant party: to show the world that such a party could be thrown in the first place, and in doing so, let enemies and allies alike know of the nation’s wealth and stature. 

His ears didn’t listen as closely as they had before, this time instead affixing his gaze to the features of the knight left uncovered by mask and costume. Rationale would have him believe that the height alone could not belong to a woman, but perhaps the influx of good lighting and even better wine cast a particular veil of belief as he studied the person beside him, suspended under the notion that a lady may rest underneath the warrior costume. “What is familiar to one nation is entirely foreign to another. In my home country, we view those who do not partake in our offers of splendor and festivity as regretfully...alien.” He emphasized the last word with deliberate precision to see if it would grant some sort of reaction from the other, perhaps reveal them to be a new ambassador to the Tudor court, or some other dignitary. “Where is this homeland of yours that does not delight in communal jubilation?”

“One may say it is a desire. A desire I had as a child to be an elven king. A desire to bring forth a smile to my mother’s face as it was indeed made for my own father for a similar occasion many a year ago,” the young man responded. “There are no other desires, if you were insinuating there were some. My loyalty is solidly with my king, my only hope is someday I may be so blessed as to assist him in any way within my ability. So, yes. It is merely for costume purposes.” Young he may be, and more skilled as scholar than warrior, but any need his king may have he would fill, whichever school of ability it may fall under.  

“However, this is not a night for politics, but rather one for festivities, and love. Pray, tell me m’lord, are you here with a special someone?”

All the clarity in the world could never give him an understanding of innocence, nor an explanation for the purity that seemed to exist in others when naivete so quickly lost a man his head. Still, like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to the naive endlessly, not quite wanting to extinguish it from the world, but simply desiring to cultivate it, allow it to grow under his watchful eye. Further conversation would reveal if this boy had such a flame, but Mario’s instincts told him as much and his hunger to learn more refused to subside.

“Relax, friend. It was no great insinuation on my part,” he covered smoothly as he affixed a humble smile to his features. “Simply a means of understanding the man before me. A costume can tell the world one’s secrets, but it seems yours is just an extension of your past, a childhood wish come to life. It is poetic, and my heart has always had the ear for poetry.” Before speaking, he considered what he could surmise of the other so far: a reader, likely avid since childhood, averse to politics -- Mario believed that the topic of politics was only ever avoided by those almost always disinclined to that discussion -- but a curious boy nonetheless. He sipped from his goblet before replying, “If a lover of mine is here and I am not at their arm, it is only because they are hidden entirely by a fantastic costume that has deceived even me.” A half-truth, but his love life was not up for discussion, not during today’s celebrations or any other. “Although, I am in attendance with the Lady of Florence, Sofia de Medici.” His mind lit up with the spark of an idea, an effort to fulfill part of the duty he still held to the Medici family. “Tell me, have you crossed paths with her yet, or have you come alone to such a romantic gathering? And, yes, I assure you, those two are the only possible options when such a beauty is involved.” 

She had to admit her own curiosity was firmly piqued, given the ensemble he sported. It was dark, but moreso than her own - the mask itself more serious than one might have expected for a Valentine’s celebration. A smile widened on her own expression as he pressed his lips to her hand, though her attempts to get a true look at his face were thwarted as his mask slipped back into place.

“You blaspheme, sir.” She insisted as she took hold of the crook of his elbow, though her voice was coated with a sort of irony - displaying how little she was truly troubled by the words. It was only his words as they began to join in the dance that made her thoughtful, blue eyes trailing away from his dark ones. “You speak a fair point.” She conceded, though it was warm, keeping in step with the other dancers. “I only mean there is less care for propriety.” Sarah offered after a few moments of thought. “The anonymity makes people entirely different - more free. It is that freedom I relish, sir. I am as free as I can be in the life I live, but tonight, the judging eyes are turned away.” She fell into another pause as they moved through the steps, momentarily separated and she interjected before he could say a word when they fell into step again. “What I wonder is why you have chosen to parade as the face of death on a day intended to symbolize life and love. Quite a severe position to place oneself in.”

“Are love and death not inexorably intertwined?” He mused in response to her question, feigning something in between philosophy and passion, before parting from the masked woman for a brief moment to serve the steps of the dance. Upon returning to her, he continued, “Does a part of us not die with each new love, mourning our previous life as bachelor or maiden? And do we not die a thousand little deaths with the life of a new romance?” Of course, it was not deathproper that he referred to, but the concept of la petite mort, as the French so eloquently alluded to the throes of passion in acceptable conversation. “Although, one could also argue that Hades is a romantic. He is, after all, one half of a great love story. One of the greatest yet told.”  

The true answer to her question comprised all of his spoken reasons, and tenfold others left unsaid. At the heart of all things Mario did, both with mask and without, was the desire to causeconversation. Conversation was distracting, a way to see his intentions deflected and status elevated all the same. To speak and be listened to, to be whispered and wondered about – there was no easier poison to slip into the glasses of the elite, and no one better suited to pouring it than Mario himself.

“I agree, there is a certain freedom in anonymity. But perhaps even greater still is what’s granted by being the subject of everyone’s little tête-à-têtes, discussed but never determined, reasoned for but never revealed. That’s power, my dear. Controlling conversation without partaking in it. And what could bring you more freedom than power itself?” God or not, he spoke with the ease of a man who’d been bestowed a bejeweled crown, consequence the furthest thing from his mind as they finished the steps of the dance.

The man before him wasn’t the first to be met by his wrath, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Espionage was perhaps the oldest weaponry known to mankind, as pervasive as iron and steel but not nearly as raucous, and saturated with all the subtlety the former lacked. Had Caesar looked at the list of conspirators handed to him by his spies, the man would have lived an even greater life than previously achieved, likely succumbing to old age or war injuries rather than the conspiratorial betrayal of an institution. Every great conqueror had his follies, naturally, but the greatest ones never let a lack of intelligence become one of them -- Mario included.

At times, such intelligence manifested in the eradication of espionage, during which Mario’s ‘listeners’ suddenly found the cool of their skin met with the end of something sharp, blood spilling in place of secrets that no longer did. In these moments, chaos in its purest form was reflected in Mario’s gaze, his penchant for death providing a constant glimmer too often confused for humor, and his mind’s eye saw the other man plead and writhe even before the plan was put into action.

The Scotsman had committed no great sin, of course, but the risk of ambivalence was terminated as soon as it was recognized, like an already-burning wick being stubbed to its final, ashy end. He brandished the dagger from his cloak, appearing every bit a mad messiah, masked as the Greek God of Death come to claim his next victim under the cover of celebration. Wholly intent on seeing ruby-red spill from the man, he pondered where he would strike first, knowing the goal of the matter was to simply arrange the aftermath to look as though a common thief, a trespasser to the masquerade, or some bellicose drunkard, had come upon the unfortunate soul in the dead of night and robbed him of his life and his gold.

He moved to strike, only to find his arm suspended at the sound of intrusion, and peeled his eyes away from his prey with a reluctance that soon turned to disbelief. It was a sick twist of fate, a cruel joke, a nightmare he’d never once believed could see the light of day, and all at once, an unspoken demand was placed upon him to stand between the religion he’d always held -- death and destruction as a means to an end -- and the goddess he served. Even despite his mask and the black cloak sheathing the rest of his costume, he felt as naked as the day he was born.

Mario remained silent, bowing slightly to signify the courtesy of allowing her to make the first move -- to slip away to the safety of the familiar if she so desired, to leave him to rot in the aftermath of his own darkness without so much as a blink of the eye. Still, his dark eyes raked over her form, daring her to refuse any instinct to run, and instead join him in his own private debauchery.

She was his first real love, his only love, and if she turned away now, he was certain she would be his last. 

Hal was never one to frequent social gatherings, but he was having a fairly good time nonetheless. He had even had an opportunity at one point to show of his skill with the harp, a talent most of his peers had heretofore been unaware of.  The question from the man however took him quite off guard. “ Do you mean to inquire if I’d feel a fool dying in a costume in a crowd of people or are you more asking if I would be happy to turn into whom I am clothed as before death ? ” 

Indeed he would not begrudge being turned into Oberon the fairy king. He was a supporting hero in one of his favourite epic songs, ‘ Les Prouesses et faitz du noble Huon de Bordeaux ‘

“ I might turn that question back upon yourself, good sir. Would you die happily as yours ? Or indeed any ? ”

“The latter, of course,” Mario answered, the reply slipping from his tongue almost too quickly, and laced with not just wine but something far more biting as well. The ambassador held little concern with the looks of people, and saw even less reason to care if they looked upon his death while he was dressed as another. Still, a question required a response, and from his lips slid something that was not quite an answer, but not quite an escape either. “To die as Death itself would be my tragedy, and the world’s greatest comedy. And, to some, to die as myself without costume would be no different. Besides, what is happiness to a dead man?”

He looked over the boy -- and yes, Mario would only see him as a boy, even if their ages were comparable, for all men who eluded this kind of innocence could only be considered as such -- and studied his costume, eyeing its details for any semblance of information he could glean, not only to the identity of the person, but the notes of his character, as well. It was clear that a quick study of ensemble would not do, and so he resolved to inquire, uncaring if the question was too personal --- there was no such thing when behind a mask, after all. “Pray tell, do you wear a crown on your head for the costume alone, or is it a symptom of a desire?”

Clad as and ancient Irish hero, a mask covering her features, and towering above even most men in attendance, Bronagh greatly doubted she would be seen for what she was. Even in the few passed pleasantries, her low voice had not betrayed her, though the rough Irish accent had raised a brow or two.  “ Tell me,” she inquired of someone near her, “in your experience, are such gatherings in this court always so opulent? ”

“Forgive me, but I thought you to be a statue,” his voice drawled, tongue laced with sweetwine. Even in this decided lack of sobriety, Mario’s ever-listening ears picked up the accent nestled under the mask, though he could not recognize its owner. He’d not made it a point to become friendly with the guards, thinking them to be simple trifles in comparison to those they often sought to protect. Upon a second glance at the knight, Mario almost considered it a mistake. “In my experience, such opulence is found only when the English King decides he needs a new queen,” the ambassador responded sardonically, though his ever-present easy smile nearly erased the cynicism. “Where I come from, this is little more than an idle evening. Are you unaccustomed to such celebration, friend?”

“Yes, sir, I think I should. I could die happy knowing I did so as I lived - behaving without abandon Not a care in the world.” Sarah was decked from top to toe in dramatic colors - the black and gold of her mask and her dress offset by the deep reds in the jewelry she sported, dark hair on display for the rare occasion that such a thing was allowed. She thrived in events like this, playing with the anonymity and the taking on of new personas. Perhaps it said something about her that she felt so free under a mask - or it would, at least, if she were feeling philosophical and not merely light from the energy of the evening and the plentiful wine.

Sarah extended her hand to the stranger, inviting a kiss though she would take anything he would offer her. “And you, my lord? Would you die happy tonight, if it came upon you? You seem high in spirits.” She tilted her head, blue eyes sparking behind the dark masque that attempted to hide her features. “High enough in spirits for a dance, perhaps?”

His intrigue did not subside, but instead furthered its bounds, brow quirked upwards at her open admission of a life lived uninhibited. He wondered to what extent these impulses of hers were surrendered without restraint, and if it was due to societal convention alone that she refrained from reaching into the depths of her darkness to allow it into the light. There were few -- none, truly -- who had come into his acquaintance and equaled his chaos, let alone rivaled it, and as Mario’s gaze scanned the details of her costume, eyes fixed at the collar of red around her neck, he almost hoped that the ruby reds were emblematic of some devilish intent simply wrapped in brilliance. The ensemble, and the wearer, were undoubtedly attractive, and after lifting his mask to reveal nothing more than the crescent of a smile, he greeted her outstretched hand with a press of his lips. 

Her return of his question could not be answered truthfully. In short, Mario lived with too much ambition to ever see it come to an end, and with such ambition never came perfect happiness -- only fleeting moments that were close, but still so damnably out of reach. “Live as a god, die as a god. There is nothing better.” he responded, tone easy even if his thoughts weren’t. He conceded to a dance with a nod, and offered his arm to guide her towards the other twirling couples. Once they’d settled into their proper positions, Mario posited, eyes swirling with mischief, “You, an attractive woman, have come to a masked ball as an attractive woman, leaving all to wonder -- Is this an act of rebellion or a concession to convention? Do tell me, signorina, of the abandon you speak of.”

                                  Mario Savorgnano | Hades, Ruler of the Underworld

On a ferrous throne of obsidian bone, he awaits the river of sanguine to flow in another dead soul. He dwells the underworld with apathy’s rust, feeds the mind pomegranate and pride.

All the King’s feasts might have been heavenly, but it was this sight of the courtiers so blessedly undone that was the true food of the gods, and when Mario turned to join in the bacchanal, his eyes rested on the sight of another, and he wondered if they’d taste like sweet summer wine or an exotic fruit of the East, or some other delicacy presented throughout the evening. They could be friend, foe, lover, or family -- it was all the same to Mario in this state, drunk on the waxing ecstasy that filled the room and emboldened even the shyest of courtiers. 

“If tonight was your last, would you die happily as your costume?” The question left his lips as quickly as a wicked smile took its place, lips spread like the flesh and bone next to him was both kin and prey in equal measure.

       Her heart felt as though it were barely contained within her chest, beating wildly against the willowy branches of her ribs. Never before has little lady Jane partook in any form of exhibition, one that would see her act as another would. It had been a comfort to know that her own brother Nicholas had joined in the comradery of it, yet she felt certain that the gazes of people upon her had never been in such abundance. When it had finished, Janey had returned to the throng of people on shaking limbs - it had been exhilarating. In truth, Jane felt wonderful. She felt as though she could laugh or scream, anything to staunch the temperamental energy which had found root in her body.  ❛  I feel like I could fly! I could let the wind carry me away.  ❜ 

The act of pretending had always come impossibly easy to him, seemingly just as easily as it had come to the fine actors and actresses of the play, and after the play finished, he wormed his way to the reception through a clever explanation regarding the young Sofia de Medici, and his role in assuring her enjoyment of the events and the provision of his guardianship. Truthfully, he had no interest in plays. The real world provided enough liars and fakes, and he wore enough masks to suit them all, each one more practiced than the last. Still, the promise of opportunity was rich throughout the crowd, with their tongues loosened from the libations passed during the performance. 

He eyed one of the young starlets, immediately drawn to the childlike excitement spilling out of her. It only took one look to know she was like honey. His tongue holds no taste for sweetness preserved, but curiosity and ill intentions reign supreme as he dons one of many masks he must hold in this court of intrigue. “Do not fly so far away, my lady.” He remarked with a deep, respectful bow before offering a celebratory glass of fine wine to the lady. His next words slipped easily from his lips, the charm of them hiding a decided lack of substance. “Your adoring fans would miss you terribly, and the stage might never be the same again.” 

Isabella tried to keep the confusion from darkening her expression as Mario looked at her. She faltered for a moment, wondering if perhaps this wasn’t the young man she’d met years ago, that this wasn’t the boy she’d taught how to please. But her doubts were subdued as he pulled her away from the crowd of courtiers and down a corridor. Isabella tried not to smile, finding amusement and familiarity in the way he seemed to hide them both away, though her brows raised as he announced his new title. “Ambasciatore? Well, you’ve certainly made your way up in the world. So my sweet Mario is my sweet ambassador, now?” Isabella placed a hand on his arm, not considering if the gesture held any weight, just glad to see a man she’d realised she hadn’t ever imagined seeing again. There had been so few of the soldiers she knew left, she supposed she’d figured Mario might not have made it back from the battlefield.  She wanted to kiss him, for no other reason than she was happy he was alive and here in front of her. 

Yet here he was asking about her, of all things, and Isabella wasn’t entirely sure what to say. “There is not much to tell,” It wasn’t a lie. “I bed the right men at the right time and earned my fortune, but England is not Italy and there is still so much for me to achieve here. Anyway,” Isabella shrugged, sparing him the explicit details. “I’m sure the tale of Ambasciatore is far more thrilling than that of a simple courtesan.” 

He was all too tempted to lean his lips into a smile and allow glee to brighten his eyes -- but, of course, that would mean revealing that part of himself he’d buried in the dirt and sands of the battlefront, the version of Mario Savorgnano lost to time and history and now, apparently, Isabella de Luna. He was not a man who reveled in surprises, lest he was the one providing them, but he could not deny the immediate curiosity at hearing more of the girl’s story, his mind already spinning uses for her and the charms he knew were wickedly irresistible. The presence of her hand on his arm gave him the credence to lead the woman down the hall, with every intent on leaving the noise and prying eyes of the other patrons to their silly card games and idle gossip. Though he would not admit it, Mario had a proclivity for this, for stealing away those select few he’d chosen to gift with his secrets or those who had come to acquire them by their own hand. In this instance, Isabella fulfilled the role of both, and he automatically needed privacy with her because of it. 

“Thrilling? You flatter me,” Mario started, with that easy confidence he’d mastered since they’d last crossed paths. “If bartering deals is more exciting than bedding those who make them, then I might be in the wrong line of work.” A chuckle escaped him as he led them to a private parlor, feeling more comfortable at the guarantee of privacy. “Your story is not far from my own. I arrived nearly six years ago, funded partially by the Medicis, but largely on the back of my own work. And now," he paused to take a dramatic seat with his arms outstretched, "I live like a king without any of the responsibilities." Another laugh, this time more genuine, left his lungs at the sound of his own accomplishment. Confidence was such an easy skin to slip into for one with a story to divulge. "So, tell me, Isabella. Is your fortune one made of riches or of intrigue? Here at court, both have the power to tip the scales.” 

@mariosavorgnano

Isabella cared little for the entertainment offered at the English court. Rainy afternoons limiting what could be done. She was a woman of perhaps less refined skill, and whilst masquerades and theatre were more of her calibre, music and poetry were not. She’d excused herself from the small group of ladies reading poetry to one another, their soft sing-song voices grating her nerves. Instead, she’d found her amusement at the card tables, the flash of gold coin and sleight of hand needed to ensure a win far more fulfilling. She’d laughed and batted her eyelashes at the gentleman across from her, and the other gentlemen after that since she’d managed to win almost every game. “I tire gentlemen,” Isabella had grinned, tying her purse strings and rising from the table. “And I think it unfair to rob you of anymore coin, your poor wives shall starve otherwise. For their sake I bid you goodbye.”

She wove through the people gathered in the hall, darting between groups of noblemen and women entertaining themselves in one way or another. Isabella struggled through the door; more people seemed to be entering than leaving, and her shoulder brushed that of a mans. “Forgive me, my lord.” The words escaped her with a honeyed softness, her eyes cast to the floor before she glanced up, a brazen look from beneath her lashes she knew would soothe the temper of any man. But the face before her was an unexpected yet familiar one, and her face dropped with surprise. “Mario? By God, Signore, what are you doing here?”

Mario’s mouth pursed, an almost-frown writing itself into his usually smiling countenance, carefully sculpted onto his face to portray the displeasure he knew was expected of him. In truth, he wasn’t angry or annoyed at the outcome of the game, but acting in accordance of the motto forever at the emblazoned into every thought, every action: lose the battle, win the war. Cards, of course, was just another silly game, but the rounds he’d played -- intentionally complete with too-big bets and poorly played hands -- were enough to fool the newcomers into thinking he was positively terrible, which naturally created space for him in their circle. After all, someone who could create the image of weakness was rarely ever the weakest in the room.

He excused himself soon enough, satisfied with the strides he’d made today, and left the hall as the next wave of players entered. Mario disliked surprises; they were indicators of vulnerability, measures of weakness. And yet, his shock betrayed this at the call of his name, as only the reappearance of a shadowy figure from an equally dark past could. He knew he’d been staring too long at her to simply brush it off, and as such, couldn’t pretend to not know the girl in such a public place. So, Mario pulled them both away from the crowd, a finely decorated corridor painting the backdrop of this unprecedented encounter. 

When he regained his composure, the words found themselves warmer than he’d anticipated, despite knowing that her sudden appearance could be part of a ploy. “England is now my second home, signorina. From soldier of war to Ambasciatore of Italy. Although, it appears I’m not the only one who...played my cards right. You must tell me your story.” Mario hadn’t expected it, but there was some small, long-buried part of him that relished in seeing a familiar face -- especially one that had only aged with grace and beauty, rather than the trappings of the past. 

             Laughter tugs at her chest like a dead weight, Arabella forcing herself to let out a sound of lively amusement. Her mood is sour, like the unfavourable wine she had consumed earlier that evening. Her painful footfalls are from the circuits which had had made around the hall     where her body had been tugged around by unfit partners. It is often the misfortune of being a young woman to dance with men who have a foul stench to their breath, or other questionable aromas so vile that her eyes sting. Seven dancing partners she has had this evening and each one has stepped on her toes more than once, ruining the fine satin and the flesh of her own foot. 

In the corner of the room she allows herself the slightest comfort, as she leans back against the stone wall. Her eyes are fixed on familiar features, hidden longing in her eyes. Oh, she wishes that the feeling could consume her, but it is not allowed. She’s stronger than that. A contemplative humm vibrates against her plump lips, gaze diverted by the need to not cause any suspicion. But, nevertheless, she does speak to him. 

                                         ❝ Ambassador Savorgnano, ❞ she begins formally, despite her affinity for him     the walls have ears.  ❝ Would you care for some wine? I cannot decide if it is Italian or not, but I rather enjoy the taste. Perhaps, you could enlighten me?  ❞

@mariosavorgnano

Here at court, he is someone almost new, in the way that priceless fabrics and handwritten letters are not novel but desirable all the same, far and away from the ghosts and living beings that knew him not by word of mouth, but by the trail of spilled blood he’d left behind in Italy. They see him as someone charming, someone attractive, with fingertips uncalloused and scars only shown in faint white lines instead of the expected unhealed gashes of a man forced to properly serve on the battlefield. People were drawn to him, to the secrets and stories they knew he held, and the evening sees him act the part of raconteur for a court that lapped at intrigue before retiring away from the greedy ears. 

At the soft call from her lips, he greets her with a hint on his lips, a sharp quirk of a smile with eyes lit by curiosity and mischief, something almost boyish juxtaposed to the very appearance of man. She, of course, is beautiful as ever, dressed and held like she a flower grown and tended to instead of simply born, and he cannot offer more than a simple bow at the sight of her, well-versed in etiquette even in supposed privacy. 

“Princess Arabella,” he returns, tone equally formal as he eyes the petite blonde with singular desire. “If your refined palate enjoys it, I know it can only be the finest of wines.” His hands reach for the carafe of wine; the act of pouring is reserved for servants, and when the sun goes down, that is precisely what he is to the woman, commanded by desire, reveling in lust. Two glasses are poured, and he takes a generous sip from the first one, as though swallowing something so smooth will drown the sight of her dancing with men not only inferior of her beauty, but her mind. “Italian. Quite fittingly, of course. Excellent wine-makers and even better dancers, which is more than I can say for your partners this evening.”