восстание .

      FRIGID  WINDS  PRICK  BARE  FLESH  &&   exposed  forearms  rest  upon  the  cragged  ledge  of  his  chamber’s  balcony.  he’s  adorned  by  a  moonlit  torso,  an  attenuated  layer  of  crystalized  frost  coating  his  surroundings.  dual  fists  clench,  nails  assaulting  the  meat  of  his  palm  with  crescent  moon  impressions  (  a  habit  which  has  obtained  stark  scars  following  decades  of  execution  ).  his  cerebrum  is  infiltrated  by  an  interjecting  council,  conflicting  accords,  and  a  country  littered  with  envenomed  intent  ––  would  a  moravian  guard  cascade  next,  would  craven  toxins  spark  a  subsequent  war  ?

the  creak  of  his  room’s  egress  splinters  reflective  turmoil.  he  pivots,  a  far  tamer  winter  left  rearwards  as  he  emerges  from  exterior  shadows.  weapons  prepared  for  eternal  conflict  remain  reposed,  the  intruder’s  familiarized  identity  able  to  ease  taut  posture.  hazel  irises  scrutinize  an  assortment  of  scattered  documents  as  bloodstained  hand  retrieves  a  silver  chalice  from  lumbered  surface.  despite  brooding  attributes,  the  margrave’s  tone  expels  calm.  ❛  find  a  tavern  to  dismantle  ?  ❜

a time will come when i will not take another character, but it is not this day. beneath the cut you’ll find a detailed synopsis of mikhail novak.

*law and order noise*

it is purposeful ─ the heavy drapes draw apart loudly with a deliberate tug ( he spares no thought to the french or their curtains and pettily wonders if the damned thing would fall apart if he were to pull any harder ), the smile etched upon his features tinged with an underlying hint of fondness, relief easing the straight line of his shoulders into something more pliable before a familiar figure. war was a thing of paradoxical magnitudes ─ while many bonds were severed between countries, new alliances were made and though alexei had lost so much to the unending chaos, he had also gained more than he could have ever hoped for. he would not be too bold as to call the english prince as ❛ brother ❜ but there was no denying that they had a bond, forged by blood and battle, that could not be so easily broken.

❝ alas, we must, for it is noontide and your presence is duly missed by the giggling ladies of court. ❞ his words hold a note of roguish delight though he does take pity on the englishman, using his body as a barrier against the bright afternoon sun, at least till the prince’s wits returned to him. ❝ мой дорогой принц … it is good to see you in such high spirits. or … on such high spirits ? say it is not the piss these frenchmen call liquor that has gotten you into such a state ? ❞

when  verdant  irises  unbolt,  he  is  upon  the  warring  theater,  an  expiring  respiratory  system  scrabbling  for  its  final  purchase  on  rusted  oxygen.  he  can  still  feel  the  bolt’s  armor  piercing  impact,  the  shred  of  flesh  not  once  but  thrice  as  he  guards  a  wounded  russian  general.  where  a  lesser  man  ––  wiser  according  to  some  ––  would  have  retreated,  the  prince  had  held  his  dwindling  line  until  both  men  were  overcome.  but  he  reveals  none  of  these  woes,  exhibited  attributes  revealing  genuine  amicability  rather  than  his  recently  adopted,  acidic  exterior.  royalty  ascends  and  presses  forward,  arms  extending  to  enact  imminent  embrace.  ❛  well,  if  it  isn’t  my  brother  general,  back  from  the  dead.  ❜

       IN  GOOD  FAITH,  the  general  had  proffered  his  men  to  french  hosts  and  helmed  the  forenoon’s  guard  detail.  the  border  had  proved  serene  ─  as  it  should  be  ─  a  soundless  atmosphere  accompanied  by  the  dawn’s  splayed  radiance.  &&  it  seemed  a  mirage  ;  meadows  engulfed  by  lush  greenery  were  spared  the  bloodied  sea  which  raged  behind  shut  eyelids.  the  province  was  unmarred,  devoid  of  vermillion  rust  and  consecrated  by  some  obscured  devotion.  yet  still,  he  envisioned  nothing  but  the  rot  &&  ruin  of  carcass  strewn  fields.  

            laughing  loudly  and  with  no  reservations ,    the  russian  chased  after  her  son  untill  she’d  caught  him  tight  ,     near  running  in  to  another  .    tickling  the  child  ,    who  giggled  and  playfully  fought  his  mother  off  ,     irina  was  truly  at  peace  .     ❝     i’ve  caught  you  ,    sasha   !     mama’s  got  you  .    ❞     lifting  the  small  boy  in  her  arms  ,    she  pressed  him  to  her  hip  ,     smiling  at  the  new  arrival  .     ❝     i  do  apologize  for  that  ,    it  would  seem  my  son  has  far  too  much  energy  today  .    ❞

tatianna being nervous was not uncommon, but this was an incredibly important event that she had to get right. the redhead had spent most of the last five years charming her way through courts and becoming rather friendly with whoever she needed to. but this ? this was entirely different. there was less pressure behind her, more heartbreak, and an endless amount of paranoia. wringing hands pressed against her waist, shoulders tensed, and the redhead wandered through the gardens, trying to collect her thoughts.

deep breaths. deep breaths were good.

introspection was something she had embraced her whole life – even when her diary was spilling over about her crush on a kitchenboy, resulting in his death, tatianna had always made a point of reflecting. it was something she needed to do.

stuck somewhere in her mind halfway between the kitchenboy and the count, she didn’t hear the person behind her approaching. in fact, she hadn’t noticed them at all until they’d called out repeatedly, startling her out of her trance and flinching in surprise. as her hands came up to protect her face, it took her a moment to realise that, no, this person was not unkind, and she felt the horror drop into her stomach and the heat rise on her cheeks.

“i am sorry,” the grand duchess said softly, brushing down her skirt a little. “you startled me. i apologise for my rudeness, i was in my mind. what can i do for you?”

he  is  the  wraith  at  the  edge  of  the  room  ;  the  steadfast  sentinel  whose  irises  remain  adhered  to  his  charges.  the  tsar  delegates  ─  albeit  reluctantly  ─  the  palm  of  his  hand  pressed  to  the  base  of  his  tsarina’s  vertebrae.  the  grand  duke  courts  a  woman  whose  intoxicated  tongue  overturns  secrets,  then  replicates  the  scenario  on  a  subsequent  patron.  somewhere  within  the  midst  of  pompous  circumstance,  a  verdant  gaze  manages  to  target  nikita  moravec,  lady  of  bohemia,  leagues  from  the  reach  that  aristocratic  values  would  sanction.  &&  he  hasn’t  shattered  such  laws  since  freja,  lest  he  crave  the  repetitive  death  of  a  lover.

‘   do   remind   me   again   why   i   kept   you   alive?   ’   she   rhetorically   quipped   in   reply.   her   tone   was   biting,   though   punctuated   by   the   sly   curve   of   her   lips.   the   opaline   glimmer   of   late   morning   settles   over   mace’s   quarters,   illuminating   everything   with   a   piercing   white   light.   nikita   swiftly   circles   around   the   edge   of   his   bed,   tossing   yet   another   garment   in   his   direction;   for   she   is   not   in   want   of   seeing   any   more   of   the   prince   than   she   previously   has.   ‘   hardly   –––   the   lady   is   planning   to   venture   into   town,   and   have   merely   decided   to   extend   the   invitation.   you   look   as   though   you   could   use   it.   ’

“Oh, but I do. I don’t know anyone here, Mace, I wish to be around familiar company. Please? I promise I won’t get in your way.” She could hear the whine in her voice as she pleaded with her brother, but couldn’t bring herself to feel shame. She felt so isolated in France, she just wanted to spend some time with someone she knew.