#classiqcals

In the wake of her conversation with Yuichi (if one could call spewed vitriol and bitterness a conversation), Midori finds herself reconsidering all she's known. Her newfound family has always been an uncertain entity; not unlike the embrace of a lover, you are uncertain is true. Yet for all hateful words exchanged, Midori sees a soul in her family for the very first time. She sees something worth fighting for. And as her fingertips linger on the pages of her book, kept to the same page in the last thirty minutes of comfortable silence, she mulls over what to tell Tian Feng. "I don't think I ever really understood how deeply my brother hurts." Midori said, in favor of obfuscating or prefacing. Unbeknownst to her, she claims him as her brother for the first time in conversation. "It's possible he's more than I've ever given credit for."

𝐒𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐅, 𝐒𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐅… Barbara started to smell herself, starting with her own wrist. She was damn sure she hasn't eaten anything related to seafood that day, let alone in touch with something related to the ocean… Did her bath expire at the time? It couldn't be, could it? Nah! She likes to smell like roses. Then she looks to the side… It doesn't seem it is her, but… That man. ❛ Not being rude or anything mate, but when was the last time you showered? My princess's nose is not used to this FISH smell. ❜ Disgusting. ❛ I wonder how you people get ladies. ❜ She shook her head, giving a step backward to get away from that smell.

It is standard procedure for the Singh's most trusted advisors and generals. At every changing tide, they come together, housed in a war room of the Maharaja's own making. This change of events is no exception, and everyone comes to the Singh's table to analyze every point of vulnerability. As always, Haspira is present, sharing calculated insight when assessing the new political landscape. Yet for once... Ashir is quiet. Engaged, yes, but his fiery spirit subdued with a busy mind. And perhaps, an ounce of guilt. A sinking reality that, if he should fail, he will set this same commotion off. This time, due the Maharaja's own self-serving choices.

It is well past midnight when the last of their advisors leave, dismissed by the royal siblings. The world map worn by scribble and pieces, whilst parchment piles high (letters to be sent back home, with further instruction). "Haspira." Ashir calls to her, while her back is turned towards a litter of papers. The twin holds a breathe, knowing there is only one place to start. "If I am no longer Pakistan's Maharaja... Would you wish to rule?" He does not question her ability to rule. That has been decided, since his twin took her first breath.

In an attempt to restore confidence in France, Jacqueline changes tactics. Today, her husband's country did not need a Générale, it needed an Iron Queen. Although she is not what one anticipates from the glamorous nation's Queen, she knows enough of politics to assess the weak spots in France's list of invited nations. And what better place to start, than the very bottom of the invitation list? A last-minute arrival from a backwater nation, with barely a constitution or a notable currency. The weak link. One that, while small, presents a step in the right direction and signals opportunity for Asia's amenability.

She lays in wait at the Singh's sitting room, tea from the South in hand. The delicate notes of cardamom hitting her senses. Elegant and exotic - much like the Princess Haspira of Pakistan. There is a reason she turns to the Princess, rather than the Maharaja. Although there is more in common with the King, what with their shared military service. Every advisor and courtier agrees - Haspira is the brains behind Pakistan's political future.

"Haspira." Jacqueline acknowledges upon the Princess' arrival, taking careful notice of her. She is not Pakistan's Queen, but the role far better suits her than it does the actual Queen of France. It is not only her manner of dress, elegant and regal, but the way she composes herself. Smart elegance and thoughtful planning. Far beyond the plain Jane Queen of France, with scuffs on her shoes and a discomfort in her mourning gowns. "How do you take your tea?" She asks by way of conversation. She is not her husband. Dennis is a talent at making a connection and extolling virtues.

But Jacqueline was running out of time to make a difference, and so directness is the only route she knows.

"I've taken notice to you these past few weeks. Everyone of my courtiers either wants to befriend you, beguile you, or betray you... As well as your young country." She shrugs, pouring her a cup of tea, anyways. "I have a different offer."

- what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone

Wannabe Pete Davidson.

- what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone

When Elias was 10 and watching the Little Mermaid, he realized Reuben looked EXACTLY like Prince Eric. Anyways, he hasn't changed it in years and it's better than seeing Ruby's actual face on his screen.

- what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone

Problem by Ariana Grande. One less problem now that Ruby's engaged.

- my muse’s last text to your muse

elias -> wannabe pete davidson: parliament wants you to wear the liechtenstein jewels for your wedding. can you please do it (and not fence it)?

elias -> wannabe pete davidson: also parliament's giving everyone a day off to celebrate your wedding?

elias -> wannabe pete davidson: idk something about it being a royal occasion.

"Spectacular piece, wouldn't you say?" He asks by way of conversation, goblet of wine in tow and black mask firmly affixed over his stark blue eyes. There's much to like about Versailles, most of which lay in the opportunity it presented to advance England and her interests. But he must confess - the Palace is a thing of beauty. And its collection of art? Equally so. As a rare moment of reprieve, Alistair excuses himself from his unofficial place by the Princess Valencia's side. An eagerness to take stock of the rare art collection, mixed with a curiosity for those who chose to do so as well. There's one painting, in particular, that Alistair comes to see. And sure enough, there stands another. A man of fine taste. That, or a drunk buffoon that could not distinguish a Renoir from a Monet.

"Most come to admire the Monet's or Renoir's. But I believe Greuze to be unparalleled in his lines." As a man of prestige, of wealth - Alistair can speak to art without an artistic bone in his body. As is the plight of all well-to-do English men, who wish to succeed in society. He stops short of the masked man, with a heavy beard and dark gaze. "La Malédiction paternelle." He explains. "The Father's Curse." Alistair translates. "So tell me," he mutters, taking a sip of his wine. "Are you a fan of the art, or just here to gawk at the nude French girls like most of the ton?"

To see is to believe. Or so the onlookers and commentators say, as they find one way or another to put a face to a name. Perhaps if Midori cared more for public opinion, she would do better than a polite smile and a far off gaze. After all, there is much to prove from a ghost rising from the ashes. And yet... A leopard cannot change her spots. The pretense of pretends grows difficult, and Midori cannot help but be exactly who she is. It is trouble, at least to the advisors hot on her heels. Each day, allies and enemies alike make pitificult excuses for a meeting or a cup of tea. Yet anyone with half a mind can know of their true intention - to assess heir to the Japanese throne, and deem if she is a consequential threat.

There is a list, she is told. The family's advisor walks beside her, attempting to review today's visitors who asked to "stop by for afternoon tea." Some far-flung English Advisor a divisive Prussian Kin, and even a member of the French King's cohort. But if there is a list, one is not accounted for, and Midori need only step into the sitting room to see that it is an unwelcome guest. Her eyes dance between the maids and the valets, stopping shortly at -

Him.

A wayward breath catches in her throat. Just as much a ghost from the past, as a presumed issue of her future. There was a time when Midori marveled at the silk of Tian Feng's clothes and the eloquence of his words. He was a true Prince, born and raised. With firm hands that still echo of warmth along her body, like heavy promises of grand experiences. "You should have made an appointment." Midori states, at a loss of what else to say. "These guards will jump by the flick of your wrist alone." She rolls her eyes, the pitiful rivalry between their families as a content entity. "I did not think I shall ever see you again."