#crhs.event

Although Leon had promised himself to focus on the important matters at hand which concerned his reputation and making himself proudly known to potential allies. He was never raised to be diplomatic considering his illegitimacy but that did not mean he did not wish to make a name for himself. He was the eldest son of the late King Ferrant, after all, and he refused to be kept in a box labelled with bastard. 

He was insistent that his chalice of wine remained depleted for the entire evening and was merely in his hand for decoration as he made his introductions around the grand hall. Leon was perhaps too eager to greet the continuous trail of newcomers to the French court and he found himself almost wishing he was merry along with the other courtiers so any missteps or fumbles could be mistaken for his over exuberance. He gave thanks to his latest companion yet his gaze drifted aside to catch the approach of another guest.

slender fingers plucked a fig from a tray on a table, the fruit slowly being placed between her lips. the dowager duchess of burgundy swallowed carefully before she reached for her goblet of wine with a practiced grace. there was a peace to being in portugal, away from the trappings of the english court, though beatrice had the intelligence not to say so where prying eyes and ears might take notice.

her brother ( her true brother, the only other living being who had come from their mother’s womb still breathing ) stood near and beatrice moved carefully toward him, her skirts swishing around her ankles as the entertainment continued to gain the attentions of the crowd. “our uncle has outdone himself, though perhaps he might have found better bards,” she drawled, her lips quirked at the corners, only the light behind her eyes making clear that her words were true.

@ibnyaqzan​

it was the opening feast in the portuguese city and caterina felt lucky to even be breathing in the air, thick with fumes of wine and meat. the palace was bright with commotion and distraction  — that was what tended to happen when dignitaries from every available country descended to the same place — but she was determined not to get sidetracked by the revelry, a level to which she hadn’t seen since she’d left the hedonistic french court. that had been a different time however, and though back then she’d love to command the room with pealing laughter and a flurry of words, this place was different, and much had changed. she preferred now, at least, to stick to the sides of the room, not allowing herself to indulge and lose herself in the festivity. 

having too high of a profile here could be disastrous after all. she didn’t know how many of the french were here, and even if they still nurse the deep hatred for her that stemmed from her husband’s betrayal. she didn’t even know if her husband himself was here, a meeting she’d like to stave off for as long as possible. but now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past, it was time to look towards the future, and to a meeting she’d looked forward to for months. she was on the hunt for shahzadeh mahmud. many months ago, he’d sent an emissary to milan probing for connections within the italian league. he seemed to have the same hunger for connection and expansion that she did, and to find him would be a welcome accomplishment. 

just as she was about to drain the last drop of wine from her glass, she caught him in the corner of her eye. or, who she hope was him, as she had only the emissary’s description and a portrait to go off of. approaching him slowly, caterina took the time to note the people around him, making sure they weren’t french. “good evening. shahzadeh mahmud, i presume?”

she wonders if it is an auspicious sign that her sister’s words have come true -- the feast is grand, and though it is held in good faith, in celebration of union and, thus, with enemy foreign aid in organisation, the decorated saloon bustling with life only reminds her of home, of the lively english court she had not truly missed until the tightness in her chest begged her so. the countess of salisbury ignores the feeling with poise, blaming it on the restrains to hold her gown in all its luxury, instead glancing towards the merry crowd. 

“it seems the wariness over the wine has finally passed. do you believe it wise?” the red-haired queries the masked person closest to her, a welcoming smile playing in her lips as if she was the hostess herself--those who identified her as who she truly was, perhaps would find no harm in her courteous inquire, after all, she was an adept of the notion alcohol only fouls those who indulge on it.

HURREM  SULTAN  //  masquerade  attire.

ELIZABETH  BEAUCHAMP  //  masquerade attire.

the attire ( the  peace  treaty )