glcsterdux

[glcsterdux]

hcrryofwales​:

         “Lad.” The appellation leaves a sardonic chuckle to rot on his lips. “You, uncle, have spent too much time in the company of Lord Douglas. When do you make time for yourself? For your fancies?” The swift reorient of topic allowed Harry to study his uncle’s profile intently, his eyes askance as they bore into Gloucester’s travel-weary countenance, and the tuft of coppery hair that abutted his mouth. Edmund bore enough similarities to his brother, the King, to parade himself as a Clifford, but not enough to be plucked amongst a crowd of hundreds as a Plantagenet. Henry envied this in his uncle; the ease in which he could transmute from Duke to countryman, scion to shadow –– when he peered into the mirror, he would not be forced to gaze at his father’s reflection in lieu of his own. And, furthermore, Edmund had been exempted from the loathly red-hair Edward and his offshoot shared. Indeed, of this, Henry confessed envy. 

“There will be a hunt, I am told, on the Lord’s day,” Henry declares, as if it were of immediate interest to his uncle, eyes-peeled like grapefruit as they conjured an image of feathers and fur flying, the carnage and dismemberment, the grounding inhale of pine and horse sweat, the broad, brick-red streak of sunburn that would sear across his forehead and smart for days to come. Yet, he could not imagine that the balmy climes would persist in perpetuity. Sometime before then, he was certain, rainclouds would scud in from the north, and rain would fall. The Welsh Prince tipped his head toward the sun, the sky clear enough that one could peer into heaven and spy on what the angels above were conspiring about, and exhaled sonorously. The longer he gazed from the window, the warmer his cheeks grew. Flushed, though his complexion would be hard pressed to lose its English pallor.

His uncle might have already grown weary of the heat, the endless haze of blue, and yet, Harry feared that days such as these were growing numbered; inching toward autumn, toward dusk, to frosty fingertips and gelid earlobes and billowy plumes of breath. Toward wintertide.

“Endless as the Queen’s scheming is,” Harry remarked, clasping his hands behind his spine as he motioned away from the window, finding perch upon a trunk resting at the foot of his four-poster, “you may as well find the time to enjoy yourself.” His elbows fell upon his knees, brows knitted amusingly. “You are not getting any younger, are you, Uncle?” Harry’s words had been punctuated with a wink, directed at Edmund lightheartedly. “You ask me what has come to pass in your absence and yet, Glouc, it is always you who knows more than me. What shall I say? That I trust the Russians not? To that you will counsel that we must –– trust them –– and then something else will emerge from the woodwork that further cements my suspicions.” 

“What say you that we might call upon the Crown Prince for a hunt of our own?” 

Such ribbing may have felt like an adolescent taunt to his contemporaries, so often immersed in their own vanity that even the most jocular of teasing would shape-shift into the specter of an insult. He may have been plagued by his own vices and shortcomings, but he too possessed the rarest of virtues among England’s nobility — humility. 

“You know very well that I am a sour old codger with little love for personal enterprises.” The dry intonation of his delivery was belayed by a conspiratorial glint to his eyes, the edge of his mouth, so often drawn into a taut line, quirking upward for a fleeting moment. Much like the fiery shock of red hair that adorned his scalp, Edmund had lacked the richness of his older brother’s sense of humor. Edward’s wit was as well known as his temper, and while he was well aware of the contention between king and prince, the duke was glad that Harry had inherited such lively character. 

“Undermining Her Majesty’s endeavors is how I enjoy myself, nephew.” It was a cold truth wrapped in a lukewarm jest. With the exception of her fondness for their Russian counterparts, he had steadfastly endeavored to thwart the queen’s misbegotten influence on the English court, a venture which he took as great a pride in as the countless pilgrimages that had led him across the continent. Still, it was a touch nettling to know that a cause that could bring even him and Isabel together was still not enough to dislodge Harry from his suspicions concerning his young bride’s family. 

“And so the dance continues,” he relents. Edmund and Edward had already extended their olive branches to the Russian court, though his own had needed to be passed to the Grand Duchess in the shadows. Only time would erode Harry’s misgivings — and even then, perhaps not completely. “The Crown Prince?” the older man queries, the title carried past his lips on the end of a gentle scoff. “And what are we to hunt for in his company? His manners? His good sense? I fear you’d have better luck rooting out a pure white fox.”

#thread i; ♔ → henry #hcrryofwales

[glcsterdux]

mairinarurik​:

status: closed starter for @glcsterdux​ location: palácio dos estaus gardens

ever since her sister’s wedding, irina has kept in close contact with the duke of gloucester. they both share their love for katrinka and support henry’s claim to the english throne. the grand duchess was always opposed to sending her siblings far away and katrinka’s marriage was no different. she worried greatly for her sister’s safety in a foreign land. just because she wed the crown prince, it didn’t mean her position was secured. irina knew well how scheming people at court could be. her correspondence with edmund gave her a smidge of assurance; he was her eyes and ear in english court and in return, she would send any help she could all for the sake of her sister. that, however, did not stop even in lisbon. the only difference now was their letters did not take an eternity to arrive, communication much easier now. 

“lord edmund,” irina greeted in a delightful tone, smiling as she took a bite from her strawberry (she was rather fond of them and was happy to find out that portugal was abundant with them too ) “it has been a while since we last met,” the grand duchess added. “i hope you are well? yes? —please, have a seat. join me.” she had ordered to her ladies to get the duke some wine in russian. she turned to the male in front of him once more, the smile still plastered on her face. “my ladies will bring you some wine. i would have asked them to bring you some russian vodka however i do not know how you would fair with such a strong beverage— not that i don’t doubt your ability to hold in your alcohol, you certainly look like you could take it— however, i would much rather have you clearheaded for what we have to discuss,” eye brow perked up as she took a sip from her own goblet. she was eager to hear news from english court.  “i have not written to you since my travel to lisbon. it was a rather arduous trip but i digress— do you have news for me? i hope the english still adore my sister especially after we have filled your coffers?”

“I remember well your Russian vodka, Your Highness.” Katherine had done him no small kindness when she had aided him with his study of her language, but he would be remiss to not also acknowledge the hand that the two years of correspondence with her sister had played in his proficiency. It had served him well at his nephew’s wedding, rudimentary though his grasp at the time may have been — incidentally, it had been the same affair where he’d first encountered the clear spirits so beloved by their Russian compatriots. The smell of it alone could have shed the fur from a hound. “Had I casks of it for my men, we’d have the Welsh, the Irish, and the Scots under heel within a fortnight.” 

He rose from bended knee and gratefully accepted her offer, seating himself in a stiff-backed chair, ornately upholstered. Wine was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself, with nary a thought of rebuffing the younger woman’s generosity. The swig was dark, ripe — a blessed respite from the parching heat of the day, as was the conversational redirection to more pressing matters. The Grand Duchess shared his limited patience for perfunctory displays of pleasantry, a trait which had ingratiated her to him almost immediately. Time was a precious commodity to them, as valuable as silver and twice as useful.  

“Young Katrinka is well-loved by the royal family; both my brother and the Queen favor her greatly, and the people will follow their example. It is our courtiers who insist on acting like mongrels.” One name came to mind with bitter indignation, and Edmund quickly hid the fleeting expression behind the polished lip of his chalice. “I’ll not soothe you with false platitudes. We English are an insular people; we cling to tradition as a wailing child does its mother. My countrymen will kick and howl the entire way, full coffers or empty, but they will follow. Your sister is as tenacious as she is enlightened — in time, England will love her for it.”

Of that, he worked tirelessly to ensure, lest she and Henry go the way of Lianor and his brother, buckling under the strain of an unhappy and unpopular union. 

“And what of your countrymen, Your Highness?” he queried, earnest in his curiosity. “What reservations do they bear for their far-afield friends? I can only imagine what the Crown Prince must think; I’ve remade his acquaintance, he seems quite enraptured by us.” The Duke cannot help the dry humor that dances in his tone, a wry expression hinted at by the upward quirk of his lips.  

#thread i; ♕ → irina #mairinarurik

[glcsterdux]

point count; 03 august ➢ 09 august

♠   replies:  40  ♠   starters:  30  ♠   challenges:   — ♠   memes:   20  ♠   graphics & edits:   — ♠   open starter replies:   15  ♠   self-paragraphs:   —

weekly total:  105  overall total:  180

#point count

[glcsterdux]

apolloniacolonna​:

“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” intoned the priest.

“Thanks be to God,” echoed back the chorus of undulating voices.  Kings, queens, princes, princesses of countries throughout Christendom, inhaling the air the others drew out.  

Apollonia sometimes felt as though she were a player in one of the great ancient Greek tragedies.  Here, everyone brandished masks, concealed knives beneath elaborate wardrobes, and becried the heavens of their world-ending sorrow.  To Apollonia, the end of the world would be an Ottoman conquest of her sacred empire; to the man beside her, no doubt, a similar expulsion but now based upon an island, closer to their present location than her imperial ground.  (Though, in his case, the Cordóban threat was probably a more pressing concern than the Ottomans, looming so far to the east of his realm - if that were a concern, at all.)

Hearing German, Apollonia smiled softly, its familiar hum a sweet balm upon her troubled mind.  His compliments slipped across her, but her only sign of enjoyment was a kind of sly expression scrawling upon her lips at the corners of her eyes.

She smiled.  “Then you must count me pleased for the trust that is your faith in me.  I pray I shall never see your faith shaken,” she added, as they filtered out into the greater world, her eyes fixing upon a saint of statuary, suspended far overhead, holding two hands out as in prayer - or warning.  Yes, an ancient tragedy, indeed.

“But in any case, I find I must speak my own trust, as I am well pleased to find you here, as well.”  She paused, a private expression looming in her features.  “Not merely for your profound reason and wisdom, but because I am always pleased with a friendly face,” she added with some warmth.  “You must come visit me at my palácio - I shall feast you,” she promised, her tone turning jocular.  “I know the fame of Austrian cuisine is what has lured you to us in the past.”

Shaking her head at her little joke - she did find her native Italian palette preferable, but she would never admit it in so many words - she shook at head at his apology.  “You have no need to apologize: you never heard the wretched butchery of the language I made when first I arrived there.  I do believe the English accent may lend more kindly to the tongue than ever did my initial Roman influence.”  She laughed.  “I sometimes suspect that the memory of my intolerable German when I was eighteen years of age proved a greater challenge to the beginng of my reign than even my sex.”  

She paused.  “But you must tell me of your travels.  I pray the Channel proved not too troublesome.  And, do tell, have you made any new pilgrimages, while here?  Or had you already scoured clean Lisbon’s potential for sacred sites on one of your previous journeys?”

He cannot but help to let slip an earnest chuckle, a deep, mirthful sound muted out of respect for the sanctity of their surroundings. The Duke is a man of simple tastes, known well in the English court for his aversion to rich foods; with a twist of droll irony he cannot help but to muse how the hearty fare of the Empress’ adopted homeland was akin to comfort food for him, when compared to the spices and foreign tastes of the Portuguese dishes they now indulge in. “And likewise, Your Majesty — on behalf of my brother, and the Queen, you are always welcome to our lodgings. We would be honored to receive you.” 

The meandering stream of congregants proceeds towards the back of the cathedral with hushed, somber reverence. Even absent of the power of held by the myriad of symbols testifying to God’s continual presence, the space itself would be imposing enough to stun any man into humbled silence, so dwarfed were they by towering pillars and sweeping barreled vaults. Ornately-carved tombs holding the sanctified remains of past Portuguese nobility flank the cathedral’s vast nave; the sight of them reminds him of Lianor’s grave, her likeness preserved eternally in white marble.

“I am not a seafaring man, Your Majesty — I fear that even with the calmest of seas, I will find such voyages disagreeable.” Modest honesty was a blessed reprieve from the bittersweet reminiscing he’d fallen prey to so many times since making landfall. Iberia would be free of ghosts for him, were it not but for one person. “But I must confess, my time has been commanded almost in perpetuity. Can you believe? Such labors, and for a humble duke.” One of his rare jests, at that moment comfortable enough to indulge in while in the presence of trusted company. In truth, he was devoted to the work required of him, and the idle days spent at sea had left him eager to return to the tasks commissioned to him. The tedium of diplomacy was hardly a burden to him — rather, it was an elixir, a remedy for a mind that loathed to grow stagnant.

“Not explicitly religious, but while I Lisbon I do hope to call upon our gracious hosts and tour the Castelo de São Jorge.” The fortress was unlike any he’d made pilgrimage to, unlike any relic he’d prayed before — yet it was a site of profound import to Christendom, a bastion of victory against Moorish occupiers and one of the few victories the Church could profess during the disastrous Second Crusade. It is hardly by happenstance that he chose to name such a location; rather, it is the segue by which is deviates afield from their shared pleasantries, treading as earnestly with his footsteps as he does with his words. “It is my most earnest hope that your Ottoman neighbors have taken your reputation to heart and are not prowling too closely at your borders. I must confess that I have lost sleep over the vastness of Córdoba’s domain, so close to English soil. I fear for the safety of our compatriots in Castile and Portugal, as I fear for the faithful in the east.”

#thread i; ♕ → apollonia #apolloniacolonna #omg honey don't apologize for length i am constantly looking for an excuse to write a short novella every time i reply lsdknsdf

[glcsterdux]

isabelofyork​:

  –––  𝒆𝒅𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅 .

        there  was  an  odd  sense  of  satisfaction  that  budded  within  isabel  at  the  sight  of  edmund  bowing.  then  again,  perhaps  it  was  not  odd  at  all,  for  the  duke  of  gloucester  had  certainly  identified  himself  as  her  prime  adversary  at  court.  thus,  to  see  him  forced  to  subject  himself  to  public  displays  of  respect,  undoubtedly  seething  within  and  all  in  the  name  of  propriety,  was  immeasurably  pleasurable  for  the  queen  ––––  your  majesty  was  like  music  to  her  ears  also.  despite  the  risk  of  vanity,  isabel  glowered  before  him,  her  posture  taut  and  lording  as  she  glanced  down  her  nose  at  his  humbled  form.   

❛  your  grace. ❜  she  returned  in  a  similar  tone,  the  incline  of  her  head  minuscule  and  purposely  so.  had  he  not  been  a  thorn  in  her  side  all  these  years ;  sinking  his  talons  into  harry  and  twisting  him  further  from  her  maternal  sentimentalities,  whilst  actively  undermining  her  at  every  turn  in  regards  to  the  legitimacy  of  her  children,  then  she  might  have  looked  upon  him  with  fondness.  instead,  isabel  saw  nothing  but  a  venomous  snake  before  her,  waiting  to  strike  at  any  given  opportunity.  had  she  been  less  of  a  woman,  then  she  might  have  refrained  from  provoking  ––––  alas,  she  was  the  queen  now  and  she  was  willing  to  fight  fire  with  fire.  ❛  but  of  course,  it  is  refreshing  to  be  away  from  england.  ❜  she  would  not  admit  to  how  uncomfortable  being  in  portugal  made  her,  she  simply  would  not  grant  him  the  satisfaction.  ❛  my  days  are  filled  with  endless  enjoyment  with  his  majesty  and  our  children  beside  us.  prince  thomas  thrives  and  i  hear  that  many  look  most  favourable  upon  him.  he  is  of  kind  heart  and  with  a  strong  constitution,  truly  the  people’s  prince.  ❜  her  words  were  inflammatory,  not  so  much  a  dig  at  harry,  but  rather  edmund.  ❛  and  what  of  you,  gloucester ?  have  you  found  solace  here  in  portugal,  or  do  you  find  it  laden  with  ghosts ? ❜

Venom dripped from her tongue and curled its way around each insufferably dispassionate word, her malice so carefully hidden behind a veneer of regal stoicism that a man less acquainted with the blackness of her heart would have overlooked it entirely. Such was her august bearing that he may well have mistaken her for a true queen — yet as he watched her then from beneath her withering gaze, she seemed more to him like a sleek beast, with the auspicious aloofness of a favored housecat and the bewitching wiles of the serpent that had so temped Eve and Adam in the Garden. 

A more apt comparison he couldn’t find, for she had tempted his brother with the cunning of a succubus, charming her way into his bed and poisoning its sanctity the moment his errant gaze had wandered in her direction. Yet even as he was forced to humble himself before her, a glimmer of comfort could be taken in knowing that she wasn’t the first temptress to seduce Edward, and doubtfully would be the last — she had simply been the one cunning enough to sink her claws into his heart the deepest. 

“I am overjoyed to hear how warmly received His Highness has been since his arrival in Lisbon.” The words, though spoken tersely, did not lack sincerity; the love he held for all of his brother’s children eclipsed the circumstances of their conception. Were their mother not from a brood of such cunning opportunists, their legitimacy would not have been a concern of his. Thomas and Richard both knew there was no shame to be had in the order or status of their birth — the eldest son may be the head, but surely those who follow after him are the hands by which he metes out royal governance. “Young Thomas was very blessed when God granted him his father’s charisma. He will make a fine addition to the crown’s retinue of trusted statesmen, when Henry one day inherits His Majesty’s throne.”

Yet if he resented the Queen’s vexing habit of undermining Edmund’s familial love for her children, he loathed the very ghost of Lianor’s memory being carried by her venomous tongue. Were the love and sense of duty he bore for his brother not so great, he may have lowered himself to swiping at such low-hanging fruit. Even as he schooled his countenance into a look of utter sobriety, he could feel the instinctive tug at his lips, at his nose, threatening to twist his visage into an acidic sneer. “Quite the contrary — I find it rich with opportunity, Your Majesty,” he replied, his tone restrained. “We have been given a rare gift with this summit — the world’s great leaders, all convened here to strengthen old ties, forge new alliances. My brother is guiding his people from the dark troubles of the past and on to a bright new age. How blessed we are for the fortuity to be here and bear witness to it.” 

#thread i; ♕ → isabel #isabelofyork #this got long im so sorry ;~;

[glcsterdux]

katrinkc​:

Lisbon was no battlefield, where the birds of paradise bloom in the honeyed heat, and the church bells drown out ancient, hollowed in wild coves along the sea-nymph coastline. Still, soldiers follow their leader like a candle in the dark, and Kathrine was determined to dress as a beacon in cut-silk velvet. An unmistakable divinity of Portuguese sunset. Blood orange skirts and sleeves fastened with misshapen Poseidon pearls, a bodice delicate with gold winding vines, strong and flourishing. Despite remaining in the confines of English barracks whilst her husband ventured onto social calls - despite her gnaw of yearning, to clutch at any opportunity to establish herself as reputable, she fluttered in the silence. Carefully reviewing her strategy, an aching hunger  to renew her reputation. Catch fire. So all of England would know how bright she could one day lead them. 

She greeted her uncle- established through marriage, yes, but an earned title through affection, fascination and respect over the past two years- with a feline grin, growing bashful at his greeting before she dipped in a slight curtsy to him. “Дядя… the very soul I’ve wanted to see- such talent, your Russian pronunciation will soon surpass my own, what a pleasant and envious thought. ” Rolling her shoulders back, she straightened from her curtsy to give him a light hug, relieved to find his face in her company- a drastic contrast to the masses. 

Pulling back, holding him a shoulder’s distance she teased, brows bounced, “Though my heart’s full in the company of my beloved siblings, I’m just as pleased to spend sought-after time with my Western kin. We have too much to catch-up on.” Her words softened, a lingered fade. She didn’t need to remind him of amounting scorn over his nephew’s Rurik bride, the fact was palpable enough, even unspoken. “What have you been up to during our time here? In the land of the late queen? Tell me, if there’s anything you wish of me to assist you with during our time here, I’ll readily volunteer…” 

“You are far too kind with your praise,” he relented, a rare glimmer of mirth shining through to the surface of his often dour countenance. Following a cursory pause, his tone turned jocular, dipping his head slightly as if in secret. “I do hope it’s sincere; I’d hate for my ego to be deflated by making a fool out of myself in front of the rest of our Russian compatriots.” His grasp of the language had been rudimentary at best when first she’d arrived, his accent muddying the words that would been so familiar to her. But she’d accepted his efforts graciously, clumsy though they may have been, laying the foundation for what had become a warm, amicable friendship. 

There was still a rawness to the wound of Lianor’s memory that smarted at the mention of her — a half-healed lesion that only he and the Almighty knew of, and one he could never begrudge the young Princess for unknowingly casting salt into. The air between them shifts, the faintest of changes that was shared by both, for he knew all too well the undue scrutiny she faced under the lingering gazes of England’s insular courtiers. “Let us walk together,” he offered, lest they became stagnant in the wake of their subtle woe. “You are right, we have much to discuss.”

With measured strides he led them towards the western edge of the courtyard, where the wall was beginning to cast an ample enough shadow to shade them from the harsh glare of the sun’s merciless heat. “Contending with the vipers we house here has been the greatest of my tasks,” he continued, maintaining his use of the younger woman’s native tongue and appreciating the bit of relative privacy it afforded their conversation. It would have been no secret to anyone listening that the very vipers he referred to were his brother’s Yorkist relations, the snakes he’d so happily invited into his garden — and his marriage bed. “Young Henry remains vexed as ever. I had hoped that this endeavor would offer him some relief from the troubles at home, but I fear they have only compounded them. My wish is to see the matter of his succession formalized soon, so he can return his focus to his diplomacy and cease wasting his efforts rooting out those who conspire against him.”

Whether or not his wishes would be heeded by his brother could only possibly be known by God, for Edmund could not even begin to hazard as guess as to what His Majesty’s response would be. 

“But speak truthfully, Your Highness — how do you fare here, and how is dear Mary? I would entreat you to tell me if there is anything that can be done to make your stay with my fellow countrymen more hospitable than it often proves to be.”

#thread i; ♕ → katherine #katrinkc

[glcsterdux]

glorifiedcrown​:

closed starter for : @glcsterdux​ location : Palácio de Queluz, Lisbon, Portugal

⇢ To the Crown Prince of Russia and the General-poruchik of the Tsardom’s vast and grand military, there were few countries that could rival the strength and pride which the Russian citizens held in their hearts. There was a powerful and pitiless ambition which resided within the soul of Konstantin Rurik, and perhaps the people of Russia and its soldiers held him so highly within their minds due to the fact that they appreciated this evident drive to gain more power and influence, as they held a similar viewpoint to his. This characteristic of his, along with his mother’s favor and desire for him to be an excessively respected man, caused Dmitri and Vasilia to place their son in the line of the military, knowing he would command the forces when his time came.  Different military campaigns and political endeavors which were led and directed by the second son of Russia brought the nation more wealth and respect, causing a sense of superiority to grow and thrive within the man, as he felt that he personally was above many who dared to challenge or go against him. 

A factor that allowed for Konstantin’s instructed campaigns to gain success and esteem was the fact that he single-handedly appointed skilled and advanced officers: men who were educated soldiers and would always be beneficial in an armed endeavor. The Crown Prince’s own younger brother, Nikita Rurik, was a high-ranking officer before being appointed as the nation’s chief diplomat. While this was angering to Konstantin, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t replace his brother with another trained individual; however, he wished for Nikita to accompany him on the field. It was even more aggravating that Konstantin knew if his younger sister, now Katherine of Wales, was a man, she would be his right hand man, as she held the same traits as he did. Due to the fact that Katherine constantly devoted her time to Konstantin as a child, she developed into a woman with many of the same personality characteristics, and his ambition and pride were not left out of these similarities. 

There were benefits and issues that came with these similarities, but only one fact mattered: the confidence and drive which she learned from Konstantin would enable her to be an excessively powerful figurehead within England, and one of Konstantin’s most crucial goals were to establish her as such. As expected, Konstantin did not hold a very flattering perception of the English, since he believed the forces he commanded had the ability to overpower those of the nation his younger sister’s husband belonged. Many hours were spent by the Crown Prince contemplating just how the nation managed to become so influential, but he wouldn’t dare show these sentiments in the public eye, rather he would appear at the English residence in Lisbon unexpectedly as a ‘friendly gesture’. The not so frequent trips to the temporary English residence may have been a tad dreadful for the Crown Prince, but he appeared to always be enjoying himself as he kept a similar routine: smiling to those nobles he was acquainted with while insulting them behind their backs to his Druzhinniks. 

After arriving to the Palácio de Queluz, Konstantin dismounted his horse which was curated by his brother Nikita, leaving the ill-tempered animal who only seemed to appreciate the Crown Prince’s presence in the care of one of his guards. Due to the fact that the guards which protected the residence were familiar with his own name and appearance, entrance was not a difficult task, as they all assumed he was simply seeking out his dear sister. His usual practice of quick and simple derogatory comments directed towards different English nobles in his native tongue were made, such as ‘слабый идиот’ and ‘Английский дурак’. He never suspected any of these citizens would take the time to educate themselves on his native tongue, as he didn’t believe most of them to have the willpower to do so. Walking past a man he was not so familiar with in the English residence took the second son of Russia by surprise, as he had never witnessed someone with such a unique demeanor live within the English court. However, this did not stop his usual habits, another ‘крестьянский’ slipping from his mouth which was formed into his typical sly grin. 

St. Briavels Castle had stood guard at the southern cusp of the Welsh border for longer than the Plantagenet line had been seated on the English throne. Moated, square in shape, raised from the outcroppings of red sandstone so bountiful in the west of England — an exceptional Norman structure, imposing and enduring. Yet even the stoic fortresses of the Conquest were subject to the same laws of time that govern all earthly things; decades of neglect had eroded its walls and crumbled its foundations, a fate shared by so many other strongholds and guard towers within the Welsh Marches. The restorations so desperately needed required materials that, on an island nation, were sharply finite — the populace was still struggling to recover from yet another outbreak of plague eight years prior, with mills and quarries still wanting for manpower in the wake of such ravaging sickness. 

It’s the thought that soured his countenance as he emerged from his room at the palácio, a pinched expression drawn across his face. The border castles had been a pet project of his for nigh on thirty years, ever since he’d been elevated to govern the duchy at the Marches’ southernmost border. The rugged hills and stone mountains of Wales were his nephew’s domain; the duke had poured his very soul into maintaining order at its contested borders, where English influence bled away into Welsh culture and customs. He took no pride in knowing that, for all that had been accomplished to preserve law and order in the region, there was still much to be done. 

He very nearly missed the barbed comment, spat to the ground before him like a wad of gamy meat. The words were in Russian, smooth and aristocratic — when the realization strikes him, he pauses in his tracks and turning sharply on his heel. Stormy eyes narrowed into a scrutinizing glower, brows pinched together to try and match a name to the arrogant expression sneering down at him. A muted recollection worms its way to the forefront of his brain, harkening him back to the grand wedding of Henry and his Russian bride. He’d heard enough rumors about the Crown Prince to pair him with the boorish egotism that now cloyed the heavy summer air around them. It was a shame that the honeyed stories imparted by Katherine about her dear brother did little to tamp down the Duke’s exasperation. 

“Is there something I can assist you with, Your Highness?” he asks tersely, the words stilted and spoken in the other man’s native tongue. It was already a near-perpetual struggle to endear the Russian people to England and its courtiers; he hadn’t the patience for their leading delegates stalking about the halls of the palácio antagonizing his sister’s newfound countrymen. “I’m sure there’s ample reason you’ve graced our lodgings with your presence. Perhaps while you wait for whatever it may be, I can find you a book — maybe even a child’s rolling hoop to keep you entertained.”

#thread i; ♔ → konstantin #glorifiedcrown #let the games begin

[glcsterdux]

for what would your character give their life?

Peace and security in England  — an answer that on its face smacks of dour pragmatism, a trait that, for better or worse, he is often associated with. But beneath the surface, such an oath is rooted in familial devotion; to die for the peace of England means to die for the very lives of the family that will one day preside over it. He can find no worthier cause to sacrifice himself for, save perhaps the defense of the Church that guides and protects them. 

#♙; answered #♖; about #ivanrurik

[glcsterdux]

what would completely break your character?

He has been broken once before, years ago, when death cut short a deeply beloved life that held the promise for such potential, had it only been nurtured rather than left to wilt in the shadow of solitude and neglect. In the wake of loss, he gathered himself again, emerging as a wholly different man than who he had been before. 

Now he finds focus in his brother’s children, the generation that will one day govern England in the place of their elders. Yet, such devotion balances him on the precarious edge of further heartbreak; in the distance looms the potential for civil war between those same children. Nothing would gut him more than to see them lost to the indiscriminate cruelty of war and political sabotage, or to see two nephews clash on the field of battle and be left with only one to welcome thereafter. 

#♖; about #no lou there's nothing suspicious about you sending this from isabel's blog ;) #isabelofyork #♙; answered

[glcsterdux]

ladyseymouryork​:

Thread: 

Starter: OPEN 

Location: PALÁCIO DE QUELUZ - FRONT STEPS 

————————–>> 

The sky was high and pale with early morning light, the heat of the day a promise that hung in the air, not yet fulfilled. The stone steps still radiated the warmth of the previous day’s sunlight, not yet disbursed. 

Marion breathed deeply, thankful for the moment’s reprieve from the oppressive and ever present gaze of the sun. The muggy early August heat of Somerset and London were a different experience than the dry burn of Portugal’s summer. Here the air grew thin where the sunlight cut through it, and filled with the cries of strange birds, rather than thick with moisture undercut by bullfrogs complaints. 

It was a different world, she thought. Unlike what she had imagined for herself, in many ways. The unfamiliar climate one of many strange bedfellows she found herself acclimating to in this age. Footsteps behind her broke her reverie, and she started with a catlike quickness. 

“Pardon, I assumed I was the only one foolish enough to abandon their bed at this hour of the morning. Well, myself and the milkmaids.” She laughed lightly, turning on her heel to greet the surprise compatriot. 

He’s quite certain that the pleasant lilt to her voice will evaporate with the dewy morning mist when she turns to face him. Theirs was a meeting of sheer coincidence; much like the cool evening hush that falls over the palácio in the lull before supper, the tawny Lisbon mornings were one of the few times where peace could be found among the convened delegation. 

“Your Grace.” The bow he offered was stiff, curt. His experience with the Duchess of York had been limited, usually relegated only to those rare formal functions of state that brought together both sides of the royal family. As he raised his head, posture again rigid, he wondered how heavy a hand she liked to play in her husband’s schemes — if she played the part of the dutiful wife, nodding complacently, or if she urged him to add still more threads to the web he had spun around the court. 

He remains a step above her, his back against the dusky burn of the morning sun. “I trust you and His Grace are enjoying your time here in Lisbon?”

#thread i; ♕ → marion #ladyseymouryork

[glcsterdux]

how many friends does your character have?

He enjoys the company of many acquaintances, but few friends. An inherently private man, he has seen the cutthroat game of politics and statecraft play out before him enough times to know that true friends in the courts of the Eurasian monarchs are an even more precious commodity than gold. Such favorable sentiment is reserved only for those who he trusts implicitly; all others are seen in equal measure as bearing the potential of being either ally or foe. 

#♖; about #ofcxterina #♙; answered

[glcsterdux]

what was the best thing in your character’s life?

Were you to ask him, his answer would be diplomatic and astute: the privilege of being able to serve as a faithful steward and guardian to the Kingdom of England, and the nieces and nephews his brother Edward has welcomed into the world — even if the conditions under which a number of them were born proved to be inauspicious, a fault that should have been shouldered only by their sire. 

Privately, he holds close to his heart the time he spent with the departed Queen Lianor before her death. Her loss carved out a hollow place in his chest, a cold pit that had once been filled with the warmth of her presence — one that he has vaingloriously attempted to fill with the duty he now bears for her son and his claim to the English throne. Such affection grants truth to the words that would one day become memorialized in fiction, long after he has been interred and the memory of him has faded to the dusty tomes of chronicles and textbooks: “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

#♙; answered #♖; about #not me referencing les mis in public #adalsindaofanjou

[glcsterdux]

♔ → closed starter, @ivanrurik Palácio de Queluz, Lisbon

There was a rare, calming hush settled across their cloistered corner of Lisbon; shimmering sunlight had yielded to the dusky, orange hues of a waning day, a damp, subtle coolness greeting those who chanced to hazard an Iberian’s summer day. Most are inside the Palácio, seeking a reprieve from the day’s arduous itinerary of statecraft and social calls before they’re forced to endure the trial of yet another communal supper. 

Window open, he worked ardently, having already offered a short, earnest prayer for the muted silence that now held fast in the manor’s spacious courtyard. The apartments he’d been placed in were modest, but he took comfort in the simplicity — extravagant opulence had always felt to him more of a distraction than a comforting privilege of birth, and at no time had he required of himself more unwavering focus than now. There was still business to tend to across the vast waters that separated the island kingdom from the rest of the continent — a duchy to maintain, his nephew’s interests to be minded, the shell of a xenophobic, inward facing court in London that had all but wept at the possibility of further “foreign entanglements” that could spawn from Lisbon’s summit. 

Such a damnably infantile fear to harbor, yet one that had proved as potent as any poison. It had helped guide Lianor, God grant her peace, to the cruelty of an early grave, robbing Harry and Beatrice of their birthmother, and robbing him of... Best not to let such thoughts take anchor. His focus now was sparing helping to spare Harry’s wife a similar hardship, though it had been made all the more onerous by his brother’s decision to wed a more palatable English queen, who had given him more palatable English heirs. 

Before he could risk indulging in the rising heat of discontent that began to build beneath the collar of his shirt, an attendant rather fortuitously tore him away from his reverie. A visitor, he’s told. With a stiff dip of his head, the duke relented, bidding entrance. He’d been expecting his nephew, or perhaps even his brother  — certainly not the Russian Tsar. The solar is a modest space, holding only a desk and an assortment of chairs near a small table; an unconventional thing, to be called upon by someone of such an esteemed rank in such a humble space. But by his own recollections and the stories of Katrinka’s childhood, the Ruriks were nothing if not unconventional. 

He stands, the motion well-practiced as he bows deeply. “I was not expecting to receive Your Majesty in such humble accommodations,” he echoes his thoughts in Russian, remaining on his feet even after his spine has straightened once again into rigid alignment. “What may I do for the brother of my nephew’s beloved wife?”

#thread i; ♔ → ivan #ivanrurik

[glcsterdux]

♕ → closed starter, @apolloniacolonna Lisbon Cathedral, Lisbon

The low peal of the bells at angelus drew the faithful for morning prayer. Conspicuous were the absences of several he knew by face and by name, though he’d long been seasoned enough to know better than to place such importance in the religious fervor of his peers. Devotion and observation were two pillars upon which the Church stood firm, but even common faith proved to fall short of bridging the gulf between kings and common men. 

God’s anointed would continue to do as they wished.

Such a vexing thought pondered in prayer beneath the tall spires of the ancient cathedral made him thankful for the company of the Empress, sovereign of the first of the Christian kingdoms to rise from the ashes of Rome’s bloody fall. Her reign had proven her an able inheritor of Charlemagne’s crown, a steady hand holding fast against the looming threat of further Ottoman encroachment. Such was his respect for her realm that he had traveled there as a religious pilgrim on numerous occasions, humbling him with her generosity when she accepted him as a guest in her court during one such journey to a revered shrine deep within the lands of the long-since eradicated Saxons. 

“I take great comfort in knowing that those of us assembled will find guidance from your presence here,” he greeted earnestly in accented German moments after the order of the Mass was concluded. The faithful begin to depart, passing peacefully to the rear of the cathedral; the duke remained seated a moment longer, left leg outstretched, battered knee aching from the time spent kneeling in reverence. It’s only the briefest of respites, one he dutifully abandons to rise and offer a solemn bow to the empress. “I do hope that you might excuse the quality of my German — I fear I have lost practice since last we met.”

#thread i; ♕ → apollonia #apolloniacolonna

[glcsterdux]

crucial muse development questions.   

what would completely break your character?

what was the best thing in your character’s life?

what was the worst thing in your character’s life?

what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?

does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?

what is your character reluctant to tell people?

how does your character feel about sex?

how many friends does your character have?

how many friends does your character want?

what would your character make a scene in public about?

for what would your character give their life?

what are your character’s major flaws?

what does your character pretend or try to care about?

how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?

what is your character afraid of?

#♗ ⟶ askbox prompt. #not me reblogging this when i owe starters

[glcsterdux]

point count; 28 july ↣ 02 august

♠   replies:  10 ♠   starters:  45 ♠   challenges:  20 ♠   memes:   — ♠   graphics & edits:   — ♠   open starter replies:   — ♠   self-paragraphs:   — 

weekly total:  75 overall total:  75

#point count #clearly graphic design is my passion ✨

[glcsterdux]

♕ → closed starter, @isabelofyork  Palácio de Queluz, Lisbon

Perfunctory was the tone that surrounded their meeting. Public, amid the mingling company of the English court, in a show of good faith — such was his earnest desire to spare his brother from yet another troublesome matter taking residence in his mind, should the courtiers murmur that his own brother did not show proper deference to the Queen upon his arrival in Portugal. He refused to allow his own personal disdain to diminish his duty as a faithful steward of England, even if it meant bowing to the woman who had rushed to his brother’s bed the moment Lianor’s passing had left it vacant. 

“Your Majesty,” he offers, his tone as rigid as his countenance was somber. It chafed at him to bow his head to her, here in the warm sunlight the departed Queen’s homeland, surrounded by so many things she had spoken of with such fondness while in England. Yet when his posture straightens, it offers him little relief. There’s still the matter of pleasantries, the facade that must be maintained to keep the wolves at bay and project to the courtiers that all is well within the King’s household. “I trust you are enjoying your time here in the company of your family.”

#thread i; ♕ → isabel of york #isabelofyork