a seditious personage

antoine de conde, staunch believer in change. france's envoy to the english court.

[adeconde]

cfboleyn‌:

      -    “ You are most kind monsieur, as you have always been, but I speak of it only so to refrain from claiming to be above my station. I beseech your forgiveness if I have dampened your spirits for that was not my intention. ” A thin hand momentarily reached across the wooden table, seeking to wrap delicate fingers around the ambassador’s hand in a thankful embrace. “ You say a great deal without a single word, excellency, or mayhaps I merely spent too much time in France and now I know its people better than I know myself. No, we shall risk no honour this day for they are two nations which cannot be compared. ” Upon reflection Anne’s memories of her time in France were intense, vibrant and almost dream like after so many years, but Antoine’s presence was not exactly a direct reflection of that as others were. He had all of the vibrancy and charm of the kingdom he represented and yet and air of kindness surrounded his every word and draped a blanket of calm upon an often frantic Anne. “ I should be most happy to resume a place in France, I feel closer to your charming kingdom with each and every day I am in Princess Georgette’s service which is more of a blessing than I am deserving of. Might your wife be joining you on this English soil? I would be most happy to be within her company. ”

The gestures that rose to match Anne’s were not merely dismissive - they became deterring, as if his wife’s mention personified as a riling wasp, incessant in its drone. From avoiding her eyes, which cast such a molten light that his own tongue waned, he turned to avoid her words. Antoine nodded sprightly, like a man agreeing with phrases he does not dare comprehend, but vital phrases nonetheless. This was more than a game of keeping pretense: it was a picture that self-constructed itself and any hesitation meant its reversal to nothingness. The narrowing of something he hadn’t even realized building. A coverlet of lies, but with an armory touch to it. “She is here already, my lady...”, he began, as his fingers knotted through one other on the brocade table mantel. “Yet we are not often seen as a pair, thus your confusion can hardly be imputed. Let us not dwell on trifles! How is Her Highness as a ruling lady? I imagine she takes after her charming mother in that respect, as in so many others.”

[adeconde]

vxdelaurent‌:

          She tipped her head back, draining the rest of the crimson liquid from her silver goblet. Violette’s heart fluttered in her chest. She stood in mixed company as conversations flowed easily around her, yet her gaze was unfocused and her mouth still. Her cheeks were twinged pink from her slight intoxication. Violette noted a lull in the conversation, looking up to realise that eyes were trained on her expectantly. “Oh, forgive me… What were we speaking of?”

He had to try quite a few times before he managed to conceal the bafflement which latched onto his face. No, beyond surprise, it was incredulity - Antoine’s mind rejected what reality so strikingly conveyed. For the first time in almost a decade, he’d seen Violette lapse. Not stutter or skimp over a sentence, laugh too quickly or belatedly ( and how endearing he’d found all these things! ) but lapse from the conversation as if her mind were a fist unclenching itself. He could only regale the beads of wine staining her underlip with suspicion. “I was saying... well, it was hardly fascinating, to be frank. But I began talking about the printing industry in Antwerp, and how it’d spread all the way here.”

[adeconde]

lepetitserge‌:

   In the presence of all others, he was formerly presented as a figure of the utmost civility; but in seclusion, proximity to his Lady or prone to a lone fit of melancholy, he was transformed into a foreign soul. The waning festivities had robbed him of a sense of joy - he could not bestow a name onto his exact mood, but found himself sorely lacking in his normal dosage of amiability. Serge chose to find refuge in a corner of the castle which would alleviate him from the taunting wallpaper of his apartment, whilst saving him from an abundance of chit-chat. A small chapel was his chosen sanctuary; its only population was the freezing chill, which permeated every inch of the hallowed walls. In lieu of wooden pews, a handful of seats were made available to the wayward worshipers, who would find themselves down a dismal side-passage, and in need of divinity. Furthest away from the alter Serge sat, stooped so as to rest his forearms on the tops of his knees. The rusted gold hairs which sprung from his head stood on edge in reaction to the cold temperament; his skin, a normally pale hue, had reacted in a similar fashion by blushing furiously. But the cold, and solitude, were steadfast welcomed by the Frenchmen - until the opening of the chapel door took command of his attentions. Quickly his head rose, as to meet the visitor with a smile of great relief (loneliness grew less attractive in the passing moments), the flashing of his teeth mirrored in the brightening of his eyes. “Alas, you are my unwitting savior. I sought the chapel in the hopes of finding a pretty humor in solitude with the Lord, but I have grow cold and lonely without pleasant company. I promise I shall not burden your ear with more dribble then you are prepared to hear.” 

He grimaced, though it was more as a way to receive the banter, like a mount righting itself for the blow, rather than honest discouragement. It lasted only for a candle flash, after which it melted into his tight-lipped simper. Serge was his own case - little else required understanding. Diligently, albeit rather at odds with praying somewhere so stalwart in its Catholicism, Antoine ducked before the altar. He seated himself soon after, without making the sign of the cross, taking an unspoken place at the other’s elbow. “I have a feeling, Your Excellence, that you are toying with words. And, it implicates, with me.” He refused to take account of the gloom that gathered above them, curling in gusts almost as physical as the wind. Darkness pooled near their vision edges and slathered the wainscot. “How is our princess faring? I sought you for some time, even before the festivities. When was the last instance you did dribbled away to your heart’s content, and my benefit too?”

[adeconde]

mariedelorraine‌:

     Marie knew how easily rumors spread, as there were several that once circulated about her.  One where she looked more German than French, and another about her trying to marry one of the French princes.  Her status as the daughter of the Duke of Guise and a Bourbon princess certainly afforded her the possibility of the latter, and her uncle was adamant about his niece pursuing such a prestigious match.  King François had other plans for his sons, however, and Marie found her marriage.  It was not the love match her parents had made, but she appreciated her husband and he always made her happy.

     “And do I not have a familial place in your heart?  You are a good husband as I am a good wife.  I doubt we should fear any rumors.  And–I could have helped pick a better horse for you,” she teased and let him take the crook of her arm, stopping her toying with his sleeve.  His question inspired a pause, and she fixed an earring while she debated on how she should answer.  The one who she truly wanted to give her favor to wasn’t here…

     “I never gave it, but there were a few I considered.  His Majesty, the King of France, would be my first choice if he had competed. Then I could have chosen an alliance…His Grace, the King of Scots, or His Majesty, the King of England.  Next time I will know who to choose.”  A Guise must always keep on the side of good fortune in order to remain at court, and Henry Jasper Tudor was the clear winner here.

Her words draped over Antoine’s thoughts like an oilcloth, obscuring reality and intention alike. Even the single nominal term, husband, would’ve been enough to lodge dry in its throat - implying he were good at it, whatsoever, almost sent him laughing shrilly. He watched her garnets catch the light as she fiddled with them, an oddly calming show, almost a reminder of their place in the world. And the duty that came entwined with wealth.

Had he not persistently neglected this duty, ever since the young king had been crowned? Had he even pondered to step into the woolers quarter and confide with his bon amis? Or persuade the king about the necessity of a reform in the creed, in the streets, in the very table rows which pocked the grand hall? Persuade anyone, really. Marie’s words, along with her statuary pose, came like a memento mori in a still life - ineluctable, sharply present, calling him to arms.

“The next time I shall be up to make a fool of myself, chère cousine, I will do so at your instructions. And may the angels take pity on that poor horse you lend me.” He swatted away the self-derision. Determinedly, Antoine shifted his place at her sidelines in order to look Marie in the eyes. “Yet I was wondering if there is a more prosaic matter I can talk to you about.” The ambassador paused, not in hesitation, but in minute measurement of what was to follow. “Marie, how far do your influences go at court?”

[adeconde]

cfboleyn‌: 

    -    “ Many men have only their vanities and conquests, Excellency, we must pity them for not all can have the intelligence of an envoy and his peers. I fear what my father portrayed as ease was mere experience in dealing with more demanding matters; having two young daughters at an unknown court is not for the faint of heart to be certain. ” A delicate hand raised her cup ever so slightly to meet in a toast-like gesture before the wine was brought to lips which were similar in colour for a small sip. “ Though I must inform you that I am Mistress Boleyn once more, God had cause to call the Earl to his mercy and so I have returned to court once more, serving French Royalty no less as though time were repeating it’s self. Perhaps I will return to France on your next voyage, in truth I do miss it dearly, how do you find England in comparison? ”

He tarried on the edge, unsure which remark to address first - like a vessel brimming with hazily outlined opportunities, delicate and ready to seep away. Antoine put down his glass under the onslaught of her words. It was all he could do to convey the seriousness of his sympathies, since his usual tone could not do much in that regard, since it was always grave, and always with a touch of melancholy, too. His wife used to taunt him about that very aspect. She took it for primness, for the genealogical duty paid to being a Conde, a cadet branch to royalty. But that couldn’t stray further from the truth: it was too often simply goodwill, the most easy way he could find to transmute sentiment into understanding without breaching intimacies. And he did seem to have a bloody basketful of sentiment, too. A grimace tenanted his expression, and he held out both palms on the table. He’d decided to approach the most tentative part first. “I am deeply sorry for your loss, mademoiselle. You will forever be a countess and one of the finest noblewomen to ever grace Calais - in both mine eyes and mine King’s.” He scuttled over the matter swiftly, not wanting to even imply he bent an ear to the rumors, those wits which alluded to Francis’s keenness for her since she was a girl. Not because he had indeed not heard, or because he disputed them, but because rumors were like fine pottery, best held in the back of a cabinet. To air them out was not proof of efficiency, but uncouth to your guests. “If you do happen to sway inland again, and end up on our shores, we would be most gratified indeed. As for comparison... though your agile mind could weather it, my tongue is not at liberty to say it. Would betray a legate’s code of honor, meager as that might be.” He spoke with lightness, and smiled even more so, his hands open against wood in a heart shape.

[adeconde]

wiltingboleyn‌:

            Patience. She prays for it earnestly. The day has tested her ability to grasp such a virtue, so that she may hold that beneath her breast, rather than the ire which consumes like fire on wood. The bravado of a man is the deadliest of weapons, where they become their own destruction. How many contenders have walked away with all their limbs, only to have their pride maim them? ‘Tis a foolish game which they play. “ Such a terrible shame, ”  she indulges the gentleman, upon hearing the outpour of laugher. “ Let us be grateful that the principal purpose of armour has not lost it’s integrity. ”

”Integrity?!” He makes a show out of looking aghast, stupefied to the marrows by her word association. Antoine keeps it in the limit of courteous banter, in the same vein of people complaining about the state of affairs even while intimately acquainted with their own privilege. It will always be a way to pass the time: glorify days gone by and wince at the present. “Why, that is long lost, my lady Rochford. No one but His Glorious Majesty possesses it any longer.”

[adeconde]

mariedelorraine‌:

     “A simple myth, dear cousin, or you missed a spot!” Marie laughed at his joke, pulling out her handkerchief and pretending to swat away a spec of dirt from his arm.  If anything, she thought, it had more to do with timing than luck.  “Did you have fun?” she smiled, ceasing her teasing.  No matter who the joust came down to in the end, she knew no man would dare try to beat His Majesty, even if he had the skill. “The King here is quite skilled.  I wish I had known you were competing or perhaps I would have given you my favor.”

“What, and throw more kindle to the furnace of rumor?” He bellowed in mock-outrage, changing his footing to regard her. He came closer to Marie, arm still somewhat ruffled after she toyed with the sleeve, mouth displaying his eagerness to taunt and be taunted. It was the Bourbon exchange of sentiment; it was the french parlance, jest covered in fashionable self-pity covered in witticism. And at the center of it all, verity.

In this case, you did not have to pluck aside too many layers to find it: Antoine was wary of putting his name on men’s tongues even more. Him receiving favor from anyone other than his wife would open the gates, at last, to the supposition that he finally gained some sense and started looking elsewhere. That, in vengeance or reasonable lust or tedium, he finally gifted himself an affair. God knows he deserves it, they would dutifully add. That such a partner might be none other than his cousin wouldn’t detract the fruit-flies - au contraire, it would only increase their incessant ploys. Englishmen love an in-house scandal, do they not?

“You are too kind for your offer, but I shall pass. Are good knights not supposed to gain their favor only from the lady of their heart? The name ‘de Conde’ has already gained a much too extramarital nuance for my taste.” Lightly, his fingers nestled a place in the cranny of her elbow. Looking down, he smiled with some fondness, but above all with familiarity and acknowledgement. “Then, in lieu of my confessing participation, who did receive your favor?” 

[adeconde]

lareine-eleanor‌:

Eleanor smiled at the French ambassador, shaking her head. “You performed beautifully,” she assured him. “Far more than decent. It was a wonderful showing for France, Your Grace.”

He gave a timorous laugh, bordering on boyish, both discomfited and gratified by the praise of his Queen. Antoine’s position in regards to the royal family was nothing if not devout. He was aware of Francois’s shortcomings - though even those had been dampened as he neared his twilight years - as he was of their dissimulation and facades, necessary mechanisms for anyone who wished to govern, not only in deed but also in absentio. But those didn’t chip away from his reverence, which was as stalwart an artifact as any, constantly built upon with each day. And part of his crescent admiration owed to the second Queen; Claude had been statuary, something of the old age, but Eleanor was phenomenal. She was placating where the other had been raw, soft where she had been shrill. She was ever deserving her place at Francis’ elbow, who became in his turn mollified, chiseled by her patience.

“I am ill-put to reply, Your Majesty. It is not proper to refute praise, most of all when it’s drawn from such a wonderful source. So I can only accept it with due humility. How did you find these festivities yourself, if one may ask in return?”

[adeconde]

cfboleyn‌:

    -    “ If that were enough to acquire victory then it would be a sport of vanities opposed to skill, your Excellency. Is that not the intended use of a visor, so that it may be a competition of adroitness as opposed to ladies screaming for the most handsome competitor? ” Anne responded to humour with humour, playing oblivious with enough sarcasm dripping from her tongue to hope he might see through it. “ That would be most distracting, I imagine. ”

      Antoine chuckled softly at her words, not for want of amusement, but out of a sense of precaution, the wish to be adequate enough against such a reputation. Anne Boleyn was still discussed in huffed breaths on the halls of Calais and Paris - she had been a phenomena longer than she had been a woman. Though the last chunk of years have seen her stowed away up North, France still remembered her with indignation and prurience: feelings which Antoine did not share, but could not shy from, either. “I drink to that, Countess. I know only too much about cavalry men and their vanities. After all, I am obliged to listen to them and their complaints, as well as their conquests, at every dignitary banquet. And it is more than distracting, as you very aptly intuited. Perhaps your father had an easier time, non? He was truly the most skilled of us.” 

[adeconde]

          “Surprisingly enough-”, Antoine launched, a guff of laughter already cutting through his pretend tirade, “a polished jousting armor does not ensure a shine on the result. Or even decent participation, for that matter.” He eyed his interlocutor swiftly, careful to see that his self-deprecating humor would not face the wrong target. A poor choice in partners was as bad in conversation as in anything else, he dared suppose.

[adeconde]

vxdegruchy‌:

          She had risen early in the morning, pulling herself from the warmth of her bed to attend the Mass. Violette did not think herself more pious than any other of the French courtiers, yet she often did find it beneficial to attend chapel. It offered her moments of solace and reflection. Therefore, it worked wonder for both her mind and her soul. The chants of Latin in the deep baritone of the chaplain were solemn as she listened with eyes closed and hands clasped around a rosary. The sweet smell of intense filling her nostrils as the thurible made a slight clang as it was swung by the young altar boy. Violette took the rite of the Eucharist and before long was exiting to carry on with her day.

          Exiting the corridor and entering into a courtyard, she saw a most familiar face.  A smile broke out across her face at the sight of Antoine de Conde. She could not help the brief moment where her chest tightened as she recalled what had transpired between them. She did still care for the man, even though she had refused to be his bride. Had she never had encounter Harvey, she was certain that she would have given herself to the young de Conde. He was a gentleman from a noble family, wickedly intelligent, and incredibly noble. The only fault she had found in him is that she did not love him as she loved the Duke of Ablemarle. Due to circumstances, she never was given the chance to apologise for her seemingly rash decisions. But he was now also married. Although she had heard the most peculiar of rumours, yet she refused to believe such nonsense.

          “Monsieur de Conde,” she greeted warmly as she reached him and leant forward to lightly kiss both of his cheeks. Violette kept his hands clasped in her own as she took a moment to observe him. It looked as though he had done well for himself. Though she would have expected nothing less. “You look well. Your marriage and position seems to be agreeing with you.”

@adeconde

As soon as his fluttering pulse settled, placated like a falcon on the thumb, and he steered his composure in the right direction, Antoine swept into a bow. She was a picture - some atavism from a brighter, less muddled age, something neither dirt nor baseness could splatter upon. He was almost grateful he had the ground to look to now, until his bow was carried out. It’d been a typical gesture, half-humorous, half-peremptory, and he knew she would see the right end to it. It would’ve been just the thing he’d done back in the day. The days, a remainder blurted out in his mind, the last bouts of defiance before he quelled it all completely.

“My lady. Violette.” He smiled simply, a warmth issuing forth which sealed every other gesture. He was in earnest about the fact that, once granted, first-name rights would never be retracted by her. She was not the sort of person to ever rectify something she had once trusted in - even if, Antoine knew and would delude himself, trust was all it ever amounted to. And affection, coursing between them like the steady fingers of the flux, never to expand into a full tide. But they had been there and at one time it proved enough to entreat Christian names, small confessions, broader projections.

He winced as soon as she mentioned the marriage. To brush over it, as if such a betrayal of the situation would not become him, Antoine laughed and plaited both hands together. “Yes, well--. Time spares us. It’s the prerogative of ambassadors, I think - haven’t you seen Chapuys? Looks not one day older than at our Majesty’s baptism.” He would bid his time before inquiring anything about hers - not as much from timidity, for that was long over between them, but from an egotistic desire to spare his own testimonies. What could he tell her? That men leered at him like the pet dogs Queen Claude used to keep? Chipped teeth barred and incisors ever sharpening? That they barked in their ludicrous, nearly pitiable tones, but pity was not the sentiment they moved in him? On the contrary, it was them that felt the pity. That his wife, no matter what agreement they might have had, became so unbridled, indulged in such mayhem, he feared even to lay with her? She’s a beauty, too bad she might have the pox, you see! It was a farce. And it battered away at the gates of his reason, his future hopes and his vow to remain kind, eyes set on the goal, heart set on those below - oh, it battered and each day a new thing gave way. He could not admit any of that. The Lord knew there were times when it was a struggle to even admit it to himself.

[adeconde]

cflorraine‌:

Isabelle simply looked at her aid, her savior as he spoke. Blue eyes calculating each word, each gesture. It was strange really. Her mother had warned her of those at court saying such things for their own personal gain, to use her perhaps, and yet somehow, Isabelle thought that the man to her side was not saying such words as a flight of fancy - or a way to merely appear congenial. Instead, she found him to be true. There was a look about him, and perhaps even his tone that made her at ease, rather than on edge, and what was being in a foreign land, if not for trusting one’s own inner voice? “Not many share the same sentiment that you do, I am sure. You are as seldom as a warm day in the dead of winter.” She mused thoughtfully. 

Raising her head, Isabelle glanced down the corridor they were approaching and squinted, attempting desperately to grasp onto the memory of when she had first ventured to where the rest of court had gone to dine. “I believe it is the eastern wing, further to the main hall - If I recall correctly.” She stated slowly, turning her gaze back to the man who had helped her when she needed it most, only to find a softness lingering within his gaze. A man with cruel intentions wouldn’t offer such a look.

 “You must remind me when we see each other again to never drink as much wine as I did tonight, or perhaps any at all.” The suggestion was offered to add some levity to the situation. Of course it wasn’t in the manner befitting a Princess of the House Lorraine, but if it at least made the Ambassador chuckle, then perhaps he could partially forgive her for the foolish spectacle she’d made of herself. 

“Seldom?” He appeared amused, but not in the derisive sort, that way world-weary men latched onto every pat phrase to make a taunt of it. Or gloat at it, as though verity riled them, and emotional tones merited every ridicule. That particular outlook he had parried against so often, even among those whose beliefs he otherwise shared, was the epitome of what he vowed he would not become. Not the gilded politician who takes a girl’s openheartedness in stride. Not the one who dismisses it altogether, either. I reckon I should find myself rather lucky, he indulged the single thought, a solitary emissary as they prowled the castle staircases. Few men are met so often with the antithesis of what they wish to be. Like a palisade of cautionary tales.

“I must confess I never would’ve penned myself so. I think I’m rather common, you see”, he assented, and a contrary smile followed suit, “--to the exception of some beliefs. But that is neither hither nor thither, of course. As for the drinking matter, I would not dare to dictate your Grace what to do.” Her eyes, brimming like pools of candlelight with the remnants of wine, still glazed over with such a tenderness that it disconcerted him. It was no wonder guests had prodded each other to serve her - and he almost wouldn’t condemn them. It may have been, instead of what he prejudiced as leering, a usual ruse, a lordly banter as it became the lot, something genuine. Something in her beckoned servitude indeed. He might’ve overpoured her the wine himself, had he been in their place. “I only counsel you, if I may, to find some lady you can confide in, perhaps one a few years older and already inured to these mishaps. She could provide a greater help than a dozen old fools like me.” 

[adeconde]

*   CHARACTER SHEET

BASICS

FULL NAME:  Antoine Maximilien de Conde

NICKNAME:  Max in his schoolboy years, perhaps.

AGE:  32

NATIONALITY:  FRENCH. BAGUETTE.

PLACE OF BIRTH:  Versailles.

CURRENT LOCATION:  Hampton Court, England

ORIENTATION:   ??? Normative until proven different

R-ORIENTATION:  idem

OCCUPATION: Dignitary and estate holder, politician, ambassador to France

RELIGION:  ALL OUT FOR THE PROTESTANT REVOLUTION.

LANGUAGES:  French, English, German & Dutch (most dialectics of the duchies and other low-land countries, including Netherlands and Westphalia)

VOICE: Cultivated, speckled with more than one influences

PHYSICAL ATTRIBUTES

EYE COLOUR:   Blue

HAIR COLOR: Bright golden, fading into brown

HEIGHT:  6′3

BODY BUILD: Tall, bit of a dad bod, no military prowess there

NOTABLE FEATURES: Unusually bright eyes and spotless countenance

PHOBIAS & DISEASES/FEARS: Imprisonment

PERSONALITY

GENERAL IMPRESSION: Idealistic, sworn to a higher purpose, accommodating, undemonstrative, gentle-natured with a twist, heroic predispositions

MORAL ALIGNMENT:  Chaotic Good - a desire for equality and chances to survive and thrive for all men (&women) that does not bend or ply to the law

ZODIAC: Leo

MYERS BRIGGS: INTP

TEMPERAMENT: Melancholic

GREEK DEITY: Prometheus  

MISC

LIKES: EQUALITY LIBERTY FRATERNITY!!!~ (quiet, overlooking places, towers, books and manuscripts, debates, close-knit gatherings and dinners, port wine, paperwork)

DISLIKES: boisterous people, narrow spaces, hypocrisy, wilful ignorance, facades, having a set schedule

*   MUSE’S   WORST   TRAITS. ( BOLD )

aggressive   / callous   /   cannibal   / careless   /  compulsive   /   cowardly   / domineering   / envious  /  greedy   /   hypocritical   /  impatient   /  impolite  /   incompetent   /   kidnapper   /   lazy   /   liar   /   materialistic  /   murderer   /   obsessive   / overcritical   /  overemotional   /   patronizing   /  sarcastic  /   self - indulgent   /   serial killer   /   torturer   / touchy  /  traitorous  /   disorganized   / unpredictable    /   untidy   /   vain   /  vengeful / idealistic

*   FASHION/APPEARANCE STATS.

BOLD what applies to your muse.

BODY

long legs    /     short legs     /     average legs     /     slender thighs     /     thick thighs     /    muscular thighs     /     skinny arms     /     soft arms    /     muscular arms   /     toned stomach     /    flat stomach   /     flabby stomach     /     soft stomach     /     six pack     /     beer belly     /    lean frame   /     muscular frame     /     voluptuous frame     /     petite frame    /     lanky frame     /     short nails (bitten, probably)     /     long nails     /     manicured nails     /     dirty nails     /     flat ass     /     toned ass    /     bubble butt     /     thick ass     /     small waist    /     thick waist     /     narrow hips     /     average hips     /     wide hips     /     big feet     /    average feet     /     small feet     /    soft feet    /     slender feet     /     calloused hands     /     soft hands    /     big hands     /     average hands    /     small hands    /     long fingers    /     short fingers     /     average fingers     /     broad shouldered     /     underweight     /   average weight    /     overweight

SKIN

pale   /     rosy   /     olive     /     dark     /     tanned     /     blotchy     /     smooth     /     acne     /     dry     /     greasy     /     freckled

EYES

small     /    large   /     average     /     grey     /     brown     /     blue     /     green     /     gold     /     hazel     /     doe - eyed     /     almond     /     close - set     /     wide - set     /     squinty     /     monolid     /     heavy eyelids     /     upturned     /     downturned

COSMETICS

eyeliner     /     light eyeliner    /     heavy eyeliner     /     cat eyes     /     mascara     /     fake eyelashes     /     matte lipstick     /     regular lipstick     /     lipgloss     /     red lips     /     pink lips     /     dark lips     /     bronzer     /    highlighter     /     eyeshadow     /     neutral eyeshadow     /     smoky eyes     /     colorful eyeshadow     /     blush     /     lipliner     /     light countouring     /     heavy contouring     /     powder     /     matte foundation     /     shiny foundation     /     concealer     /     wears regularly     /     occasionally wears     /     never wears

SCENT

floral (scented water)  /     fruity     /     books & bound pages     /     aftershave     /     cocoa     /     moisturizer     /    shampoo     /     cigarettes     /     leather     /     sweat     /     food     /     incense     /    musk   /     cologne     /     whiskey     /     wine     /     fried food     /     blood     /     fire     /     metal     /     ice 

[adeconde]

The doors had been swung open, air wafted inwards, outwards, a hibernal tide which bode nothing about spring and even less about revival. Antoine had clambered into one of Hampton’s lookout towers, a dozen thousand steps for what it seemed. The cowering climb led to the uppermost room, which had perhaps served as an aviary for more eccentric, outmoded generations. It looked deserted, with a mono-pitch ceiling and window slits, not one shard of wood in it, as though stone birthed itself and encircled that space by its own right. No living thing had graced this enclosure for a long, steady while. The whiffs of peregrines and falcons, the barely ossified tremble in their wings, still lingered within the mortar. And it was cold - a decisive statement, which soothed him through its unambiguous nature. Yes, it was cold, and he felt as though dead time surrounded it all: the louvered walls, the refractory,  the almost audible scratch of beak against cobble, bird claws hooded by a Merovingian’s palm. This was where he chanced to spend some mornings, through the virtue of no other reason that the immutable solitude of it all. Though now was not morning, but the midst of a banquet that had sent duty resounding in his bones, Antoine still indulged himself this retread. When the other person entered, he did not bristle - what was unusual was not always unwelcome. He bequeathed a half-bow, then turned to lay against the frameless window, merely a cut ruptured into the tower’s outer structure, through which the rickety roofs of England were seen. But in the next heartbeat - a man’s, not a falcon’s - the doors were bolted on them and the siege tocsin drummed through the entire castle. 

@francisweston

[adeconde]

cflorraine‌:

It was as if his presence had brought eyes upon her, eyes which she had so desperately been trying to escape. Though the ambassador’s aid was welcome, the flush in Isabelle’s cheeks deepened at the presence of strangers calculating gazes’. She could feel them practically judging her, thinking her a simple minded foolish girl for allowing herself to get in such a state, whilst some others were most likely wondering where on earth her keepers were. 

To calm the racing pace of her heart, Isabelle took a deep breath, and offered Antoine a warm smile, grateful for the help that he was providing her. Not many would have been so warm and welcoming in coming to her rescue, but he had. Suddenly, she was glad of the ties that her family had, something which she was seldom grateful for. She made sure to look intently at him, rather than allow her gaze to move to the others who were staring at their interaction, and admittedly a nod came from her. Despite it most likely being an effort to make conversation, he wasn’t lying. The court was a much warmer climate than she was used to - at least inside. So many bodies inside such a warm space made for the air to be stifling at times - just as he said. 

Her gaze fell to the window that she had opened, and thought of the King, and his ancestors. It was news to her, but news that she found interesting and somewhat tragic at the same time. As someone who avidly loved the out doors, a chill never scared her, nor deterred her from enjoying her life. “That’s quite unfortunate to have such a fear in the back of ones mind,” she began, voice soft. “I doubt I would be able to cope without a breeze at some point, not that the fear does not have merit, for of course it does.” She paused, gaze falling on those who had been watching some of their encounter begin to disperse, and immediately she relaxed. 

Isabelle raised a hand to her warm cheek, and placed her goblet down on the window sill, closing the window she had opened. “I would enjoy going to the gardens more than I’d like to admit,” she paused, and looked at the French ambassador, “I think however, it would be safer just to find a chambermaid to escort me back to my rooms. The sooner I lay down, I think the better.” 

A look of shame formed in her blue eyed gaze and she looked down at her feet. “ Je suis très reconnaissant pour votre aide, monsieur. You did not need to aid me, and yet you did.” 

His hand twitched, instantly prepared to touch the girl’s chin, raise her head gently like a flutter of salvation. It would not have done, bien sur: clemency was one thing, propriety another. So Antoine merely folded them together not unlike a priest might have, and tried to cram as much warmth into his tone as vowels and chords permitted. “In my mind, I rather did have to, you see. It was not as much duty...”, he scoured for a better concept, a term both higher in value and closer in deed, sought vainly in all the languages he knew, “...but impulse, I suppose. Our values are often more imperious than our circumstances, no?” As soon as the question deserted him, a bereft man lodged into his musings and self-circling thoughts, Antoine laughed softly. “This is truly a poor time for such sophistry.”

He continued to support her, only a light propping of an elbow against her frame, which Antoine now steered to the archway. “A chambermaid it is, then. Can you perchance recall in what wings of the palace you have been hosted?” A quick, mental twinkle of a map was envisioned, of the castle grounds and their plan, their sturdy, interlocked architecture. “Far from the main hall, or near?” His eyes became more tender as they sought her gaze, called it back to level.

[adeconde]

scymours:

            ❛   I have never really given it much thought  ❜  Within the stone comfort of Wolfhall, Jane had heard her father mention the tale of Utopia. Her understanding of it was limited, but then she had never been well-read. All of her education came from her mother and what she received revolved more around sewing and dancing, than reading. But her father encouraged it a little, enough for Jane to be able to read and write a letter. As the ambassador continued to speak, Jane realised that she did not wholly understand what he was saying, so she remained silent and merely listened.  

“And I have given it far too much, it seems.” The ambassador smiled, a tad pale, a tad cowered, and brought both hands together into a steeple. He stooped forward, content with the place they had reclined themselves into, as dutiful observers or sea-faring birds do. He’d chosen this because it was safe, while feeling less like isolation than most other refuges: a hard benchline manhandled into the wall’s cranny, a haven from the court’s bustle, the aimless feet that could thread on you as lightly as on a grasspatch. “You are an adept listener, Mademoiselle Seymour.” The accent, though subdued by years and severe will, succeeded nonetheless in marring the sentence. It gave it not a foreign, but a personal air, as though a piece of the man had seeped into the words he’d bestow. “Even when your interlocutor is a Heaven-forsaken, veritable bore. Would you answer to my apology by steering the conversation into a livelier direction?”

[adeconde]

♡ anne bc when does anne not flock to the french?

FRIENDS.   childhood friends /  work friends  /  family friends  /  recently friends  /  turning antagonistic  /  turning into something romantic  /  stable  /  falling apart  /  friendship of need  /  friendship of circumstance  /  coworkers  /  partners (allies of the reformation, ushering protestant tides into england together)

ROMANCE.   childhood sweethearts  /  newly entered  /  soulmates  / skinny love  /  unrequited from my muses side  /  unrequited from your muses side  /  friends with benefits  /  awkward  /  fading /  turning  toxic  /  toxic  and  destructive  / other (help antoine build up appearances that he has a liaison as well, not just his wife)

FAMILIAL BOND.   sibling bond  /  older sibling figure to your muse  /  younger sibling figure to your muse  /  parental figure to your muse  /  parental figure to your muse  /  guardian figure  /  legal  guardian  /  other .

ENEMIES.   dangerous to themselves  /  dangerous to others  /  unpredictable  /  passionate /  rivals  / petty  /  developing into a sexual tension  /  developing into a romantic tension (?) /  based off family matters  /  based of circumstance  /  based of professional (religious&political) matters  /  based of misunderstandings or lies  /  other