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Just going to toss in a breaker post here so folks checking out this account know that it is just my rp main under my own handle.

I currently pen: @thebeloveduke

#organizing the blog nothing to see here

edhelernil-a-deactivated2018020

30 Uncommon Character Development Questions ( send me a number )

What position does your character sleep in? ( i.e; stomach, side, back, etc. ) Describe why they do this — optional.

Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etc.

Does your character have an accent? What does it sound like?

Do they have any verbal tics? Do they have trouble pronouncing certain words or getting their thoughts across clearly?

What are their chief tension areas?

If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?

How does your character perceive themselves? Positive? Negative? Neutral?

Are they a quick thinker or do they need time to sort through their thoughts?

Does your character dream or are their nights filled with an empty blackness? Describe a dream they’ve had or a night they couldn’t sleep and what they did to preoccupy their time.

If they had a choice, would they prefer a subway or a bus for public transportation?

What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?

Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.

Have they ever been so overwhelmed they had to stop and take a break from something?

Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?

Can they multi-task or must they focus on one subject at a time?

What are their best school subjects? What are their worst? List five of each.

Is your character an introvert or an extrovert? How do they handle big crowds of people?

Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?

If your character was suddenly challenged, would they rather run away or stay and fight?

If your character was allowed to murder one person without any consequences, who would that person be and why?

Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?

Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?

Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?

Does your character have any enemies? If so, who and why?

Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?

How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?

If your character had one thing to say to their parents before they died, what would it be?

Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?

Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?

Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?

#sometimes the whole story is not hidden | rp memes

ofcxterina:

a faint smile once again rose to her lips at his words. while once upon a time even words as gentle as those would sent her off into misery, she had passed through those months and come out the other side even stronger. no longer was she emotionally stuck in the quagmire of her situation, doomed to despair. lisbon had given her a new lease on life, had made her realize that her life still had promise in it, if not as a wife or princess, but of a politician, banker, diplomat. maybe many years on from now she’d be able to look on it as a good thing — though in the current era it was far from that. “i thank you for your compliment, but alas, nobody yet has thrown me an oar. perhaps i shall have to craft my own.” her destiny was no longer written after all, and after the disgrace of her marriage she doubted she’d be tied to any man of high stature again.

“are the different areas of england as different as the city states of italy?” compared to the rest of europe, it was exceedingly curious the region caterina had grown up, cities that governed themselves with citizens that clamored for power and attention. far from the classical kings and queens of europe who could trace their bloodlines back centuries, florence was a named republic, even if it was only in name. and each city was as different as the next, milan with its haughty people, venice with its merchants and florence with its trade. and that was only the northern part of the country, completely separate in custom and tradition from the south. “i do hope you achieve your goals as well good sir, as long at they do not run perpendicular to my own.” it was said as a jest, wide smile spreading across her face to show she meant no harm. “as for france, maybe her actions have brought the medici at least one step closer to your side of the peace, if you understand what i am implying.”

The woman before him was certainly clever. It was a remarkable thing, John had realized, when a woman decided to flip the narrative. To often used in a game they had no control of, some found a way to deny that idea and live to their own accord. Isabel was a prime example. The marriage had not been enough to sever the ties she had with Edward, her persistence eventually winning her the man and the crown. Although the family had backed it later, becoming overjoyed with their daughter's ambitions, the initial attempts to marry her off, stifle what would have been a dead-end in the eyes of many - after all how often did the mistress actually win in the end - had been a failure. Isabel had reclaimed much of her own narrative - with the help of her family of course. “Perhaps one day, my lady, I can help you in crafting your paddle,” John said easily. Tearing France asunder, especially with an embarrassment such as the King’s now exiled Uncle being dealt a further blow of losing a powerful ally, was always an interesting idea.

Turning to her question though, he thought for a moment the best way to answer. In truth, England sometimes seemed like it had separate political forces leading different regions, shifting within. Although the North was under the control of the Crown, the people within it found themselves pledging more often to their Neville lords. After all, it was John’s family who had more control over their direct and tangible futures. “We are one united England,” John finally answered, as it was the truth in a diplomatic sense. “The people within though not only have loyalty for the country, but where they are from. It adds to the diversity of our island, in my opinion. It would be a rather boring place if there was not a difference in the people within,” he explained. “No matter what happens though, they are proud to be Englishmen, and fight under the banner of Saint George.” The latter was something John knew the French were well familiar with. A smile flicked at his lips, “I hope our goals run in line with each other. After all, do we not all just want peace?” The question was deeper than just its words. Peace often came to an inclusive nature to some, and excluded others. Italy had found itself outside that circle this time, and John was interested to see how they would fight their way back in.

#ofcxterina #[caterina: 001]#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

lorenzs:

where: lisbon cathedral when: july, 1458 who: open to anyone!

The cog that had brought Lorenzo to Portugal had not lacked for any crosses. No good vessel would, of course. However, there was something very different about praying on your lonesome with a mere cross to stand before, and standing in a vast cathedral, where your thoughts themselves seemed to echo from the altar and back to you.

Of course, Lorenzo was not quite here for worship so much as see the famed cathedral of Lisbona. It was not the most beautifully designed, certainly no comparison to the Santa Maria del Fiore, looking from without more a defensive structure with its battlements and its murder holes—but from within, it was a vast improvement. Lorenzo sauntered to the closest pew, running his hand along the wood as he admired the paintings set behind the altar as the bright morning light fell upon them. The glass ceilings just there gave it a very, very pretty effect.

He hissed as a splinter on the bench pierced his finger. “I don’t think this cathedral likes me very much,” he muttered to himself, picking at the piece of wood. Looking back up at the rising pillars, he announced, “I do apologise if you have been offended by my thoughts, but I cannot help it. I must be honest in a house of God.”

Piety was not something John was known for. He attended mass, he bowed his head as the rest did, he spoke to the Pope as the arbiter of his disputes, he followed the motions as he must. A significant amount of his shortcomings with the Catholic Church which may affect his reputation were smoothed over by his wife, the opposite of her husband in the fact that she was a famously pious woman. This did not excuse John from going through the motions and offering himself as a child of God, but it certainly helped the fate of his soul when he did something like huff out a slight laugh, poorly contained as a sharp exhale of breath and a shake of shoulders when the Italian made his confession to the Duke. There was very little he did not predict, but the Italian man’s words had caught him with the humor of the situation.

Giving a slight shake of his head, “you have not offended me in the slightest my Lord,” John replied. Looking at where the wood of the pew had provided the rebuke of God, he himself avoided it, avoiding being dammed to a similar fate. “I do think our Lord God would be enamored with your honesty, but I would not let the father of this holy church overhear lest he chides you and has you donate a sum for your offense to God,” John said easily. “I must admit, I did assume for a cathedral of this beauty, the pews would be much less prone to attack,” the comment was a jest, but yet John did dismiss the structure in the same vein. A rough pew was an upkeep issue, and the idea that such a magnificent structure may not have the funding, or the patronage, to prevent such issue made him muse on its origin.

#[lorenzo: 001]#lorenzs #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

ofcxterina:

caterina let out a breath she had been holding, her deep yearning for her home city turning it into a sigh. hers was a tumultuous journey, filled with despair and no shortage of longing for homeland. how could she put into words how it had saddened her to not be able to return? a brief shake of the head wasn’t enough to convey it, nevertheless it was what she did, “no, i have not gotten a chance to return. one could say i’ve been afloat these past few years.” it was a true statement, however odd it sounded coming from a noble lady — the likes of whom had their fates written sometimes even before birth. she was lucky, it was only because of her strong family traditions that she still had a home to go back to, to dream of. harsher families would’ve cast her out in the cold.

“that must be why some of the brides in your country abide by that quaint rhyme. something old, something new, something blue…” she trailed off, amusement sweeping her expression as she repeated the rhyme that an english noblewoman had taught her. “milan is where i have laid my head in the recent past. freed from france in all but name, i now have the liberty to continue working towards my family’s goals.” not that she’d ever stopped, but her primary reason for staying in milan had been the peace relations of the infantile and still precarious italian league. the fact that milan and florence now shared a son through her hadn’t hurt those proceedings.

Strife in other countries, or nobles who seem to be caught in a lurch or stuck in purgatory as alliances shift, was like a glass sweet wine to John. Something so sticky and tempting, and the knowledge of what could happen if it was spilled, red splashing all over and staining everything it touched, was what an empire was built on. “An astute and, pardon me for any impropriety, beautiful young woman such as yourself does not seem like the type anyone would be so willing to allow drift,” John questioned, his mind turning as he attempted to figure out this puzzle. He had heard the dramatics that had occurred with the King’s brother - who had not, a prince taking refuge was always quite the talk, but the fact that she still claimed to wander in such a way was intriguing.

When she repeated the rhyme, a softer smile appeared on the Duke’s face. Although he did not normally pay heed to such things, it was something he had heard repeated more than once, both pertaining to his sister and his own wife. “It must be,” he confirmed gently. “Perhaps it helps them, as even when they can stay within the country, sometimes they have the fate of my own wife. Although York has embraced her, she was originally from the southern part of England,” he explained. Marion was also why John had some lands near London, although they had become a tenancy at this point. “I do hope you can achieve your goals, my lady. France does not deserve your grace.” A part of him did feel bad for the woman. Once a princess of France, and now she was just wandering, caught in a terrible place where she could not be of use to her family by marrying once again, and also not being able to use her current marriage for anything beyond pain.

#[caterina: 001]#ofcxterina #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

rosalindinwaiting:

There was always a shiver when eyes landed on lord John. The very nature of him, his appearance, his mannerisms – all of them seemed so brutish and intolerable to any and every thing. It was an unfortunate thing to cross his path in such a manner, be it a good day for him or bad. Rosalind was always well-liked and agreeable to people, which was what unnerved her about John. She had yet to endear herself to him and win his favor and approval, which meant treading lightly and not getting on his bad side. Of course, it wasn’t exactly punishable by death to disagree with him – though it felt like it – but being the Queen’s brother gave him power that Rosalind couldn’t match.

Naturally, keeping all the in mind, she would knock things from his hand and make herself look incompetent. “Forgive me, my lord.” She echoed again, avoiding his gaze and attempting to gather his things. “I was –” She paused, tucking her gown away as she moved to stoop and pick them up. “ I was leaving the dining area and in a hurry to get back to her majesty, your sister.” She excused, putting exhausted emphasis on her words to appear more tired somewhat. When in doubt, lie. That’s what her father would have instructed her to do. ‘Always tell the truth until you cannot’, he would remind her. Staying favorable mattered more than being honest. Honesty lead men to gallows. “ The fault is all mine, of course – I just was distracted recounting my duties for the day when that knight greeted me. But the fault is truly my own.” She sighed, humbly, albeit lacking genuine regret for anything but bumping into the wrong person.

When the papyrus had been collected into her arms, she rose, nursing the documents as dearly as she would if they were her own child. “ I know it is an insult to presume that I could, but I hope in my carelessness, that I did not hurt you, my lord.” She offered in the way of an apology, daring to look him in the eyes for a glance. “ I’m sure these are rather important – if you would allow me to assist you in sorting through them…” She paused, fearing finishing would make her seem nosy. “Unless of course, they are private…”

The wolf of York had not been named by the man himself. In fact, John was loathed to use the moniker in most situations, finding it a hair dramatic. It had been a name that had attached to him before he even became the Duke of the same name. What originally had started out as a nickname among comrades, a commentary on John’s ruthlessness and cunning nature while on the field of battle and in the war room, had been twisted into an almost foul descriptor. It was still as accurate as it was decades ago, but John still found himself often unamused when it was used around him. It seemed as if everyone had picked it up as well, and cool reactions had become the norm. Granted, it was never entirely unwarranted, but it was easier to operate in the shadows of the world when you did not have a reputation for doing exactly that.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, John made a sound in the back of his throat that was an odd mix between a grunt and a hum, taking note of what the woman in front of his said with a certain gruffness. Ever since the incident which led to Isabel’s poisoning, John had been skeptical of any of those near her. “I am sure my dearest sister will be thrilled to know what her ladies get up to in the meantime, associating with knights and walking about the halls as if they own them,” he said shortly. It was admittedly unfair how he was treating the woman, something that John realized in his mind but the stress of the current negotiations and the constant almost manic need to keep in touch with their homeland during these talks had set him on edge. With great power came great responsibility to not throw his papers up in the air when something was tweaked for the thousandth time. Well, until the Lady Rosalind had thrown his papers for him.

After a moment of thinking, he finally let out a sign, fingers going to pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment as he considered his options. Finally, with a slight nod, he motioned to her to pick up the papers, “no, they just are matters of trade, nothing that will not be apparent in time,” he said, brushing off her question of their privacy. Had they been private he still would not have cared. If the information had gotten out, he would have known where it came from and made her pay the cost for it. “Your help would be needed, they were in the order of date of correspondence and to which matter it is related, and my personal squire has become rather tired of the sorting, so he will appreciate you not cursing him with the task again.” Making sure the last of the papers had been collected, he motioned with his head for her to follow him, “come along, we will have a message sent to my sister saying I am waylaying one of her ladies for the moment,” a slight smile ticked at the side of his lips with that one. Part of him considered having the messenger who brought that leave out as much information as possible, just to raise Isabel’s blood slightly, but he considered the rudeness of that and instead turned on heel and expecting the woman to follow with the sheaves of papers he had left her to carry.

#[rosalind: 001]#rosalindinwaiting #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

mariusdanjou:

Marius could not help but broaden his smile, leaving him only amused at the idea of the English’s goodwill toward the French peoples. Long had their rivalry thrived between the two countries, leaving each present ruler holding the mantle for their ancestors who had once given their lives for the war that remained. If he was King, which he wasn’t, Marius would’ve long since asked for the lands that were rightfully French, leaning upon strong alliances to relieve the treaty and to instead go head to head in warfare - where Marius felt such comfort. Not willing to be so lenient with lies, the French adviser only smiled and offered the Duke a sly nod of his head. Despite all of it, Marius was no longer a subject of France’s Kingdom (despite his blood that ran deep against the golden timber of it’s throne) but rather an envoy for the Holy Roman Empire; the Catholic heart that remained a distant threat to the English’s own lands.

Turning instead to a discussion that was not riddled with ambition and blood feuds, Marius went to pick his bow that remained upon his shoulder - wood carved by the Austrian fold that was precise and light but not nearly as grand burdened by the French. With a sigh, Marius went to the Duke and began to pull on the bow’s string, practising it’s weight and strength. “I am no hunter, I was trained for the battlefield rather than the hunt… As morose as it may seem, I am well acquainted with a bow only in terms of blinding a foe… Hunting seems to be a boy’s sport rather than a man’s,” he remarked, gesturing towards the younger ones of the group who seemed well prepared and needy for the start of the race. “Speaking of the younger ones, what a shame to not see the young Princes of England taking part… Perhaps they are not up for the job.”

With a curious eye, John watched Marius test his bow. The English hunting bow was still being employed as nothing more than a stave at the moment, John loath to string it before it was the correct time to do so. With the high caliber English yew bows, it was bad for the stave to leave them strung for too long, the heartwood that caused the bow to want to snap back into shape would become too comfortable with being bent, and therefore sap power from the dangerous weapon. The current stave he held was also smaller than the great English longbow, something that John had learned from a young age, but had let the skill slip as time wore on and there was not as much of a need for him to use it. It had been handy keeping the Scottish at bay, though, as is the duty of the Duke of York. With a keen eye, John watched the man opposite him test his own bow, which had been strung.

Knowing the hunt was soon to begin though, John removed the hemp cord that had been sitting safe and dry in a pouch on his belt. Looping the cord around one end, John leaned against the bow slightly to give himself the ability to tie off the top knock. This was something that normal men had a servant or huntsman do for them, but John had always been a proud man when it came to the weapon he had cut his teeth on as a young, much more wild, man. “My own skill with the bow also comes to form the borders,” he said easily, not elaborating further. France had always been a traditional ally of John’s northern neighbors, there was no mystery as who he was using a mighty war bow against, “but after that time had passed and my duties had been fulfilled, letting the skill go to waste just seemed unnecessary.” John doubted he could pick up the old longbow tomorrow, he had aged and could not likely pull the draw, not like some of the more capable English archers who still had youth and daily practice on their side. “I am sad to hear you do not enjoy this past time, your Grace, I find the thrill of running down and catching my quarry is a satisfying feeling. Perhaps I have just become acquainted with the feeling though,” the Duke said, his tone as light and conversational as ever, despite the potential dangers hidden in his words.

A smirk appeared at the corner of his lips when Marius mentioned the English princes. “The Prince of Wales, as you may know, is kin to many of those in the court here, so I do not fault him for not attending the celebration of a man whom he sees on the daily back in our homeland. My nephews, as well, are busy making new connections,” John said, not perturbed by the question in the slightest. He was sure even if invited, Harry would not much enjoy celebrating the Duke of York, and John was likewise okay with the man not being a part of his celebration of aging. Being in Lianor’s homeland, however, did provide a convenient excuse.

#mariusdanjou #[marius: 001]#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

katrinkc:

Even the smallest of vibrations in a spider’s web indicate that a predator is near. Black widow spiders feast on things far greater than themselves, and she, too, was intent to reduce whatever she deemed powerful members of the English court. He surpassed other insects plump from time, hubris, landing into the spindles of an invisible net. Attract, stitch them into memorabilia, trophies so they cannot leave until you’ve sucked them dry of their talents and generated it into her very own poison. Respect in the unease of his reputation lingered, if only Katherine could take note of his mastery..

Did he see her as sweet? Dripping with sugar in her trail, hoping to catch flies with honey?

Katherine hovered before this Neville, who had woven his own lair amongst England’s accoladed royalty. Her lips rested a faint, gentle, plump dip of a smile. She lifted her chin, despite her petite stature, trying to swallow any doubt or fear that pricked her (talks of the lack of a son still feverish in her head, and emphasised the stiff material of her fine and heavy jewels that scratched against her pale neck, rubbing it red). Her eyes might have flashed at his comment on the much-anticipated son she had not yet sired, she might have emitted a soft laugh if he listened closely enough. No, this creature she’d attempt to tangle slowly. Too impatient to wait for the day that she provided a son. She could attempt an arrow at his Achillean heel, hidden with a sincere tone. Decipher a weakness, and taunt him with it. “Are you so very anxious, Neville?” She repeated his words, this time a slide, a lioness in summer stride. “I’m beyond flattered that matters of my womb worry you so much. You shall be one of the very first invited to the celebration, when the crown prince’s son is welcomed into the world.” Lips twisted before she muttered, “But in the meantime, Portugal offers too many worthwhile opportunities. I’m sure my successes here, and my husband’s, will help ease your distress in the meantime… for our behalf.” She looked him over, dipping into a smooth curtsy. “If you notice anything of worthwhile during our summit, do not hesitate to reach out to me. I look forward to our next run-in..”

Everything in life was like a game of chess. In his mind, everything could be set on a flat plain, the players moving at the will of puppeteers. There was no such thing as unpredictability, human nature was so ingrained and every person worked in their own ways that humans were doomed to continue making the same mistakes. It was no different from those who held power. The same thing, over and over, the lesson never learned. Lianor, the foreign princess who was loved by the people up until the moment she was not, cast off for someone who understood, and countryman. And John was inclined to believe he was watching the same happen now. The wonderful, shining Russian princess, become naught more than a burden that the English crown had to explain to courtiers and commoners alike. It would be easier if Katherine had shed her Russian ambition with her Russian name, but much like John, a wolf lurking among the herd of sheep, here was this woman who thought she could do the same. A precious thought, but if anyone stood the feeling of insecurity without a son to carry on the legacy, it was John.

“Of course, your royal highness,” he said easily, “I too understand what it is like, after all,” he said easily. John had a few options with what he could do with a lack of children. He could allow it to be a sore subject, something vulnerable that an enemy could attack at and use to weaponize against him. Or, John could do his preferred method, which was to unload the weapon entirely, using the ammunition to turn on others. “We are not in as unlikely positions as your think, Princess,” he said with a raise of an eyebrow, “and so you must understand my fears as an Englishman, and my hope to see the country prosper,” and the succession was something that ensured prosperity. When the woman curtsied to him, John allowed himself to return it in a deep bow, as propriety demanded. He did not need to like her, but he did not need to find himself having trouble over simple things like his distaste being noted by other courtiers. As far as the world knew, York supported the crown. Especially the one on his sister's head.

“The pleasure of your company has been mine, I do hope you enjoy your time among your kin,” he said easily. The beauty of seeing the world as a game of chess is John never allowed himself to become a piece. Better was the man who moved the board than the man who allowed himself to be moved. A long game, yes, but John had many years of practice.

#[katherine: 001]#katrinkc #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread #i love her so much

@ladyseymouryork

The bells rang above them like a beacon, telling anyone who cared that a great deal of people were leaving the cathedral, exposing themselves back to the bright of day on a morning which should be about peace, but John always wondered if the next attack could occur in these moments. How ironic, his fate could be met on the steps of a church. Perhaps it would be fitting for him, as although he was a church-going man, he was not the most faithful to the tenants of the Catholic church. But, the impropriety of a man in his station not attending service on Sunday would be a travesty on its own, and therefore John did his diligence. It also helped that his wife’s piety was known well to the world around. Perfection, was that Duchess of York. Pious, a patron of the arts, and one of the most beautiful women to grace the English people. Childless, however, was another description John frequently added mentally, when people spoke to him of his wife.

The woman in question had yet to join him on the steps of the mighty Cathedral of Évora after service had ended. It was not an uncommon spectacle, the Duke waiting on the steps after service for his wife to join him. The more religious of the two, Marion did not feel the haste John did to leave the stone confines. When she did join him, he offered her a hand to help her down the steps, as would be expected of her husband. John was the model of what a nobleman should be, even if most of it was performative at this point. A true noble got his work done behind the scenes. “Wife,” he greeted her, his tone neutral, “I trust you enjoyed the service in this magnificent cathedral,” he continued, as deep as talking about the weather. It was not that he disliked Marion - he did not in fact. But sometimes they still felt like strangers, even after years of marriage. Although he did sometimes surprise himself with how easy they got along, John never really imagining himself the type that desired companionship. “Perhaps one of the better things about having the summit in this wasps nest,” he continued, giving a little more insight into his current mind. The rumors about Lianor’s death hung like a black shroud, and John found himself worried to the point of slightly paranoid being in Portugal. Not that he would tell this to anyone beyond Marion, who had done nothing but prove herself continuously loyal.

#[marion: 001]#ladyseymouryork #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

ofcxterina:

“it is a foolish man that is not wary of peace.” it was funny, the way that her family had always strived for peace across italy and across the continent. they could tout their altruist nature all they wanted, and tout they would, but everyone knew it was because stability brought stability to the bank, the most important fixture for the medici. florence had waged its battles in the past, but at present they were trying to be a more enlightened city state, and the peace across italy with caterina in milan and seraphina’s brother in naples hadn’t hurt that. the last summit, of course, had hurt it but florence’s people were satiated once again, and the volatility had been moved out of her home.

“it is funny, the way the heart will always yearn for home, even as we are trying to build a better life.” she’d felt that feeling acutely in france, wishing time and time again to hear the emotion-filled language of her home country, or even just the bells ringing from the duomo in the main piazza of florence. “i could write a thousand words on the beauty of florence, but alas i have not been there for many years. i’m tied to her, and i swear sometimes i can hear her calling out for me.” she couldn’t help a tinge of melancholy from creeping into her tone, the sorrow of a woman kept away from the thing she truly loved. brightening up her tone and shaking the moment off, she continued, “but to dwell on it is to fall into depression, and we cannot have any of that when surrounded by new places, ideas, friends.”

Giving an appreciative nod to the woman across from him, he was glad he did not have to explain more. Peace was such a tender concept, one born out of poets and politicians who did not know better. John was neither of those, with perhaps the best words to describe him that of a pragmatist, to a fault most times. In his time getting to know the woman, he had failed to ask of her origin, John realized as she spoke fondly of Florence as her home. This was not uncommon, for a young woman to be living in a country they did not originally hail from - the movement of noblewomen like pawns into other countries was not a game John was unfamiliar with. Even the future Queen of England was not originally from her shores.

“Do you not get the opportunity to return to Florence, my lady?” he asked, curious. Although it did sound like genuine interest, there was an almost hidden thought. Was this woman not happy in France, and if so, why? The monarchy in France had seemed volatile at best to John, a place rife with the opportunity of gamesmanship. Although it already seemed on player had been displaced in his pursuit to take power. That was a lesson John had learned from his father a very long time ago: never try to take it for yourself. Always have someone between you and the ultimate goal, so that it could be a buffer should something go awry. “I do think that no matter how magnificent something new is, there is always some beauty in the old. It does not mean we should shy from progress, but it does mean that sometimes a moment of depression when mourning what has passed is not misplaced. I find myself in a similar mind when I am with the King’s court in London, rather than back in the Northern reaches of England where York lies.”

#[caterina: 001]#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread #ofcxterina

isabelofyork:

❛ i do believe you are confusing fussy with particular. ❜ which, in isabel’s mind, there was little wrong with. why shouldn’t they hold high standards ? they were, after all, a family just behind the plantagenet’s when it came to influence and prestige ––– through their veins pumped royal blood too. there was no other noble family that could compare to the neville’s in fortune, power and influence, their father had ensured that and as his heir, it was john’s role to protect it. watching him with cecily, she smiled fondly as she ate. ❛ but i must confess that i share in your shock, but they are all humble and that is good. the last thing england needs is another petulant royal. ❜ she commentated with a knowing look.

of course edward made a joke and of course her brothers misinterpreted it. ❛ you should know his antics by now, jackie, after all, did he not once jest about sending you off to marry the late queen of france’s elderly aunt ? ❜ chuckling at the memory, she would admit that edward’s sense of humour could sometimes be somewhat uncouth. yet, at the mention of their brother still being john’s heir, isabel couldn’t the frown from forming. it wasn’t that she thought their brother ill suited to become the head of the neville family and bear the title of the duke of york, but rather in isabel’s eyes, it was yet another failings on behalf of john’s wife. ❛ i would be happier with him marrying an english woman, however, he may be needed elsewhere. besides, perhaps it is not our brother that is in need of a wife. ❜ john was a neville and given isabel’s own examples of fertility, she could only blame his wife for a his lack of progeny. ❛ does it not concern you that you have been married for so long and yet remain childless ? ❜

“Semantics,” he said shortly in response to his sister, his attention almost completely devoted to his niece on his lap. Despite his more callous nature and seeming distance from anything that dared evoke a human response, John was actually quite endeared to children. Maybe it was his age or creeping desperation to have a child of his own to pass everything on to, but his niece still caught his heart. This was not a new phenomenon either - every single one of Isabel’s children, when still small and pure to this world, had the pleasure of having their uncle John wrapped around their finger. It was only when they got older and they realized what John truly did for the family that the glass shattered. Offering a snort in reply to Isabel’s subtle joke, he replied with an easy “perhaps a little less humbleness with your oldest, I am afraid he does not show his own royal lineage at times.” Little Cecily swung one of her little hands up towards John, who gave her a smile and let her grab his finger, although tactfully keeping it away from her mouth.

Glancing back up at Isabel, he gave what could best be described as a whithered looked, “his humor is known, but it just takes once for it not to be a joke Isabel,” he said, giving a weak defense. In truth, John had also enjoyed tormenting their youngest brother, it was always a treat. “Needed elsewhere? And ruin this wonderful habit we have of marrying within the same island?” it was half a joke, his tone conveyed that with its almost mock disbelief. It was a marvel how good the Neville’s were at marrying into power and wealth within the bounds of their own country. John to a wealthy Seymour, Isabel to the king. John was sure there was an unwed Howard somewhere in existence. There was always an abundance of Howards. His musing about the best wife for Jasper had almost caused him to miss Isabel’s continued discussion. John’s eyes narrowed slightly, a frown on his face. Had the youngest Plantagenet not been seated on his lap, it was likely he would have stood in some haste.

“Marion is still capable of having a child, Is.” He tactfully left out the fact that Marion was in fact still younger than his own sister, who had a child recently. “No matter that, I highly doubt the Pope would grant a dispensation for me to divorce and for your heirs to be legitimized. Let us pick our battles tactfully.” It was a break from character, whenever John defended Marion. There was naturally selfishness - finding a younger wife got harder as he got older, and the hassle did not seem like its worth. Marion had been served practically to him: lands, beauty, loyalty, it all. Aside from that, she was a good Duchess - the people liked her, and John did not feel like the headache of disposing of her was worth its effect. But there was another part, one not so quite clinical, not so callous, although John denied that he actually did have some companionship from the woman he had spent a better part of a decade and a half with.

#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread #[isabel: 002]#isabelofyork

sagamemes

reblog this and ramble / infodump about your muses’ pets in the tags.

#john really isnt a pet guy #he has a wolfhound that he was gifted some time ago #but it lives in york castle and occasionally in their private london residence #he also has decent horses #but thats less of a love horses thing and more of a love to casually show wealth thing #he also has some birds of prey #but those arent necessarily pets #he does enjoy them though #he has nothing against pets he just isnt a pets kind of guy #sometimes the whole story is not hidden | rp memes

mariusdanjou:

He had only arrived out of good manners, who was he to deny such an invitation made to gather together likely minds? Marius had thought that perhaps, he may use the occasion to talk to the ones he would not seek out so readily - but he had never held affection for the Englishmen, not after the loss of land that was rightfully France’s. With a slight grumble, he had prepared for the day with ale and a walk with his children, pacing the residence to remind himself what he was working towards — a safe haven for his family. So he approached the Duke of York, the man they had all come together for, in a perhaps dire hope to find something worth his time. And though John may look to Marius as if he was nothing but a Regent fallen from disgrace, Marius was indeed the rightful heir to the French throne and the talented adviser of both the late king Ferrant and the now Empress of the Holy Roman Empire. Without doubt, Marius thought himself royl and righteous - after all, during his Regency he often had boasted that God himself wished him to rule the French people. “Truly? How interesting, I can only imagine what rumours the English must whisper off,” and though he remained stoic, a hint of a smirk stretched beneath his facial hair; if Marius thought little of the English he could only imagine what their people would cook up. After all, he had once killed Englishmen readily in skirmishes and border threats. “How do you find this hunt? Who do you think will win? My money, I think, is on the young Alexandre of Aquaitane…”

Finishing with the tightening of his courser’s girth, lest he take a tumble from it being to loose, John finally gave Marius his full attention, a wry smile on his face at the man’s response to John’s revelation. “It is in our nature to only whisper kind words about the French, naturally,” John said, his more sarcastic sense of humor coming out to a man who perhaps had reputation most similar to his own. Except John had never allowed himself to be displaced. “Just as your countrymen only speak happy things about the English,” he finished the jest, not wanting to lay the blame entirely at the feet of his own countrymen.

The long stave that was his bow, yet unstrung, still rested in his hand, looking more like a hiking staff than a weapon that could cause tragedy with a silent release. Turning to look over at where others prepared for a hunt, he let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. “I agree that the young Duke and perhaps the others of a gentler age in the group will have a chance, but they do lack the experience some of us older lords have,” John said, an eyebrow raised slightly. Although he was gaining years, John had made sure to not become complacent in his later life, hunting a firm passion of his and keeping him young. He was still practiced enough to draw his great hunting bow, although his years of potentially drawing a true English longbow were long behind him. “And what you of you, do you not think yourself capable of victory today Your Grace?”

#[marius: 001]#mariusdanjou #the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread

katrinkc:

“You’re quite a humble servant to England, Neville. When I am one day queen, I should hope my advisors and peers exhibit such noble hearts as you…” Katherine’s words bounced as her grin tilted ever so slightly, an indecipherable trait she’d honed since childhood: either goading or sincere. Katrinka was not born with lips that dripped thick, sweet honey. It took years for her to quell comments that often slipped out before they had a chance to congeal- reflecting her stubborn penchant to abandon sugar honeycomb in grace and restraint, evolved into muddling mischief, subtle serenity. She could play the part of a soft-spoken maiden, though there rested a flicker of wild Rurik, alert and restless behind it. This playful drawl, accompanied by sharp gaze that mirrored her father’s eyes– rumoured to resemble a blade in the night, flourished with a subtle little sigh.

His words lingered twofold, stagnant in their shared confined space, stuck in summer heat: emphasising the crowd, tingeing the weary haunt of discomfort Katherine mustered amongst disapproving courtiers. Stuck on his notion of doubt and theatrics, all too aware of each country’s agendas creeping into the fine and frenzied tableau of peace. What did he see, when he saw her? An extension of such a charade? Paranoia slowly burned, causing her to smooth down her skirt fronts.

“Even this common goal of peace encourages powers to reflect on our own loyalties, how we can grow stronger with them.” She muttered. “I expect the tsar to meet with your sister and the king, I’ve heard Russia has celebrated princess Mary’s birth, and there’s much to celebrate… Have you seen my brothers, yet, during this summit?”

Dipping his head to the Princess, he thanked her again for the compliment. “There is no higher honor than to one's country, so I believe,” John said with a slight smile, one that did not reach his eyes. It did not hurt that by being such a faithful servant to England, John had become not just a very wealthy man, but a very powerful man as well. “And when you are Queen, I will still be honored to remain England’s humble servant,” John said easily. He was not lying, as the love of his country had always been something paramount to the Duke. Holding the vast northlands which could sometimes run wild, the Duchy of York was often the first line of defense against any interloping from Scotland, and their dangerous allies of France.

The idea of serving a Russian Queen is what caused him to rankle slightly at the thought, although he did not betray any of this on his face. It was no secret there was distrust for the Rurik family brewing among the English, common and noble alike. The ambitious nature of the Princess’s family was offputting, and John personally did not understand what Isabel saw in the match. Had he been more involved, he would have suggested the Prince marry a proper Englishwoman, or not at all. But instead, the future Queen of England was a woman of Russian birth, and for all John was concerned Russian allegiance.

“My sister will be glad to greet your brother, you do remember how fond she was of you marrying the Prince,” John said with a courteous smile, reminding Katherine that there had been an English champion in her case. “I, on the other hand, have not had the pleasure for some time. I believe the last time I saw many of your kin was the last time they were in England,” John explained, keeping his tone neutral. The Rurik siblings had never thrilled the Duke, like they did some of the others. With some having open distaste for the English, the others he suspected just hid it better. “I am sure I will see them again while we are all in the same city, however. Perhaps then we can have a discussion over the celebrations that are to occur when you give my nephew by marriage a son,” his smile and tone were pleasant, the barb anything but, “as I am sure they are as anxious as we are for the young Princess Mary to be joined by a brother.” The Rurik’s hold over England was not safe until Katherine gave the crown and heir, something she had failed to do yet. John imagined not only did it give her husband anxiety, but her family as well.

#[katherine: 001]#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread #katrinkc

ofcxterina:

caterina tried to picture the man’s homeland as he spoke, imagining the wild hills and heathlands of england. it seemed so different to everywhere she’d been — so unlike the rolling green hills of tuscany, the farms and fields that stretched out across france, even the plains of milan that swept up into the tallest heights of the alps. a huff of laughter parted her lips as he spoke of france. as a former princess of the country, she knew well the contentious history and the lingering resentment that still plagued the two countries. she’d come into france a foreigner in a court with many politics, but she’d always known one thing that would always connect the french was disparaging the english.

“i’m sure you can guess some of the things that i’ve heard, or at least the tone they’ve been said in, but we can only hope that the peace outlasts the animosity.” though she was sure he had just as many feelings as the french, it wasn’t her fight and had never really been, so she breezed past the moment. “this city and the surrounding lands are quite gorgeous, this is my first time here and i’m taken by the place. it holds the collision of so many different cultures well on its bones.”

Resisting a chuckle at the woman's hopeful works, John nodded to her quietly as he considered things. The tensions between France and England had been ongoing and persistent for centuries, not just recently. It is almost like the two countries were created to be diametrically opposed to one another. It had become almost a national pastime for both countries, hating the other. The contentious ownership of Calais also did not help with the situation, nor the matter of Englands place in the French succession.

“I am always wearing of peace, perhaps because the French and the English always seem to promise it to each other, however it rarely seems to hold firm though,” John commented. “When I was much younger than I am now, I was sent to study in France for some time,” the Duke revealed. It was not uncommon for English aristocracy, despite the resentment, go to France to get an education. John knew his wife had taken the same path, although spending much more time abroad than he did. “I admit, I thought I would never miss the rain that England has, but the longer I am away, the more I miss its smell. It is the same here for me, the longer I am away from the isles, the more I itch for the rain again, although this country is beautiful, as you mention. You can see the years of change that have been at its door,” he explained, eyes wandering about the room they were in as he spoke, taking in some of the uniqueness of the architecture.

#ofcxterina #[caterina: 001]#the wolf hunts when the world sleeps | thread #47 years later heres a reply lol

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