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BONEROTS, a private + dependent muse blog reverently affiliated with redsnowrp, as dutifully transcribed by vee. dni if not affiliated.

OF HOUSE VERDUGO, duchess sofia navarroza of marazul › about, pinterest.

#pinned.#dni.

heavyisthexxcrown

He scoffed, "more than hope, you don't need to pretend ..." his words trailed off into silence. He knew she knew, there was no point in hiding her true thoughts on the matter. "You're not wed yet," which meant there was plenty of times to throw his wretched mother's lover to the demons for devouring. Truly, it was a two birds one stone scenario.

He met her gaze, jaw tensing - reading the shift of her body language, understanding how it felt, empathizing in the suffocation of their positions. It was easy to just be. She knew him well enough, and perhaps a clearer understanding of where he stood in the game of thrones and kings.

Cesar rarely exhibited his humor, but oh how delicately she pieced together her words - calling her fiancee a thinker was certainly far more generous than he deserved. Perhaps a better title was schemer, but his mother was swooned and saw little of the man and his plots. "I'd offer father on a platter but he is a coward who'd hide himself and leave the rest of us to rot and die," it had only been these recent years that the court had calmed. His father was inept and Cesar had stepped up, ensuring that the court was filled with righteous and worthy advisors rather than with his father's old friends who had a proclivity for corruption and greediness. He leaned in, just enough so only she could be privy to his words. “Have you given it much thought?” His voice dropped low, laced with something between amusement and challenge. “It’d be entertaining. And it’d certainly piss off my mother and your cousin.” The corners of his mouth curled into a smirk, lazy and deliberate. It wasn’t often he entertained anything this reckless. But if the world really was ending in thirty-three days - why not set it on fire on the way out?

bonerots

there are many days where sofia is not afforded the ability to do anything than think, and more often than not, her thoughts drift toward the man beside her. if she were a girl again, her shame would have manifested itself by now in one form or another; the ache of avoidance or an odd string of awkwardness, finding herself unable to both be in his presence and out of it. she always knew, after all, that she was born to be married, that as a daughter, her only duty was to be a wife. she knew that even if she didn't love her husband, she would have to respect him. she would have to put him first, before even their children ( his children, they would be ), before herself, before anything else. and alonso is not yet her husband, but he will be ( as of now ... daydreaming about cesar saving her from her engagement is a pleasant way to make the days pass by faster, but they are just daydreams — and she is unsure of if he enjoys her company the way she enjoys his company, and either way, it isn't her place to ask or wonder, she is to be married to someone else ), and she knows, somewhere within her, that it's wrong to think of cesar before she thinks of him. but, still. she can only peer up at him when he leans toward her, study the lines of his portrait and let her lips curve just so as he speaks. she's given it much thought, she should respond. she has given many things many thoughts, so much so that she has to think before she speaks ( which is always an uphill climb and not one she always conquers ) — even if she knows she doesn't have to with him. sofia looks away, lest someone even half - observant see the glint in her eye. " have i given it much thought? " she responds. sofia tilts her head from side to side, back and forth like she hasn't. " i think that's meant to be alonso's strength. and yours. my cousin's, even. but ... in the name of angering your mother, " sofia trails off, allows herself a shrug that an older man might describe as coquettish. " say i have. what good will thoughts do? "

#navarrazo ﹐ sofia ⟳ scripture .#cesar ⟳ heavyisthexxcrown .

latentpatterns

Open starter

The red ash had drifted like snow through the fractured sky, catching in Ekaterina’s curls and melting on her bare shoulders like a lover’s breath. - Now, hours later, she found herself just off-center from a long banquet table, goblet in hand, lips stained the same shade as the storm. The feast had begun again, in that glorious, delusional way only the nobility manage. As if a guttural voice hadn’t just threatened the end of the world, and as if blood hadn’t neatly painted the stones outside. Those who weren’t praying in the chapel, where here drowing in their delusion. Just like herself.

She was smiling. Laughing, even. A sound too bright, too careless. It was the kind of laugh a woman gave when she wanted no one to notice her fingers trembled. “You know,” she said to no one in particular, or perhaps to the room or to someone just now drawing near, “I’d bet you one of my precious jewels that there was at least one fool who stuck out their tongue to see if it was wine falling from the sky. Question is, who? My bet is on a pious one.” Her eyes, a fair shade of icy blue dancing with her familiar dash of mischief, flicked across the room with exaggerated thought. “They act all innocent, but beneath all those layers of cloth...”

She took a sip of wine that had gone warm in her palm, then turned slightly toward whoever lingered near. “Well?” she asked with a sly tilt of her head. “Tell me your guess, and I’ll tell you what it says about your soul.”

bonerots

she had prayed enough. of a sort. her piety is of the long - soaked sort, caught in her hair and scratched into her skin like an ugly scar she cannot rid herself of. even now, when she has not considered herself faithful or devoted in many, many years, the stinging fear of impiety has struck her more than she would care to admit. it lingers within her ribcage, has dug into her heart and attached itself to the blood in her veins until it feels as if she cannot hear anything but that voice. and its promise. its demand. is it not god? is it not punishment? have they not been sacriligeous? and blasphemous? arrogant and cruel and unjust and gluttonous in their wrath and sin. it isn't like she should care. she said it herself, she has not considered herself faithful or devoted. if her mind is racing and her heart is thrumming in her chest, it is merely because she is lost in thought and curiosity. sofia just wants to know. she cares not about faith and safety and the world. why should she? they don't care for her. in response to ekaterina, sofia manages a smile. half - amused, but more polite than it is anything else. " i could not speak ill of our men of faith, " she answers. despite everything, she is a product of her environment. reputation is everything, and as much as she is in ... good company, she knows not who will listen, or who will be told of this conversation. " or of my peers who are as vengeful as they are enjoyable. " a pause. " it is a dreadful answer, but perhaps we are all the fools. tell me what that says about my soul, i'd love to contemplate over it. "

#navarrazo ﹐ sofia ⟳ scripture .#ekaterina ⟳ frgdnights .

vasilisadrozinova

location: dining hall of the palace. open starter to everyone.

Everyone had seemed to take this whole unnatural occurrence far too seriously. For all they know or knew it could have easily been an elaborate trick, played upon them by the cardinals. It wasn't that she didn't take this seriously, but she wasn't about to let it ruin a perfectly good trip. Her dress, for one, had been the color of the richest, deepest ruby which under the candlelight strongly resembled the color of freshly spilt blood. Irony or providence? She couldn't tell, but she appreciated the dark humor of it. Reaching over to the pitcher of red wine, Vasilisa refilled her goblet before turning towards her noble companion. The seating charts were certainly so very random, she thought as she glanced at odd, miss-matched pairs thrown together. To promote diplomacy or to instill chaos? Perhaps both.

"I expect amusement and fun, but I cannot say I've expect this to occur." she said with a hint of amusement so clear in her voice. "Oh, pardon me, do you want a refill as well?" she remembered to ask her seating-companion before setting the down the pitcher. "At least the wine is good and the feast is lavish, but I wouldn't have expect anything less from the holy men."

bonerots

her gaze is gentle, as gentle as she can make it. indulgence is not a pleasure she gets to experience ( sofia is a liar to everyone, even herself ), not with piety etched into her bones and expectation painted over her flesh. she tells herself that she does not have the taste for wine, lets others assume that she is too delicate for it — it's easier to be a delicate woman than it is to be an indulgent woman, but that doesn't make it more enjoyable. she watches the countess refill her goblet and can't decide whether her heart beats with envy or contempt. a mix of both, perhaps. or, something more riotous. too complex to put a name to. she's sure a very wise man in the future will have conjured a word for it off the back of his wife. a short second as vasilisa's words catch up to her. sofia bows her head ever - so - slightly and responds, " my goblet is full, countess, but thank you. " it is, at least, the truth. she peers around at the tables, at the feasting men and women. she can't tell whether they are in agreement with vasilisa, if they are at least enjoying the wine and feast, or if they are like herself, pretending that this isn't an opportunity, or an omen. she looks back at her seatmate. " these holy men are excellent hosts, even in the face of an angry ... entity. deity? should we honor it with a title? "

#navarrazo ﹐ sofia ⟳ scripture .#vasilisa ⟳ vasilisadrozinova .

heavyisthexxcrown

location: somewhere in the castle halls with: @bonerots

He was still determining whether or not all of this was a ruse. The situation was unsettling but, comparatively to many of the others at court who were visibly shaken, Cesar retained his stoicism. Rather than worry about his family, especially in regards to his father and mother (who he would not bat an eye if either were offered as sacrifices), he found himself preoccupied with other matters.

"Perhaps this will cancel your engagement," he murmured quietly, secluding himself into the shadows to avoid public scrutiny. The last thing he wanted to be was bothered. But in her company, he was comfortable to chat. It was a coincidence - or so he'd convinced himself, to have bumped into her during the chaos of the newfound revelations.

"If I could, I would offer my mother to the devil himself." The execution of his sentence was neither sarcastic or mean spirited; rather, it was a direct confession, full of truth and belief without an ounce of hesitation, as if he couldn't imagine it any other way. "Alonso is discardable as well," he was a fucking imbecile. "Unless, you've had a change of heart and found some sliver of redeeming quality on our journey here?" He cocked a brow at her. It was rare for Cesar to speak so much, but in Sofia's company - they found solace in their shared damning fates, both entirely fed up with dancing on strings like silly little puppets.

bonerots

" one can only hope, " comes sofia's dry, quiet response. of course, she doesn't take the concept of human sacrifice lightly, but every woman understands the certain desire that comes from possibly ridding herself of her dear beloved husband - to - be in a possibly bloody and violent way. not that sofia is considering it. she would never. she is a duchess, she is a lovely, finely - educated lady who is happy with what the queen has given her. in a way, she thinks, as her eyes travel over to cesar's, she is. queen ines might have given sofia's hand to someone, but she also gave her cesar. a giver of men, queen ines has turned out to be; a thought that she will have to keep to herself, even around him. she makes a show of heaving a sigh. it gives frightened and irritated and the perfect amount of etiquette - dipped passive aggressiveness, a woman's weapon when she cannot brandish anything more. people are watching and they always will — it will do neither of them any good for her to laugh at his words, no matter how amusing they may be. " i've found, " she begins, speaking slowly, like she's not yet thought of her words, of the proper response. sofia must be speaking off the cuff, as she so often does. " that he is quite ... the thinker. he will be of more use to me alive than prepared as an offering. " a pause. " have you any other suggestion, my prince? my cousin, perhaps? someone else related to me? "