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@devicusduke
“I admit, I am still not accustomed to the food of the Roman court, although, I have been told that the wine can heal the spirit. Whether such claims are true or not, I must acknowledge its excellence.”
‘In moderation I am sure it holds some truth, as do most fables - but whether or not you believe so, one many confess most liberally that the blood of our martyr is deliciously saccharine. Does the wine differ greatly from whence Your Grace hails?’
“I do admit to finding you intriguing but that is all.”
‘A handsome, English woman thinks me intriguing. Though such an accolade forfeits its potency in your charming presence, Duchess, –– you have made my evening one of extreme merit.’
Borgia Brothers + Tumblr Text Posts
There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife’s right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing.
Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner
“My sincere apologies,” Alexius offered, without the slightest evidence of apologetic mien. “I didn’t see you there.” Also a lie. “Or perhaps I was simply waiting for others to quit the room before I made the acquaintance of the most able man in England.” Ah, perhaps there was a truth. Alexius gestured the known Duke of Cornwall forward. Oh, yes, he was quite aware of who he was. “Join me for a drink, Your Grace. Count me as a long time … not admirer persay, more … appreciator for another who employs the same definitive means I prefer to remove what obstacles stand between myself and my objectives. We are birds of a similar feather, you and I. Let us flock together a while, hrmm?”
Rosebud lips had been strung heavenwards given the Emperor’s evident accolade, but George retained his debilitating misdoubt in the presence of the ruler - a sentiment so seldom swallowed, it encompassed his broad frame in a pronounced rigidness, as though steel had superseded the blood coursing through his arteries and iron upholstered the bones wedged within the intricacies of his curvilinear spine, plating shoulder blades in a steely stance.
If it was his reputation with which the Emperor acquainted himself, he would come to meet the Walking Death, the jocular Duke which burst forth from sanguine planks evading him.
‘The English are lions, we bear coats, Your Grace, never likened to our cousins of flight and plumule as the Welsh might deign to contrast with.’ He cleared his throat of the unnerve which had swelled tapered chords. ‘However if it be your Majesty’s pleasure to imbibe, ’tis mine to concede. I shall have the coadjutants send for a jug — spiced, perhaps, to laud the atmosphere.’
And to stimulate dipsomania swifter.
“You need not be curious,” Bianca commented as she neared the duke and the young lady before him, her tone conveying her distaste for the man. “Unfortunately, His Grace is rather disillusioned.”
‘Disillusioned? Surely such an appellation is not evoked from a woman who has entertained a singular man for nigh a decade without so much as the promise of marriage nor alliance? That would be a crying pity. You’ll pardon her mewling tongue, madam, for it has been trained in naught but to please the Emperor - and even in such a case does it often lack, I’m told.’
”The only reason I have yet to dispel you from my presence, is the mere fact that I am completely at a loss as to how anyone could overlook you and think you even the least bit sane.”
‘Ah! Duchess - you have wounded me most deeply. Were it in my knowledge that you did not engage me for the sake of my blinding disposition and supreme company, I would have taken my leave hours ago. Now whatever shall I do with my cerebrally decrepit self otherwhere?’
“On the contrary, I find your candor rather…refreshing and enlightening. I fear that so few people in my life feel I am capable of handling such honesty.”
‘With your father’s nature in mind, I am not surprised you are starved of such a necessity, dear Archduchess. How you’ve absconded unscathed from the imprisonment of his apartments I still yearn to know ; though perhaps such is a tale which may wait until a later date. I do so enjoy an element of surprise.’
PRESENTING: His Grace, George Plantagenet, the twenty-eight year old Duke of Cornwall. It is said that whilst they are shrewd and iron-willed, they are also known to be malicious and ill-tempered. They bear an uncanny resemblance to David Oakes. [delia, 17+, est, she/her]
INTRODUCING: As dewy fronds fell about the Dukedom of Cornwall, a country-seat surrounded by lush wood, farms, and sweeping parklands, the Lord and Lady of the home were blessed with two children upon the same October morrow: George first, uncurling from his mother’s abdomen swiftly before the arrival of his perennial analog, Evangeline Plantagenet, and ushered within the arms of a wet-nurse as his throat ached with the cries of his nativity, hand seeking the companion he had formed within the womb. Within the red-brick, gabled dwelling situated over the undulating hills of Cornwall, both twins would experience their many firsts, joined together at the hip by an impregnable tether, but the volte-face of their trajectories would soon drive a bitter fracture between them. Evangeline mastered Te Deums and needlepoint, whilst George was instructed in archery, penmanship and taxes; for he was intended to succeed the Cornwall throne, a title predominately bequeathed to the eldest son of the present English King, and Evangeline would be honourably bartered to the highest bidder in return for both her dowry, purity and the trust of the Duchy.
In lieu of of what he once shared in antecedence with Evangeline, George’s father came to be his greatest companion with every inch closer towards manhood; the formative and tender moments belonging to the late days of his alight boyhood spent in the Duke’s company, instilling each instruction and turn-of-phrase to memory as one would a mantra rather than their beloved father’s own voice.
Though only six when his father was deployed to Guinegate in an attack against the French, a vacuity settled in the somber interstices of his person - one which could only be mitigated by the headlong return of a father who would rest for eternity at the forefront of war, slain by the King of France with a declaration to prove it, ordained by the Louis himself. Thus - George was made Duke of Cornwall with his mother as regent, a pinpointed enmity for the French fermenting in his gut to addle the innocent thoughts of juvenescence into something far darker.
His youth henceforth had never been carefree; he was not permitted to relish in the luxuries which had heretofore been provided the son of a Duke, for he was in a position to learn, and learn quickly as his father had once done. He was both grateful and resentful of his exalted position within the peerage, bitterness clinging to him as hopelessly as women of the night; bubbling to the surface a cunningness which was both foreign and innate within his person, risen to survive the cutthroat conditions which he had found himself thrust upon, and to face the cleverness which many a noble both his senior and superior exhibited.
George kept his revelations within the protection of his mind lest they be corroded or expected by those around him proceeding the death of his Lady Mother, when he, at last, claimed the Dukedom as his own within a fist as iron-willed as Goliath’s. He was unmarried with a larger fortune amassed than most formidable figures of court, and had little desire to breach his newfound liberty with a wife. Though he claimed the ear of the royal party, with special fondness for the late-King given their familial ties, the Duke yearned for power still - his appetite for gold seldom satisfied.
To channel such frustration, George took to jousting at the prime age of seventeen; ten years after his father’s unforeseen death. Through the ages, he became skilled at such a sport, the dust under his competitor’s feet fueling him like no other. And thus he became known asWalking Death, cousin to the King of England and ruler of the South. A poisonous duke known for his mastership within the tourney and his praised kill-count. Nevermore feared than he was disliked in the eyes of his opponents.
But such days have ended. Now that he is expected to bring an heir to the table and a wife to bed, he yearns something more tangible than a curious sobriquet amongst the English.
He desires revenge. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.
‘My candid words transgress, but surely they have whetted your... curiosity –––––– as you ought to have dispelled me from your presence long ago.’
Have you ever been with Catalina intimately?
‘With regret do I relinquish that I am among the few, very few, slough of men that have not dallied with the Castilian Queen. I believe it to be our shared blood which makes the conquest oddly unappealing.’
With whom have you been slutting up with lately?
‘Why, do you truly wish to taste what I have already conquered? Even if I were to disclose names, o’cloaked one, the damage has been done. Any man betwixt the thighs of my erstwhile endeavors will fall short of the expectations I have built.’
I want to see you and catalina fuck
“ Cousin, I have two GRIEVANCES this eve and you are at the helm of my displeasure. Firstly, my cheek remains absent of your affections and secondly I find myself most perturbed by your blatant disregard for thine happiness – just where have you been all day? “
@devicusduke
‘At the helm of your displeasure? Surely such a grievance must be emended forthwith, old Cat.’ Gingerly does the Duke embrace; an osculation placed upon the fleshy halos of her cheek, his lips smelling freshly of wine. ‘As for your second inquiry –– to honor the dignity of the woman with whom I met, I shall not disclose my whereabouts ; though my theorems regarding the merit of noblewomen making inamoratas remains extolled.’
“ And what exactly did I do to deserve such sullen company this eve? Especially when all of Rome seems to be in such jubilant spirits. ”
open starter.
‘Should you rather I fatigue you by blathering on about how tremendously Rome has recieve us all? I fear if I hearken another voice commend the city on her ostentation I will soon discover myself at my wits end, and lief to act upon such an aggravation. I presumed Your Highness to have been bedeviled by the same nuisance.’
Celestial bodies roamed above, the night air carrying the same sense of excitement as day did. Iskender stood on the bridge, watching reflections ripple across the river. The sound of laughter and merry chatter was carried over by the breeze, and the city was alive with light and colours in the lingering shadow of the papal celebration.
Out of habit his hand grasped the handle of his scimitar as he felt another’s presence nearby. Off duty or not, he could not just shrug off the habits trained into him.
“Even the night knows no peace,” he spoke as a group reeking of alcohol stumbled by, laughing at their own drunken antics. “& wine flows like water in this city. I wouldn’t be surprised if the river was dark red.”
George had been rendered nonplussed and unfazed by the scraping of medal within the foreign’s trousers ; the tintinnabulation of a sword received as pleasingly as the osculation of waves to a corsair and the sounds of moans to a prostitute. He approached with little caution, atramentous irises sweeping over the vast swath the man seemingly presided over with a rigid and firm demeanor. One George felt inclined to challenge.
‘Oh, the Tiber is oft red indeed. When monarchs lose their temper scarlet bourns torrent as liberally as the slashing of one’s blade. It causes one to wonder what is beneath the surface after all.’
