sweet sorrow

[lukamravinsky-blog]

tatiana

“Well – you don’t have to”, she cooed. And he truly, truly didn’t. He only needed to look pretty, and perhaps not be an utter bore. Tatiana didn’t know whether she held much hope for the second part.

There was a smile, then, satisfied as they came. The irony to the title went over her head and Tatiana was only triumphant, a cat with a mouse under its paw. She took the kvas with a languid gesture, flattered by what she could only see as subservience.

“Yes…” Had she not been so bored and his refusal wouldn’t have held her interest. As it was, Tatiana took the chance to bite. “And what of yours? Most men are fond of their drink.”

Well, you don’t have to. He snorted. How very gracious of her to permit him so generous an allowance. Who was she to grant him anything? To deny him anything? A self-proclaimed queen, she took to tyranny like dew took to rose petals, and Luka was certain that they would make a poor pair, the two of them—the duchess and the pyro. She knew only how to reign, and wildfire boys knew no dominion.

“And most women try in earnest to hide their fondness of drink,” he shot back, one eyebrow cocked. “You don’t.” A statement, not a question. And then, if only to satisfy the cat’s curiosity (he suspected she wasn’t the sort to leave a stone unturned, a query unanswered), he said, "I don’t drink.” And that was that. He didn’t care to elaborate, and he hoped in vain that the duchess wouldn’t pry.

[lukamravinsky-blog]

DATE: December 21st TIME: 11:54 p.m. LOCATION: Grand Palace Ballroom CLOSED TO: @stasyabelov​

For a creature of solitude, he’s never been very good on his own. A poor swimmer who’s been treading water for the better part of his young life, he’s grown dependent on his bandit-brothers to keep him from drowning: Valerian, his anchor, always grounding him; Shona, his compass, always steering him; Arsen, his sail, always driving him forward and onward. But he’s anchor-less tonight, and sail-less and compass-less, too, so he’ll have to make do with a substitute. 

Like calls to like, and Luka calls to the squaller nearest to him—a sweet-looking slip of a thing with a swollen belly and eyes of honeysuckle. They look gentle, perhaps even more so than he, and he’s fascinated by the Grisha’s outpour of tenderness. The crowd buzzes, but the squaller—Belov, he recalls, Stasya Belov—does not, and he likes them all the more for it. He’s in desperate want of a distraction from the festival of horrors and the ensuing fever of awe that’s infected most of the Fete’s guests. Stasya Belov, he decides, will make a fine distraction.

He scans the ballroom once more for his bratvas, and when he finds none of them, he sidles up next to the squaller. “I reckon you and I are the only two in the entire palace not drunk on kvas at this very moment,” he murmurs by way of introduction, eyes drifting pointedly to the slight swell of their stomach. He doesn’t drink, not ever (he’s too reliant on self-control to sacrifice small freedoms to inhibition), and he’s glad to have found company of equal sobriety. “S’pose that means we’re stuck with each other for the remainder of the evening, moi trezvy drug.”

[lukamravinsky-blog]

tatiana

Perhaps some might have been ashamed, taken aback by the polite rejection. To Tatiana, it was little more than a dare. She could never be less than thrilled by someone’s hesitance to be in her company. She was owed a tinge of fear after all, from the blood and the name and the beauty. The possibility that the little grisha might simply not want her company didn’t even cross her mind and his companions didn’t merit more than a passing glance.

“Perhaps”, she mused, “but I want to talk to you.”

Tatiana had picked her trinket for the night, and may the Saints help anyone that tried to pry it away from her greedy hands. She needed someone by her side if Ilya were to show his face in the ballroom and lay his grey eyes on hers, if she was to let him know she could entertain herself just fine without him.

“So why won’t you quit being dull and sit by my side?”

There was no ambiguity to her tone, then. Duchess Tatiana Lantsov was giving an order.

She didn’t speak the language of rejection, it seemed, and he reckoned that she wouldn’t be able to define the word “no” without the aid of a dictionary. Her tongue knew only the dialect of decrees, and he shouldn’t have been so surprised, really, that his brush-off was utterly lost on her. 

I want to talk to you. I want, I want, I want. Did the girl know no other words? “I can’t imagine why,” he grumbled, brows furrowing. He was taken aback by her confession (or was it a command?), for Luka was a half-alive ghost, a quiet creature of translucence who moved about the shadows of the Little Palace unnoticed, and his company wasn’t particularly in high demand. Her motives were unclear, her wants even less so, and he wasn’t quite sure how to field her demands. But Luka was smart, smarter than most, and he knew a lost cause when he saw one. There was no arguing with the likes of Tatiana Lantsov, it seemed, and so he obliged her. Who was he to deny the wants of a make-believe princess?

“As you wish, printsessa,” he sighed grudgingly, taking a seat beside her, spine erect and jaw clenched. It was an infectious thing, indulgence—and she practically dripped with it. Her eyes were honeyed and hooded with excess self-gratification, and Luka, a crusader of self-control, had to make a conscious effort to remain unaffected by the Lantsov girl’s greed.

A tall, lanky man approached the divan with two glasses of kvas balanced on a gilded tray. Luka, wanting to spare the servant Tatiana Lantsov’s notorious ridicule, took one of the glasses and passed it to the ill-tempered duchess, muttering, “For you, I believe.” The servant moved to offer the remaining glass of kvas to Luka, but Luka held up a hand of refusal and thanked the man kindly, sending him on his merry way—and wishing he could follow in suit.

[lukamravinsky-blog]

DATE: March 27th TIME: 5:02 a.m. LOCATION: Training Center CLOSED TO: @iskraraevsky

He’s always tired, Luka, and tired boys oughtn’t wake before the blush bloom of dawn, but some habits are harder to quit than others, and habits learned from Iskra Raevsky cannot be quit, not ever, not really. He remembers early mornings christened by the greeting of insistent lips and impatient mewls, his sleeping body summoned to life by the smell of honeysuckle and the sound of bells. “Sobachka,” she’d whine, eyes bright with life and spirit. And she’d gnaw on his earlobe, or nuzzle his cheek, or kiss him. And he’d groan, or curse, or shoo her away. But Iskra is nothing if not persistent, and before long, Luka began waking at dawn each daybreak, finely attuned to Iskra Raevsky’s clockwork. The habit stuck, as did Iskra, and Luka yet wakes at dawn each daybreak.

He yet wakes at dawn each daybreak, and this morning is no different than all the others. Slumber never grants him peace for too long (that would be too generous a kindness, one better suited for the likes of a Sankt, not a sinner) and today, he rises before the sun, tired and aching, full of sorrow and fatigue. His muscles and bones groan in protest as he dresses and begins the short trek to the training room, and he has to make a conscious effort to keep his heavy eyelids from shuttering closed. He should sleep more, really—Saints know his body could use the rest—but he’s restless, always, and he knows that no amount of sleep will cure him of the half-moons beneath his eyes (no, that particular malady requires treatment of the heart and spirit, not of the body). The Little Palace still sleeps, and so Luka seeks sanctuary in the training room. It’s quiet there, and still, and what’s more, it’s thatness-less—a refuge of normalcy wherein the curse of the Small Science is outlawed. His demons are always quieter in the training room, where he and break and bleed and feel, and he visits as often as he can.

But so does she, and he’s not sure why he ever thought that the stars would be kind enough to write him a fate where Luka Mravinsky and Iskra Raevsky don’t cross paths. Silly boy, the constellations croon, star-crossed lovers will always cross stars. Sunlight pours through the ceiling-to-floor windows, painting her in a hazy halo of gold that shifts and shimmers in tandem with her swift movements. Mornings have always suited Iskra—she’s full of suns, and the brisk light of daybreak falls about her like drizzled honey. Nights have always suited Luka—he’s full of dying stars, and the moon’s faint glow cloaks him in shadows, lets him hide. She was born for summers, and he, for winters. They were destined for damnation from the start.

It’s too late to leave unnoticed now—he’s lingered a little too long, stared a little too long. Iskra will have detected his presence by now. He hovers near the entryway, one shoulder propped against the doorframe and arms crossed over his chest (he does this often when he’s near her now, and he supposes that’s because he doesn’t trust his hands enough to let them wander free around her). “I can go,” he calls out softly, sounding too gruff and too gravelly, like he doesn’t quite know how to use his own voice anymore (like he doesn’t quite know how to talk to her anymore). And then, a bit cheekily—although, given present circumstances, it sounds not-so cheeky and very-so bitter—he holds up his hands in mock surrender and adds, “Your wish, my command.” 

And it was, once. 

And maybe it still is. 

[lukamravinsky-blog]

DATE: December 21st TIME: 10:17 p.m. LOCATION: Grand Palace Ballroom CLOSED TO: @rheateresh

It’s all a little nightmarish, the Winter Fete—and a little blasphemous, too.

The Fete’s gracious hosts, ever frivolous, dress up the evening prettily, presenting to guests and performers alike a grandiose festival, a kaleidoscopic carnival tailored to the wants of its patrons. And for a moment—but only just—even Luka is deceived by the guise of fine things, mesmerized by the twinkling rainbow of gems and opals, enchanted by the lyrical cacophony of violins and pianos. But he knows well the Grand Palace’s parlor tricks (he’s one of them, isn’t he?) and his wonder soon wanes, awe yielding to horror.

He’s a mangled heap of agony and apprehension tonight, and his frayed nerves have robbed his cheeks of their flush and his eyes of their spirit. The prospect of taking the stage to play with fire doesn’t quite appeal to Luka, and unease is written all over him, etched in the hard set of his jaw and the unhappy slant of his lips. He looks hollow and tired, but he’s still Grisha, still lovely, and otkazat’sya guests still moon over him, still gawk at him, still ogle him.

And, in the case of Rhea Teresh, still hunt him.

The stars have never been kind to Luka, always writing him fates full of tragedy, but this happenstance—crossing paths with Rhea—is unequivocally one of the constellations’ crueler tricks. Luka Mravinsky is a sinner of the worst sort, and Rhea Teresh is his penance. She looks particularly hungry tonight, the little wolf—red-lipped and wild-eyed and sharp-toothed. It’s his mistake and her good fortune (or her good opportunism) that he’s not near his bandit-brothers, for a lone boy makes for fine prey. 

Too late to cry wolf now.

“Rhea,” he sighs by way of greeting, sounding equal halves weary and wary. He has half a mind to shove past her, but she’s a small slip of a thing, and he hasn’t the heart to jostle so slight a girl. And perhaps that’s why she’ll win this little game of theirs—because Luka hasn’t the heart, and Rhea has no heart. “To what do I owe the pleasure, valchonak?” To what do I owe the punishment?

[gavrikova-blog]

SWEET LONELINESS CALLS MY NAME

date: december 21st location: the grand palace / balcony time: 10:30 p.m. availability: open to all

Pale digits brush to the marble railing of the balcony, she breaths in the cold winter air and as it fills her lungs, her eyes close. Escaping the busy ballroom feels like she can finally strip off the heavy burden of normality, the fake contentment she’s forced upon herself while watching the pretty pretty dresses of the pretty pretty ladies with their pretty pretty dreams and foolish delusions. She looks at them and feels resentment for their ignorance, for the way they put so much effort into living a life of lies they fabricated to please themselves. Living in castles made of silver and gold, drinking kvas until their mind is dull and they are stupid, stupid, stupid and so very useless. She was one of them long ago. If she was religious, she would pray, Svetlana imagines, pray that a time will come, a time when they dream of blood and guts and the terrors she knows are real.

Perhaps these malicious wishes of hers come from the jealousy of the comfort they feel, perhaps she envies their plainness, their blunt ignorance. Or perhaps, her hunger for ruination has grown so vast and she doesn’t care who she sends into the the most terrible pits of hell. Cruel girl, they call her, mouth full of sharp teeth and she would take a bite of anyone in her way. And she really would. 

A cigarette between ruby lips, she is too blinded by the glimmering brightness coming from the ballroom to recognize the figure disturbing her quiet peace. Dark brows furrow and although careless, she speaks before she can discover the identity of the dark silhouette in the doorway, dainty digits slide on the small knife tucked in the back of her charcoal Oprichnik uniform.    ‘   I do not want company. Leave me be.   ’

[lukamravinsky-blog]

Hate has never suited Luka. He’s tender-hearted and sweet-mouthed and gentle-handed, and his knack for kindness makes for a poor conduit of antagonism. He doesn’t hate, Luka, not much and not often and not well, but he hates this. It’s grossly absurd, the Winter Fete—a celebration of monsters, an ode to the damned. The Grand Palace has been transformed, remodeled to serve the needs of a macabre theater—a stage where Grisha will demonstrate to otkazat’sya the art of monstrosity. Absurd, grossly so. 

Around him, joy unfurls like the petals of a blooming rose in spring—and Luka, trapped in a loop of endless winters, wilts. Laughter weaves between twirling girls and bowing boys, music crescendoes and falters, excited whispers spill from lips to ears. It drives him mad, all of it, and he knows better than to let madness fester. There’s a small balcony adjacent to the ballroom, an isolated strip of space shrouded in shadow, and Luka makes a beeline for it, eager to escape all the merrymaking. 

But Luka, it seems, is not the Fete’s only escapee. A ruby-lipped, ruby-haired already occupies the balcony. She’s dressed in charcoal cloth, he notices, and he nearly groans at the prospect of having to share his refuge with an Oprichnik. Her fingers, slender and deft, curl around something hidden beneath the folds of her uniform—a knife, maybe—and Luka, half in jest and half in earnest, holds up his hands and says, “Sanctuary.” A mock plea. Slowly, and with caution, he moves to the balcony’s railing. I do not want company. “That makes two of us,” he hums, voice soft. It’s quiet in this little haven, and he basks in the stillness of it all. “Tell you what—you keep that corner,” he suggests, “and I’ll take this one.” And then, a bit cheekily, he adds, “Otkazat’sya call that a compromise, I think.”

[tatianalantsov-blog]

CARELESS PEOPLE

date: december 21st location: the grand palace ballroom time: 9:00 p.m. availability: open to all

Only the poor and the dull counted their glasses. Tatiana, for one, hadn’t been keeping track of the amount of kvas already filling her belly, making stars out of the lights. She walked with her head held high, scanning the crowd with slight contempt.

It was infuriating to think of how wasted she was on them all. Her beauty, her nobility, her charm - all disregarded in favor of plainer girls and vacant banter. None of them was even worthy of a tinge of her attention and the only one who was was nowhere to be found.

Bored of standing around, Tatiana looked for the nearest divan and draped herself across it. She wanted to dance, but no one was asking, and she wasn’t about to stand in a corner like a pitiful little virgin. With a snap of her fingers, a servant brought another glass and she glanced at the other end of the room once again. There was nothing.

There was, however, someone standing close by. Tatiana had no idea when they had arrived, but she waved at the seat next to her with an idle gesture.

“I’m bored”, she said, her tone more languid than usual, but no less demanding, “entertain me.”

[lukamravinsky-blog]

Luka’s lips knew not the bitter kiss of kvas. Patrons of liquor most always fell victim to impulse, and Luka was too fond of his inhibitions to part ways with them, even in the name of revelry. Restraint was the only religion he knew, and he practiced it with rigor, never bowing to whim or temptation.

Luka’s lips knew not the bitter kiss of kvas, no, but the same could not be said of Tatiana Lantsov’s lips. The pseudo-princess was quite intimate with kvas, it seemed, and it showed in the way her fingers, nimble and well-practiced in the art of snapping, coiled around a glass of clear liquid like most girls’ fingers coiled around the stems of pink roses: adoringly.

She beckoned, but he didn’t heel. Eyes hooded, he inclined his head marginally, and only just; princes and princesses were owed sweeping bows and bent knees, but spoiled girls who barked orders were owed nothing. “I fear you wouldn’t find much value in my company.” A politely impolite rejection. And it was true, was it not? They had nothing in common except this: they were both rotten. She was spoiled rotten, and he was rotten rotten, and such creatures were not meant to coexist in harmony. “Perhaps they might better suit your tastes,” he hummed, jerking his chin in Arsen’s direction. And that was also true, was it not? Arsen, sharp-tongued and sharp-toothed, had a better chance of surviving the likes of Tatiana Lantsov than Luka, and his bratva couldn’t fault him for trying to pawn the pretty nightmare off on them, could they?

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, JEM!

You have been accepted for the role of LUKA MRAVINSKY with a faceclaim change to Francisco Lachowski. I’m screaming because our bratva group is nearly complete! Jem, you breathed aching life into Luka. Your application was a culmination of highs and lows – of crescendos of joy and sorrows. It was a beautiful thing, to watch you deconstruct Luka then put him back together again – pulling him apart while making him whole. You captured his voice, his motivations, his contradictions, and his commonalities. There was a depth there that I was hoping would be captured, and you did it in one fell swoop. You’ve killed us with Luka’s tragedy, his sorrow, his potential for redemption or damnation. All in this singular application. How you managed to fit the whole of (arguably) Ravka’s most tragic pyro, I’m not entirely sure. And for that, I thank you. I can’t wait to see him unfold on the dash! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

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