courage could not endure

❝ i am the fool that trips over what is behind me.❞ rossuet winslow. twenty-eight. brother to king deston and vaelerie winslow.

[gardenfullof-lilys]

Elizaebeth was still ever so happy had not yet grown tired of Queensgarden and doubt she ever would. However she still felt terribly out of place. Well not out of place more out of company. She had never been the fastest to fit in, possibly because she always always too afraid to talk to anyone and she was far too god at going unnoticed for anyone to come and talk to her. Or perhaps they just didn’t want to talk to the king’s bastard niece. Either way she found herself alone more often than not, unless she was in the company of one of her cousin’s or her Aunt. 

Today was no different, she found herself aimlessly wondering around the great hall. She could not spot a single person she could at least pretend she was with, so she simply continued walking, hoping that people would think that she was walking towards something. Perhaps soon she would even begin to think that as well. 

Eventually her eyes did land on someone, her uncle and her late mother’s youngest brother. He was her favorite out of all her blood related aunts and uncles but she still approached him slightly nervously, hesitating once she got close. She almost turned away until he spoke and gestured to the bowl of fruit that she had in fact been admiring. “Hello Uncle.” She said, smiling her thank you as she took a plum from the bowl.

[rossuet-winslow]

The sight of his niece was more than enough to bring a genuine smile to his face, the corners of his lips pulled unrelentingly taut. “My dear Lizzie,” Rossuet sung. “Were I not so well-assured of your good nature, I might be possessed to think that you had swallowed the canary entire.” A smirk swiftly followed the jest, his head canted to the side as he took in Elizaebeth's joyful expression. “Queensgarden sees you well, it seems.” Though the mirth in his expression faltering somewhat, giving way to some sort of indistinguishable contemplation, a low chuckle escaped him nevertheless. The temperate nature of the West suited her far better than Winterhaven's cold embrace, he knew. 'Twas simply in her nature.

So like her mother, he thought before mercilessly shaking the thought away. That wound was still far too tender to ever truly be acknowledged. That Elizaebeth happened to bear such a strong resemblance to Agathe was enough to contend himself with for an eternity.

Quirking his lips in amusement, Rossuet soon found another train of thought to dwell upon—the distraction sorely needed. Leaning forward to rest his arm across his knee, he schooled his face into a serious expression as best he could. “Best not let my brother see these smiles, though.” Letting his voice drop to little more than a stage whisper, the smallest hint of a smile broke through his half-heartedly cast façade. “He is not nearly so pleasant as we, no?”

[daughtertothewest]

She could disconcert the different between her brother’s footsteps, felt rain before it fell onto her skin, and could run her hand over the fabrics of Valedestoria and guess, with astonishing precision, where each of the silks came from within the Kingdoms. She had been deprived one sense upon birth, and so her others had developed, grown until they allowed the world to envelop her in a whole new way. She knew things about the old, arcane Mother earth that others would not; she knew the secrets of the animals and their footsteps, and predict the weather, if only she was allowed to stand in the free air. Yet for all the things she could do, there were still days she longed to see.

Like now, when noble men and women from all the realms had arrived bedecked in jewels that sung if you hit them, and gowns that rustled like a brush subjected to a warm breeze. Their voices were of spun gold and others of spiced caramel, and she longed to see what faces brought their bounty of voices into her home. She longed to see the glowing candle lights, the opulence, and artfully crafted dishes. But there had never been any use, any honour, in pining after something she could not have.

As a balm applied to a bruise, she found her own way to learn the room - a calm corner, with a cold wall to lean upon, near to the dining table and groups of laughing men and women. And so she closed her eyes, filtering out her mind’s constant desperate-attempt to see through the black, and simply listened. She could hear their exact conversations, every word, but she did not need to know what they spoke of. She listened to the way it bounced off the walls, how the wine glasses clinked and forks and knifes battled together like soldiers’ weapons. She heard the room itself, alive, stretching and groaning to accommodate its many occupants. It was a melody of life. A symphony. Art. She lost herself in the sound, taking a step into the center of the room, to better hear her song. Instead, she heard a voice. 

"To what do you speak of, Sir?" Her eyes opened, body pivoted exactly to the place the voice had come from. Only her eyes could not lock onto him; cold, unseeing steel, forever lost.

[rossuet-winslow]

At the woman's inquiry, Rossuet spared a single glance her way, immediately perplexed by her lack of comprehension on the matter. Far as he could tell, she was looking in the same direction as he. Either she was playing coy for some puerile reason he couldn't discern, or she was so blissfully unobservant, his superficial offering went unacknowledged. Neither boded well for his continued state of contentment.

Brows furrowing, he regarded her a little more closely on his second appraisal, eyes instantly drawn to her own. She couldn't be, surely... 'Twas no small amount of guilt that swelled in his breast when the reality of her situation finally dawned upon him. A frown tugged at his lips of its own accord.

"The fruit, My Lady," he offered blandly. "'Tis the finest I've ever had the good fortune of tasting."

What a burden it must be, he thought, to be so sorely absent one's sight. He'd heard tales of the girl, of course. That Andromaque's daughter had been afflicted so certainly did not lack for joy in Deston's opinion. Rossuet knew little of the actual detail's surrounding the girl's lack of vision, however--and the tales that wormed their way amidst the court are never to be listened to with one's disbelief entirely suspended, after all. He found himself vaguely curious as to how, and when, Nevaeh might have lost her sight, but such thoughts were quickly abandoned. Such things bore little importance in the larger scheme of things.

Straightening in his seat before he stood, hands trailing against the arms of the chair for support, Rossuet plucked a plum from the bowl, carefully slinging it from one hand to the next. It might have been said once or twice in passing that he were a man too light-footed for his own good, but, on this occasion, he made the effort to add some weight to his step. There'd be no good in frightening the poor girl away.

"They are familiar to you, I've no doubt," he said, closing the distance between them before gently clasping her hand in his and sliding the fruit into her own possession. "But one should always delight in the indulgences of home, I think."

Pursing his lips, Rossuet withdrew his hands, contemplating offering the girl some semblance of a bow before ultimately deeming the gesture futile and unnecessary. "I am Rossuet Winslow, My Lady."

[rossuet-winslow]

For all the ill-feeling that came of their venture to Queensgarden, the food was tolerable, at the very least. It was certainly better company than his brother's thinly-veiled grumblings at that. It didn't take Rossuet long to disentangle himself from the bulk of Deston's party after they'd arrived, preferring to avoid the malice that would so inevitably cling to the group as best he was able. He'd said his kind words to the Tyce boys, of course, but saw little need to ingratiate himself further. The pair were likely swarmed enough with company, he didn't see the point in adding to their burdens on the off chance one of them might take to his charms. The Tyces weren't ripe for an alliance yet, at any rate. There'd be time enough for that later.

Palming one of the fruits that couldn't ever possibly grow north of Queensgarden's borders, Rossuet felt no small amount of glee. While he held little affinity for their climate - it was much too dull for him - the fruits it produced, however, were another matter entirely.

Aware of someone lurking out of the corner of his eye, Rossuet let out a breathy chuckle. "If you do but one thing today, friend," he said, gesturing to the bowl of fruit with his head to imply his new companion should try some of Queensgarden's offerings.

[thewitchinghourrp-blog]

ROSSUET WINSLOW • 28 • FC: Francois Arnaud • OPEN/CLOSED

❝ I am the fool that trips over what is behind me.❞

PERSONALITY:

✔ COMPASSIONATE → INTELLIGENT →  LOYAL ✘ CONNIVING → GREEDY → OBSESSIVE

Rossuet is the youngest Winslow, though second in the line of succession. Rossuet thinks himself to be a greater man than his brother could ever be and perhaps, that is quite true. Rossuet highly contributes to nurturing the poor and managing the kingdom’s finances. He is the one who whispers into Deston’s ear what to do for the better of the realm and Deston mindlessly listens. He has all of Valedestoria wrapped around his finger and no one hasn’t a clue of even who he is. His figure is elusive; a scarce sight among the general public. Some cannot even recall the King having a brother. Rossuet is merely the silent wolf. The one that lurks among the shadows, seeking out his prey with light steps. In his case, the prey is his own kind. His own brother. Rossuet works with Marcelle Beauroza who is attempting to rid the King of his throne to instate Irene as queen. What she does not know is that Rossuet intends to take his claim upon the event of Deston’s death once he overthrows Irene Haelstarv

Rossuet fears with each day that passes, that Pascella will conceive. While he believes himself capable of killing his brother, killing an impregnated woman would be an entirely different story. Unlike Deston, Rossuet does have compassion. He cares for his people. And that may be his only true weakness as his sister often implies. Rossuet harbors no ill will against anyone other than his brother who he believes to have corrupted their kingdom more than their unstable father would have. Needless to say, the two don’t get along well, though Rossuet still sits the King’s private council and has much to offer.

↳ROSSUET WINSLOW IS A RESIDENT OF WINTERHAVEN