#crhs.start

[hcrryofwales]

location & setting: grand hall of the hotel saint-pol. 

open: to all.

         the night flickers and glints with the glow of candelabrum shining upon the merry faces of the french court, slick with sweat as they glide across parquet floors to the tune of a ronde, seeking pleasures as men on the desert would seek water. whilst seldom absent of their well whetted wariness, it would appear that king philip’s courtiers had put their best foot forward in greeting their foreign guests, including the prince of wales, who, despite nurturing england’s long-standing grudge with france as one would a tumbler of ale, reveled in the frivolities; the heat leaping beneath his collar; the whispers made flush against his ear, coupled trickles of heady laughter. at the first strains of a dark and tenebrous melody, howbeit, harry peeled away from his company ( a coquettish french rose ) and sought a drink to slake his thirst when he caught the chary eyes of his daughter’s governess awaiting him at his seat. harry had assiduously avoided any entanglements that would upset his wife, and could only wonder what the meaning of lady howard’s presence was –– if not to thoroughly lambaste his behaviour. 

“she would not sleep without first bidding your highness a pleasant evening–––.” lady howard’s lips burrow into a frown, aiding in the progression of her some sixty years as she gestures to the princess at her side. futile in reprimanding the guileful nature his daughter had fast developed, he grinned impishly as he bent to tangle his fingers into her fearsomely red curls. mary favoured her father keenly –– even the slant of the smirk lodged upon her cheeks suggested she was none but the future king’s daughter. harry hoists the princess onto his hip and with a cant of his autumnal head murmurs, “let us make introductions then.” not nearly a dozen paces away from the hawkish leer of her governess, mary’s hand darts to the nearest shoulder she can clasp her miniature fingers around, no longer contemplating sleep but mischief. 

[leondanjou]

          The Count of Beaujolais was truly in his element. The lavish summit in the heart of France could not have some soon enough for Leon as he was more than eager to introduce himself as a notable figure in the French court. Bitterness had been an unsupportive friend to the man for many years as he spitefully watched from afar. He had been restrained by the unpleasant grip by the Queen Mother for far too long and he had hoped that the month long celebrations in Paris would have her suitably preoccupied. Too preoccupied to keep an eye on her wandering grandson and he even more wandering hands. 

Although Leon had promised himself to focus on the important matters at hand which concerned his reputation and making himself proudly known to potential allies. He was never raised to be diplomatic considering his illegitimacy but that did not mean he did not wish to make a name for himself. He was the eldest son of the late King Ferrant, after all, and he refused to be kept in a box labelled with bastard. 

He was insistent that his chalice of wine remained depleted for the entire evening and was merely in his hand for decoration as he made his introductions around the grand hall. Leon was perhaps too eager to greet the continuous trail of newcomers to the French court and he found himself almost wishing he was merry along with the other courtiers so any missteps or fumbles could be mistaken for his over exuberance. He gave thanks to his latest companion yet his gaze drifted aside to catch the approach of another guest.

[prince-wen]

o p e n  s t a r t e r

In the interest of showing an open mindedness, Wen had been encouraged to attend a French church in order to experience their culture. He had studied religions of the West to a point, but it is another thing altogether to see a cathedral in person. He was particularly taken with the stained glass, and found himself staring at it through most of the sermon. It was incredibly peculiar, with strange stories and stranger singing, but he’d been expecting that. What he’d not expected was the horror of transubstantiation. Nobody had warned him about that.

“The wafer...” Wen said, quietly horrified by the violence of the notion. “Becomes the body of Christ? This is meant literally?”

The Mass has ended, and people have begun to file out while others remain in the pews. Wen is one of these people, processing what he’s just heard, wondering if there’s been a translation error, and he had turned to address the person sitting across the aisle from him.

[ofsessa]

––– 𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓 . 

location :  hotel  saint - pol,  the  courtyard.

time / date :  midday,  february .

            petra had been to france once in her life and that was merely in passing as she travelled from vienna to castile to attend the princess in her marriage to the the king. with a deep fear of the ocean, or rather, sailing upon it, she also opted to travel by litter, thus her arrival in castile had been delayed. yet, her sojourn through france had implanted some fond memories, lingering sentimentalities of the chateaus that had lodged her along the way. paris, however, was a distant cry from the picturesque french countryside and sadly found itself plagued by the usual ailments of an overcrowded city –– the stench alone was enough to make her queasy. fortunately, that day there was a freshness clinging to the breeze, credited to a light dusting of snow and ice.  it reminded her of home. 

 not usually one to be afflicted by sentimental pathos, petra was quick to tighten the fur about her chin and focus instead upon her son and his nanny, the pair with their hands outstretched in an attempt to captured the falling flakes. it was julius’ first snowfall and a memory that the duchess was keen to commit to memory. ❛ is it not a beautiful sight, seeing a child’s first  interaction with snow ? ❜ she spoke to the figure beside her. ❛ i do not belief i’ve ever seen such a manifestation of innocence. ❜

[kingcfnaples]

location : palacio da vila, the wing belonging to the kingdom of naples. timestamp : july 5th, 1458... late morning status : open! 

He had arrived by the secrecy of the darkened sky, his ship arriving to little applause by choice, as the King descended onto Lisbon’s harbour. His first moment as King, his first declaration of his God-chosen sovereignty, would not be made that night. In fact, he had chosen his first appearance that next morning, dressed in the Neapolitan colours as a proud King, as a young King who’s age only really rivalled the one carried by the King of France. 

This was his first appointment to be shown as such; to be shown as a man worthy of fear, resentment, admiration and devotion in equal measures. He had read the books, he had spent his lifetime preparing for this, and yet, Ferdinand felt his stomach twist and turn as he left his private stairs to meet the people who all took their role within the Lisbon summit. 

His first point was to align himself with alliances, to scour the lands for a bride who’d help him assert his Kingdom in the eyes of the Italian League. With greedy hues, he held his cloak against his chest and rubbed his fingers upon the brooch once worn by his father (he remembered staring at it as a child, a golden brooch embezzled with jewels nurtured by the royal treasury). 

At his announcement, he stood forth and scanned the room for the eyes he had once seen in portraits from across the lands. “Welcome to Palacio da Vila,” he called, reaching his arm out to gesture to the room around him. It was a fine palacio, decorated with tapestries, floral arrangements and statues from his own Kingdom (pieces plucked and transported from the mythical Pompeii, visages of the Roman gods he had picked for himself; Hermes for guidance, Venus for prosperity and Jupiter for leadership and Ceres for fertility). 

“Welcome, for this afternoon may you find comfort in our residence... Feast yourself on our Neapolitan’s own Pastiera, kept fresh from our journey - and favour our wines pressed by my own people’s ambition. For this afternoon, fancy yourself as one of my own... Linger, taste, enjoy... For this is the start of something new, something momentous. Today, my friends, you are taking part of history!”

As his own men cheered, Ferdinand departed from his steps and went to mingle as any good King would, his crown fitting his head in splendour. With his approach, Ferdinand joined a myriad of people, standing tall with a stature of a man who had not seen the failure and bloody taste of being on the loosing side. “Tell me,” he asked the nearest sole, looking ahead to a looming stature of Jupiter who sat amongst his pedestal.

 “Do you know of the Roman’s Gods? Celestial and all-powerful? I find them fascinating... The stories they tell are quite amusing. Though I do wonder why they adopted them from the lands of Greece, surely Rome had their own inspirations?” With his statement, he turned and looked to the person, his held head high before dropping his head to a humble bow. “If you do know of any, pray tell me your favourite story...”

[alexofaquitaine]

The air was hot and heavy, almost stifling and Alexandre wasn’t quite used to his home climate but he had rarely spent his summers there. If he had his way then he would avoid it altogether and continue to tour around, looking for jousting tournaments but now he was the heir, the fun had to stop. Riding through Toulouse was always tense, given the affair and the shame Alexandre had caused it was always going to be a tense ride. Still, when he arrived Alex had seemingly missed his father, thank goodness, but he hadn’t missed the arrival of some friends and soon enough the merriment had commenced.  The next morning, Alexandre was suddenly woken up with a bright light from his windows. “If you required my presence so urgently I would have greeted you,” He groaned as he woke from his slumber. “Now, would you be so kind as to tell me why you have disturbed me in such a way?”

[dilshah]

𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 + OPEN TO ALL. 𝑳𝑶𝑪𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵: lisbon stables. 

         despite the fact that rainclouds were drawing ominously overhead, dilşah had found a moment of freedom from her obligations as cariye –– moments that, as of late, had become sporadic bursts, given to the intemperate whims of her mistress, the sultan’s mother –– and sought refuge in the stables. relishing in the quiet yet contemplative company of mahidevran’s cherished steed, an impressive turkoman of over seventeen hands, the horse’s coat of silk ripped beneath her touch; both soft and brilliant to behold. the metallic sheen to its muscular body hadn’t yet been replicated in any european horses she’d seen in portugal thus far, and given the swagger with which this particular beast strutted, it was as if he knew how remarkable he truly was. 

upon hearing footsteps in the stable, dilşah hardly flinched, merely noting: “although refined in appearance, this breed is one of the mightiest in the world.” as her dark head canted to the side, a wave of obsidian curls cascaded down her slight frame. “the ropes are a precautionary measure, nothing would truly stop this beast from wreaking havoc if he so desired.”

removing her hand from the horse’s throat, dilşah glanced to the incoming visitor with the slightest dip of her chin. “i’m afraid i have exceeded my welcome –– the rain is only moments from violently down-pouring on us both. have you an escort back to the palace or shall i fetch someone?”

[theprincessaaliyah]

Though she had not been in Portugal long, Aaliyah had not grown to love it as instantly as she had hoped. Leaving home was already sad, but she had overwhelmed herself with expectations that it would be a wonderful adventure that would make her forget how much she missed her home, but as it was currently, all she had done was show her face in the name of diplomacy and smile silently by her father’s side. While the parties thrown were someone fun, she had yet to make a foreign friend and was unimpressed by the drunken antics of some of the Europeans.

Today was different though. Today, she was free to focus on herself and do what made her happy, which meant that she was going to give her attention to making this place more like home. That would begin with reconstructing her aviary, a large enough space found not too far from her quarters chosen so that it would be within safe walking distance whenever she pleased. Without thinking of anything being wrong with it, she enlisted help of an artist for the design, another man there mapping the area as she pointed out what she wanted and where.

“The base is to be here. It must be wide; I am to have many birds inside.”