#filed; thread*

[brambledstag-blog]

*   I.   /   EMERIC TYRELL

        THE RETURN TO HIGHGARDEN IS BITTERSWEET, she feels simultaneously comforted by its structure and tormented by the absence of her father. Her loathing for her cousins increased tenfold when Luthor Tyrell died, leaving two daughters behind and no son. Her cousin was always the natural successor, but she could not staunch the bitter resentment which came first with her uncle's appointment, and then Emeric’s. Her hands clench at her sides as she walks down the familiar corridors, takes a flight of stairs with the same flair that she did as a child, warm memories washing over her as she bitterly thinks of her own loss. 

Her posture stiffens as she recognises her cousin, the host of this most delightful event. “ Dear cousin, ” Victaria chimes, the sweetness of her words not matched by the blandness of her tone. A charming expression very quickly takes over as she almost smirks to herself,  “ I did not take you for a jovial man. Is it your hope that the festivities may reignite the true spirit of Highgarden, which has been missing since your ascension? ” 

[dcbardi]

Alessandro de Medici | @alessandro-de-medici

       Wooden shutters are pulled open, allowing an offensive stream of light to strike her sleeping form and unkindly pull her from the tranquil slumber which she had been enjoying. If not for the fact that she is trying to adjust to the light, the maid may have become victim to a most ferocious and unforgiving gaze. All too soon she is pried from the comforts of her bed, where she is then fitted with a fine gown, a muted red creation which is then finished off with a golden broach. “ Why must we rise so early, Flora? ” she huffs with a girlish tone, as though she is still in touch with a childish innocence which she has long lost. If she were still married, Isabella would have been permitted to break her fast within the comforts of her own chambers, but that privilege is once again lost to her. 

When the process of preparing her for the day has finished, Isabella departs from her chambers in Palazzo Medici and descends the stairs. The corridors are strangely quiet, it seems unlikely that anyone else has awoken yet. She really ought to scold Flora more, for her insistence on an early morning seems entirely antiquated. The only fortune is that she can dine in peace, without the company of any of the Medici’s. Naturally, she loathes the presence of some, above others. 

Isabella sits down at the beautifully carved dining table, instructing the kitchen staff on her fancying for the early morn. There is little for her to do while she waits, except allow her thoughts to drift. It has been a few months since she was made a widow, a fate she wished upon herself most earnestly, she feels nothing but contempt for her late husband. Life had offered her a blessing when his death was finalised. 

The maid walks in with her breakfast, forcing her to almost scowl. “ I said I wanted a four-minute egg, not four one minute eggs and where is the bread? ” Her tone is accusing, but she does not allow herself to rise in anger. Mornings do not agree with young Isabella, for rational thought can only be found after breakfast. “ Please, just fix it. ” She sighs tensely, her shoulders lifting, where they then remain in shock upon a most unexpected sight. It is an inevitability that their paths should cross once again, but she is not prepared to see him. All Isabella can think of is the many times that she longed for him to be her salvation, a most improper thought for a married woman - but her husband was an odious beast. 

“ My Lord Alessandro, ” she acknowledges, once she has gained control of her senses. Isabella rises from the breakfast table to greet him, a quashed smile tugging at her lips. 

[brambledstag-blog]

*   I.   /   REYNA MARTELL

          DESPITE THE GROWING MASS OF COVERED FACES, she feels as though the people gracing the walls of her childhood home have never been so honest. Comfort comes from wearing a mask, almost as though they can remove the one which they wear daily and slip through the crowd with temporary anonymity. Victaria cares very little for wearing a mask since she feels no great need to shy away from the attention of others. On more than one occasion, she has considered removing the gilded material completely, but that would cause too many frowns for her liking.

Observing the crowd, Victaria feels almost certain that she has recognised a familiar figure. With a graceful rush of her petite figure, she hastens to greet the princess. “ Reyna, ” she calls out gently, the titles between two friends long forgotten. Her slender arm stretches out to curl into the other woman’s, while a genuine smile washes over her rosebud lips. “ I am so pleased that you are here! ”

[dcbardi]

Francesca de’ Albizzi | @francescadelbzzi

        The hammering of rain dampens the spirits of those in the streets, as they seek shelter from the chilling downpour. Isabella has been tempted to dance in the rain, kicking off her slippers so that she can feel the squelch of mud beneath her toes - but she does not. It would be most unbecoming. She has instead found herself hurrying towards a carriage which she believes to belong to the Medici’s, where she now sits. Upon further inspection, the nobildonna realises her mistake, for the Albizzi coat of arms decorates the insides. Almost as suddenly as her realisation, a well-dressed footman opens the carriage door, allowing in a passenger, Isabella realises immediately who the other woman is. “ Signora de’ Albizzi, I seem to have made an error. ” 

[dcbardi]

Lucia de Medici | @luciademedici

        Despite the gardens being nestled in the lands of Palazzo Medici, there has always been an exotic feel to its infrastructure. Large bushes look imposing, for they are styled in the image of animals which she has never before seen, Elephants, rams and a few that are more familiar to her. It has always been a finer feature of her gilded tower. Noticing a ripple of fiery hair, Isabella calls out, “ Lucia, will you not join me? ” Several compounds of ground vegetables and herbs lay before her, along with a blank roll of pale parchment, “ I am practising my painting. I fear that I do not have Giotto’s talents. ” 

[dcbardi]

Piero de Medici | @dexmedicii

        All throughout the streets of Florence, many yells of enthusiasm pierce through the usual symphony of traders dealing their wears, cartwheels turning through the dirt paths and the unbridled joy of children laughing at the foolish games. It is all that anyone can talk of, the wrestling that will take place at dusk, an evening of bets, wine and brute strength. Turning to her Medici companion, Isabella sighs, “ Do you intend to partake in this peacocking? ” 

[elizxbethofscotland]

@whimsiccl

The warm fire crackled beside her, chair placed beside it as she turned the pages of parchment with delicate fingers, cream coloured hair falling down her back in ringlets. Elizabeth was every bit a queen as she sat with the grace and poise of her predecessors, ears alert to the happenings around her, whilst her eyes remained preoccupied. The bustling of ladies maid, as they flitted about their jobs around her, folding gowns and relaying her sheets, did nothing to disturb her tranquility. 

“Lady Margaret,” she called softly, sight never leaving the pages of the book as she waited patiently. On the inside, her mind begun to turn its cogs, ideas forming like cruel storms that set her own courses in action. She felt no sense of duty or care towards her cousin, but she understood the request of her father for her to join her household. To Elizabeth, Margaret was simply another being to manipulate.

“Sit with me,” she ordered, setting aside the small book of poetry.