#prochnosttask002

[vetrovareign]

The VETROVA MANSION; a tour in five headcanons.

THE THRONE ROOM; her job.

Windows that stretch from floor to ceiling. Paintings of black and red. A long mahogany table dotted with nicks made by past knives and angers.  A throne she’s grown to fit. A skull that never moves.

The lines between life and job are blurred beyond comprehension. Masha’s not just the head of a gang, she’s a figurehead of a city. When things are quiet, half of the work is accounts and numbers and public relations (Ryker’s going to have a shock, down the line). There’s one aspect she doesn’t like - the Angels run the city through drugs and prostitution. Her father had rolled his eyes, cursed her sentimentality, but Masha had never liked it. The ‘angels’ who work there are younger than her children. Still, she makes sure they’re more than happy. Clients know better than to place a foot wrong and have Masha Vetrova knock on their door with a menacing smile.

THE LOUNGE; her gang.

The smell of ‘No Smoking Inside’ rules ignored. Sofas with soldiers strewn across. A bar, to drink from or to clean out a wound. Tables littered with cards waiting to be reshuffled. 

Part of being boss is knowing when to enter or leave. Masha lets her angels relax and gamble without her presence, knows that she changes the atmosphere of a room. She encourages their friendships and camaraderie.  On rare occasions she’ll join, share a drink and laugh. But not once has Masha Vetrova ever sat and played cards. You think I have the time? she says, even if she’s sat observing, hardly busy. You can’t afford my stakes. (In reality, Masha never learnt the rules of the game, avoided socialisation when it was her father in charge. She doesn’t play because she can’t, and that admission would never leave her lips),

THE APARTMENTS; her family.

A corridor of rooms with angelic occupants. Servants quarters turned accommodation.  Varying levels of bloodstains and coffeestains. A Mansion once headquarters, now also home for many. 

The Scarlet Angels has always been a close organisation. It had to be by its very nature. But when Masha took over, the gang slowly transformed. She brought in new blood, young blood, and didn’t even notice as she grew deeply attached to each and every one of them. Opened up the mansion to those who wanted it, moved in advisors and soldiers alike. She’s their boss, but she’s a mentor and a strange sort of friend. Trained most of them up from near-scratch with Sofia. She would never say it, never acknowledge it, but Masha feels deeply responsible for all of those who work for her - all of those now family. 

THE WEST WING; her home.

A sanctuary, once a nest. Paint peeled off by young, chubby fingers. A door frame with markers of two children's heights. Soft and light and airy - though less so now. A locked door, behind it lays a girl and a mystery.

The mansion had never felt like a home before she moved the Voights in. She gifted them a whole suite, but moved into it too when they were younger. Cooked, consoled, played, yelled, loved. She diverted as much of her time as she could to them, watched with careful eyes as they aged and joined her ranks. She moved back to her own wing when Rozalie turned 18, no longer in need of someone to brush her hair. Realised the boy she’d raised was a soldier now, one day heir. Masha knows deep down that they will always be the best years of her life. 

THE EAST WING; her main motivation.

Portraits of those who came before, unblinking eyes follow the room. A huge bed pushed to face the sea, a balcony offering enclosed escape. Total control: technology woven into the walls and into their occupant. Power and loneliness and deep scarlet velvet.

Masha sleeps in the very room she was born in, the very bed her mother died in. If she’s lucky (that seems unlikely) she’ll die old and withered in that room too. Yes, Masha does what she does for her children; to pass on an empire to them. But she also does it because she is Masha Vetrova; no more, no less. She was born into this role, and that’s why she does it. There’s no choice, it’s who she is. If it’s Masha’s destiny to be the last of her name, she’s going to make damn sure she’s memorable.

[fvllaccess]

HEADCANON NO. 1 - Familie. 

I. Being a Martin had always been as much of a burden as it had been a priviledge, had weighed her down as much as it had lifted her up. She was a princess, both in the way everyone would bend backwards to make even her wildest dreams come true and in the way her parents would parade her in front of her friends. Perfect, pristine, poised. She was every bit as royal in their kingdom as any other princess might have been. Still, other princesses would were born to become queens, to reign surpreme over the kingdom. Not her though, no, not her. 

II. “Quicquid crescit in cinere perit”  (Whatever grows perishes in ashes) She lives an breathes the words, her family’s words. They’re written onto everything she owns, her bags, her favorite pen, a ring her father gave her for her thirteenth birthday. It’s pride that fills her when she looks at them, pride that would slowly turn bitter as the years went by. Why would she be proud in something she doesn’t get to be a part of? Still, she choses another, final place to eternalize those words, her own body. When she is sixteen, she gets the tattoo and she loves it with all her heart. On her ribcage the words stand black and boldly against her pale skin, a reminder of the greatness she was born into. 

III. She hates it. She hates everything that reminds her about her family but she hates IT the most. Somedays she wishes she could scratch it off with her bare hands, somedays she seriously considers removing it. What a bitter irony, hadn’t she risen and wasn’t she in ashes right now? Nineteen years old, she is being hunted all over the continent, she hasn’t lived a day void of fear ever since she has left. She doesn’t even recognize herself in the mirror anymore, the only thing that remains of the child she was are the words, words that had once been like religion to a girl who believed in no other gods but her parents. 

IV. A smile on her the sharpened angles of her features, as she looks in the mirror, letting her fingertips travel over the new ink under her skin. It’s words again. Maybe she should have learned from the first time, maybe she shouldn’t have done it but all she can feel is pride. They’re on her hip this time and it’s an absolute masterpiece. It’s her presence, marked on her skin inches beneath the constant reminder of her past. “The dead are departed but the living are ravenous”.