#v || prince

[vilestblood]

it's called different things by different people. ( from ana! )

open throat || accepting.

"Is it?" The question and his gaze linger, the latter unwavering upon her in open inquiry — a keen edge in stark contrast with his otherwise softer features. Mark him as poignantly interested in the details; the crafts and wonders of his homeland simply won't suffice. Thus, seldom does he dismiss the news and discoveries from other lands.

If the Lady Anabella kindly presents him with this, then he'll gladly listen.

"What makes the difference?" His tone remains gentle yet firm; silk-wrapped iron, in the proper manner of one noble-wrought. "What is the story behind it?"

[vilestblood]

Dusk is the reason why Antonín knows a whole lot about how to care for horses, even in his earlier years in Cain.hurst.

The horse was a gift; a Friesian foal brought from a foreign land, and given to Antonín by his mother when he was still a child.

There were plenty of servants in the castle designated to tend to the horses, but Dusk was always aggressive and wildly problematic. (In other circumstances he would've been put down, sadly.) So Antonín himself ended up learning how to properly groom him and then spent a considerable amount of time at it, which in turn served to strengthen their bond — forged by blood following the traditional practice of feeding his own to the horse.

Cain.hurst remained a fundamentally blood-wrought land, after all.

As a child, he also spent more time than it was deemed appropriate playing with the hunting hounds, as the kennels were close to the stables. Got a flea or two back in the day. Then, learning how to train them.

[vilestblood]

[ @sxnguinesxnctum ]

Stares. Stares. Stares. Pay Attention To Him. :/

He notices. Alas, the foreign prince feigns ignorance for his own capricious amusement — while seemingly distracted with admiring the mediocre art displayed in the cathedral. His eyes stubbornly fixated on the faceless sculpture in front of which he stands, a hand behind his back while the other remains free. (To reach for his sword, should it be necessary.) Such a posture betrays something martial beyond the evident aristocratic upbringing: too straight yet ever-on-guard. In contrast, the faint smile forming upon his lips might betray a certain playful intent.

Finally, he acknowledges Laurence's stare — by holding his hand and reverently kissing the back of it.

"I cannot possibly be more worthy of devoted observation than the idols of your faith..." Only then he turns to him, smiling with a bright warmth akin to post-winter sunlight. Although, his tone still carries the slightest hint of mischief in tandem with a provocatively raised eyebrow. "Or am I?"

@sxnguinesxnctum

[vilestblood]

@didotuus said: “ I don’t want to be your friend. ”

feelings are complicated || accepting.

"Tragic." Although, the one they would call of vile blood seems hardly fazed by the announcement, let alone in a sorrowful manner.

Does he need to point out the sentiment is quite mutual? Paint a clear picture for this man with his own contemptuous colours? Perhaps. Yet, his will to indulge some sort of petty confrontation is null.

Antonín lean forward in his chair, smiling, almost benevolently so — were it not for his ever-icy eyes. "I appreciate your honesty, though."

[vilestblood]

@didotuus said: ❝ bite me. ❞ from a very pissed-off laurence maybe

VAMPIRE CRINGE || accepting.

"I expected more temperance and dignity from a man of faith."

So sharp yet dispassionate, it's a mere observation rather than some venomous critique... however untrue. His expectations were even lower than this.

He remains unfazed while staring at Laurence, letting silence linger for a moment. The clinical examination of a somewhat disappointing object, not a subject. Nothing but frigid disdain.

"Now, if you are quite done with that," Antonín gestures curtly at him, lips pursing minutely. "Perhaps we may attempt to converse in a somewhat civilised manner."

[vilestblood]

@aranostra​ :  ‘bad  fates  do  not  always  follow  those  that  deserve  them.’ ~ from laurence

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑫𝑬𝑽𝑰𝑳 𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝑬  || accepting.    

“Indeed.” Agreeing with such realism is easy --- albeit a tad surprising, coming from a religious man.

Antonín says nothing else, letting silence linger for a long moment. His eyes are fixated on the expansive view of Yharnam outside the large window in front of which he stands, a hand behind his back while the other always remains free. (To reach for his sword, even when such doesn’t seem necessary.) Only his perfect posture betrays something beyond an aristocratic upbringing: too straight, if not a tad rigid... military. Otherwise, he’s all gracious manners, sweetened tongue, fine velvet, silk and lace, as though embodying the luxury of his homeland.

“Do you believe the gods dispense justice themselves?”  He turns to the Vicar now, smiling with a bright warmth akin to post-winter sunlight, his tone deceivingly pious despite lacking any genuine faith. “Or must we always dispense it ourselves?”

[vilestblood]

@lustmord​​ :  Gently head-bonks him.

Admittedly, he was distracted. Such that Lucius managed to enter the grand salon and approach, surreptitious in his mischief, whilst he noticed nothing until it was too late. In his defence, Antonín's attention was hopelessly captured by the current spectacle: a musical performance for his eyes and ears only, which in turn demanded full sensory engagement.

The singer's sublime voice seemed to both harmonise with and fight against the rapturous violin, challenging each other to conjure impossible notes like an intertwined spell of enthralling magic. A rather unnatural feat this was, for the woman's vocal cords were altered to sing like no human could, a thick choker of pearls and gemstones concealing the gruesome scar across her throat. Likewise, the man's hands bled to move faster and more precisely, utilising the same arts that drained the life of those who wielded it as a weapon.

Both violinist and lyrical diva cease their inhuman musical display at once, staring at the bold Knight in mirroring horror. Antonín stares at him, too, eyes open wide --- snapping out of what was almost a trance.

And yet the Prince merely laughs.

"Are you a feline now, Knight?" He's more or less used to Lucius' antics by now, having decided that there's nothing particularly harmful about them. For the most part.

"Sit with me." No room to reject this generous invitation, as he gestures towards the consternated musicians. "The Lady Evelyn and her brother have composed several new pieces --- all of them positively exquisite."

[vilestblood]

@deifiler​ :  ‘  there  is  no  pain  like  the  pain  of  transformation.  ’

𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬  𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 || accepting!  

“Is this literal or some sort of philosophical rambling?”  His tongue can be a mean thing when devoid of mellifluous deceit, even if the tone is affable. He means no real harm, but a mere jab at Micolash’s fanciful nature.

Some scholar, not a dedicated servant, he notices, brings them tea and what should be these Yharnamites’ idea of pastries. He notices, too, that the squalid man’s hands tremble and that his eyes remain stubbornly low --- even when Antonín keeps staring at him with glacial intensity.

“Bring me the cup.” Yet again, harsh words are spoken in a silky tone: an order for this improvised footman, who does so... after a moment of evident hesitation.

His attention returns to Micolash, then.

“And? What transformation are we talking about?”