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The problem with having no place which you can call a home is that you have nowhere to go when your soul is tired.

far-far-awayy (via kel-nerdery)

#inspo

infxnte

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isxbela:

Isabela had always been ambitious in her thoughts. She had many ideas as to what she wanted to achieve and what she wanted to see before her last hurrah. Rome happened to be one of them. The home of the religion that she had always been so dedicated to –– there was little chance that the Spanish princess would spend time locked away in the room throughout her stay. She craved to take every single detail in, whether it be the renowned architecture or the captivating art that continued to flourish throughout the city. Still, her position and her femininity became an obvious hindrance the very moment that her feet met in Italian soil. This was not Spain; she could not be as independent in a foreign country, for many feared the result, particularly among the gathering of warring countries. Of course, her sense of adventure triumphed when she managed to find a way out of her rooms and into the decadence of Rome. It did, however, not take long before she found herself in a rather unsavory surrounding. If this had been Spain then she would have her guards nor would she worry about her environment– always knowing exactly where she was.

This was not Spain. There was no luxury of familiarity to guide her back to the safety of a warm bedchamber, no guards to shelter her from the reality. She was lost and alone. Perhaps even naive in her thinking, trying not to meet the prying eyes that followed her for sticking out like a sore thumb. Hoping that no harm would come to her. In that brief period, she felt completely foolish for ever thinking that she could be unaccompanied. She attempted to retrace her steps. The pathway had been blocked when she turned. Three presumed crooks looked her dead in the eye; her heart could have burst through her chest from the fear that overcame her. One reached for her slender fingers that formed into a fist to protect her precious and inherited rings. She could feel the formation of tears in her eyes, trying to resist the males that obstructed her. Alas, it was no use. The Princess found herself pushed to the ground in their intimidation.

@thcgreeneknight

You didn’t need language to be able to play cards, bet money, lose that money, then win it back, then lose it again. Any man stupid enough to pass the time playing chancy games of tarock and the like was welcome anywhere, in any city, and Rome was not any different. It passed the time. The air was cooling with sundown and the sky was turning pale silvery as the sunlight bled away over the horizon. Gideon, walking down a cramped Roman street, hunting down the kind of diversions that kept those in his profession happy for decades, already had two or three ways he intended to end this night, and none of them had anything to do with a princess--Spanish or otherwise.

The street wasn’t wide enough to even spread his arms all the way out, so there was no point in drawing his sword. Gideon had that thought before the one that recognized the girl, the lady, the princess from the Spanish convoy. He’d stared at them a while, just to get their faces in his head, and here she was, one of those faces, improbably crushed to the ground like an unlucky ant instead of a princess of Spain.

God’s teeth, there were three. Two with knives, flashing in the shadows between houses. One had his hands on her shoulders. Gideon committed the two facing him to his memory, picking out a mole over an eyebrow, a crooked nose, a scar; then he kicked the nearest to him in the knee, hard, stomping with his heel. That man screamed. Gideon shoved him over, and kicked him again, sharp and quick to the stomach. He brought his heel down again on that man’s wrist, feeling the distinctive give of crushed bone. The little knife, little more than a fruit knife, slipped from his fingers.

He felt the pointed pressure of a knife, too dull to pierce his leather. Poor, desperate men; that’s who’d rob a real damned princess. That’s who could see trouble like her and decide it was worth it to part her from her jewelry. Gideon snatched at the second man’s hands, twisting until that knife dropped, too. For some reason he’d been expecting a fight--but these were poor, desperate men. The man on the ground, writhing, was wailing in Italian; Gideon didn’t know what he was saying, exactly, but pain always translated. The third man bolted, unwilling to take his chances against a trained fighter.

Gideon stooped, grabbed the princess by the shoulders, and brought her up to her feet. “I’m English! I’m in the convoy from England! I’m one of them!” he said, roughly, into her face. It did not make sense, exactly, why this should console her or make her come with him--but it was not you’re a foolish wench trying to get herself killed or worse, and he believed that counted for something. “Come! C’mon!”

#isabela #threads

empressofxchina:

‘‘i’m a little disappointed. i thought that rome was a much prettier city. and i still feel sick. my voyage was horrible. but, at least i’m finally here.’‘she crumpled a yellow paper in her hand and put her black quill on the table.‘‘ i’m entirely certain that my mother doesn’t care about those things. however, i still have to send her a letter. what should i do?‘‘

there was a lapse, a silence, a lull. then gideon realized that she was speaking to him, the only other person in the room. possibly she had mistaken him for someone important--someone whose counsel would be, for a foreign empress of no little consequence, worth-seeking. gideon grimaced, realizing that he had his own unfinished letter to his mother, sitting folded up in a pack under his bed. she--his own mother, a solidly built kitchen maid nearly as tall as himself--was always asking after his damn leg. did he have a cold? did he have a hat? there was notorious sun in italy. take care for your leg. goose grease, that’ll do you.

“perhaps ... mention your health? your--” gideon struggled for the proper address for the empress whose title and name had been told to him, and that he, no great linguist, could not quite say. “--majesty ...?”

#yuanjun #threads

ladyrosenorbury:

She’d received a letter from her brother, the one closest in age to her and her closest in relationships, and had set off in a hurry to find a room to read it in. Back in Edinburgh, she had learned the castle’s layout within mere hours which lead to her knowing exactly where to go when she needed a decent amount of privacy. Unfortunately, Rome was a little harder to do that for which is why she found herself bursting into the wrong room, letter in hand, finding it occupied and herself quite embarrassed. “My deepest apologies, I was trying to find an empty room and this new castle confuses me a bit. I’ll leave.”

The room, styled haphazardly as a kind of tiny barrack and stuffed with a number of bored, restless fighting men, fixed several sets of its eyes on her. One man began crowing and hollering, slapping his thighs and clapping his hands. “God’s fucking teeth, man, shut up!” Gideon swore without heat, part-way rising from his cot to give his battering some real emphasis.

Until that moment, he’d been asleep--you learned to do it anywhere, even in a hot, stinking room where two or more of the other occupants were constantly involved in games of dice or cards or shouting at one another. Gideon followed their attention to the woman, and he nearly swore again.

Instead he was up, out of bed--cringing as his left leg twinged sorely, grumpier than he was--and across the room, ushering the lady out, out, out, before anyone had the idea to invite her to stay. “Apologies accepted, if they must be,” Gideon said briskly, still rubbing the sand out of his eyes with the heel of his palm. His leg complained bitterly, a surprisingly keen pain that lingered like a mumbling in the background and slowly grew harder to ignore. He shut the door behind him, his other hand holding it closed. “Go, go. Confuse yourself elsewhere. No one needs a Scottish lady here, least of all the lady.”

#rose #threads

kinqlucas:

Yesterday, war was about to break out, but today, everyone was putting on their best show for the pope, acting as if the last few years hadn’t happened at all. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but dragging his entire family to Rome seemed risky to him. No one could refuse his holiness without dire consequences however, and as a Catholic country, Lucas had to oblige. “Can you fetch me a cup of water? Fast if you may.” he called out to the closest person to him. He hadn’t gotten a look of them, but he knew he wasn’t alone in the large room. The thought of it being someone other than a servant didn’t cross his mind. He was a King in his own country. He could ask whatever he wanted.

Don’t start anything. He could be grateful that God had given Gideon Greene a brain instead of a temper. Gideon swallowed the indignity of being turned into a cup-bearing errand-boy at the wave of a hand; he really shouldn’t have expected anything less than this from the king of Scots, or that, put to the damn test, he’d be able to refuse something as petty as a cup of water. Maybe the water here was foul. Gideon bowed his head, his expression neither a scowl nor a smile but something that pulled tight across his clenched teeth.

Just outside the chamber, he flagged down a creeping little servant girl, scurrying down the corridor with a tray of empty jugs on her hip, the smell of old wine rising off her clothes. Using very broken Italian and no small amount of humiliating pantomime, Gideon managed to make himself understood. Water for the Scottish king. She nodded, he nodded, and she disappeared down a turn. She could fall of the earth for all he cared, but at least he had done what duty compelled him to do.

Gideon returned, standing half in and half out of the door. “It’s called for, Your Majesty,” Gideon reported through his teeth.

#lucas #threads

#i'm gonna run and do some errands but then i'll be back #and start hitting people up for connections and stuff!#like this and i'll get to you for sure #feel free to message me as well #ooc

here’s gideon, my knight in sour armor

some quick facts

he speaks english and french, both from experience and formal education.

gideon is the natural son of a prominent, successful gentleman farmer by the border between england and scotland. he wasn’t treated poorly by his father or half-siblings or even his father’s legal wife, but his presence confused things and he could always tell. he didn’t fit anywhere at home. when gideon suddenly decided to go into soldiering as a profession at sixteen, it was convenient for everybody.

luckily, he has some talent for it. a combination of his own ability and his father’s not inconsiderable influence saw his star rise rapidly.

he never liked the scots, but a skirmish five years ago that left him injured for months really turned him from dislike to despise. he was incapacitated for nearly a year, and the injury, which was to his leg, still pains him today.

in that time he traveled to london at his father’s urging to see doctors there, and benefit from their wisdom. from his perspective, this just meant he got bled a lot--but it was his being in london that put him into the awareness of the nobility there at the time.

on recovery, gideon went on to distinguish himself further, with their eyes on him. he thinks this has something to do with him coming with the royal family to rome.

but as a soldier, an englishman, and no ardent lover of the scots or the french ... he is not as averse to war as he really should be.

he does not speak italian, and it conquers him in a new way every day.

despite considerable luck in his career, his accomplishments in his personal life remain far and few in between. in fact, you could characterize them as a series of almosts. almost got his mother a house of her own. almost got that parcel of land. almost got married. almost, almost, almost.

this is probably due to a chronic habit of overthinking things. gideon generally has a plan for every scenario that could possibly come to pass ... in a combat situation, at least. in everyday life, this comes across as an incurable cynicism. something is going to go wrong--it’s just a matter of figuring out what. unsurprisingly, this has a tendency to drive people away.

people are also going to be awful--it’s not their fault, it’s just how they are. gideon resigns himself to human nature, and does the best he can not to make that snide remark where someone important will hear him.

#about gideon #rexintro