heart of glass. « Thread Started on Nov 7, 2009, 9:00pm »
drip. drip. drip.
It was raining, a fact that one would assume not mean anything to anyone if they had a whole palace to run around in until it passed. But alas, observed the young prince Einersson, it was not to be. Women fluttered and fussed about in their skirts and petticoats about a ruined chance to see the garden, and the men agitated over missed hunting trips. Kristien had held no such plans before the rain struck late in the afternoon, and sat a minority in his lack of disappointment. The fact was, he had no plans of any sort for that day, or any approaching unless his Father changed that. Despite his recent arrival at the palace along with the titled from all over the world, Kris had not yet held any desire whatsoever to get to know anyone. They were, after all, all the same. Every one of them talking heads without a will or a soul of their own, puppets on the string of whomever controlled them: fathers and mothers looking to make good impressions on the part of their children, young princes and countesses reciting from a life's learned script, or even kings and leaders looking to represent their country. He had heard all they had to say hundreds of times before, and simply didn't feel the need to hear it from a new set of lips, no matter how painted or coiffed they may be.
Which was why the prince now found himself in the over sized, windowed hallway in the west wing. Looking out were ceiling-high panes of glass, framed by white woodwork. The top fifth tilted forward toward the ceiling, giving the appearance of a nearly green house setting. Kristien sat cross-legged against the opposing wall, sketching furiously at an already worn notebook, nearing its final pages. It was not of anything in particular; simply string of consciousness musings. A wet bird that had perched on a strand of bush previously, a brooding pair of eyes, his own hand and a the figure of a nearly naked female, on one page alone. He worked now on an overly detailed fallen raindrop, shading and shaping it to death with his carved piece of charcoal. The piece was held almost clumsily between his crippled hand, gripped between his thumb and first two fingers, blackening the waxy skin. Kristien had been forced to learn how to use a pen again after the accident, but being unable to bring himself to write he had instead taught himself how to draw. But they were only unsentimental, spur-of-the-moment sketching. He had forced himself to care naught about them, after how the destruction of his previous collaboration had affected him, physically and mentally.
The prince appeared almost frail settled against the extravagant, tall wall. His shoulders and knees cut sharp lines in tailored clothing, blue veins pushing against the ivory beneath his wrists. Kristien's complexion was painfully fair, without any color or blemish aside from a pale dusting of freckles across the sharp bones his cheeks. Large eyes struck a sharp contrast, the dark black-brown irises standing out sorely against their holding. A mop of hair hung limply on it's head, nearly into the Prince's eyes. The corridor was nearly abandoned, as most felt no need to be reminded of the unlucky conditions outside. As was such, Kristien had the area to himself save for the occasional passing servant or messenger, each to polite enough not to stop and stare or attempt to make conversation, much to the silent relief of Prince Einersson, for he had nothing to say as it was. For the moment, he was entirely engrossed in his raindrop. Until, at least, it was finished and he found himself thoroughly disappointed with it. Just as well; A small frown creasing his brow, Kristen drew a slow breath and dragged a chalky 'X' across the figure.
The Prince sighed, switched one leg over the other and turned the page, starting on a likeness of the corner edge of a nearby rug. Though he started over, the rain continued yet.
Re: heart of glass. « Reply #1 on Nov 9, 2009, 3:32pm »
France was an incredibly beautiful country but if you were to ask Anastasia Romanov, she'd tell you that when it rained, it made France look even prettier. It really brought out the scenery and made everything look lush and fresh and bright in it's own dreary little way. The rain had the same effect on Ireland. If she wasn't placed under house arrest by her aunt for insulting the King of Monaco. How was she to know that she would offend the old King by telling him how lovely it is in Poland this time of year and how he should go on a little trip there? She also made sure she said as sweetly as possible to the Queen of Monaco, "Aren't you well acquanited with Poland's King? I heard the two of you were friends." Well, she did know that she would offend him because it was incredibly well-known about the King of Monaco and the King of Poland's little spat over the Queen of Monaco and from what she had heard, Monaco's reigning monarch was the villain of the story. And although it was quite funny to her to see his face turn beet red, her aunt didn't exactly see the humor in the whole situation and told her that she was to remain in the castle under the watchful eye of her one of the the Emperess' close friends, some Countess from God knows where.
But if you knew Anastasia Romanov then you knew that she wasn't one for rules and as soon as the Countess turned her head, Anastasia was gone, off to enjoy her rainy day by getting some sketches in before she was found and dragged back to her prison. The room she was so graciously given by the King and Queen of France was quite lovely, but one could only stay cooped up in a room staring at the same paintings for so long. She wanted to roam around a bit and get in the exquisite scenery on such a fine afternoon. Which was why she was now in the West Wing. According to a servant, it had a lovely view of one of the Queen's many gardens.
She picked up the bustle of her skirt and swore to herself under her breath. She hated dresses especially in a situation like this when she wanted to attract the least amount of attention as possible. That was difficult considering that she was wearing a royal blue colored dress and kept on mumbling under her breath. She looked out one of the windows and was happy to see taht that servant girl was right, the West Wing did have a lovely view. She smiled to herself and walked closer to the window. She could see all of the Garden and it's many different plants and birds below her. It really was a sight. Especially in the rain when the colors stood out more. She let out a pleased little sigh and took the book she had been holding under the crook of her arm and opened it to the first available page she could find.
She heard a noise from behind her, the sound of somebody breathing and she winced. She hadn't expected anybody else to be here, not on a rainy day when there were so many other interesting activities to do, like gossip, or sew or something equally boring. She turned around, afraid that it was one of the Emperess' minions ready to bring her back to her room until she had learned her lesson about bringing up skeletons from closests at the dinner table and was suprised to find that it wasn't anybody that she knew. Or at least knew well. She knew that his face was familiar but that was about it. She couldn't remember where she had seen him before. Maybe he was a servant?
She smiled and said in the best French she could manage considering her Russian accent "Bonjour!". Even if she didn't know him, she was always up for making new friends.
Re: heart of glass. « Reply #2 on Nov 9, 2009, 7:53pm »
Kristien had always associated rain with security. It was by no means uncommon in Iceland, his home, and he had in all honesty never shared the universal disdain for its presence. As it was, he sat in relative peace that day, not enjoying it but instead taking advantage. His consciousness floated idly through the hallway, somewhere between where it was supposed to be in his own head, and outside in the rain. He drew blindly, as an instinct instead of an art. Perhaps, the Prince mused, he would even venture outside when his charcoal ran out, as surely there would be no threat of human encounters in Paris' current condition. Not removing his instrument from the paper, Kristien shrugged lightly out of his jacket, the smooth lace lining slipping easily over his bony shoulders until it was crushed between himself and the wall, leaving in its stead a gray vest and white day shirt atop simple black trousers. In his current state, the Prince was the image of casual. However, unlike some may imagine, he was not entirely without cares.
Kristien's head would eventually return to its shoulders as he slowly became to realize that he had milked the rug corner for all its worth...nearly. He was almost obsessive in the way he shaded and detailed, unable to ignore a single stray thread. It was the major flaw in his work; what might have the potential to be a thing of beauty was made instead into a manic, over-worked mess that looked like it came instead from one several times more neurotic than himself and his outward coolness. But it in fact did represent what was happening inside his head, and his train of thought. Kristien refused to accept, however, that the obsession in his sketching represented himself taking seventeen years of frustration out on the page. He refused to be classified, not that way. He wasn't one of them
"Bonjour!"
Kristien had not heard her approach, but at the same time the unexpected female's voice gave him no reason to startle. His eyes remained on his paper for several seconds, expecting the footsteps to disappear in the opposite direction. When they did no such thing, the obligation to reply overwhelmed the responsibility to be an obnoxious bastard, and a scripted reply of "God bless you," in French escaped his lips before he could stop it. Fitting, he mused, eyes still at attention to the charcoal and worn paper. Briefly, they flitted to the feet of the greeting source. Dainty, female feet that he did not recognize, which did not surprise him. Dark gaze turning back to the paper, the Prince was free of any remorse as his oddity train of thought returned to human lucidity, thinking the words he would say if he had any normal sense.
Re: heart of glass. « Reply #3 on Nov 11, 2009, 11:19am »
She looked out the window once more and longed to be outside. She didn't care if it was raining. It would give her a chance to get more detailed with her drawings, if she were to actually be outside in the rain. But at the same time, she wasn't in the mood to catch a cold because then she'd be bed-ridden and what good was being stuck in bed for a week? Especially when she had more important things to do like draw or embarass her aunt. How on earth could she anger her aunt if she was stuck in bed? Although, if she were bed-ridden she'd be lulling the Emperess into a false sense of security and then she'd be able to do something truley magnificent that would shame her beyond repair. She chuckled at the thought.
She btouth her attention back to the man, whomever the man was he never looked up at her. He said something in French and continued on with what he was doing. Whatever it was he had said, it didn't sound very kind. Anastasia wished she had paid more attention to her French tutor. She did notice however that he wasn't French himself. Like her, he knew the language but had a bit of an accent. She didn't really recognize his accent but she knew for a fact now that he wasn't French.
She cleared her throat and her eyes shifted down to what he was doing and with some delight she realized that he was drawing. At least it looked like he was drawing. With a slight smile tugging at her lips she said, in English, "So, you're an artist too?". English was her favorite language to learn. Everyone had told her that it was incredibly difficult so naturally she had to prove them wrong. Her accent was still awful but at least she knew what she was saying and most people who spoke English understood her too.
Whoever this man was, he didn't seem very friendly but that wasn't going to stop her. She sat down next to him and peered over his shoulder. He was an artist alright and a very good one. "And I thought I was good? Your drawings put my little doodles to shame!" she chuckled, tapping on her own sketchbook. It was nice to see somebody else who shared the interest. She found that most of the people in Versailles were singers or pianists which was lovely but was also starting to get quite boring. She wasn't a fan of the piano. It was such a pain to learn and she just didn't have the patience for it. She didn't have the patience for any musical instrument, really. And as far as her singing went well, she could hold a tune if she wanted to but singing wasn't really her thing and she'd just embarass herself by trying it.
(Notes: It's fine! It's much better then my post! )
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