rvriks

[rvriks]

annarurik‌:

(...)

“Are you unharmed?” She asked. Only God knew what had happened after darkness swallowed her whole. Anna’s Rurik blue eyes searched for any visible injuries on her brothers. “Is every one unharmed?”  

a man less accustomed with the dull ache caused by touch with scrapped fingers as his would have hissed out, but ivan stands careless of it, his worry consumed only by how much worse she must have -- yet his sister is stubborn in seeking comfort on their affection, as she always is. anna, as the youngest and the sole female standing of this generation of ruriks, has always been belittled, purposefully but also genuinely styled as the angel of the family, the frail little bird eager to leap in order to be admired and cared for. where such a girl she get the strength to survive this, ivan did not know. perhaps she was as worthy of their warrior-royal bloodline as he often wished her to be -- only instead of an encrusted crown or battle insignias, she would bear the fruit of her lion-hearted actions in scarring and pain.

“do not wear yourself out, annushka.” the tsar advises, trying to ignore the bandage covering her digits has began to seep in scarlet out at her effort; his continues within hers, while the other attempts to soothe her at caressing her hair. her exasperated questions cause a furrow to grow between his dark brows -- while it should be expected that she would worry for the ones she suffered to protect, he did not imagine her compassion to be this broad. “your tender heart is the cause of your afflictions, anna.” he announces, ice returning to his eyes as he wishes to ground her to a reality that was far from the sweet one she has had for her two decades of life, as he had assured so. 

“fight with an assailant yourself...what has possessed you to do such a thing? you are a grand duchess, the grand duchess of all russias, and the only sister god has willed to gift me, and you do such foolishness! that man could have done much worse to you -- yes, that is possible, even if spending days wondering if you would wake up while that miscreant runs free and jolly amongst these filthy, disrespectful europeans was not torture enough!” his anger and concern are delivered in the words in rush, his tone mild for a man as vexed as he, but still mighty enough for the attendees to take steps back so they would not fall as a casualty to the emperor’s fury -- for as much as he hardly holds back from spewing such words to his ailing sister, his restraint is still much visible for those familiar to his household..

the raven-haired inspires deeply, pulling himself from the ailing female; he stands ahead of her bed instead, moving his hands to grip its canopies. “the child is well. children that young do not feel trauma for long, though i do not find it wise for him to visit you, not for today. your only duty is towards your recovery, do you understand? you may not disobey me on this, anna. you are far too precious to be put in harm’s way.”

[rvriks]

TOTAL POINTS FOR SEPTEMBER: 60.

TOTAL POINTS SINCE AUGUST 2019: 60. *

* joined on september 23rd

september 17th to september 23rd —  TOTAL POINTS: 30

replies (10 pt each) – 10. edits (10 pt each) –  0. meme responses (5 pt each)   –  0. self paragraphs (20 pt each)   –  0. bonus (20 pts)   –  20.

september 24th to september 30th —  TOTAL POINTS: 30

replies (10 pt each) – 30. edits (10 pt each) –  0. meme responses (5 pt each)   –  0. self paragraphs (20 pt each)   –  0. challenges (? pt each)   –  0.

[rvriks]

musingmemes‌:

a historical / fantasy / period / medieval friendly character survey.

reblog and bold your muses preference.

roses / cherry blossoms / orchids / tulips

winter / summer / autumn / spring

thunderstorms / sunshine / snow 

indoors / outdoors

meat / fruit / sweets

extravagance / traditionalism / minimalism

god fearing / non god fearing

cats / dogs / horses / birds

sunrise / sunset

day time / night time

fire / earth / water / wind 

reading / writing

rising early / sleeping late 

wine / ale / neither

fur / silk / satin / lace 

rubies / pearls / sapphires 

horse back / walking / carriages 

love / power

having company / being alone 

lakes / rivers / oceans 

knife / sword / bow / poison 

gold / silver 

[rvriks]

adalsindaofanjou‌:

Adalsinda has only just finished dressing - her hair styled carefully by her maids as she finishes with her jewelry and fixes the mask over her features. She knows, of course, that the gown and the rest are flamboyant, but she has had so little chance for festivities in past years that she thinks she must make the most of the venture while she still has the chance to. It is, after all, a day of good tidings for her homeland, and for its alliances - with England, of course, but she can only hope the good will extends to Russia as well.

Good will, it seems, is in short supply, at least as far as her husband is concerned. She stands before him, as of course she should, blue eyes cool behind the mask. There is a palpable distaste in her husband’s expression and his stance, and perhaps some part of that brings her satisfaction, for something like a smirk almost touches her lips. “What would that make you, then, sir, if I was? His cuckold?” She looks at him for a moment and then squares her shoulders as one of the maids goes to fetch her cloak - the same shade of crimson as her dress. For a moment, Adalsinda pauses, and when she speaks again, her voice is low. “You will not dampen my spirits tonight. This is a day of celebration for the people of France - your allies, lest you forget. I shall not let you ruin it.”

his laughter could cut glass as it echoes shortly in the chamber, amusement and bitterness combined into a sound that is, the least to say, ominous -- when she first talked back to him, he had been so taken aback his tongue had grown dull and eloquence failed him, but after years of this, anytime he saw the fight in her, it was as if fire began coursing through his veins again, instead of the more dangerous frost crystallizing himself he had made himself grow familiar with. the jabbing, though entirely unbecoming and rather scandalous if any one not accustomed with their repertoire would deem, was the last shards of passion they found use to stab one another with, just to see what one would bleed next. "ah, you remember you are a wife, yulia? you are so amiss in your duties i could have swore you saw yourself fit to an unmarried spinster by now." the pierces continues as the tsar pulls himself from the threshold, long legs guiding him with ease closer to her. 

the faint perfume he felt by the door grew stronger each step, as if willing to envelop him in her spells -- but her voice reminds him she is but a witch, and russia has long been done with offers to false idols.��"i am most glad you endow me with the power i command, wife. albeit you speak out of term - have you forgotten i am emperor, not some hot-headed princess? i do not forget what is expected of me. even if i must ruffle my feathers to celebrate a treaty that shall last less than the supply of alcohol in this ridiculous spectacle." european politics mattered little if they did not affect him -- it was only for appearances, and for his dimming faith in his precarious alliance with the anjou that ivan still dignified himself to attend such folly. 

his harsh rant is cut short as the maid returns with his wife's cloak, and the man promptly pries it out of her hands, feeling the luxurious fabric in his palms as he straightens it against the tsarina's frame, before lowering it onto her partly bare shoulders with a tenderness that grew to be uncharacteristic of him. "are you cold, wife?"

[rvriks]

TIMESTAMPED: september 20th 1455.

the first ivan had seen a lemon tree, he was two and twenty, and the bitterness in his tongue at the taste of the foreign fruit felt sharper than the dull blades the italian offered in their training rooms. such first meeting stood as a solidifying event he had no palate for the vibrant citric, however, his sight would be a fool's if he disregarded how truly beautiful such earthly bounty proved itself to be. the lively scent of the blossoms burns his nostrils as he makes his way through the palazzo medici's vast gardens, and the memory of his first encounter with the foreign taste grew faint, as did his thoughts of the biting frost scent characteristic of home -- he could not help but to curiously wonder how florence would look under two feet of snow, if the primavera fragrance would be as poignant then, if their rulers would maintain such vitality as the child he hears in distance laughing with a dog.

lost in daydream, the russian does not notice the approach of the hound and its companion until they are colliding with himself; his reflexes are quick enough to stop the lady from a disgraceful encounter with the dirt, outstretched hands ready to steady the dark haired girl if needed be. the need does not come, fortunately for her, and ivan cocks a brow, bringing his hands behind him as she makes herself more proper -- the tsar does not miss the blood flooding her sun-kissed complexion, but other than a brief curling of the corner of his lips, he plays non attentive. even if she was one of the ladies of company or someone of a lower station as her freedom suggested him, ivan would rather not to embarrass her further without the need to.

either that the case or not, his attention flees to the rust-colored dog, the sight easily widening his smile. if his god appointed duty kept him from engaging in activities of much harm and excitement as his younger brothers, his wealth and title guided him to replacements with ease, and in hunting he was to meet lasting loyalty in both men and animal -- none of his borzoi were as...domesticated as the italian dog he inches his knuckles forward for the dog to sniff at, but the companionship was one found himself eager to cherish as if he, too, was half younger than he was. 

"you did no harm, my lady," ivan speaks in a nearly perfected italian, playfulness thawing the ice in his eyes as he glances at the woman for a short moment, only for the hues to fall back on the braco italiano. "i find sleep escapes me in this city, and i believed the grand duke would find no harm in anticipating our meeting, but you lead me to believe the italians prefer lying in when it's warm, is that so? i do not mind contending to this one if it does not mind me intruding its exercise." he turns his rare joy towards the master of the subject in question, while patiently waiting for his assessment before ivan could approach any further.

open starter

The air was still moist from morning dew as Maddalena made her way through the garden to the grove of lemon trees below the palazzo. Around her, the sun cast all the world aglow in hues of warm orange, gold, and faint pink. The effect could not be recreated by any living soul; no, none could replicate the harmonious fruit of an encounter between the secular work of man and a generous God. Such a pity that so few woke early enough to see Florence in its glory. Maddalena had always been early to rise. It was a trait she shared with her late father, with whom she once took her morning walks. Giovani de’ Medici had been a man of restrained affection, but that time shared between them was something both cherished. Perhaps that, even more than the beauty of daybreak, was why she continued to walk the same path, day after day.

The sound of whining drew her attention to her new daily companion. The old Bracco Italiano had once accompanied her father on hunting trips, and now, after losing his master and many years to time, was her dearest friend. Many disapproved of her affection for the dog, but Maddalena wondered if those who questioned her love had ever known an animal for as many years as she’d known this one. She had, after all, been a girl of just ten when her father brought home the solemn-faced creature. Was she to simply be rid of him once he was too old to chase game, like she hadn’t watched him grow?

“Are you ready, then?” Ernesto nudged her palm with his nose, sniffing and wagging his tail like a pup. “Rimani qui.” He sat obediently and she made her away, running a hand against leaves high in the trees and criss-crossing through the lemon grove many times. “Vieni a trovarmi!” She could hear the dog searching for her, hunting as he’d once hunted partridges and pheasant. Each time he got close, she took off at a blind run between the trees. She wished she were paying more attention when she nearly collided with another person. Her surprised yelp brought Ernesto barreling toward them.

“Aspettare!” The order brought the dog to a stop almost as sudden as hers had been. “My apologies,” Maddalena rushed as she straightened her skirts, face warm with embarrassment. She hadn’t been caught acting so inappropriately since she was a child. “I did not realize anyone else had awoken. Please, you must forgive me my behavior.”

[rvriks]

SEND ME A SYMBOL & I’LL ANSWER ….

❣      how  does  your  character  react  to  a  persons  touch?  a  random  stranger’s?  a  loved  one’s?  a  friend’s?

✿     what  is  your  muse  “made  of”,  what  is  their  character  like?  courageous,  loving,  scared,  etc? 

⚜    how  does  your  muse  handle  praise?  

∞     does  your  character  have  any  loyalty  to  any  group?

 ☀    is  your  muse  a  social  creature?

♗   what  is  a  misconception  people  hold  about  your  muse?

✎   is  your  muse  a  good  gift  giver?  do  they  prefer  giving  or  receiving?

⚛    if  your  muse  committed  a  crime,  would  they  accept  punishment  willingly?  

▲   what  would  be  your  muse’s  modern  occupation?

♚  what  is  your  muse’s  fashion  sense  like?

☤    does  your  muse  finish  the  books  they  read?  what  is  their  favourite  type  of  novel?

✖   did  /  would  your  muse  bring  up  having  children  with  their  partner  first?

☎   does  your  character  get  jealous  over  petty  things?

☄    who  does  your  muse  find  attractive?  

☞   how  does  your  character  view  the  common  folk?  are  they  sympathetic  to  them  or  do  they  feel  that  are  they  above  them?

♠   what  would  your  muse  consider  a  fate  worse  than  death?

✉   what  type  of  injuries  has  your  character  sustained,  if  any?

✈   what  is  something  your  muse  agrees  with  100%  of  the  time?

[rvriks]

since his night had been cut short by the announcement of the failed kidnapping, all ivan has been tasting is gal. he had been exasperated as the news were whispered to him by a trembling subject, and it had taken all the ichor in his body to steady him from seeking revenge, from screaming and ending the ridiculous feast that dared to eclipse such immoral acts upon his family -- but he had made a careful exit instead, swallowing down the bitterness and making his way out of the festivities towards the house sforza by himself. 

within those walls that harbored the present and the future of russia, his tempest had returned -- he could still hear the child shrieking out in despair, and his uncle’s touch is shaky, but uncannily gentle as his fingers brush through the grand prince’s thin locks. the guards followed him as mouse, head down, their broad shoulders slumped in in expectation of the tsar’s fury. he asks that the mother of the prince to be informed, in his exact words (for tatiana not to fret more than she certainly would), and just then he may smite the idiots he had once considered some of his best men -- for why would he have need for limping weaklings if he was emperor and needed only the best to assure his high position in this encounter? (which was nothing but a cock measuring contest, a meeting excused by godly matters, yet ivan saw it by what it was: a stage for bountiful matrimonies, for displays of wealth and comparisons of who has the largest lands -- he fucking did).

once the child is safe, he wastes not a moment in seeking out his sister. the tears he had swallowed through the entire moment of panic threatened to escape him as he sees her. anna had been so pristine through the night, her visage akin to hebe, the goddess of youth, as she enjoyed her own -- in the bed laid a woman ivan did not know, swollen as a rowdy soldier, the only reminiscence of the deity he related himself to was the dress she wore, now ruined by the scarlet that seemed to follow him whenever he went. the handmaidens and the physicians, too, lower their heads as he kneels by his sister’s body, not to see as the tears of anger finally slips out, hot and salty, making his entire frame shake as he squeezes the bed linens between his hands so hard his fingers ache.

the waiting proves to be the worst, however. the russian sovereign demands none to leave his sister’s side, and for the praying never to cease -- she would have liked that -- and for physicians to never leave their post (he questions them again and one more time, and their vehemence in her sustained chastity falls on deaf ears -- she may not have suffered in the way women always do, but one glance at her hands as they peek out of the blankets told him this was not something they could put behind). he ensures his own private guards are at the doors at all times, and that one time he sees one of his favorites dozing off, sentimentality and loyalty do not spare the boy, and the signs of the tsar’s anger are spoken in rushed whispers as the staff sees dimitri missing a couple of tooth, or how ivan has put his rings aside that morning, for his knuckles are still bloody.

the hours move as the russian winter: slow, unforgiving, feeding into his paranoia and his worry. he does not attend any more festivities, finding it an ill tasted mockery of his pain -- but there should be a remedy for that soon enough, he would know. first, the scoundrel who did this. then, the ones who let him go unscathed. his plans of vengeance fall short when he hears screaming, and his face falls livid as he rushes to his little sister’s room -- it was she who fought not one, but three more women, and ivan can not fight the smile that takes over his lips as he takes their place, guiding their mistress back into a comfort he understood the ailing princess must have thought foreign after all she has been through.

“ Аннушка...” he whispers in the softest manner he could pronounce her name -- conjured by the faint memories of her girlhood, of the girl who would request for his presence when mother was too busy to care for only the daughter of moscow. “make no effort, you need not get up. i am here, your brother is here. no one will touch you now.” one hand reaches out for her own, nearly touching bone as the skin remained heavily severed -- but his own sought to brush her hair back, as he had done more than a handful of times when he was not a prince to a war-woven nation, but her big brother. 

@annarurik

[rvriks]

threat on the english aside, the sovereign of russia had been moderately enjoying his time abroad. though the heat was costly, delaying in making him accustomed to such a stark contrastant weather, he enjoyed to see there was little that changed to european customs, and the decadence had only heightened as the years passed and rulers changed by time’s hands. however, the feasts, matters of great enjoyment despite the odd timing, also had its unfortunate sides -- personified tonight by the tsarina, a ruby engraved crowned goddess; her visage itself was enough to enrapture any a man's heart, but her husband's, now a lump of hardened ice. 

"what are you, a whore of christ?" it's the first indignity ivan offers adalsinda tonight, nose turning in clear distaste for her fashion -- she is the french harlot that has cursed his line, as his people deemed her, reasoning him to his despite and impertinence. perhaps it would be better for them to avoid this - but for the sake of appearances the tsar is punctual, his insults perfectly timed as he remains in the doorway, weight shifting to his right leg. the longer his gaze lingers on her beauty, the angrier he becomes, jaw tightening as a hand comes to brush down a red embroidery against his faux fur lapel -- its scarlet color, the only detail in synchrony to his wife's countenance, had been more of a coincidence than anything else, and that simple fact only made his impatience grow.

@adalsindaofanjou

[rvriks]

alexander dreymon, 38, ivan rurik. ❝ ⤚⟶ FLORENCE, 1455. thanks is given by the IMPERIAL TSAR, SOVEREIGN OF ALL RUSSIAS, GRAND PRINCE OF MOSCOW, IVAN RURIK, from RUSSIA. they are at best PROTECTIVE, and at their worst RESENTFUL. whilst sojourning in florence, their ambition is to STABILIZE HIS REIGN FURTHER WITH A HEIR OF HIS OWN. HE seems to remind everyone of ALEXANDER DREYMON & CRIMSON DROPLETS UPON FRESH SNOW. ❞

hello friends it's mina with her second child, ivan. he's like days old but i already hate him and i hope you will too. if you like this post i’ll come seeking you for plots, but feel free to hit me up on the ims or discord for me to endless fawn over you and your muses.

                                    app + profile // timeline

[rvriks]

Uhtred of Bebbanburg | The Last Kingdom (S3)

[rvriks]

Sophia, TV mini-series, 2016  ↠  male costumes (1.01)

country: Russia

period: 2nd half of the XVth century