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There was a great heaviness that lingered between the two royal women that neither were able to ignore. Formality marred by decades of bad blood between opposing nations ensured that this meeting would hardly signify any genuine love and affection between relatives. The two were, in fact, strangers with too little an idea of what to expect from one another to ever embrace as both sisters and peaceful neighbors. Still, the Queen of Scots would not conceive of conducting herself as anything less than a loving cousin and dutiful monarch within the presence of so many courtiers who anticipated a harmonious union. She would behave as though their shared blood meant something more than fleeting claims or teetering crowns. Surely such a humble sentiment would count for something.

Despite standing several inches shorter than her cousin, The Princess Elizabeth indeed cut a rather imposing figure of English excellence, swathed in the finest of crimson and gold thread that accentuated her svelte form. It was said that her highness' likeness was formed by a glowing combination of both the late King and the Dowager's best features — her tresses the shade of the infamous Tudor red and her eyes a deep, dark obsidian. Having finally made her acquaintance, Mary found truth in such stories, and it was within that pitch-black gaze that the she noticed a twinkle that toiled within the catchlight of the abyss — a marker of Elizabeth's ambition. All of the Boleyns seemed to share that very same glimmer that kept them nestled safely in Henry Tudor's good favor for a time, and now within William's.

With an inborn elegance, the Princess gestured for the Queen to join her, a request in which Mary naturally obliged as she dipped into her cushioned arm chair and splayed her skirts evenly over her legs. Most notably absent from Elizabeth's near impeccable etiquette was a simple curtsy as it was expected for those of lower rank to acknowledge an anointed monarch in such fashion. If Elizabeth's oversight was meant to be a slight against her, Mary did not take it as such. One who was Queen twice over was in no shortage of trifling displays of respect from her kin. She was, instead, greeted with her cousin's slender hand to join with her own as servants shuffled before them to place a tray of sweets and a tall pitcher of wine between them. Gliding from Elizabeth's pleasant tongue came affirmations of their kinship as well as her eagerness to develop their bond as would-be sisters. In return, Mary offered her a gentle squeeze of her palm in tandem with the radiance of her wide smile. "Then we shall certainly embrace as sisters, for we are too near of kin to behave as otherwise." Mary answered before taking her recently filled chalice in hand and delicately swirling the deep amber contents.

At Elizabeth's mention of her sweet Francois, Mary's cheeks softened and her lips slowly thinned from her previous smile. The arduous journey across the channel was made all the more difficult without her husband. Each night, she prayed to the Virgin Mother for Francois' recovery so that he might return to her once more and be as he was before tragedy befell him. "His absence is felt within every pulse of my heart," Mary began, her gaze drifting downward to look upon the golden rim of her glass. "but I am his wife and lawful Queen. I represent him in all things — 'tis a privilege one comes to cherish when they are wed." She confessed before bringing the rim of her glass up to her lips for a small sip of wine. The dual crowns of Scotland and France took form in herself at this summit. She would do her very best to perform good works here in England and return to her place in France to tell her beloved of all that was accomplished in their name for their countries. "As you are currently unwed, it is my greatest hope that you will someday soon know the blessings of wifehood."

There was no denying that the presence of so many carriers of royal blood unsettled the heir, who’s position remained set upon shaken ground due to the fact that both rumour and the further idea of her brother’s eventual marriage, which would secure the future and undermine the strength of Elizabeth’s claim — of which, was still questioned, for the fact of her sex. But then, how was it that her cousin claimed the crown of Scotland? A land of clanship, near constant rebellion and skirmishes? Though Elizabeth, raised to distrust the rulers of the Northern lands, had been taught since her birth to think such a ruler unjust — were they not part of the same Isle, that Scotland thus belonged beneath England’s grasp, as Wales and Ireland were? Despite their shared blood that throbbed through their separate bodies, Elizabeth did not think Mary a true Queen, but more of a figurehead raised to the tune of Frankish hymns rather than ones of her homeland. However did a country think her their ruler, when her own people would pick William over her? So, when the meeting had been arranged to be fixed between the two cousins, Elizabeth found herself weary, her hands flexing with something unjust. 

Having been a Regent for the absence of her brother, Elizabeth had felt the heat of power and had since been unable to forget it. To rise to such a height, to usurp the kin who had been her most beloved true sibling, would be a sin within itself. But what if God had planned for the daughter to take the throne, rather than the son? What if what was meant to have happened, had not? Though her own personal opinion on the validity of her cousin was honest in some sake, she knew that if she had any chance at court, she would have to embolden Mary’s status, to put some trust and force behind the crown of Scotland as long as it kept Mary as its Queen. Even if it meant acting the familial host, rather than the defiant Princess. 

She watched then as this cousin of hers approached with her flurry of women presented in low bows of executed splendour, for she would admit that they looked quite fine, and seemed more akin to images painted upon canvas than actual breathing women. In some way, she found another strain of envy flicker behind her eyes as she stared down at her paternal cousin, her cheeks sucked against her teeth, refusing a bow if only because Elizabeth would not be seen as weak to any person — she barely offered even that display to her brother, not since their youth, at any rate. If the Scots thought this woman to be their ruler, then she thought only to prepare the for disappointment — for the French accent that wove itself against the tip of Mary’s tongue was obvious to anyone within Hampton’s Great Hall, solidifying the fact that she had been coaxed into a French way of life due to her foreign education. Shifting, her smile picked up from one corner, her eyelids lifting to reveal the onyx shade of her eye that had been inherited from her infamous mother. 

If her brother thought it far from worth his time to introduce the Queen of Scots into her audience, then Elizabeth acted otherwise — with a charm to her gilded visage of crimson lined with golden thread, she gestured for the Queen to join her at a table, so they could sit level headed before the rest of the onlookers of whom would most probably be making notes or sketches of this meeting, this reunion that was never meant to have taken place. Calling for wine and something sweet, she held her shoulders back to recall her tender height, to act as if she were her brother in all but name who stood somewhere above six feet. Extending a hand across the table, she offered the warmth of her palm in some figurative motion of an olive branch, her lips pursed as she looked to her. She was a beautiful woman, or would grow to be as such. She had the same shade of Tudor-red adorning her crown, along with perhaps Scottish inheritance that seemed powdered over with French finish. With the Guise behind her shoulders, the Serpent Queen as her mother-in-law, Mary of Scots was perhaps the most important person at that court bar the actual daughters of the late King, a fact of which left Elizabeth to blink, her smile twitched with impatience. “I would call you my sister, for we are intertwined, and I will see as such to spend such time with yourself as may permit,” she answered, before flicking her wrist so her ladies stood aside, instead leaving them with a handful of servants. 

“Your husband, it is a shame that he could not have come alongside you. What a fine entrance that would’ve made.”

[scotsq]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed started for @ladymegwelles​ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: Goddess Banquet - The Great Hall at Hampton court. 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: November of 1559

Within a week’s time, the Arthurian glamor of Hampton court had been shrouded in shades of imperial gold and shimmering emerald, the allure of ancient Greece breathing new life into those unapologetically English halls. Kaleidoscopic fauna imported directly from the coast of Athens flourished from rims of ceramic vases and strewn along the paneled walls hung illustrious tapestries that inspired much discussion regarding their histories and meanings. At every turn stood lavish Tudor courtiers emulating their chosen ethereal being, the room practically overflowing with Mediterranean opulence. Goddesses and muses alike twinkled with rare pearls and raw gemstones cascading their gowns as spellbound gods watched their every move with intent. Intricate and ornate environments such as these would always set Mary at ease, for it was in at the nucleus of magnificence that the white lily of France thrived. 

The Queen seemed to effortlessly float across the grand scape of the great hall as though she were truly the muse Terpsichore reborn, her curled auburn ringlets bobbing gracefully beneath a neatly wound plait and a crown of pure white lilies all bound together with red satin. At the moment, all four of her ladies (each of them styled as muses themselves to further compliment their dear liege and friend) were absent from her side, having dispersed some moments ago to integrate within the intimate circles at the ball. Never too far from their mistress, Mary could easily call upon them whenever the need arose, however it was not their presence in which the Queen sought this night. 

Among the swirling sea of cloth of gold and rich crimson damask, Mary caught sight of the lady Marguerite Welles, a name she had heard often in passing bearing a face that she would not soon forget. The raven-haired lady in waiting to her intelligent, albeit dull cousin Elizabeth was a striking beauty in her white silk and gold embellishments. What a pretty gem in my cousin’s court Mary thought. Gliding across the great hall in flowing silk like a paragon of French excellence, Mary paused once she stood across from Marguerite and dipped her heart-shaped head to acknowledge the lady. “My lady,” Mary greeted with a natural warmth that rivaled that of mother Earth herself. “We have not yet been formally introduced by I was compelled by your radiance to make your acquaintance.” Standing a decent few inches above her in height, Mary’s eyes scanned the lady as she admired her garments and extended her hand for Marguerite to take into her own. “I must call upon your tailor for I am in awe of his work.”

[scotsq]

                𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑨𝑹𝑻 : 𝑮𝑶𝑫𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑺 𝑷𝑨𝑮𝑬𝑨𝑵𝑻

Terpsichore, patron of lyric poetry and dancing.

An excerpt from The French Ambassador's report:

"The holy radiance of a blazing English sun was eclipsed by the six foot tall Queen of France in all of her innate grace and glittering majesty. A dreamlike vision in peach dyed silk and taffeta, The bonny and fair Queen embodied the fabled patron Terpsichore on the night of His Majesty's William I's Goddess Pageant at Hampton court. Woven into her amber tresses was a delightful mixture of white lilies and red ribbons, a nod to her Guise family members. By half past one in the morning, her Majesty had all but exhausted the the court with her skillful steps and sought to lull them to rest by masterfully playing Dont Vient Cela, Chanson & Gaillarde de Pierre Attaingnant on her lute." 

[scotsq]

The Queen of Scots had not known a peaceful night since her arrival to the Boleyn’s palace. It was inevitable that sleep would evade her when little fires were beginning to surround her on all fronts. First it was the English with their shameful behavior and prying eyes, then it was Scotland with its turbulent clansmen and her mother who struggled to hold her people together in her name. An ocean away, tucked in his beds lay her sweet Francois who would cling to life so long as God saw fit for him to do so. There was much to consider and an endless array of what-ifs swirled within her restless mind on too constant a loop for her to ever truly be at ease. “I too struggle to find rest and comfort here. I am also rather disturbed by the constant damp that bleeds down English walls.” The Queen’s frustration had been all the more evident as she violently pulled closer her shawl of white fur towards her chest and ambled over to her seat at Elisabeth’s side — the simple act of her stepping over a slumbering Atlas enough to stir the canine awake. “The morning shall bring new opportunities. Perhaps we might speak with the King’s men about improving our living arrangements. As they are now, I fear I have reached my limit!”

At the brief mention of Elisabeth’s lady mother — the would-be regent of France, Mary’s gaze turned to the crackling flames in the fireplace before her that illuminated the room in shades of gold and orange. The glowing red inferno reminded her so much of  her mother-in-law’s infamous ferocity. To endure the ire of one so formidable as Caterina de Medici was to brave the most treacherous of storms one might ever come to know. The fiercely loyal mother of her sweet boy king possessed a fiery and yet, rather peculiar temperament, one that the young consort struggled to both love and appreciate. At its zenith, the relationship between mother and daughter in law was one that had been forged upon principles of necessity and circumstance as opposed to maternal love. Since a child, vicious rumors of Caterina's uselessness as a consort leaked into Mary's young and impressionable ears by way of the Guise and their endlessly wagging tongues and hidden agendas. Perhaps if Mary had not been so easily misled by her uncles or had rejected the intoxicating glamor and prestige of the King's sparkling favorite, the Lady de Poitiers, she might have noticed that Caterina was a golden lioness waiting patiently for her moment in the sun all along. Only when the late King Henri passed to God did Mary come to understand Caterina and realized that to reach such heights of glory and promise, one must be willing to kill the softness from within—an honest and grim sentiment in which the Queen of Scots struggled with profusely. 

“Oh, come now! It should come as no surprise to hear that the Queen Mother nurses a sour disposition. We all know well how she behaves when happenstance delays her intentions.” Mary said with a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Mary knew that Caterina would move Heaven and Earth to secure advantageous matches for all of her children, chief among them being the lovely Elisabeth who’s position as a twinkling jewel in the Valois crown made her a highly sought after bride on the world stage. It was inevitable that Elisabeth would one day leave France to take her place as Queen like her mother intended, however Elisabeth’s absence from Mary’s side would surely leave a gaping emptiness within her heart. Raised like two sisters within the same household, they both knew each other exceptionally well and the thought of their permanent separation unnerved Mary to no end. “Worry not, I suspect that you will soon make the Infante’s acquaintance and he will be just as taken with you as any young prince might be with a beauty such as yourself. We need only hope that he is not short and hunchbacked.” Mary added with silvery laughter trailing closely behind her words as she leaned over in her seat and playfully pinched Elisabeth’s cheek. Once the silence found them again, Mary’s teasing expression morphed into one of genuine curiosity with embers of solemnity settling over her pale features. “Have you given much thought to what your mother could be planning for you? For what it might mean?”

Elisabeth was well acquainted with Mary’s position, both of them strangers in a foreign court and kept at such distance from Francis whose ailments did not seem to improve. It was enough to give anyone bouts of anxiety, even without the gossip that spread over the Tudor court in waves. That did its part to add to the torrent, and Elisabeth found herself restless, in need of a companion who could understand what plagued her.

They had been friends for so long, raised almost like sisters in each other’s arms, that Elisabeth felt no need to carry the formality which she had borne for so much of her life. She welcomed the Queen’s embrace, squeezing her forearm even as they separated.

“I cannot help but think you must be right,” she agreed, taking a deep breath. “Days have been so heavy of late. I feel tired and yet I cannot sleep.” With a sigh, she turned to sit in a chair near the fire, beside the one Mary had just vacated. “I have heard no news of the King, but I do pray he is well, and his lady mother. Things have been difficult enough without a threat of illness.” Her dark brows furrowed as she looked to Mary. “I have also not seen the prince or princess of Spain. I know my mother is frustrated by it all. She has been so irritable, I feel some distance from her is best.”

[scotsq]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed started for @julicnn​​​ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: The French lodgings at Hampton Court.  𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: November of 1559

It was the greatest of conundrums to be so dynastically connected—to have your blood linked too closely to your would-be enemies for there to ever be any semblance of peace between you. If only Mary could somehow sever the ties between herself and her inherent Tudor blood, then perhaps such a selfless act alone might establish a new age of prosperity for both Scotland and England to rejoice in.

Alas, Mary understood fervently that to deny her claim would be to forsake her truth, person, and birthright. If for no other reason than to further their own agendas, her uncles incessantly reminded her of all the sacrifices that were made to bring her into this world and safely into the comfortable arms of the Valois. Scores of Scotsmen, her kin, and her own father all bled at the hands of the English to defend what was rightfully theirs. For their honor and for the future of Scotland, it was also her responsibility to defend what was hers by right.

The Queen of Scots was fiercely warned against prolonged interactions with the innumerable enemies of the Stuart dynasty that lurked within the shadowy halls of Hampton court. She could receive their shallow displays of admiration towards herself and her two respective courts with a honeyed kindness, but she would never expect their sincerity. Lies and pretty smiles were dangerous when appreciated but deadly when believed.

For her own protection, Mary took caution with her words whenever she delighted in the company of unfamiliar persons and expertly guided uncomfortable conversations in the direction of more appropriate topics that better suited her cause. The Queen was determined to appear the pious and generous consort in the watchful eyes of every single Boleyn viper that sought to remove her as a threat to their King's reign. With Mary and Francis on the throne, their presence came with the promise of a strong resurgence of Catholicism and would mark an age of Franco-Scottish influence in England. It was well understood that the Boleyns and their band of loyalists would rather burn their country themselves than to see it bend to France, Scotland, and least of all to Rome.

Beneath a richly decorated canopy of blue velvet that detailed miniature golden patterns of the fleur-de-lis alongside the crimson Stuart lion sat the polished Queen and her four nymphlike ladies in waiting that orbited her. Resting within her lengthy palms sat a lavishly illustrated royal prayer book which Mary proceeded to read from to the four women when her icy blue gaze flickered upwards from the pages and caught sight of an approaching figure. Leaning in closer to the Queen, Lady Fleming whispered the gentleman's identity in French into the Queen's ear with a duplicitous smile painting her thin lips. "Monsieur de Vere, Madam." Another viper, mused Mary as she closed the leather bound book and placed it on her lap. She had been expecting to formally make his acquaintance for quite some time.

"Monsieur de Vere," Mary greeted, her long arm stretching forward to present her milky-white hand for him to take into his own. "I am most pleased to finally meet you. I trust the Winter season has found you in good health, non?"

[scotsq]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed started for @thunyielding​​​ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: The Great Hall at Hampton court.  𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: November of 1559

Throughout the months spent sojourning at Hampton court, the Queen of Scots learned that her coats lined with fine ermine fur would do little to prevent the chill of England's November frost from creeping into her bones. The golden rays of France's Summer sun kept the glorious little jewel swaddled in eternal warmth—reinsuring both her comfort and radiance whilst serving as her husband's consort. It was her uncles that spearheaded her claim in this frost-laden country, those greedy statesmen who delighted in the idea of their young niece seated upon the throne of England where she might finally restore the TRUE faith in these godless lands. Two thrones would never be enough for the Guise when Mary shared the blood of several prominent European dynasties. More than anything, the Queen understood that her kin's greed would spell her family's destruction should they be blinded by their own toxic ambition.

Behind her strolling in perfect unison followed four young ladies bearing their queen's namesake, donning a similar shade of elegant crimson as their mistress. Before Mary had been delivered to France as Henry II's prize, the four Marys were chosen as the Queen's chief ladies in waiting. Together, the four women modeled themselves after the glittering image of the Virgin mother and sought to serve their holy mistress as confidants and servants whilst she flourished under the tutelage of both her mother-in-law as well as her grandmother Antoinette de Bourbon. Like Mary, her ladies were rigorously trained to exhibit nothing less than what was expected of French excellence despite their Scottish origin. If the Pope and her uncles meant to dominate this court with carefully crafted lies, then Mary would put her charms to work if only to ease the the blow of their corruption. A slight upturn of rosebud lips could enchant even the most sheltered of English hearts and that, Mary decided, was how she would win this freezing country to her cause. By hook or by crook, the English would EMBRACE their Scottish neighbor as they would their own.

Though she had been rather off put by the lack of attention shown to her by the Tudor King, Mary was determined to treat with his Boleyn relatives regardless of their sordid past, heretic faith, and distasteful Dowager. If she could not build a lasting rapport with the King, Mary would find an ally in his sister—the previous lady regent. In truth, Mary knew little of her cousin, the Princess of England. The occasional reports from the French ambassador to England hardly provided a provided a satisfactory description of Elizabeth's appearance and temperament. As always, the defiant Queen decided that she would meet her cousin on her own terms and without her uncle's ever cautious advice.

At first sight of England's precious diamond in the Great Hall of Hampton court, The Scottish Queen's four ladies simultaneously ladies sank into a low and tirelessly rehearsed curtsy as a sign of respect for her Highness—further exemplifying the prestige of good French breeding. Of course, Mary did not bow, for she was a Queen in her own RIGHT and needn't do anything except nod her auburn head at her cousin and lace a subtle smile along the surface of her pouty lips.

"My sweet cousin." She began, her voice ever warm and dulcet as her French lilt dominated her tone. "Too long have I waited to enjoy the company of my kin." Mary added as her eyes quickly scanned the stature of the Princess Elizabeth. The Queen could not help but compare herself to her cousin who stood nearly a foot shorter than herself but still bore their lineage's famed copper hair. Elizabeth was a Tudor through and through, and yet the glimmer of her Boleyn heritage showed proudly through several of her features. A slight wave of her hand sent the four Marys that smiled sweetly behind her away with another elegant curtsy. Like sparkling ORNAMENTS meant to be admired but not heard, her ladies would disperse and position themselves into important circles that would bring their queen good fortune in the form of Boleyn secrets. "Should time permit, I would like nothing more than to spend this eve with you."

[scotsq]

               𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀 𝑺𝑻𝑼𝑨𝑹𝑻 : 𝑪𝑯𝑨𝑳𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑮𝑬 (  4/? )

[scotsq]

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Closed started for @princessedevalois​​​ 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: Mary’s chambers at Hampton court. 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄: November of 1559

The Queen sits in almost total silence save for the occasional panting from her Scottish Greyhound, Atlas who rests on a purple cushion at her slipper covered feet. The good lady Seton has prepared her mistress for bed early tonight so that she might spend the hours alone and collect her thoughts before meeting with her uncles in the morning to discuss the rapid decline of her dear Francis’ health. Her bath of oils and scented rose water did quite a bit to alleviate the stresses of the day that pertained to the matters of Scotland, but now there is an even GREATER issue settling within her mind; one that she would much rather ignore. 

The last thing that the Queen should like to think upon is her husbands fate which no child of God could ever dare to predict. Letters from the King’s office at Chambord which were intercepted by her mother-in-law and later delivered to the consort’s chambers detail a sickening account of her husband’s conditions that worsen with each passing day. Mary knows that he wails for her, she is certain of it. Her stomach tightens at the thought of him agonizing over his pain without her, Caterina, or Elisabeth there to offer him some form of comfort. It pained her to leave his side to make the journey to England, but she did so to show the power players on the world stage that their reign as King and Queen of France and Scotland is stronger than ever. Desperately, she needs the world to believe it so that she herself might also see some truth in it.

Only after staring at the missive in her hands regarding the most recent update on Francis’ condition does Mary decide that she will cease to fret over her sweet princeling’s suffering this night. Instead, her restless mind drifts to the holy mess of the happenings at the Tudor court. Today marks a week that England’s sovereign along with chief members of his family have been away from the court — their absence inspiring a litany of venomous RUMOURS in place of the truth. The twitterings of the French retinue suggests that the King and his lady mother are both abed with the pox. As a gentlewoman of the utmost grace and diplomacy, several letters were written at her behest by her secretary’s hand to be sent to William’s office wishing him good health and requesting an audience with His Majesty upon his return. Despite their differences in faith and Mary’s hotly disputed blood claim to his throne, she does not wish him any ill will. With her own husband’s health waning as it is, Mary believes it to be in poor taste to mock the health of another anointed prince even if she does think him to be somewhat detestable and nothing more than a PRETENDER to the throne.

As the Queen rises from her cushioned chair to make her way over to her desk, her attention is immediately claimed by the entry of her page who bows before her. 

“Your Majesty. Her Highness, the Princess Elisabeth is requesting entry.” A slight nod of her frizzy auburn head is enough to grant her beloved sister-in-law access to her apartments. It was at times like this when Mary needed Elisabeth the most to help calm her nerves and distract her from the horrors that her mind could conjure. 

“Lis, my sweet one” Mary begins, her arms that were previously folded to keep her ermine fur robe close to her chest now opening to greet her sister with a hug as she approaches. When it comes to Elisabeth, Mary knows that she needn’t behave like the queen of anything. There is no room for protocol when one is so near to the heart. “Was it not a mistake to accept England’s invitation? They treat us to an execution in our early days and now we are meant to speculate on the whereabouts of our hosts.” Mary adds, the flames of frustration flickering wildly in her blue eyes. “Tell me, have you any news regarding the Tudor king? I was told that he and the Dowager are not long for this world. I suppose we shall see in time if this tale has merit.”  

[scotsq]

                                𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 — 𝑴𝑨𝑹𝒀, 𝑸𝑼𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑶𝑭 𝑺𝑪𝑶𝑻𝑺

                                  “I was but a babe when they named me QUEEN.”

                                   𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑻𝑺.       𝑷𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑻.    𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑺.     𝑪𝑹𝑬𝑫𝑰𝑻𝑺.

[scotsq]

𝙈𝙌𝙊𝙎 — TAG DROP.

𝙈𝙌𝙊𝙎 — 𝙄𝙉𝙏.

𝑴𝑸𝑶𝑺 — 𝑨𝑬𝑺.

𝑴𝑸𝑶𝑺 — 𝑳𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺.

𝑴𝑸𝑶𝑺 — 𝑸𝑼𝑶𝑻𝑬𝑺.

𝙈𝙌𝙊𝙎 — 𝙃𝙔𝙈𝙉𝙎.

𝑴𝑸𝑶𝑺 — 𝑷𝑶𝑹𝑻𝑹𝑨𝑰𝑻.

𝑴𝑸𝑶𝑺 — 𝑾𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑫.