[center][color=B0C4DE][b][h2]A N A S T A S I Y  R O M A N O V A[/h2][/b][/color][/center]
[center][sup][i]G R A N D  P R I N C E  o f  G L A V N Y A[/i][/sup][/center]
[center][hider=Attire]
[img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/e8/81/fd/e881fd269863606158cab9183780a6d9.jpg[/img]

[i][color=lightgray]And yes, he is aware he is wearing 3 different patterns[/color][/i]
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[hider=FC]
[img]https://i.pinimg.com/564x/68/7d/e3/687de3bebf143ab88096cead0146df99.jpg[/img]

[color=lightgray][i]FC: Clement Becq
Slight change: his hair is a bit longer[/i][/color][/hider][/center]
[INDENT]He honestly wished he had the ability to sneak off and bury himself in Tumblr or perhaps find a room in which he could practice ballet rather than pretend he was going to be king at some point and would therefore need to try to make friends to possibly make alliances in the future, or that he would need to prove to the world that Glavnya was to be taken just as seriously as any other country being represented that night. Yes, there were problems that they needed to address, but they would get there. Hopefully before his reign could begin.

[i]”I should not be the future king,”[/i] Anastasiy had told his mother. [i]”That was Anatoly. He should be the one who will succeed Father.”[/i]

But the terrorist group [i]The Niet[/i] and their five bullets said otherwise, and thus the late Grand Prince Anatoly Romanova and his pregnant wife Karina were dead.

A year in the grave and Anastasiy was still upset. This was his brother, and his brother knew that he didn’t want the throne. He just wanted to dance. But someone decided he was no longer going to dance, and thus for the last year he had been cramming extra lessons on diplomacy and politics. And tonight, at the welcome ball to set off the festivities leading up to the wedding of Princess Ayleanna Lynton to Prince Zhou Mei, the crash-courses would be tested.

The entire world was about to be represented, it seemed, and Anastasiy had to try to leave a lasting positive impression on it.

And possibly gain future allies.

No pressure.

[i]”What would you have done, Anatoly?”[/i] he asked the portrait of his brother sitting on the vanity in his guest quarters at the palace. [i]”Would you have been frightened, nervous, ready to tear yourself to shreds like I am?”[/i]

He looked at the confident smile, the mustache over his brow, the one Arseniy had threatened to shave off so many times, the blue eyes (the left of which held a fragment of brown), and the rings on his left hand, and Anastasiy knew.

[i]”No, you would not have been nervous. You would have made friends with everyone and been the hit of the party. Hell, you might have even ended up being the one getting married in the end if you weren’t already.”[/i]

Anastasiy shook his head. [i]”But I’m not you. I was just supposed to be a ballet dancer. I wasn’t supposed to be future king.”[/i]

The grand prince eventually stood and looked at himself in the full-length mirror a few feet away from him. A navy blue three-piece suit, with the jacket covered in a silver floral pattern, met a white collared shirt secured at the neck by a blue and silver cravat tie. The pants were tight, like the tights he was so comfortable in. His boots were black, with silver floral decals on the sides, and had a heel to them he hoped no one would care about. With these boots on, he was a good inch and a half taller, which was honestly unnecessary. On his right ring finger was a white gold ring with a mottled blue stone, engraved in which was the sigil of his family: the roaring lion beneath a crown. On his left pointer finger was a simple platinum band with a pattern of square swirls. His dark curls were down, save for small sections from either side that were pulled back into a half-bun, though a few strands hung loose at his hairline to keep from looking completely awkward.

He had been advised against wearing a crown, so instead there were tiny silver pins that looked like the tiniest of flowers spread throughout the top of his head and framing his small bun. A touch of black eyeliner on the top lid and white on the bottom lid completed the look.

Two bodyguards glad in black suits with white gloves followed close behind him, there only because of the recent threats by [i]The Niet[/i] (as well as the actual attack on his late elder brother’s life). He was announced, and suddenly he wasn’t sure if he was presenting the right image. For many, this was the first time they were seeing Glavnya’s new crown prince, and he felt he’d just ruined Glavnya’s image forever.

[i]No, don’t think like that,[/i] Anastasiy forced himself to think. [i]This is who [/i]you[i]are, not your country. Do not forget that, and do not let [/i]them[i] forget it either.[/i]

He approached the hosting royal family and bowed, offering a greeting and a series of compliments before stepping away and looking around. So many people were already milling about, talking as if they knew people. There was a flicker of recognition as he saw a girl with red hair and freckles talking to a woman in a gown with roses at the bottom - [i]Genevieve of Maris and Mai Mei of Liang - wait my friend lives in Maris…I wonder what she would think if she knew I met her princess[/i] - but he couldn’t place why he felt he knew the princess of Maris. He’d never met her, nor ever been to Maris. He had no reason to know her. He pushed it aside for now.

A flash of gold caught his eye again, and he looked over to see a man in a…honestly [i]breathtaking[/i] gold suit with floral embroidery, rubies glittering in the light, and what he could only imagine was lovely blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. This man was [i]beyond words[/i] beautiful. Anastasiy gasped as he was struck by the sudden almost unwelcome image of the man pushing him against the wall and furiously making out with him, his knee against Anastasiy’s groin. The Glavnyan prince blinked a few times to attempt to make the image go away. If memory served, this was the prince of Castillya, which would make things impossible. Though damn the fact that first person he found himself sexually attracted to in a while was an untouchable god. The man he was talking to was also rather attractive, he realized, though the medals on his jacket made him think of Anatoly.

Anastasiy found himself looking down awkwardly. He looked up, around, anything. There was a man with purple pants talking to a servitor with bright blue hair. A—wait, the purple pants…didn’t they belong to the lead guitarist of The Mutiny? Decidedly not Anastasiy’s usual music taste, but surprisingly good. He wanted to ask, but he was afraid of interrupting their conversation. A clanking caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but cock his head at the sight of someone in a suit of armor. [i]A conversation starter for sure,[/i] he thought. Still, he decided it could also be a sign that they didn’t want to talk to anyone, and thus Anastasiy found himself wandering in the direction of the blond, Alejandro Aguíla de Agustín, and his dark-suited companion, Erik von Rothschild of the Empire of Veredun.

[i]Formidable friend, if I have my identities correct.[/i]

He didn’t exactly want to interrupt, but the blond was too pretty not to try to get a better look, and perhaps this would afford him a better look at the princess of Maris to try to figure out why he thought he knew her.[/INDENT]