𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 x x x X 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 x x x x 𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗘
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x x persistent + diligent confident + self-assured dedicated + passionate x x short-tempered petty self-righteous
x Get her masters (duh), to watch the american empire fall à la Rome, recover the Kohinoor Diamond from the British monarchy and return it to India, repatriation of stolen historical artifacts and the dismantling of american influence over the world x Being tied down and falling into generations of a desi culture trap for women where they end up having to abandon their hopes and dreams after being forced (at various degrees, sometimes just familial obligation, sometimes more violent) to get married at a young age. x will be given by GM
Born as Deevika Rekha Ali Khan, Deevi is the only child of Fazl Ali Khan IV Bahadur, nominal Nawab of Banganapalle, a fief of the Mughal empire, later a princely state of British India before Independence, and Sonia Dhanraj, the heiress of Shankar Dhanraj, one of India's biggest tycoons and founder of Dhanraj Industries. She is from mixed religious parentage, her father's family being Muslim, and her mother's Hindu. While born in Mumbhai, she only lived there until she was three, when her parents divorced. Following their divorce, she moved to London with her mother, and lived there until she was 13 when her mother remarried Canadian politician, Matthieu Richelieu, and moved with them to Canada.
Despite the hectic, scandal filled relationship her parents had (slutty cheating scandal, not like murder scandal - it's kinda funny if you look back at it versus scandal in India now), Deevi hasn't really had a difficult life, though there is the average desi complex ass mother-daughter relationship. It took her a long time to get over her mother's constant criticism and comparison to literally everyone else, even with her overachieving nature, that is honestly something that is so tied into Desi culture, it is infuriating, let alone the general sexism. It's so frustrating if she thinks too hard about it, because in the same breath your mother will go "you are never enough, no man will ever want to marry you," and "sweetie, have you eaten, do you want a present?" Just pick a lane. She doesn't hate her mother, or her family, but they are rooted in deep conservatism, which clashes with every fibre of her being, and with their own actions. Her mother literally told her off for dating instead of studying when she got her first boyfriend, like, mom, look at these newspapers you hypocrite. Her grandfather scoffed when her mother married two non-Hindu's, yet he arranged her match to a non-Hindu, and her dad is mad he ain't a Muslim, but he, himself married a Hindu. Y'all don't get to judge! Being desi in the west is just so annoyingly complicated, because there's the old ideals the boomers and their children still try to enforce, and then there's western condescension, and it's all just a bucket full of rage.
At 18, her grandfather arranged her marriage to Lucas César Reyes de la Fuente, both as a business deal and personal arrangement, being long time friends with his step-mother. Their wedding is set to take place as soon as she's done getting her Masters Degree. Prior to entering her post-grad program, she double majored in political science and South Asian history, with a focus on colonization.
dilkirani on all, means queen of the heart, so take that as you will
@dilkirani 𝗗𝗜𝗗 𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗧...
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅▅
xxxxxxxxxxx
𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙁𝘼𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙎𝙏𝙔𝙇𝙀.
xxxxxxxxxxx
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅▅
xxxxxxxxxxx
Would love to say it's classic or elegant, but really it's just whatever I like. I'm not really picky, but I will say when it comes to desi fashion, tv drama style is a big no-no for me. Who needs to wear that much gold and makeup when you're going to bed? Also a big no to crocs, they are the devils work. I have spoken.
𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 x x x X 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 x x x x 𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗘
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x x persistent + diligent confident + self-assured dedicated + passionate x x short-tempered petty self-righteous
x Get her masters (duh), to watch the american empire fall à la Rome, recover the Kohinoor Diamond from the British monarchy and return it to India, repatriation of stolen historical artifacts and the dismantling of american influence over the world x Being tied down and falling into generations of a desi culture trap for women where they end up having to abandon their hopes and dreams after being forced (at various degrees, sometimes just familial obligation, sometimes more violent) to get married at a young age. x will be given by GM
Born as Deevika Rekha Ali Khan, Deevi is the only child of Fazl Ali Khan IV Bahadur, nominal Nawab of Banganapalle, a fief of the Mughal empire, later a princely state of British India before Independence, and Sonia Dhanraj, the heiress of Shankar Dhanraj, one of India's biggest tycoons and founder of Dhanraj Industries. She is from mixed religious parentage, her father's family being Muslim, and her mother's Hindu. While born in Mumbhai, she only lived there until she was three, when her parents divorced. Following their divorce, she moved to London with her mother, and lived there until she was 13 when her mother remarried Canadian politician, Matthieu Richelieu, and moved with them to Canada.
Despite the hectic, scandal filled relationship her parents had (slutty cheating scandal, not like murder scandal - it's kinda funny if you look back at it versus scandal in India now), Deevi hasn't really had a difficult life, though there is the average desi complex ass mother-daughter relationship. It took her a long time to get over her mother's constant criticism and comparison to literally everyone else, even with her overachieving nature, that is honestly something that is so tied into Desi culture, it is infuriating, let alone the general sexism. It's so frustrating if she thinks too hard about it, because in the same breath your mother will go "you are never enough, no man will ever want to marry you," and "sweetie, have you eaten, do you want a present?" Just pick a lane. She doesn't hate her mother, or her family, but they are rooted in deep conservatism, which clashes with every fibre of her being, and with their own actions. Her mother literally told her off for dating instead of studying when she got her first boyfriend, like, mom, look at these newspapers you hypocrite. Her grandfather scoffed when her mother married two non-Hindu's, yet he arranged her match to a non-Hindu, and her dad is mad he ain't a Muslim, but he, himself married a Hindu. Y'all don't get to judge! Being desi in the west is just so annoyingly complicated, because there's the old ideals the boomers and their children still try to enforce, and then there's western condescension, and it's all just a bucket full of rage.
At 18, her grandfather arranged her marriage to Lucas César Reyes de la Fuente, both as a business deal and personal arrangement, being long time friends with his step-mother. Their wedding is set to take place as soon as she's done getting her Masters Degree. Prior to entering her post-grad program, she double majored in political science and South Asian history, with a focus on colonization.
𝗩𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗨𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗩𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗦 x x x X 𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗠𝗦 x x x X 𝗙𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 x x x x 𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗘
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx x x persistent + diligent confident + self-assured dedicated + passionate x x short-tempered petty self-righteous
x Get her masters (duh), to watch the american empire fall à la the Rome, recover the Kohinoor Diamond from the British monarchy and return it to India, repatriation of stolen historical artifacts and the dismantling of american influence over the world x Being tied down and falling into generations of a desi culture trap for women where they end up having to abandon their hopes and dreams after being forced (at various degrees, sometimes just familial obligation, sometimes more violent) to get married at a young age. x will be given by GM
Born as Deevika Rekha Ali Khan, Deevi is the only child of Fazl Ali Khan IV Bahadur, nominal Nawab of Banganapalle, a fief of the Mughal empire, later a princely state of British India before Independence, and Sonia Dhanraj, the heiress of Shankar Dhanraj, one of India's biggest tycoons and founder of Dhanraj Industries. She is from mixed religious parentage, her father's family being Muslim, and her mother's Hindu. While born in Mumbhai, she only lived there until she was three, when her parents divorced. Following their divorce, she moved to London with her mother, and lived there until she was 13 when her mother remarried Canadian politician, Matthieu Richelieu, and moved with them to Canada.
Despite the hectic, scandal filled relationship her parents had (slutty cheating scandal, not like murder scandal - it's kinda funny if you look back at it versus scandal in India now), Deevi hasn't really had a difficult life, though there is the average desi complex ass mother-daughter relationship. It took her a long time to get over her mother's constant criticism and comparison to literally everyone else, even with her overachieving nature, that is honestly something that is so tied into Desi culture, it is infuriating, let alone the general sexism. It's so frustrating if she thinks too hard about it, because in the same breath your mother will go "you are never enough, no man will ever want to marry you," and "sweetie, have you eaten, do you want a present?" Just pick a lane. She doesn't hate her mother, or her family, but they are rooted in deep conservatism, which clashes with every fibre of her being, and with their own actions. Her mother literally told her off for dating instead of studying when she got her first boyfriend, like, mom, took at these newspapers you hypocrite. Her grandfather scoffed when her mother married two non-Hindu's, yet he arranged her match to a non-Hindu, and her dad is mad he ain't a Muslim, but he, himself married a Hindu. Y'all don't get to judge! Being desi in the west is just so annoyingly complicated, because there's the old ideals the boomers and their children still try to enforce, and then there's western condescension, and it's all just a bucket full of rage.
At 18, her grandfather arranged her marriage to Lucas César Reyes de la Fuente, both as a business deal and personal arrangement, being long time friends with his step-mother. Their wedding is set to take place as soon as she's done getting her Masters Degree. Prior to entering her post-grad program, she double majored in political science and South Asian history, with a focus on colonization.
dilkirani on all, means queen of the heart, so take that as you will
@dilkirani 𝗗𝗜𝗗 𝗔 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗣𝗧...
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅▅
xxxxxxxxxxx
𝘿𝙀𝙎𝘾𝙍𝙄𝘽𝙀 𝙔𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝙁𝘼𝙎𝙃𝙄𝙊𝙉 𝙎𝙏𝙔𝙇𝙀.
xxxxxxxxxxx
▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅
▅▅▅▅▅▅
xxxxxxxxxxx
Would love to say it's classic or elegant, but really it's just whatever I like. I'm not really picky, but I will say when it comes to desi fashion, tv drama style is a big no-no for me. Who needs to wear that much gold and makeup when you're going to bed? Also a big no to crocs, they are the devils work. I have spoken.
- notes: saifu as papa 'cause he an actual nawab, tabu as mama only child - Fazl Ali Khan IV Bahadur (title in name only, as the privy purse has been abolished)
- amitabh bachchan as shankar, 'cause obvs, - jaya as lucas's step mother - nathna fillion as matthieu
- beren saat as zhenya's mother - kiril rubtsov as her father
Vera retired at the earliest possible convenience during the ball, not so early so as to seem rude, but she was certainly not staying up til the wee hours for frolicking. She had work to do. Well, she didn’t, technically, but she always was a micromanager, and finance budgets were a delight. She was quick to change out of her clothes and jewels when she returned to her room and toss them aside, with the exception of her crown and ring, before looking over the budget on a tablet by a window, illuminated by moonlight. All very romantic, just with legislative papers, and minus the recipient of her affections. After she finished looking it over and sent back her desired changes, she read through emails sent by her Ministers of Foreign and Internal Affairs, just general updates about key persons and organizations of interests, nothing serious, unfortunately. If there was something like a coup d’etat or rebellion on the forefront, she could go home to deal with it. She was slightly tempted to ask Nikita to stage another Yusupov rebellion, but that thought was ridiculous, and would complicate things far too much. He was already branded as the son of traitors, lest she ask him to become one. Despite the nuisance, an extended foreign trip full of pointless frolicking about was far more preferable to another Yusupov rebellion.
She sighed, before moving over to the bed with her tablet. It was early morning in Rustavya, far too early for anyone to be awake, but, if she remembered her programming correctly, Русtавя1 would be rerunning last year’s Голубой огонек, and Sergey Lazarev’s voice was always a nice one to fall asleep to. Settled into the sheets, she barely noticed the servants cleaning up her mess and turning off the lights as she nodded off.
The Rustavyan princess did not wake at any hour on the dot. She never did, mornings were her mortal enemy, and she loathed them. Oh sure, she always showed up to her appointments on time, but in between the aforementioned appointment and getting the woman out of bed? She was not a trooper, she was cranky, and uncooperative, and very much insufferable. There were some tolerable days, ones where she was even nice, but this was not one of those days. Vera was not happy to be woken by sunlight beaming through her window the next morning. Her maids had opted to pull the windows open, a well learned routine, shaking Vera awake by force usually results in biting and/or thrown objects, sunlight on the other hand provides a groan, a grumbled; “it’s too bright, have Vronsky fire a nuke at it”, another huff, and a turn to the opposing side of the bed. Her tablet had died over night, to be expected, she’d fallen asleep around the time Sergey was singing Новый Год. And as usual, a maid handed her, her phone just as Dominika Vororina, head of her personal guard, came in to update her on the status of her security, and generally just to do her job.
Tuning out Dominika, Vera rolled onto her back, she was awake now, so the curtains were drawn again to spare her from it’s neverending assault (and her maids from a persistently crabby mood). The daily security assessment was irrelevant; Vera trusted Dominika to handle anything that came their way, and she was far more preoccupied with the personal messages she had received yesterday and overnight when she was too busy frolicking and squeezing some work in. As usual, there seemed to be an infinite number from Yelena, annoying taunts from her brother, ever the businessman, Vlas was curious about the cuts of the various diamonds and gemstones worn by others, and of course memes and jokes from her ever disinterested cousins, but first to be opened were the splendidly adorable and infuriating ones from Nikita. His cosmonautics conference was going well it seemed, bastard even sent her pictures of goofy poses in front of a new model of Pluto. He did fulfil his promise of a knock-off moon rock though, plus a witty comment and autograph from her favourite cosmonaut to go with it. He sure does know the way to a girls heart.
“Ma’am,” said Dominika a little harshly, pulling Vera out of her little day dreamy world, “if you could please pay attention today.”
Vera pouted in turn. “What does it matter Dominika, you’ll kill anyone before they can get anywhere near me.”
“True,” Dominika conceded, “but it’s not a physical threat. Well, it’s not particularly a big threat at all politically either, but perhaps you should take a look at this paper, it’s an Aciran tabloid, the Lyston Daily.”
Vera rolled her eyes, and honestly, felt quite betrayed, how long had you been working for me Dominika? she thought. “What could a rag such as that possibly contain to either interest or hurt me?”
“It concerns your friends.” she said, handing Vera a newspaper. “Well, friend, and barely tolerated companion.”
Sighing, Vera took the paper and skimmed through the contents, feeling her blood boil. “Game of thrones? GAME OF THRONES? It’s A Song of Ice and Fire you uncultured swine!” she shouted, tossing the papers across the room, and scatting them over the floor. Though her servants didn’t jump at the display. They were used to this. Largely speaking, their Princess was a calm, rational person, but when it came to her passions, she was, well… passionate.
“Every time some stupid plebeian calls my most beloved series game of fucking thrones, 3 years are shaved off my life.” Vera huffed, very much crossing her arms and pouting like a child.
“Yes, ma’am, we’re all aware.” Dominka recalled a poor newbie ISO guard trying to connect with Vera over it once. The guard was swiftly reassigned and never seen in the capital again, though, from the trauma he received that day, Dominika was certain he’s pleased to never have to step foot in Vokshod again.
Growling, Vera reexamined the section about her friends(-ish). “I also don’t appreciate this nonsense about Yelena and Erik. I presume we can’t simply… relocate this woman, say to siberia?”
Dominika simply shrugged. “We could, but not quietly. Otherwise I already would’ve done so. I still could deal with if her if you’d like, but wasn’t the reason you were commanded by His Majesty to attend instead of the Grand Duke to avoid such a diplomatic incident?”
Vera sighed. “That’s true. Hate him as I do, my father still is King, and I cannot simply disregard a genuine command. But keep an eye on this paper, particularly so that I don’t have to lay my eyes on this trash ever again. Send a report to Sokolov, Gagarina, and Volkova as well. This doesn’t print in Rustavya, if it can’t be completely avoided, make sure to report it as a personal attack on the Crown and those dear to us. And be sure pull any press access this company may have, and deny them and all extended relations entry into the country. Block their website too. Rustavya does not take kindly to this form of journalism. It’s an insult an otherwise noble profession.”
Dominika nodded, deciding to keep her comments about Vera’s treatment of genuine journalists to herself, she’d bring it up later once the Princess’s Game of Thrones rage was out of her system. After another nod, this time in form of respect instead of “mission-accepted”, she made her exit to fulfill in a timely and succinct manner.
As for the Princess, she pettily blacked out the bit reading Game of Thrones, before rereading the paper yet again, more attentively this time; viewing it as a poorly written report by an inept local mayor trying his best to force herself to get through it. It was trash, just as she had initially thought, and not particularly coherent. Well, not to her at least. She didn’t understand all the fuss about a hat. The meme Natalia sent her last night about Coriolanous was far more hilarious. The end of the piece did make her laugh though. “Team Venera’s BFF”, Yelena would not like that. She had fame in her own right. She is no one’s daughter, sister, nor friend, she is Yelena Fabergé; supermodel, humanitarian, and budding actress.
Tossing the paper aside, Vera finally rolled out of bed to get ready for the brunch. It was only breakfast, in the midmorning, but she was the official representative of Rustavya and trousers and a blouse simply would not do. It was a semi-formal occasion, not a meeting of the Royal Republic Council after all. She opted for her mauve dress, it was light and simple, relatively speaking, Thin traps, a nice little v cut in the back, and decorated with elaborate beads and flowers running down it. She even remembered the designer this time, Giorgio Armani, though only because Yelena had dragged everyone to Armani’s show. She chose less jewels this time around, well, she decided to go for nearly none. One didn’t need to break out the Fabergé originals for eggs and muffins, though she did wear the forget-me-not ring again, but for sentimental reasons. And, course, some diamonds needed to adorn her head. Just a simple band, nothing too elaborate nor heavy, but shiny all the same. She kept her makeup simple, light and breezy, well, as light and breezy as Vera could get. Just a pale eyeshadow, winged eyeliner, and what's the point of lipstick if it's not a shade of murder red?
Once dressed, Vera didn’t actually head down to the brunch until a bit later. Vokshod was 8 hours ahead, meaning all the news channels would be reporting the events of the day, and there was a propaganda bill she hoped the Duma would overturn. It was a stupid law anyway designed by the former Minister of Internal Affairs. Also, she didn’t want to be too early to the brunch. It’s too early to socialize with strangers! After watching the news for awhile, she decided to brace herself and go through all of Yelena’s texts. And Vasily once called her a jealous hoe. Confident as she is, Yelena was, expectedly, not pleased about Erik and “Princess whatever of whatever”, as Yelena texted, being anywhere within the same vicinity of each other. She was, expectedly, irritated by the tabloid too. Vera assumed she got a copy before they pulled it. Or someone from ISO informed her. Or possibly Erik himself.
First of all, there are no teams. I’ve already won bitch.
Ah, Vera could envision the brunette now. If this were Rustavya, they would probably be in Vera’s study in the east wing, Vera pouring over some document as Yelena paced around ranting and correcting every small incorrect fact, even typo, as well as pulling out a random book and giving it to vera in guise of “helping” with her work. The book was always completely irrelevant, the stack of books was a nuisance, but it made Yelena feel better, so whatever.
Second, tf does she mean by “Team Vera’s BFF”, I have a name. And it’s worth more than her entire fucking paper.
That’s actually true. The Fabergé’s have a networth equal to a few small countries combined. In Rustavya, their wealth is only second to Vera’s, mostly because her wealth is the entire country’s wealth (there is a big gap between their networth’s though).
Also, where tf does she get off not using titles? I don’t care if it’s trash, respect your rulers.
Okay, you may not be their Queen, one day, but you’re royal!
And did you see that stupid thing about a catfight? Bitch please!
And I know you’ll say something like “cats are too good for this”, or whatever, but like it’s so stupid anyway. Has she seen me? I love Erik, but I don’t need to fight anyone.
Okay, maybe Empress C one day.
Also, bitch, the fuck?!!?!!!
Why didn’t you wear the black dress!
It goes with the egg pendant, and has that Targaryen/Sauron’s-dad look you like.
Speaking of your dragons, did you see the thing about game of thrones?
Like urg, read a fucking book.
Also, the fuck is that shit about a hat?
That is so a massive runway faux pas from like a decade ago.
Also, also, some good news, Vasya’s latest gf dumped him, called him a bitch as she left. She’s our new best friend.
Also, also, also,
did he seriously not interact with her at all?
I mean, I trust him, but I still don’t wike it.
I’m not one to talk, but holy fuck you need to chill.
Yeah, you’re not, so shut up.
Actually no, gimme details on what’s going on.
He told me he’s going to talk to pw, he trusts her, but I don’t know her at all.
She could be a Catherine loyalist like you.
I am not, I’m just a fan!
And Idk
it’s morning here
I haven’t talked to anyone except Dominika and the maids.
Then fucking go!
I don’t wanna be mean about his friend, so I’m not talking to him right now.
“You just called her Princess whatever of whatever like 30 times!”
GO. DEAL. WITH. IT.
pwease...
Urg, I’m a bad bitch, you can’t order me around and then try to pull at my heartstrings.
(I’m going, I’m going)
Stretching herself out a little, Vera made her way down to the tea parlour or wherever. She had a guard escorting her of course. She did notice the nearby library, and made a note to herself to get to it asap, though in the meantime, she did have an important reason to stick around brunch for a bit. And it kept buzzing her phone.
Don’t annoy me so early in the morning!
She texted Erik back. She was serious of course, but purposefully didn’t explain exactly what about his text was annoying her. Let him stew and suffer for a bit, she thought to herself.
When she finally got to the brunch, Vera was displeased. Like any normal human being, she certainly adored chocolate, but this much and at this early an hour (any time before 1pm is too early), not to mention the truly horrific colour scheme. If she were a commoner, she might regurgitate. But Vera was Vera, she simply sighed inwardly, plastered on her princess mask and looked for some bagels and a drink, before deciding to seek out Erik. No man on earth is truly worthy of Yelena, but she hated to admit he was indeed a close second. Even if he wasn’t, Yelena wanted him, for more than simple fun, and it would be the height of hypocrisy for Vera to deny Yelena’s right to choose her partner given Vera’s own love life.
Vera sighed as her attendants wandered about the room, preparing her attire for the evening, one attendant in particular presently adding some waves to her golden hair as she sat in front of the vanity. The heir of Rustavya was displeased, she loathed extended events solely for the purpose of follicking. In all honesty, her entire family did, they all refused their invites, but as the highest ranking member of the family, outside of the king, Vera was forced (commanded) into attending, one must keep up diplomatic relations in an ever more globalized world afterall.
She hated weddings. They were all the same. Pledge this, vow that. As the dothraki say, a wedding without at least three deaths is a dull affair, and most weddings Vera had attended in all her life had none. Alright, all of them have been death free thus far. Except one, which was an almost wedding and does not count. A story for another day. In any case, Vera found weddings to be maddeningly boring. She prefered cabinet meetings, diplomatic negotiations, tours of ISB facilities in the frozen military bases of Sibírj, not small talk with people she barely knew. She knew of them of course; the spy agencies of Rustavya were very diligent in their work, some may say too diligent, and she was provided with a detailed and extensive account of everyone who would be present. Their views and hobbies interested her little, she would much rather be debating tax law with the Minister of Finance.
However, the exasperated princess’s mood perked up a little when her phone vibrated to notify her of a video call, the icon of the dark haired man with a ridiculously sharp jawline making her smile softly.
Sliding the little green circle across her screen, she immediately addressed him Rustavyan. “I still don't understand why you couldn't come.”
Her caller chuckled, his stupid (pretty) face shining brighter than the sun. “It's simple,” he said, “they only invited royals and I’m not one. Vasya didn't get an invite either.”
“That's because he's not a prince.” Vera retorted, before sighing again. Nikita Yusupov could always improve her mood, but reminders of his friendship with her half-brother immediately soured it. “Where are you anyway?” she asked, observing the surroundings in the background.
“Tsar Gorod,” Nikita said, switching to the camera’s view to show her the bridge his driver was passing through. “There’s a cosmonautics conference being held at Petrograd University tomorrow.”
Vera groaned in annoyance. “I’ve never hated you more in my entire life!” she said, leaning back to petulantly cross her arms. Here she is, stuck on the other side of the world having to make small talk, and he gets to hang out with literal rocket scientists.
“You better.” Vera let out yet another sigh, at this rate she could provide enough carbon dioxide for every tree in the world. “How’s Yelena, I thought she was going to sulk with you.”
“She dropped herself off at Zima Palace, apparently she’ll be using Natalia for comfort now.”
“Hah, good luck with that.” said Vera laughing. “Natalia’s colder than me.”
“I know. Yelena also told me to remind you to make sure that Princess whatever of whatever, her words, doesn’t touch Erik. Ideally, they shouldn’t be breathing the same air.”
Vera lazily waved her left hand in dismissal. “Yeah, yeah,” she said, “she already sent me texts. 78 of them to be exact. She even tried to reason with me by bringing up Alina Radonova.”
Nikita shifted uncomfortably, his quick expression of unease not missing Vera’s eye. “That’s not the same thing as the Princess of…um...”
“Notia.” she finished, “I know, but it did work. I related. And it’s not like there’s much else for me to do here anyway, may as well keep an eye on her precious little soldier prince.”
“I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse yourself with, you love politics.” Nikita quickly replied, attempting to change the subject, exhaling in relief when Vera let him.
“This isn’t politics, it’s a party for a child. A lot of parties for a child. Vasya is better suited for this kind of thing.”
Nikita snorted. “Better suited for setting everything on fire. You know he’d cause endless problems for people, probably get himself killed too.”
“If only.” said Vera wistfully, before sighing yet again. Time to play diplomat, she thought to herself. “Make sure you give me a detailed report on the conference.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he said, giving a mock salute, before his expression soften. “Aōhon iksan,” he said, speaking in an entirely fictional language, which warmed the Rustavyan Rrincess’s frozen heart like no phrase in Rustavyan could.
“Ñuhon iksā,” she said in return, flashing him a bright smile before ending the call. “Idiot,” she muttered fondly, leaning back in her seat to allow her attendants to finish her makeup before dressing her.
Her makeup was simple, a light coat of eyeliner, a pale silver eyeshadow, nothing too extravagant or eye catching, though she did opt for a dark red. To give off the vague impression that she’s ready and able to kill a man. Her hair was done up rather simply too, just two braids running along the side of her, meeting into a small rose design in the back, but her was decorated with the diamond and pearl tiara which once belonged to her mother. Her gown was the real spectacle. Two tones of winter blues, made of light flowing material, and decorated with crystallized embellishments. It gave off a very winter princess, and considering the climate of Rustavya, appropriate.
Luxurious as it was, Vera didn’t know who designed her gown. Fashion was always Yelena’s thing, Vera’s style choices could simply be summed up as “Tsesarevna like, Tsesarevna wear.” Her jewels on the other hand, Vera was acutely aware of who was responsible for them. The literal gems of her country, Vera was adorned with Fabergé creations, with the sole exclusion of her tiara. The Fabergé’s had given her the matching Scheherazade set; a long pendant and dangling earrings made of custom-cut plaques of lilac jasper and mounted on borders of gold and silver, set with white and pink diamonds, and fine white pearls. The set was paired with the Nymphéa Bracelet, created in homage to Monet’s waterlilies and the art of the original Fabergé. Set in platinum, yellow and white gold, and silver, the diamonds are coloured white, blue, yellow, violet, and black, and are surrounded by rubies, aquamarines, alexandrites, amethysts, fire opals, moonstones, paraiba tourmalines, tsavorites, spinels, and blue, pink, violet, and padparadscha sapphires. Her ring, however, while another Fabergé creation, did not come selected with the outfit. Resting on her right index finger, it was a gift from Nikita, the Forget Me Not Ring. A tiny field of densely clustered forget me not flowers, mounted in gold and silver, the flowers are set with white, blue, and pink diamonds, violet sapphires, alexandrites, moonstones and fire opals, and their leaves and stems are set with emeralds, their centers set with rose diamonds.
After she slipped on her silver heels, Vera appraised herself in the full length mirror. She didn’t lack self-confidence, but she wasn’t particularly prone to vanity, however, she did look darn good. She might die of boredom tonight, but at least she’d leave behind a stunning corpse.
As she followed her guards down to the ballroom at the appointed time, Vera attempted to take in the architecture of the palace, but she was biased. No one was ever going to top the style of the old Tsars, so why bother. Okay, fine, Veredunians had some nice palaces, but she certainly wasn’t going to admit that to any of their faces.
Before they ran into people, Vera plastered on her well practised sweet Crown Princess Venera expression; the key to a fake smile is to avoid it being too tight nor too soft, give off the vague impression that you care, while making sure somewhere in the back of their mind, they remember you have an endless supply of weapons of mass destruction, and that dissidents have a habit of… disappearing. Show the beauty, and only give glimpses of the iron underneath.
As routine, she greeted the Aciran royals, addressing first the regnant Queen, and her consort, then the former Monarchs, and lastly the young royal. She said hello, but did not bow nor even slightly lower her head, she doesn't bow for her own father, and she certainly isn't going to do so for foreign royals. In her defense, no Rustavyan would bow to other royals either, so there is that. Vera repeated her rehearsed lines about their lovely palace, and ever so polite and courteous servants. She even avoided making a rude comment about some of their more idiotic (her words) politicians. She congratulated the young Aciran Princess on her upcoming nuptials, and then immediately set out in search of some vermouth, or really, anything with a high percentage of alcohol would do.
[center][h1][color=#8f7799]♕ 𝓒 𝓛 𝓐 𝓡 𝓐 ♕[/color][/h1]
[img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/233c3d76bea8b30f2d7d945e2e74591e/60b07236b1290cbf-36/s400x600/82ceda4107706f8d6379ed2481a276aba5970769.gif[/img]
[color=#c8becc]𝓆𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓈[/color]
[color=8c9988][sub]don't talk to me unless it's about dragons or pedro pascal[/sub][/color][/center]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;"><div class="bb-center"><div class="bb-h1"><font color="#8f7799">♕ 𝓒 𝓛 𝓐 𝓡 𝓐 ♕</font></div><br><img src="https://64.media.tumblr.com/233c3d76bea8b30f2d7d945e2e74591e/60b07236b1290cbf-36/s400x600/82ceda4107706f8d6379ed2481a276aba5970769.gif" /><br><br><font color="#c8becc">𝓆𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓈</font><br><font color="#8c9988"><sub>don't talk to me unless it's about dragons or pedro pascal</sub></font></div></div>
Member
