Post by Deleted on Aug 17, 2015 8:13:57 GMT -5
Ink-stained fingers; smudged prints across parchment. Who would ever think to catch a Princess Royal in such clear disarray?
No one -- or at least, that was what Antoinette believed; thinking herself safe in the relative solace of this uncharted section of the castle library, where she paced; gentle, measured, sweeping movements of her soft-slippered feet, a few steps in this direction, a slight twist of her hips, and a return from whence she came. Usually such behaviors were kept private for Antoinette's own study, which was a surprisingly lavish room attached to her chamber's solar -- but she had spilled a large pot of ink in a momentary fit earlier that morning, and the chamber was being cleaned, the shutters cast wide to relieve the smell of ink; and, suddenly finding the room oppressive, the Princess Royal retreated to one of the recessed havens of the large castle library to work -- assured, with some loftiness, that this was hardly the place to find the simplistic courtiers they were currently housing. And now here she was -- blonde locks swept into an ornate bun on the top of her head, a few rogue strands fluttering down the back of her neck; adorned in a surprisingly simple jade gown, covered in a crisp vest; one hand twitching the quill between her fingers, the other holding a pieced of heavily marked parchment rather close to her nose -- her own handwriting, flowing before her.
As blue eyes scanned the page once again, the Princess Royal's delicate features remained in a clear, focused expression -- the smallest dimple of concentration forming in her chin, the slightest indication of Antoinette's propensity to chew on her lower lip as she worked; a habit leftover from childhood.
The Bardic contest was just a fortnight away; and Antoinette had never eschewed the merits of practicing. Her voice, she trusted implicitly -- wasn't that the cornerstone of her reputation in Archades? Her ability to woo, to spurn, to spin with just a few choice words and a matching look? The performance itself was like breathing to Antoinette; but she wanted to be sure of the tale she intended to weave. It needed a double-effect; not only for entertainment and intrigue, but to serve as a lesson.
Perhaps, a warning. A ruling. It had to be right.
There was a slight pause in her pacing, and abruptly the Princess lifted her quill -- dangerously still wet at the tip with ink -- and with a quick dart across the page, something she had previously intoned was eradicated forever, deemed unacceptable when reflected against the remainder of her words.
No one -- or at least, that was what Antoinette believed; thinking herself safe in the relative solace of this uncharted section of the castle library, where she paced; gentle, measured, sweeping movements of her soft-slippered feet, a few steps in this direction, a slight twist of her hips, and a return from whence she came. Usually such behaviors were kept private for Antoinette's own study, which was a surprisingly lavish room attached to her chamber's solar -- but she had spilled a large pot of ink in a momentary fit earlier that morning, and the chamber was being cleaned, the shutters cast wide to relieve the smell of ink; and, suddenly finding the room oppressive, the Princess Royal retreated to one of the recessed havens of the large castle library to work -- assured, with some loftiness, that this was hardly the place to find the simplistic courtiers they were currently housing. And now here she was -- blonde locks swept into an ornate bun on the top of her head, a few rogue strands fluttering down the back of her neck; adorned in a surprisingly simple jade gown, covered in a crisp vest; one hand twitching the quill between her fingers, the other holding a pieced of heavily marked parchment rather close to her nose -- her own handwriting, flowing before her.
As blue eyes scanned the page once again, the Princess Royal's delicate features remained in a clear, focused expression -- the smallest dimple of concentration forming in her chin, the slightest indication of Antoinette's propensity to chew on her lower lip as she worked; a habit leftover from childhood.
The Bardic contest was just a fortnight away; and Antoinette had never eschewed the merits of practicing. Her voice, she trusted implicitly -- wasn't that the cornerstone of her reputation in Archades? Her ability to woo, to spurn, to spin with just a few choice words and a matching look? The performance itself was like breathing to Antoinette; but she wanted to be sure of the tale she intended to weave. It needed a double-effect; not only for entertainment and intrigue, but to serve as a lesson.
Perhaps, a warning. A ruling. It had to be right.
There was a slight pause in her pacing, and abruptly the Princess lifted her quill -- dangerously still wet at the tip with ink -- and with a quick dart across the page, something she had previously intoned was eradicated forever, deemed unacceptable when reflected against the remainder of her words.