iliasbezukhov

[iliasbezukhov]

princesstatiana:

The use of her childhood nickname made Tatiana smile; once upon a time, when things had been easier and there were no worries in her mind, Tanechka had been one of her father’s prefered names for her. “You always use the same excuse, brother, even while in Russia” she responded and dismissed said ladies with a nod of her head. “One of this days I might start thinking you dislike my company.” She frowned at the papers and tomes sprawled across the table. Her ever restless brother, she couldn’t understand how Ilias never allowed himself just a moment of peace. “Or perhaps it is that you find me less interesting than-” she picked one of the papers from the pile and read the title, “-harvest records. Have these not been revised and filed already?”

She pursed her lips at the switch of language, not humoring it once her retinue had left the room. A sigh escaped her lips at the question, so far she hadn’t been able to voice anything but praises of the French and their land, always too cautious, too prudent with her words. But Ilias was someone she could trust, her worries and concerns would be safe with him. Her eyes didn’t leave the paper in her hand, scanning it absentmindedly as she spoke. “ I’m torn, Iliusha. I know myself to be more than able to walk through Paris with grace, but I cannot shake the fear in my heart. I might be getting closer to Ivan, but this is the Frenchwoman’s land,” the vile could be heard in her voice but wether it came from talking of the Tsar or his wife -she would never dignify her with the name of Tsarina-, was unknown even to her. “It scares me that I will fail in my duty and end like father.”

⋯

Ilias could only shake his head and laugh in response to his sister's insinuation, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "I apologize, my dear sister, for hiding away with our family's harvest records as you brave Paris alone." He sat back up, pulling the parchments scattered all around towards him, the smile sliding off his face. "But I do find this curious. Mayhaps you can make better sense of it than I have been able to." He pointed at a yellowing slip of parchment, dated in the year of our Lord 1411. "These were our grain totals almost fifty years ago." He turned to the book in front of him. "And these were our grain totals last year. Clearly, we are harvesting less now than we did before, but why would that be, when the estate's population has evidently swelled?"  

He had an inkling of the cause of the matter, but he was curious to hear his sister's explanation. 

Catching the shift in Tatiana’s tone, Ilias grew serious once more, knowing that they were heading into dangerous territory. Suggesting and implying was one thing, but to discuss the tsar and his family in this direct manner was something Ilias approached cautiously, and very rarely outside of the safety of the Bezukhov family estate, far away from prying eyes and ears. "Be careful, Tanechka," Ilias beseeched. "And do not forget that the very Frenchwoman you speak of is as much a victim of her circumstances as we are." He grimaced slightly, running a hand through his hair. He'd known about his brother and sister's machinations, but had been foolish enough to hope that they would be sufficiently distracted by the trip to Paris to make any progress. "So our brother still has you pursuing this quest of his?"

[iliasbezukhov]

ofcxterina:

@iliasbezukhov

it was a strange twist of fate that had led caterina to be on her way to a meeting with one of russia’s nobles. the trade deal made in lisbon that had conspicuously left florence out had include russia, a country most different to the usual suspects in the european retinue. it was a curious country, filled with hardened people, but caterina was determined to crack it. sunshine alone would probably not be able to break the ice, but there was no doubt that russia’s power was growing, and along with it, the pockets of the premier families.  

as such was the reason for her meeting with ilias today as a small gesture of the medici bank’s interests. applying her softer touch to russia —  now here was a part of her and lorenzo’s plot that they both would have to wait with bated breath to see if it was possible. it was a risky tactic to send the sibling that exuded tenderness and amity to the country that valued strength and impassivity, but they hoped she’d be able to connect with them as came natural to her.

it was just a knock on the door and an ushurence by a servant that led her into the quarters of ilias bezukhov and caterina steeled herself mentally for the encounter, welcoming smile on her face not betraying the trepidation that she felt. “it is wonderful to finally meet you. our correspondence has left me with many questions about you, about russia, all of it.”

⋯

ilias had hardly been able to believe his luck when he found himself exchanging a flurry of letters with a medici, a family whose reputation had traversed city, kingdom, and continent-wide boundaries, traveling all the way from florence to moscow. he'd had his attendants put away anything he thought the lady de medici might find too russian, too strange. he wanted to give out as european of an air as he could. so the lubki depicting peasant life in the countryside were put away, the tatar rug rolled up and shelved, the paintings depicting alexander nevsky and dmitry donskoi and the moments that mythologized them moved into a different room.

a knock on the door signified the lady's arrival, and he greeted her, anxious to sweep aside the prerequisite social pleasantries and customs and get to what they both really wanted to discuss. evidently, she felt similarly. "the same to you, my lady. i am glad we are getting the chance to be acquainted," he said. "wine?" one of his retainers had come in with two goblets and a pitcher. "i will endeavor to answer any and all questions you may have to the best of my abilities, though i fear i may turn out to be far less interesting than i may appear," he quipped, aiming to put her at ease.

[iliasbezukhov]

timeline 5

timeline 5: the timeline in which they continue on from the current point in their lives to the best happy ending that is within their reach, where nothing that has happened so far is negated but from now on, the happy things start piling up.

This is how the story goes. All the long nights spent pouring over parchment covered in dripped candle wax, all the years spent meticulously shifting pieces into place and coming up with contingency plans to cover every single one of Ilias’ bases, pay off. Ilias gets to watch the best case scenario unfold. It’s a bloodless coup. Well, relatively speaking at least. Ivan dies by the sword of his own people, and the significance of the moment is not lost on Russia, or the rest of the world for that matter. The other Ruriks are shipped off to nunneries or are given estates far from Moscow, in the plains of Siberia or in the mountains. They, like other enterprising nobles, must become pioneers. Their battles are now different, but the wild expanses of the boundaries of Russia contain a happiness and freedom unable to be found at court.

Tatiana Makarevna marries a puppet tsar, a kind but malleable man who also traces his ancestry to Rurik. Vasily and Ilias are at his ears, and Russia effectively becomes theirs. Ilias marries a Russian noblewoman and soon he has children of his own, who become his nieces and nephews’ playmates and dearest confidantes. 

All is well. Harvests are good on the estate. Russia grows, developing a burgeoning economy. Art flourishes, the church doesn’t make any trouble, and trade continues to expand.

But Ilias never forgets Ivan Dimitrievich’s face. For so long, he was so hellbent on seeking revenge that when he achieves it, he suddenly finds himself without a higher purpose. Russia is still Russia. His father is still dead. It’s been so long that he’s forgotten what his father looks like. But Ilias never forgets Ivan Dimitrievich’s face.

And Ilias comes to understand some of the sacrifices the man he once considered his greatest nemesis made. Progress. Russia always had to move forward. There was always going to be a price to pay for it. If Ivan hadn’t declared himself Caesar, someone else would have. And if it hadn’t been his father’s head, it would’ve been someone else’s. 

He is drawn back into piety in his last years. He crosses himself obsessively, holds his grandchildren tight, and prays for absolution for the things he did and didn’t do. But he knows this cannot save him. On his dying day, he expects to be met in the afterlife not by his mother and father but by the man he made into his life’s mission. Their fates were tied together a long time ago when they each made a choice: Ivan to execute Makar and Ilias to never forget it.          

[iliasbezukhov]

a slightly altered timeline.   send me  ‘ timeline ’  and a number and i will tell you how my muse and their life would have turned out in a life slightly altered compared to their canon one—same universe, but where something little, or something big, went differently.

the timeline in which they live an ideal life, had no opportunities taken from them, were subjected to nothing terrible, where they grew up to fulfil their full potential.

the timeline in which they never met who would become the most influential or important person in their life, or that person was taken from them before they were capable of forming memories.

the timeline in which something important to them happened in a different stage of life.

the timeline in which they knew beforehand of something they would have prevented if given the chance.

the timeline in which they continue on from the current point in their lives to the best happy ending that is within their reach, where nothing that has happened so far is negated but from now on, the happy things start piling up.

the timeline in which everything that could go wrong from this point on… does.

the timeline in which they never experience the loss that taught them something important.

the timeline in which they gain everything they want, except for the thing they wanted the most.

the timeline in which they live the life they currently see the most likely for them.

the timeline in which something big to them never happened.

the timeline in which something very little happened differently, but it changed a lot.

the timeline in which they had a person in their life when they needed one the most.

the timeline in which instead of the most influential person in their life, they had a person who had the complete opposite effect on them.

the timeline in which they took a chance they didn’t in canon.

the timeline in which they let a chance go by.

[iliasbezukhov]

jvanas:

a pleased smile took place in juana’s lips. she was quite afraid that he did not recognize her, and she would be playing a fool’s role. but thank god her fears were just irrational, as the russian prince seemed remembered their brief meeting. ❝ oh, is that so ?❞ her smile matched his, a mischievous gaze reflecting on her chocolate brown orbs. ❝ why my face is one that you couldn’t easily forget, your highness ? ❞ she asked quietly curious, switching her gaze to the cathedral’s tower. ❝ quite beautiful, is it not ? yet, i find toledo’s ones more imposing. ❞

( however, juana’s curiosity was genuine. she never saw herself as an interesting woman, despite knowing her beauty and how to use that. but she never pictured herself to leave a mark on someone, especially on a time when her mind wasn’t in the right place. )

his question was expected, as she also wanted to know what his thoughts about the city were. ❝ well … ❞ a soft laugh escaped her lips. ❝ if i was in french company, i would say that paris has enchanted me. however, it is not so different as my home. ❞ meeting ilias’ eyes, she added. ❝ however, as i am not, i must be honest with you. it is a pleasure to meet old acquaintances, but this sanctification disgusts me. ❞juana couldn’t understand why a king, someone she knew that needed to do non-christian things to secure his power ( as she saw her own husband doing so ), would be considered a saint ? ❝and paris have a chillier air than toledo, now in the winter, that i was not expecting. ❞ juana was hating the weather. it reminded her of scotland, of her son — alone and with responsibilities much bigger than a ten-year-old was supposed to have.

❝and you, your highness ? what is your opinion about paris and the summit ? ❞

ilias could only smile at her query. "i am afraid that if i answer your question, i will no longer be able to maintain the air of mystery i sustain so covetously. you must allow me this one measure, your majesty." his eyes followed hers up the cathedral. "i have never been to toledo, but i imagine i would feel the same if i ever do visit." he certainly felt that way about moscow (and novgorod and vladimir and yaroslavl) and their churches. and while he could concede that this french landmark was quite spectacular, it didn't spell home to him the way seeing russian churches' colorful domes rising into the sky did, on carriage rides home.

the bite of honesty in juana's next words took him by complete surprise; so much so that he couldn't help dropping his guard, even just for the briefest of moments. he glanced instinctively around them, making sure that they were indeed completely alone. nothing struck him as out of the ordinary. parisians hurried past them, going about their daily business. there were no eyes on them, as far as he could tell. "you are wandering into dangerous territory, your majesty," he murmured, the smallest of smiles on his lips. "you do not know where my allegiances lie, or who i am beholden to. perhaps my persistent gambling back home in russia has left my finances tangled and my loyalties with the french."

"i suppose, your majesty, that your only reprieve is if i am as forthright with you as you have just been with me. i do not particularly care for paris, similar to you, and am not particularly interested in the events of the summit itself, but rather the conversations to be had with the people who attend it." this was his signature—carefully chosen truths and even more carefully chosen omissions to be interpreted by his conversation partner as they wished.    

[iliasbezukhov]

closed to @blanchedanjou

location: l'hôtel saint-pol

This was the first time Ilias had felt uncertain in a long time, here in the Queen Mother of France's quarters. She was a notoriously shrewd and powerful woman, and he knew his usual charms would not work on someone far more canny and experienced than he. He'd taken a risk, coming here. The gift he brought, doubled it.  

"Fyodor," Ilias motioned his man over. He took the package, wrapped in velvet, from his hands. "A gift, Your Majesty," Ilias said, addressing the Queen Mother. He unbundled it and set it upon the table between them, revealing the slim, fragile, yellowing book within. "It is a first-hand account of the baptism of Vladimir the Great and his people in the year of our Lord, 988. It was written by one of my ancestors and has been kept and cared for in my family's estate for the last four hundred years." He paused, eyes searching her face. "I understand our respective countries are entirely different, but I am hoping not irreconcilably so."

Ilias knew this was a bold comparison to draw, especially to someone renowned for her piety. Gems and jewels would've been the more traditional gift, as opposed to an ancient, dusty book written in a foreign language about foreign peoples and a foreign religion. But these were the kinds of risks he needed to take, if he was going to do what he planned to do.

[iliasbezukhov]

𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖓𝖘 + 𝕣𝕖𝕕𝕦𝕔𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤

part one ft. @isabelofyork, @ofcxterina, @iliasbezukhov, @crownedprxncess, @adalsindaofanjou

[iliasbezukhov]

princesstatiana:

closed starter for @iliasbezukhov                                                                              location: cordeliers convent, prince ilias’ private chambers                                    timestamp: february,1459

Walking in unannounced into one of her brother’s chambers was one of the bad habits Tatiana had never really grown out of. She’d done it since they were children, barging into their rooms early in the morning with the only intent of annoying them; then, later in life, quietly slipping into their beds when the memory of their father’s death was too haunting to let her sleep. In any ways, it was always a great comfort to know that no matter how ill mannered her surprise visits were and what embarassing situations she could walk into, she could always turn to her brothers when she needed them. And now, far from her home and deep into the viper nest that was also called France, Tatiana needed her brothers more than ever.

“Ilias!,” she called for him as she entered his room. She walked deeper into the quarters, passing an antechamber that was just slightly bigger than the one of the room that had been asigned to her. “Brother, I must say it is quite rude of you to hide here while I have to face this place on my own.” Though her words were reproaching, her tone held a slight humor and her face the slightest hint of a smile.

⋯

Ilias Makarovich was a man who always had to be doing something or thinking something—never content with simply being still, he'd taken to sifting through old records of the Bezukhov estate's yearly harvests in his free time in Paris (when he wasn't plotting the tsar's demise, that is). What he was looking for exactly, he couldn't say. Some sign of progress, perhaps. If not progress, then continuity. So far, he'd found neither—just disclaimers scrawled in the margins. The Bezukhovs had fought too many wars for the tsar, sent too many of their boys off to die in the name of the Ruriks, and it showed.

Hearing his name, Ilias looked up from his work, watching his sister sweep into the room. "Well hello to you too, Tanechka," Ilias replied with a smile. "And I have not left you completely alone," he protested. "You still have your ladies—all better company than any non-Russian," he winked at the girls hovering in the doorway. Ilias cleared his throat slightly, switching to English to give them some privacy. "How do you find Paris, sister? All has gone smoothly, I presume?"

[iliasbezukhov]

shahmehdi:

Mehdi raised an eyebrow at the remark, which was undoubtedly less neutral than his own had been. Mehdi had heard, due to their shared border and over the course of his journey, as he gathered what information he could about the courts of the various attending kingdoms, that Iran’s northern neighbours were disconnected with the Western kingdoms, as they themselves were. “The Metropolitan?” he asked, the word unfamiliar to him. “If I understand you correctly, though, it is the same in Iran. We prefer to be entertained than to be the one performing.” 

At the appellation, Mehdi offered the man a smile; few here recognised him as the man he was, and there was something pleasing in it. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Ilias.” There were such a variety of titles among these men, that it was quite impossible to remember the lot of them, but the mention of a house seemed to Mehdi to imply royalty. “As I have of yours—the wonders of Rus are much talked about in Iran. The weather, too.” Mehdi laughed, though was forced to pull the heavy fur-lined coat he wore closer around himself in reaction. Even in the crowded, torch-lit room, the cold was unforgettable. “It is certainly very different. I used to believe I was familiar with cold, but my opinion on that has changed.” 

⋯

"The head of the Russian Orthodox Church," Ilias explained. "A good man, but not one known for being particularly fond of the proclivities of the court." He couldn't keep out the light tinge of irony that seeped into his tone. He'd been pious as a boy, obedient to a fault. But the wool was pulled from his eyes when his father died. He came to understand that the church didn't serve God, but themselves. In time, he realized that this was exploitable, because it meant that they weren't tied to the tsar either. But he still harbored a degree of resentment towards them, a feeling that would rear its ugly head every now and again.

"I am entirely certain our countries share many other similarities yet to be discovered," Ilias replied with a smile. The most important similarity being the containment, surveillance, and appeasement of the people who resided in the Caucasus Mountains, who obeyed neither tsar nor shah. But Ilias would not make mention of that. "We must organize some kind of a cultural exchange in the future. I am sure our respective courts would greatly enjoy such an event." He paused, eyes creased at the corners, searching the shah's face. "It is a pity that Your Royal Highness does not drink. Russian vodka is truly one of our greatest accomplishments, and is the secret to what makes the cold tolerable for us."    

[iliasbezukhov]

jvanas:

closed starter for @iliasbezukhov·

location: cathédrale notre-dame de paris, outside. 

she felt paris to be a fresh start, as god was finally smiling upon her. he did, one time. when carlos was born a boy she felt like her prayers were answered, and now, with this summit. juana was too engrossed on her own melancholic to make use of the summit in lisbon as a weapon to gather allies, and now — even as she felt a sadness in her thoughts from time to time — she won’t let this chance escape again. 

the princess spent most of her time alone, walking and making small talk with toher royals. she enjoyed her own company, but, if she found someone worth of her time, it was better to be without her ladies. she was a gossiper herself, and because of that, she didn’t trust her own servants. many of the gossips she heard, was from them. juana couldn’t risk them to spill her secrets. 

( but, truly, she didn’t mind having company. she wasn’t used to being alone. with three brothers and a large court, juana always had someone at her side. )

and the cathédrale was a beautiful view. the inside and the outside a masterpiece, in her opinion. however, juana’s attention was caught by the sight of someone quite familiar for her. she didn’t meet much people in lisbon, spending most of her time in her chambers. how did she manage to met ilias bezukhov ? juana truly wanted to have this answer. 

russia was a country that juana felt she neglected. it was a powerful empire and could be a great ally, if she talked with the right people. illias seemed to be one, as she knew that his family was close to the tsar himself. approaching the tall man, juana thought that, if she was shorter, she would be intimidated by his height. but as a tall woman herself, the castilian princess held her head high and with pride. 

❝ ilias bezukhov ? i hope you did not forget about me, although my time in lisbon was quite short. ❞

ilias liked to harbor illusions of independence when he traveled. it was much easier to shake off his retainers when he was away from moscow and the mud-packed roads they all knew so well. being alone was a kind of reprieve. it was nice to forget, even for a moment, his past and his present. it was nice to leave behind the anger that would otherwise be constantly pressed against his chest, to just breathe for a moment and regather his sense of self. 

so he took to the streets of paris, this february afternoon, walking amongst the city's peasants and merchants. he weaved between horses and the creaky wagons that rolled along behind them. he walked until he found himself coming to a natural stop in front of the notre-dame de paris. he was gazing up at it, still lost in thought, when he heard his own name called, somewhere behind him.

"your majesty," he greeted the queen mother of scotland, bowing slightly. she'd snuck up on him, but his training held true. his decorum was a shield that could never be broken, the whistle of an arrow that always found its mark. with the hint of a teasing smile on his lips, he added, "your face is not one i could so easily forget."

ilias frowned slightly, as he looked up and around them, taking notice of her decided lack of company. there were a lot of things he didn't know about the castilian princess—what her hopes and ambitions were. what she would do to see them realized. "how is your majesty finding paris?"

[iliasbezukhov]

shahmehdi:

where: great hall, the hotel saint-pol who: open to anyone

The French manner of amusing themselves was both completely unlike, and not very different from, the manners Mehdi was accustomed to. Here was luxurious food and music aplenty, and men and women dressed in lavish clothing, dripping with jewels. And yet, the food was strange, the music completely unfamiliar, from instrument to style, and there was a great preference for mobility. Rather than occupy a good seat and enjoy the music, they seemed to prefer to dance, to mingle and occupy themselves with conversation.

It was not entirely bad, he supposed; there was something that he would likely find more enjoyable about the whole process if it were not for the fact that he was entirely without friend there. Between difficulties of tongue and tact, the event was not quite to his taste. 

All the same, it was diplomacy that brought him to France, and speech was a significant part of that. Approaching the first person that seemed a good target for conversation, he said, “Do you know, I have never seen a dance of such a manner before.” He left out that he had certainly never seen so many members of nobility dance, either; many and more at home would be shocked at the very thought. They preferred to watch. “It all looks quite complicated.”

⋯

Ilias' father had always spoken of the West with a certain degree of contempt in private. And though this disdain was just another means for him to criticize his own son for a perceived lack of some distinctly Russian character, Ilias thought he may have had a point. All around him were soft, supple faces and frivolity adorned on doublets, headdresses, and poulaines. He assumed that the Russian equivalents had been cut down by the Golden Horde two centuries prior. He wondered who, or what, would bring the rest of Europe to its knees.

“Neither have I. The Metropolitan would throw a fit back in Russia.” A slight Ilias would not have dared to say if he were actually in Russia, but he was far from home, and the man next to him was clearly not a Christian.

He glanced over, and blinked, once, in realization. “Your Royal Highness,” he said, bowing before the other man. He'd seen the Shah's portrait in Moscow a while ago, but hadn't recognized him at first. “Ilias Makarovich, of House Bezukhov from Russia.” He straightened back up, a genuine smiling breaking out. “Persia has left quite a favorable impression in my mind; I have heard splendid things about your cities. How is the weather in your realm at this time of the year? Hopefully nowhere near as egregious as it is in Russia.”  

[iliasbezukhov]

armie hammer, 30, ilias makarovich. ❝ ⤚⟶ europe, 1458. thanks is given by the prince of house bezukhov, ilias makarovich bezukhov, from russia. they are at best visionary, and at their worst seething. whilst abroad, their ambition is to plant the seeds necessary to dethrone the tsar. he seems to remind everyone of armie hammer & freshly pressed linens; a solitary, onion-domed church accentuated by falling snow; and parchment covered in feverish notes. ❞ penned by elizabeth; cst, she/her, 21.

FULL NAME : Ilias Makarovich Bezukhov

TITLES :  Prince of House Bezukhov

BIRTHPLACE : Moscow

AGE : Thirty

LANGUAGES : Russian, German, French, English, Kipchak (rudimentary)

DYNASTY / HOUSE : Bezukhov

MOTHER & FATHER : Anastasia* & Makar

SIBLINGS : Vasily Makarovich & Tatiana Makarovna

OTHER : Princess of House Bezukhov (Sister-in-law)

ZODIAC : Scorpio

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION : Russian Orthodoxy

ORIENTATION : Pansexual (a well-kept secret)

PERSONALITY TYPE : ENTJ

VICES : Ambition, Anger, Antagonism, Insincerity, Ruthlessness, Spite, Wrath

VIRTUES : Ambition, Foresight, Friendliness, Industriousness, Kindness, Patience, Perceptiveness, Tact

HEIGHT : 6'5"

RECOGNISABLE FEATURES : Towering Height, Kind Face, Shrewd Eyes

REPUTATION : Currently, not much of one. Vasily is the better known of the two Bezukhov brothers. Some assume he is soft and apolitical, just another tool in his brother’s belt. Others are more perceptive, but exceedingly few people grasp the true extent of his machinations.

WANTED CONNECTIONS : Allies, Enemies/Antagonists, Friends, Lovers, A Wife. A mix of some of the aforementioned is even better.

THREE BULLETS :

From the second he was named, Ilias was mostly considered a wash by his father. Makar had wanted to name his second son Yaropolk, Igor, Mstislav, or something similar—a weighty, rugged, primordially Russian name fit for the Bezukhov line. But his mother had insisted on Ilias (Ilyushka among friends and family). Time only confirmed his father’s fears. Ilias was soft—a blond boy with tender features who smiled too much and struggled at the physical art of making war. It was evident that he would never be a fighter, a conqueror, not a Dmitry Donskoi, nor an Alexander Nevsky. So he was brought up to be a bureaucrat at home, trained in politics not combat. The church figured heavily in his upbringing too, and he became well-versed in the craft of piety. And though he was not becoming the military man his father had wanted as a second son, his father still invested heavily in his development. Ilyushka was to be his older brother Vasily’s weapon in court, a tool he could rely on to execute schemes to advance House Bezukhov.

Life in an autocracy was always precarious, but the more power one had the more perilous one’s existence became. One wrong move, one misstep, and Makar was gone. Ilias loved the fledgling, tenuous Russia the Moscow Rurikid princes (now tsars) had created, but upon his father’s death, he realized that Russia did not love him back. The lessons his father had taught him finally, truly, sank in, as he watched his family get tossed aside by the tsar like an unwanted rag doll, and as other noble families scrambled over each other in an attempt to occupy the favored position they’d once held in court society. Ilyushka lost his father as he was just coming of age, and it became the pivotal moment that would color his growth into a full-fledged adult.

Ilias Makarovich is certainly not of the same ilk as the Russian princes of old, whose very presence struck fear in their enemies’ hearts and inspired confidence amongst their people. He’s not rugged and tough, but polite and refined (that is, as refined as any European could imagine a Russian to be) instead. This civility masks an anger simmering just below the surface. He’s kind, and careful with his words, hoping to not draw too much attention to himself. At least not yet. But like any good Russian boyar, he’s just as ruthless, just as steely as his counterparts. It’s just not the time for Ilias to show his hand quite yet. On his good days, in his machinations for revenge he’s serendipitously schemed a revolutionary, radical new Russia. But sometimes the fury becomes too heavy for him, pressing down on his chest and blinding his vision. Those are the days his weaknesses and blind spots are glaringly obvious, and he has to lock himself up in his rooms lest he says or does something he regrets.

* some details regarding family life may change upon discussion with Nea and future Bezukhov players

[iliasbezukhov]

𝖙𝖆𝖌 𝖉𝖗𝖔𝖕!

[iliasbezukhov]

[iliasbezukhov]

St. George and the Dragon (fragment), Novgorod, 16th century