#c: vasily
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art + hair pieces
#orientatalin by edouard frederic wilhelm richter#cant find this one#this one either its tougher than you think to reverse search them#portrait of josephine de beauharnais by francois gerard#the marquise de seignelay and two of her sons by pierre mignard#infantin isabella clara eugenia at age 13 by alonso sanchez coello#grand duchess alexandra pavlovna romanova of russia but i cant find the artist#marie frederike amalie queen of greece by joseph karl stieler#empress josephine by jean louis viger#queen anna of hungary and bohemia by hans maler#elisabeth of austria by jooris van der straaten#anne wortley by paul van somer#manuela gonzalez velazquez tocando el piano by zacarias gonzalez velazquez#adelingen by heinrich friederich fuger#the unequal marriage by vasili pukirev#idealised portrait of a young women as flora by bartolomeo veneto#a portrait of a noble lady by jan adam kruseman#changing the letter by joseph edward southall#lorelei by james c christensen#the crucifixion by jacob cornelisz van oostsanen#saint dorothy i think this is the title its kinda confusing by i cant find the artist#saint barbara by ambrosius benson#virgin mary by hubert van eyck and jan van eyck#princess maria alexandrovna by ivan makarov#ladies in the blazon room of the winter palace by adolphe ladurner#queen marie therese and her son by charles beaubrun#boyar's wife by konstantin yegorovich#dont know the title but its by barthel bruyn the elder#queen isabella ii of spain by unknown artist#portrait of maria therese charlotte of france by antoine-jean gros
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Vasilis Deerlington has AvPD!
Character and illustration by arcadekitten!!!!!
#avpd#avoidant personality disorder#cluster c#your fave is#hc#headcanon#vasilis deerlington#vasilis#cemetery mary#blackout hospital#arcadekitten#arcade kitten#I REFUSE TO LET THIS ACCOUNT DIE#Hi#the isnanity smp its hardcore miencraft
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Bell, also known as Vasili, says his favorite book is "Crime and Punishment" by Fyodor Dostoevsky. But what makes him "oddly" relate to the book?
If we compare Vasili to Raskolnikov, the protagonist of "Crime and Punishment," both characters experience deep regret for their actions, despite initially believing they were acting for the greater good.
Vasili's decision to join the Perseus Faction was driven by a belief that he was contributing to a noble cause, as Perseus promised that his involvement would help change the world. This was compounded by his forced retirement from the KGB under the General's orders. Similarly, Raskolnikov initially justifies his murder of a greedy pawnbroker and her stepsister, who acted as a witness as a means to benefit humanity. Both men took pride in their actions at first, only to later face dire consequences.
Vasili was betrayed by Perseus, likely due to Kadivar's jealousy, and subsequently brainwashed by the CIA after being captured. This led him to commit actions unconsciously under Adler's control. Eventually, he broke free, only to realize the full extent of his deeds and find himself hunted by those seeking retribution. In contrast, Raskolnikov constantly fled from his past, haunted by his crime and the fear of being discovered as the murderer. This was their punishment. For taking that one step that ruined their entire lives.
Both men were ultimately clueless about the true repercussions of their actions. Their initial confidence was replaced by guilt, regret, and paranoia. They both ended up suffering, recognizing that their actions brought only destruction and betrayal, primarily of themselves. They are condemned to live with their suffering, with no hope of redemption. Neither was perfect or innocent, but they were undeniably at fault.
And they'll have to live with that punishment, forever.
#cod#call of duty#cod bo#bocw#call of duty black ops#black ops cold war#character analysis#oc analysis#cod bell#bell oc#call of duty oc#original character#vasili bell sokolov#c&p#crime and punishment#rodion raskolnikov#rodion romanovich raskolnikov#fyodor dostoevsky
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an executioners hq, mid-morning ╱ @crestfallon
she's all knees and elbows on top of the desk, legs pulled up on the flat grain of the wood, an accumulation of joints like a mathematician's disassembled triangle. it's a position that speaks defiantly of relaxation, but if you were smart you'd start adding all those angles up, calculating what it comes out too ⸻ figuring out what that body, in all its sharpness, is capable of.
"privyet, comrade."
black boots on the wood, thick-soled, punctuate the sardonic drawl of a greeting. one toe pushes a coffee cup towards him before remora's head leans back again, eyes following vas.
"you look like shit. how did last night go?"
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location: the woolworth building bar @retrorsum
His sister had once said that he possessed the lesser known but equally hilarious sibling of the resting bitch face, and that was the resting angst face. He always just looked troubled, and he could be doing something as mundane as opening a piece of mail. But sometimes it comes with advantages, especially when he'd rather be left alone. The resting angst face conceals a little frustration as he makes his way to the bar, because now he has a feeling that the meeting that had been called that evening is not as simple as it seemed. And worst of all, he can't get sloshed. He's a man on a mission as he makes his way towards the drinks, and he's sure the person behind the bar can tell too. "After you," he says as someone approaches at the same time he does, just a little ahead of him so all he can see is the back of their head.
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Okay but guys
GUYS
#trystan is gender of choice so it can’t be them#it HAS to be lydea or astrid#and it honestly could be either of them because this book loves its side plots#but you have to admit that lydea makes the most sense#she *was* the crown princess when trystan was in exile & she and the queen doubtless had plans to maintain a politically-conservative rule#but that would be predicated on a) eliminating trystan#b) eliminating the act for heir equity (because otherwise vasili would take lydea’s place)#and c) making sure to eliminate juliana in the process (because she knew that lydea didn’t belong in the conventional line of succession)#killing juliana & framing trystan for it did all those things in one go#but then trystan came back & wanted to revive the act with nadja – so it was necessary to kill her#and then sebastyan kept pushing for the act – so he had to be killed as well#other supporting evidence for this is that lydea went mysteriously MIA at the time of sebastyan’s death#contradictory evidence is that it’d be odd for her to *kill* him to eliminate him rather than just letting him take the fall for the murders#the only explanation I can think of is that maybe sebastyan also had incriminating intel on lydea?#remember: he did have juliana’s locket in his possession#and he may have written something about lydea in the ledger we handed over to her#and we did hear him on the phone at the gala to somebody he’d made a ‘deal’ with#maybe he’d promised keep lydea’s illegitimacy secret in exchange for something? but then she realised that if he got accused he would tattle#it’s all only thoughts but it’s SO interesting to think about#I can’t wait to see what happens next#playchoices#choices: stories you play#crimes of passion#fandom essay#original post
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(detail from ‘The Incredulity of Saint Thomas’ c. 1600s by Guercino) (detail from ‘Jesus and Doubting Thomas’ c. late 1700s early 1800s by Franciszek Smuglewicz) (detail from ‘Bacchus and Ariadne’ c. 1720s by Giovanni Antonio Pellegrini) (detail from ‘Kriemhild’s Accusation (Kriemhild accuses Gunther and Hager of murdering her husband Siegfried)’ c. 1879 by Emil Laufer) (detail from ‘The Virgin of the Rocks Louvre version’ c. 1483-1486 by Leonardo da Vinci) (detail from ‘The Incredulity of Saint Thomas Secular Version’ c. 1602 by Caravaggio) (detail from ‘The Creation of Adam’ c. 1512 by Michelangelo) (detail from ’The Unequal Marriage’ c. 1862–1862 by Vasili Pukirev) (detail from ‘The Death of Seneca’ c. 1615 by Peter Paul Rubens) (detail from ‘Mary Stuart and William II’ c. 1641 by Anthony van Dyck) (detail from ’The Fortune Teller’ c. 1594 by Caravaggio) (detail from 'The Arnolfini Portrait' c. 1434 by Jan van Eyck) (detail from ‘Pieta’ c. 1876 by William Adolphe Bouguereau)
#art history#hand motif#art gif#gif#my gif edit#renaissance art#tw flashing#religious imagery#does this count as art?#took me long enough#art
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His face didn't feel as bad as his ego, to be honest. Even showing up at her house was a blow to his ego, but Vasili had nowhere else to go that wouldn't ask questions. And could patch up his scratches without kicking up too much of a fuss. "I didn't run my mouth this time," he smirked though. She knew him so well. "I was hoping there's still some friendly feelings you may still have for me to exploit," he explained and then another smirk. "And turns out I was right." He winced when she dabbed at a particularly painful cut across his brow, but truthfully he cared more about the pain in his side. "Shit. I think I broke a rib."
open to: m
Chloe wasn’t sure if it was super late or very early when he showed up at her door covered in cuts and bruises. Seeing him through the peephole like that was such a scare that she opened the door right away, forgetting she was still in her normal sleep clothes: an oversized t-shirt and panties. It was a shock if she was being honest, it had been over a year since their relationship had ended. She had been completely heartbroken by the whole ordeal but now, here she was with him sitting in her bathroom and her cleaning his cuts.
Dabbing at a cut on his cheek she decided to break the heavy silence, “You gotta get better at keeping your mouth shut sometimes.”
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'La Méduse'. Vasily (Wilhelm) Alexandrovich Kotarbinsky. c. 1903.
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Söyembikä, regent of Kazan
"Söyembikä (c. 1516-after 1554), ruler of the khanate of Kazan, one of the successor states to the Turko-Mongol state of the Golden Horde, located in the middle Volga basin around the confluence of the Volga and Kama rivers.
From 1549 until 1551, Söyembikä ruled in the name of her minor son Utamesh-Garay, before Muscovite Russia took Kazan in 1552. In Tatar national history Söyembikä symbolizes her people’s helpless resistance to Russian invaders. She has been the subject of popular stories, tales, epics, and paintings.
Söyembikä was the daughter of Yusuf (d. 1554), the ruler of the Noghay horde, one of the kingdoms that arose from the breakup of the Golden Horde in modern-day southern Russia. Söyembikä lived in a period of great uncertainty: Noghay, Crimean, and Kazan princes competed to revive the Golden Horde, and Muscovite rulers sought to protect and expand their territory beyond the Volga to the southeast. The grand princes of Moscow paid tribute to the successors of their former suzerains, the Golden Horde, but they also involved themselves in their dynastic disputes.
The Noghay princess Söyembikä became the wife of three successive khans in the middle Volga basin: Jan Ali (or Cangali, r. 1533-1535), Safa-Garay (r. 1536-1549), and Shah Ali (or Şahgali, r.1553). Her marriage to the pro-Muscovite Jan Ali was politically motivated and received the blessing of the Russian grand prince Vasili III (r. 1505-1533), who wished to secure his southern frontier from future Noghay incursions. The anti-Muscovite party in Kazan assassinated Jan Ali, and Söyembikä married the pro-Noghay Crimean Tatar Safa-Garay, a descendant of Genghis Khan. Her new husband ended up alienating non-Tatar indigenous peoples of the middle Volga.
Following the death of Safa-Garay in 1549, Söyembikä became regent for their two-year-old son, Utamesh-Garay. Russian chroniclers described Soyembika as a “lioness” who was energetic, beautiful, and wise. As regent she sought military help from neighboring Muslim states to resist Russian encroachment. Despite all her efforts she was caught between pro-Muscovite and pro-Crimean parties inside her government and proved unable to stop Ivan the Terrible of Moscow (r. 1533-1584) from gaining the support of the non-Tatar peoples of the Volga basin and Tatars who resented the presence of Crimeans on their soil.
In August 1551 a new pro-Muscovite government arrested both mother and son and sent them to Moscow. A year later Ivan the Terrible took Kazan. Exiled in Kasimov, Söyembikä was forced to marry Shah Ali, the pro-Russian khan of Kasimov, and separate herself from her son, who was baptized under the name of Alexander. Her son died in 1566; Söyembikä’s date of death is still unknown, as is the site of her grave.
Numerous Tatar traditions kept her memory alive, praising her for her strong opposition to Moscow. Some stories affirm that she warned Safa-Garay of the imminent fall of the kingdom and brought poisoned food and a poisoned shirt to the pro-Muscovite Shah Ali. Others say that in 1550 she appeared in arms to defend the city of Kazan. Others claim that Ivan the Terrible had heard of Söyembikä’s beauty and wanted to marry her, but the proud queen refused and the tsar took Kazan, imprisoned her, and asked for her hand again. Söyembikä promised to marry him only if he built her a high tower in the kremlin in seven days. With the help of the finest artisans, Ivan fulfilled her demand, but when the tower was finished, Söyembikä climbed to the top and jumped to her death. The Tower of Söyembikä, a former watchtower or minaret, still stands in the Kazan kremlin, but it was probably built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, long after the queen’s death. The monument may bear Söyembikä’s name because she prayed at her husband’s nearby tomb before she left the city.
The Tatar historian Hadi Atlasi (1876-1938), who presented Söyembikä as a model of courage and piety for all girls, indicated that women liked to read the Qur an at this sacred place and make wishes. Finally, the well-known “Lament of Söyembikä,” written in the first person, has long symbolized the historical fate of the Tatars, who became the subjects of a non-Muslim state after the conquest of Kazan in 1552."
Kefeli Agnes, Smith Bonnie G. (eds.). The Oxford Encyclopedia of Women in World History
#history#women in history#women's history#historyedit#16th century#warrior women#warrior queens#soyembika#khanate of kazan#tatar history#russia#russian history#queens#historyblr
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gardenias. | nikolai
part I
nikolai lantsov x reader
summary: Os Alta is alive with whispers of ambition as the Ravkan court gathers to find a queen for Vasily. Y/N, a merchant’s daughter, has no desire to be part of the spectacle. Forced to attend by her parents, she plans to keep her head down, avoid attention, and disappear before the night is over.
But secrets rarely survive the palace walls. A late-night meeting in the winter garden places her directly in the path of Nikolai Lantsov—the charming and unpredictable younger prince. Now, the one man she’s been desperate to avoid is far too interested in her plans, and to her dismay, she doesn’t entirely mind.
With her freedom on the line and the stakes rising, Y/N must navigate the court’s dangerous games—and the pull of a prince who might just unravel everything.
preview:
“I promise not to scream if you tell them you didn’t see who I was meeting with. Eryk’s done nothing wrong.” He lifted a brow, a sinuous smile curving his lips. “Do you promise not to bite, too?” Blood rushed furiously to her cheeks, indifferent to the fact that she was fighting desperately to keep her composure as she glared up at him, impervious to his taunting, or at least pretending to be. “I promise no such thing.” He leaned in, almost imperceptibly, a look of terrible amusement in his eyes as he whispered, “Good.” Then he straightened back up, hands in his pocket, all graceful, unruffled confidence. “But I find those sorts of nefarious activities are better enjoyed when one is well-rested. Shall I escort you to your room? Make sure you don’t accidentally commit some act of treason on your way to it.” She was careful to control her breathing, aware that she was one inhale too deep from being pressed against his chest. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m planning some grand act of treason with Zaitsev?” “Well, you have that look about you. A bit insolent, a bit treasonous.” “I thought you liked that.” He made a soft tutting sound, looking deeply entertained by the defiant tilt of her chin. “Of course I like you. It doesn’t mean I will just let this go.”
word count: 6k (i know. don't @ me, i made it even worse in the rewrite)
tropes/warnings: not cannon, vasily's still alive, nikolai's kinda suspicious that y/n is about to commit some kind of treason and it's reflected in the way he acts, there is tension and innuendos though sljdf
a/n: i'm not going to lie to you, this is absolutely going to be a multi-part. i'm enjoying writing nikolai being a teasing menace far too much not to explore it further, and i think nikolai would be far too curious and fascinated by y/n to just let it go (and a bit worried about what she's up to). i hope you enjoy it!
The air inside the winter garden was laden with the scent of jasmine. There was an oppressiveness to it, a warm humidity that lingered beneath the overbearing fragrance and made it hard to breathe. Or maybe it was just the nerves finally catching up to her. Tempting fate with illicit late-night meetings had a way of leaving one breathless, and that was precisely what Y/N was currently doing. Tempting fate.
She’d already sat down and stood back up several times, which did nothing to soothe her fraying nerves, so now she kept walking up and down the path instead, focusing on the repetitive sound of her steps. Her fingers were sticky with sap, the leaf she’d plucked from some peculiar bush rendered a soggy mess. She’d have thrown it away, but then she would have nothing to distract her from the nervousness pooling inside her chest.
This routine she had fallen into was why, when the door clicked open, Y/N halted in place, startled by the interruption. There was a beat of silence in which she could hear the startled flutter of her heart before the door closed and the key turned inside the lock. Disappointment solidified to stone inside her chest. A servant must have noticed the door was unlocked and locked it from the outside, that was all. Zaitsev wasn’t coming, and now Y/N would have to pick the lock again, this time with a slightly bend hairpin, in order to get back to her rooms.
Dragging in a shaky breath, she turned on her heel and headed in the opposite direction, towards the second door that led directly to the palace grounds. Taking the outdoor route back to her room would be a detour, but it meant she was less likely to be seen, and Y/N hoped the cool night air might help her figure out her next step.
“What’s the rush?” A voice came from somewhere behind her, startling in the deafening silence. “You’re missing out on the flowers.”
Y/N halted mid-step, breath caught in her throat as she stilled in her spot, uncertain. He continued, undeterred. “Or is the collection not exotic enough for the refined taste of a Ketterdam princess?”
This was not the Lieutenant’s voice - it was too silvery, too playful. Refined in its accent - not a native Kerch speaker, but a very well-educated one. Educated enough to have guessed who she was before ever hearing her speak. Shit.
She balled her fists and found her fingers still sticky, at once regretting both the leaf and her choice to assume someone had locked the door from the outside and not the inside. “I—” She cleared her throat, schooling her voice so she wouldn’t sound so guilty. “It’s the smell in here. It’s overpowering.”
“Perhaps the lady would find it less offensive in the daytime.” There was a pause, interrupted by the click of his boot against the marble floor. She swore she could hear the smirk in his voice as he continued, “As most people do.”
What she should have done was excuse herself and head for the grounds. Y/N knew this on an intellectual level. On a more practical one, she had a talent for talking back, and very little for demureness. “You are here too, are you not?” she said instead, then cursed inwardly when he chuckled in response.
“Touche.” She could hear him moving through the silence, his steps slow and deliberate. Could almost imagine him as a predator closing in on its prey in some distant, exotic forest. The foliage certainly fit the part. “But I like the smell at night. It’s jasmine, by the way. Night-blooming jasmine, to be specific. My mother’s favourite.”
She didn’t want to continue this conversation, but she thought that if she played along, she might still get him to pay her detour no mind. Men liked polite. “Oh? Does she garden?”
This made him laugh. It was a pleasant laugh - the kind that belonged to someone intimately familiar with the action, who found her question inexplicably amusing. “Saints, no. That would be quite the sight, though - my mother with dirt-stained hands, taking care of a living thing.”
While Y/N could empathise - her own mother was more delicate with her porcelain than with her children - she wasn’t about to discuss familial trauma with a stranger at three in the morning. So why was he? “I feel you are trying to make me guess who you are.”
“Well, as fun as that sounds, you could also simply… turn around. The joke will make much more sense that way.”
“But I am escaping,” she said, as if this was also very obvious. “It would be silly of me to show my face now when I still have a chance of getting away.”
“Is that what you are doing, escaping? Huh.” There was a rustle of fabric as he shifted in place, closer than she thought he’d been a moment ago. “Women don’t run away from me very often. What a thrilling change of pace.”
Y/N had to stop herself from snorting at this. For one, it was not very ladylike, but also, one did not go about mocking strange men with her back turned on them. She thought this one might just be egotistical enough to take it in stride, but she refrained from testing that theory out for now. “I’m glad I could thrill.” Her voice was bland, open to interpretation. Was she amused? Irritated? Disdainful. She hardly knew herself, and maybe that was the problem. “Are you going to stop me?”
“Would you like me to?” he asked, perfectly conversational.
If Y/N had had a drink to choke on, she would have. Instead, she forced her voice to stay even, and she shoved back that frustrated, sheltered part of herself that had always been bad at keeping her mouth shut. “A thrilling proposition, but one I will have to refuse. I’m keeping to a strict diet of sensibility these days, and none of that sounds very sensible.”
“Some would say that meeting Lieutenant Zaitsev at three in the morning isn’t a particularly sensible activity, but here we are. Minus Zaitsev, unfortunately.” He said the word unfortunately the way people did when they found very little unfortunate about a situation.
At this, Y/N spun on her heel, suddenly aware of the sound of rushing blood and the pitter patter of her heart in her throat. Prince Nikolai looked as pleased by this reaction as a cat would as it dug its claws into some poor, unsuspecting creature, or dipped its whiskers in a tub of full-fat cream.
And it truly was the prince standing in front of her, who had been standing behind her this whole time, and all Y/N could think about right now was that the joke did indeed make sense. Queen Tatiana did not seem like the type to take up gardening.
He was in his full regalia, as polished as he’d been earlier tonight - all shiny medals, crisp lines and the sort of lazy indifference that came with inherited importance and disarmingly good looks. She’d half expected the illusion of grandeur to dissipate this close to him, and at such an ungodly hour, but she instead found him more imposing this way, as impeccable as he’d been from afar.
She had to admit; she found that moderately irritating, amongst other things.
Y/N forced herself to stop gaping and lower her gaze, contrite. This, at least, she was supposed to be well-versed in. “My apologies, Your Grace. I didn’t recognise your voice,” she said, switching to Ravkan. She wanted badly to turn her back to him again, if only to hide the heat in her cheeks.
“How could you? I’ve never had the pleasure of speaking to you before tonight.” Y/N did not think she was imagining the subtle note of accusation in his voice just then.
Not that it wasn’t a fair point; she just did not like that he’d noticed it, that he’d noticed her. She had simply assumed there were enough girls being paraded around that her absence wouldn’t be noted, not until her parents finally lost their patience and shoved her at either prince, at which point she had intended to make herself terribly unamusing.
That plan, she thought, was already failing, if the amused way Nikolai was looking down at her was anything to go by. He had tipped his head to the side, eyes trailing along Y/N with the sort of intense curiosity she could feel burning against her skin. “No need to apologise. I’ve had enough performative politeness to last me a year.”
“Are you implying my apology was performative?”
Nikolai caught her eyes and smiled at the indignation in them. “I’m implying you’ve been avoiding me. The only thing you’re truly sorry about is getting caught tonight.” She had been right - he had the sort of mouth that lent itself to charming, easy smiles, the kind that made it hard to look away.
“That’s a bit presumptuous. Perhaps I’ve simply been avoiding everyone.”
“Well, I am a prince. One would assume this allows for some presumptuousness, at least.” He eased back against one of the smooth stone pillars, head tipped back, as he regaled her with a smirk. “Are you supposed to be shy? Is that it?”
Y/N scoffed. “I’ve run my mouth enough to know that playing that card wouldn’t work anymore.” She wasn’t sure what else to say but the truth, not when he looked at her like that. Too discerning for someone who was supposed to be used to unfettered, unquestioning admiration. People tended to take her downcast eyes and her rosy-lipped smiles as a given. She was sweet, deferential, a proper young lady. But Nikolai had handed her an accusation instead, and now she didn’t know what to do with it.
As if sensing her unease, Nikolai pushed himself easily off the pillar and made to step around her. “Yes.” There was an undue amount of proximity between them as he passed her, eyes trailing along her features, before he disappeared behind her back. “Pretending to be boring won’t work, either. I’m glad you gave up on that after two sentences.”
“Yes, I need to work on keeping my tongue in check,” she said, sullen. “How did you know who I was?”
She didn’t think Zaitsev would have told him, even if pressed - he feared his sister’s wrath far too much for it - and Y/N doubted he could recognise her from the back, especially in the deep dark of the conservatory. Yet there was something unsettling about the cavalier way he considered her question as he toyed with the flowers. Relaxed. In control.
“It’s in my job description,” he said, as if that might explain the overabundance of information on her. As if the Lantsov royalty were famous for taking their job seriously.
She bit her tongue and said instead, “Is it? I’ve heard princes have people for that. To stand behind you and whisper information over your shoulder.” Y/N could just imagine it now, a nondescript figure at Nikolai’s side, their voice low and quick. She is Braam’s brat. A member of the Council, and a rather powerful one. We might need him at some point, so play nice. Except she wasn’t yet sure if Nikolai was here to play nice.
He chuckled at that, an indulgent sound. “You’re not wrong, but I find those overbearing. They can be tough to get rid of when one wishes to slip away unnoticed,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I’m sure you can relate.”
She moved from her spot to follow him as he slowly made his way down the winding path, keeping a few paces back. “Well, mine usually know very little, but they are very good at keeping me from slipping away.”
“Yes, clearly they’re very good at their job.” He leaned in to smell an unnaturally orange flower, but Y/N caught the tail end of a smile on his lips before it disappeared behind a shadow.
“Oh, they are, but he left them back home. Wouldn’t want the Court to think I’m anything but obedient.”
He turned his head from her flower to look at her, flashing her a grin. “Can’t imagine why anyone would assume that.”
To be fair, Y/N wished there had been more disobedience to speak of in her record, but the prince didn’t need to know that. She was perfectly content with allowing him to assume the worst of her and did her best to look the part as she lifted her eyebrow. “Speaking of disobedience. Where is Eryk? I mean, Lieutenant Zaitsev.”
The hope was that once she put it that way, Nikolai would be free to assume all manner of less than savory things. Not an ideal outcome if you asked her mother, but a perfect one if you asked Y/N. I’m a headache, it was supposed to imply. So don’t bother with me. And Y/N liked to imagine there was some truth to that statement.
“Am I boring you that much?” Nikolai placed a hand across his heart, and Y/N hated herself for getting distracted by the way his fingers splayed across the medals, long and elegant, the snow white of the glove at odds with the deep blue of his uniform. “You wound me, Miss Braam.”
Oh good, she thought as she blinked and looked away from him in frustration. He’d glossed right over her innuendo - a modern man, just what she needed right now.
“It was not my intention, Your Grace. You are a delight,” she said dryly. Her problem was that it wasn’t really a lie - Nikolai seemed delightful, in a precarious sort of way. It was just not the sort of delightful that she could not allow herself to indulge in at the moment, and that she felt far too on edge to appreciate thoroughly. “He promised—”
Nikolai interrupted her, one gloved hand raised elegantly, as if he were used to people shutting up at a mere wave of his hand. Impressive, but Y/N found it rather annoying just how well it had worked on her, too. “I sent him away,” he said, stopping his walk to turn around and face her fully. “Alas, he obeyed. You’re stuck with me instead.”
Y/N felt the frustration that had been festering in her chest rise like the tide, choking out the words in her throat. She knew she had to keep it down, had to appear forlorn rather than irritated. A lover scorned, rather than what she truly was - simply annoyed by Nikolai’s snooping. She hadn’t meant to drag Eryk so deep into it, and she certainly didn’t appreciate the fact that this would inevitably delay her plans.
“Right,” she muttered, voice tight. She hoped she sounded the part at least, turning away from Nikolai to cast her gaze into the distance, worrying at her lip. She'd kept most parts of herself shuttered for so long now she couldn't will her face to remember the sadness.
She must have done something right, because Nikolai moved in the periphery of her vision, coming around to face her again. There were fingers on the edge of her jaw, the material of his gloves soft and runny against her skin. Not cotton, silk. Because of course it would be silk with him. She didn’t fight him as he gently guided her chin so that she was looking up at him and his gaze trailed along the planes of her face as if he were drinking her in. There was something so gentle and sympathetic about the curve of his lips then that she almost believed him. Almost.
“As lovely as you look in all your teary-eyes, heartbroken glory,” Nikolai said, the amusement in his voice bleeding into his eyes, into the corner of his mouth. He brushed his thumb across the dip of her chin. “I sincerely doubt you are anything of the sort. It’s that Ketterdam blood in your veins. Pragmatism above all else, no?”
And perhaps she only had herself to fault for this. She had been a bit too ready to play with him when he’d prodded, too quick with her words, too forward with her answers. Now, she couldn’t exactly roll it all back and pretend to be a lovesick fool. He wasn’t buying any of what she was selling, and she couldn’t fault him for it. She wouldn’t have believed herself either.
She sneered as she jerked her chin against his hand in a display of defiance, hoping for a convincingly withering look. “And is pragmatism an unfamiliar concept in Ravka? Quit playing with your food, Your Highness. This would’ve gone a lot quicker if you’d just told me what you wanted from me in the beginning.”
His mouth curved, a sort of satisfaction bleeding into his smile, as if he enjoyed nothing more than to see the facade crack. “Now that’s more like it.” His eyes slipped down, taking in the angry curl of her lip, the unrestrained clench of her jaw before he looked back up into her eyes. “Now where would the fun be in that, hm?” He was still looking at her as if he were observing a particularly riveting piece of art, one that might reveal some secret meaning if only you looked patiently enough. “Perhaps I didn’t want it to be quick.”
Y/N could agree with him on this - she did not think the youngest Lantsov wanted anything done quickly or haphazardly, especially when it seemed to bring him an undue amount of amusement. She tested the give of his grip - which was light enough that she thought she could easily bat his hand away - but he did not budge, their eyes still boring into each other. “Well then, perhaps I wish to rush it along.”
He chuckled, and she felt his breath brush against her flushed cheeks. “Do you, really?” His grip loosened, but she could still feel his fingers on her jaw, a ghost of a touch seeping warmth into her skin as he trailed them along the jut of the bone. “Leave then. I won’t stop you.”
When she didn’t move, he looked back up from his fingers to her eyes, gaze questioning. “Why, you’re a curious thing. Brought her to be paraded about the Court in the hopes of securing a marriage, no? But then you so diligently avoid both my brother and me.” His lips quirked, a shadow of a smile. “Strange. Can you blame me for being curious? For taking my time to figure you out?”
At any other time, the genuine curiosity in his eyes might have flattered her, even thrilled her. He was charming and handsome and slightly perilous. And she was supposed to be young and silly and unburdened by common sense. To have such singular attention of a prince pointed at her should’ve rendered her a blushing mess. But all she could think about right now was that he was the last person she wanted figuring anything out.
A change of plans, then. “Maybe that was the ploy all along? Have you ever considered that? Avoiding you, ignoring you.” She tipped her head to the side, leaning into his touch until she could feel the pressure of his fingertips grow heavier against her jaw. She tried to imagine herself as someone brazen, like it was a robe she could simply slip on. “It got your attention, did it not?”
He obliged her, his fingers slipping to cup her cheek, thumb brushing across the curve of her cheekbone. His eyes ran across her face and for a moment, she believed she almost had him. But he didn’t seem to have inherited any of that signature Lantsov foolishness. “I admire your talent for improvisation. Really, I do. It’s almost disarmingly charming.”
“But?”
“But, I’m not buying it. It would’ve been too risky of a plan. And unless you’re more arrogant than I am - which I doubt - I don’t think you expected anyone to come looking.”
If she hadn’t been so annoyed by him intercepting her every move, she might have taken this as a compliment. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, finally irritated enough to reach up and grab his wrist. The rich, thick wool of his uniform was rough beneath her fingertips, golden buttons digging into her palm as she pulled his hand away from her face. She hated how aware of him she was when she let go.
Nikolai let her, grinning delightedly at the sudden display of insolence, as if he’d been waiting for it from the start. “Not particularly gentle. I like that.”
“Fine. Let’s stop pretending to flirt then.” Because that is what this was - make believe. She thought she could see something more sinister lurking beneath it. He didn’t believe she was meeting Zaitsev for a moonlit tryst between forbidden lovers - which, in all fairness, was an entirely correct assumption. He didn’t think she was truly interested in him either - which was mostly correct. She was busy plotting, but not blind. Which had to mean he thought there was more to this, and which meant she was in trouble. She just preferred her troubles to be more forthcoming, and less charming.
“Who says I’m pretending?”
She levelled him with a look. “Please. How did you know when and where I was to meet Zaitsev?”
He watched her for a moment, chin dipped, his eyes unreadable in the darkness. She thought he might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell as he turned on his heel and strolled away. There was something languorous and insolent about the way he moved, like he was a study in effortless regality, the moonlight glinting off the gold details of his uniform, his hands clasped behind his back. If it was meant to unsettle, well… it was doing its job.
“Now that would be telling,” he said, voice playful. “And I like to keep an air of mystery about myself. It adds to the charm, I think.”
It would have added to the charm if that mystery hadn’t been immediately threatening to her and her plans.
“Fine,” she ground out. “Why care to find out about it at all? Why care to follow me? You could’ve assumed any number of more straightforward reasons for my disinterest. I want to be a nun. I have several lovers and no energy to take on more. I don’t believe in marriage, especially not to men I don’t know who also happen to have a reputation.”
“So, which one is it?”
“Maybe it’s all the above.” She lifted a brow. “I’d make a terrible nun.”
“Saints, I’m half in love with you already.” With a flash of a charming grin, he leaned against one of the giant tree pots and looked at her. “I told you. You never introduced yourself, and this charade has been going on for three nights now.”
“So your explanation is that your ego made you do it?”
“My ego makes me do great many things, dear Miss Braam. A character fault, I know, but no one’s perfect.” He didn’t sound remotely sorry about it. “So, what’s my reputation?”
Deciding they weren’t going anywhere soon, Y/N made her way to a stone bench that ran along one side of a small fountain. The waterworks were off for the night, leaving the water a motionless, dark mirror behind her. “Other than being disgustingly charming and well educated? None.” She sat down and continued, interrupting him before he could start gloating. “But you are handsome and intelligent, and that makes the bad things a lot easier to keep under wraps.”
He considered her for a moment, surprisingly silent in his contemplation, before dipping his chin once and strolling over to where she sat. “An astute observation. Some might call it cynical, but I suppose it’s fair, given the circumstances.” Y/N had half expected him to defend himself, but Nikolai simply smiled down at her, as if he’d read her mind. “So, other than general disappointment in mankind. Why are you avoiding me?”
“Well, I have a perfectly sensible explanation for that.” She said leaning back on her hands and tipping her head to her shoulder as she looked up at him. At least he was a pretty sight - she’d give him that. “My parents are tentatively hopeful—” There was absolutely nothing tentative about her parents; she was lying through her teeth again. “But I know better—”
“Of course you do.”
“Would you stop driving me up the wall for two seconds?”
Then Nikolai was laughing, and Y/N realised that all the other times he’d done it was only a good mimicry of amusement. This was the real thing. Startling and unrestrained, it left her looking up at the glass ceiling in faux exasperation, trying to hide her smile.
“Anyway. It’s the crown prince’s hand that’s on the table, right? And you said it yourself - we Ketterdam princesses are a pragmatic bunch. As nice as it sounds, I’m no royalty. So why waste my breath?” She shrugged. “Your kingdom needs political alliances, not my money. And if I’m debasing myself like a dairy cow at a cattle fair, I’d at least prefer to have a chance. I, too, have an ego.”
When she dipped her head back down, she realised Nikolai had been watching her from where he stood, playing absentmindedly with the buttons of his cuff. “From what I’ve been told, your father is a very rich man,” he said after a moment of consideration. “And I hear that sort of thing makes a woman rather attractive. Political alliances can be bought.”
“Oh, is that why you keep flirting with me? Does my father’s money make me so irresistible?”
“Well, that and the insolence.” He smirked. “But mostly it’s the insolence. Us Ravkans, we’re just not as pragmatic.”
“I can tell.” She smiled at him, unable to help herself, before dipping her chin to the side as she dragged her fingertips along the cold surface of the water. “Besides, I’m not too keen on being shipped off to a foreign kingdom, much to my mother’s dismay.”
This was a half-truth, but Y/N was well-versed in those. Yes, her mother was very much dismayed. No, Y/N did not mind being shipped away from Ketterdam. She just wished to do it on her own terms. But Nikolai did not need to know that - homesickness was much easier to believe than whatever truths she hid in her heart.
“Not even for a crown?”
She blinked up at him. When he looked at her like that, she thought she could imagine him as something plucked out of a children’s book. Like he might be a knight in one of those terribly depressing Ravkan stories about dead martyred girls. Like he might hold her body close to his chest and mourn over her in a field of poppies, impressive even in tragedy. She supposed then that she understood why all the girls flocked to vie for his attention once they’d done their duty of doting on Vasily. This, she thought, is what a prince is supposed to be.
“I have no interest in crowns. They seem heavy.”
“What is it than interests you then?”
Freedom. Agency. All things that were hazy and indescribable to her. She smiled up at him. “Now, that would be telling. And I like to keep an air of mystery about myself, too.”
“Fair,” he conceded, the amusement only a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth. He was standing over her now, looking down as she sprawled back on the cold stone. She could feel the fabric of his pants brush against her dress, where the silk lay across her knee, thin and insubstantial. She’d almost forgotten for a moment that she was supposed to be annoyed about her failed meeting, about his prying, about the ungodly hour and no bed in sight. Instead, she allowed herself to be thrilled for just a second, let herself be foolish. She’d been afforded so little foolishness in her life.
“Why were you meeting him?” he asked then, voice quieter and more serious than it had been at any point before. It was a proper question, she realised, not a provocation or a taunt. He wanted an answer, and she knew she couldn’t give it to him, not really.
“He has something I need.” Want. She’d meant to say want instead of need. The word sounded too raw for her liking, too close to admitting to a lack of control. It was more of a truth than she’d meant to offer him.
She pushed herself up to stand, and Nikolai shifted to the side to give her space. He was still close, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that when she looked up at him, he could see the steely determination in her eyes. “Go on then, make your threats.”
His gaze slipped down to the stiff set of her shoulders, the way she curled her fingers into fists at her side, nails digging into her palms. He hummed, and she felt it reverberate in her chest. “I suppose I could threaten to drag you back to your parents. Demand an explanation?” He said it in such a way that it felt less like a threat than an offer. As if he’d meant to say, Is this what you’re asking for? But he looked like he found the mere idea of it repulsive, as if it were beneath him. She felt Nikolai dealt in charming grins and soft-spoken, elegant threats - dragging her to her parents must’ve seemed positively barbaric to him.
“Yes, I suppose you could.” She turned where she stood, so that now they were facing each other fully, inches separating them as she looked up. “I promise not to scream if you tell them you didn’t see who I was meeting with. Eryk’s done nothing wrong.”
He lifted a brow, a sinuous smile curving his lips. “Do you promise not to bite, too?”
Blood rushed furiously to her cheeks, indifferent to the fact that she was fighting desperately to keep her composure as she glared up at him. “I promise no such thing.”
He leaned in, almost imperceptibly, a look of terrible amusement in his eyes as he whispered, “Good.” Then he straightened back up, hands in his pocket, all graceful, unruffled confidence. “But I find those sorts of nefarious activities are better enjoyed when one is well-rested. Shall I escort you to your room? Make sure you don’t accidentally commit some act of treason on your way to it.”
She was careful to control her breathing, aware that she was one inhale too deep from being pressed against his chest. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m planning some grand act of treason with Zaitsev?”
“Well, you have that look about you. A bit insolent, a bit treasonous.”
“I thought you liked that.”
He made a soft tutting sound, looking deeply entertained by the defiant tilt of her chin. “Of course I like you. It doesn’t mean I will just let this go.”
“That’s not—,” she stuttered, blindsided by the matter-of-fact tone of his voice. “That’s not what I meant!”
“But you are blushing again.”
She hated this. No. She hated herself for not hating this nearly as much as she ought to. And she hated the fact he was aware of it, too. There was an uncanny perceptiveness to his eyes when he caught her gaze, something self-satisfied in the sinful curve of his smile. It was as if he could hear the jackrabbit flutter of her heart, could feel the restless warmth that spread across her skin.
“Enough, Your Grace. We don’t have time for this.” She hated how exasperation had bled into her voice, especially when Nikolai remained as calm and poised as ever, watching her. “I can hear the birds start their singing; soon, the servants will be up. Someone might see us.”
He held her eyes for a moment, silent, and she knew he was listening, that he could hear them too - the harbingers of dawn. It would be daylight soon. Then he nodded, a note of finality to his voice. “Very well. I’ll find you tomorrow. Threats are better when made over a glass of fine brandy, anyway.”
“No,” she said, too quickly. “Same place, same time.” She would never get a good night’s sleep.
But the damage was done. It must have been the high-pitched, panicked sound of that no, or the unguarded expression that flashed across her face. Whatever he’d seen, it made Nikolai shift his stance, gaze reassessing. “I will find you,” he repeated, then added with a smirk, “privately. Unless the lady prefers to save me a dance?”
“Why would I ever… oh.”
He was a picture of ease - shoulders loose, hands in his pocket - looking like he had all the time of the world. It made her overly aware of how locks of her hair had fallen out of her up-do, burdened with the late hour. Of how she pressed her shaky palm flat against her bodice, weary of its tightness. She envied him for his poise. She wanted to reach out and ruin it.
“Oh,” he repeated, smug. And he had every right to be - she would’ve gloated too if she’d been that efficient in finding just the right buttons to press. And he’d done it with such grace that part of Y/N was impressed against her better judgement.
Save me a dance. It was a threat, not a request.
She could almost see it now. Nikolai, impressive in his full regalia, strolling across the ballroom towards her, a picture of single-minded determination. A gloved hand offered and an upturned gaze, promising nothing but trouble. She would know it was all for show, that it was not real - but the Court wouldn’t. All they would see was a prince singling her out, boldly showing his favour, and out of the blue at that. She couldn’t think of a worse thing.
“That’s low,” she said, voice dripping acid. Inside, she was fifteen again, entirely out of her depth, her mother’s voice ringing in her head. Silly girl, she hissed. These are not the games we women can play and win.
“No, Miss Braam, it’s pragmatic. Simple. Elegant.” He would take her hand and spin her out of her carefully crafted obscurity, thrust her under the scrutiny while the waltz played. The realisation was a rope tightening around her wrists, binding her hands until all she could do was watch the situation spiral out of her control.
And he was watching her; she could feel it, but her mind was elsewhere as she turned away from him. The boning of her bodice making it hard to breathe, digging painfully into her hips. She felt along her finger for the smooth gold of her ring, and she spun it around. Once. Twice. Thrice. Breathe. Once more. You can figure this out.
“Miss Braam?” She heard him step around her, keeping at a respectful distance as he dipped his head to catch her eyes. She must’ve looked terribly pale for his voice to have suddenly softened. “No one will know, I promise. All I want to do is talk.”
“Oh, is that all?” she bit out, pinning him with a glare. “Well then, your will is my command. Right?” Gathering her skirts, she quickly lowered herself into a mocking curtsy, holding his gaze defiantly from beneath her lashes. Then she turned on her heel and marched for the door that led to the palace grounds, heels striking the ground with an angry staccato.
“That was not my intention—”
She ignored his voice and the sound of his boots behind her, focusing instead on tugging angrily on the wrought iron handle that refused to budge beneath her hands. She tugged at it again, a frustrated sound escaping her. “They are plants for Ghezen’s sake, not the Royal treasury. Is this truly necessary?” She reached up to pull another pin out of her hair, a lock slipping down to brush against her bare shoulder. Now she probably looked like she actually had been doing something terribly interesting, not just arguing in circles with an entitled prince.
“They are expensive plants,” he said from somewhere beside her. “Are you trying to pick the lock?”
“I do not try to do anything, Your Highness. How do you think I got in here before?”
She was just about to lower herself into a crouch when she felt his hand at her elbow, pulling her up. When she turned to glare at him, she found him dangling a bundle of ornate keys from his forefinger, eyebrow raised. “May I?”
It had occurred to her to refuse him on principle - but it was near dawn, and she had been trying to keep that stubborn, vindictive part of herself in check for a while now. This was good practice. She nodded and looked up at the glass ceiling, focusing on the deep, lazy stretch of the night sky beyond instead of the way his shoulder brushed against her arm as he came closer and unlocked the door.
“I hope you will reconsider my request for that dance at some point.”
She looked at him, incredulous. “You threatened me with it.”
“Yes, it is an unfortunate coincidence that the thing I wish for is the same as the thing that threatens you.” He held her gaze for a moment, a smile playing across his lips, before he looked down between them. Y/N followed his gaze reflexively, frowning when she realised there was a flower in them, so delicate and white that it almost blended into the silk of his gloves. “Since you don’t like the smell of jasmine,” he said and held it out to her.
Y/N stared, uncertain. Curiosity was a familiar, unrelenting beast inside her mind, and she decided she did not have the energy to fight it tonight. “What is it?”
“Gardenia. A personal favourite.” He waited for her to take it from his hand, then smiled at her. “Go. I’ll wait ten minutes and leave out the other door.” With that, he turned and strolled back in the other direction - unhurried, languid, and infuriatingly prepossessing. His voice carried over to her as he looked back over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Miss Braam. I look forward to tomorrow.”
For a moment, Y/N remained standing there, still reeling, before she forced her limbs to comply and stumbled out onto the grounds, desperate for fresh air. It was only then, and once her senses had cleared on her way back to her bedroom, that she realised he hadn’t lied about the flower. Its fragrance was a sweet, charming thing.
If later on she put it in a small crystal glass and placed it on her nightstand, that was only because she hated seeing flowers go to waste. And if her mind was full of its fragrance and the memory of Nikolai’s fingers running along the slope of her jaw, she blamed it on weariness and the uncontrollable nature of dreams.
#nikolai lantsov#nikolai lantsov imagine#nikolai lantsov x reader#grishaverse x reader#nikolai lantsov imagines#nikolai lantsov x you#nikolai lantsov fanfic#nikolai lantsov x y/n#nikolai x you#nikolai x reader#nikolai x y/n#shadow and bone#sob#shadow and bone imagine#nikolai lantsov my beloved#tbh nikolai drives me insane every time i write him#this is a monstrosity of a fic and i have zero regrets#gardenias
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Ivan III of Russia
Ivan III of Russia (Ivan the Great) was the Grand Prince of Moscow and Russia from 1462 to 1505. Ivan III was born in 1440 to Grand Prince Vasily II of Moscow (r. 1425-1462) and his wife, Maria Borovsk (l. c. 1420-1485). He served as co-ruler for his blind father from 1450 until he became regent in 1462.
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she leaned up against a wall when she spots him, talking with some poor customer who'd never had the wherewithal to listen to the old adage she doesn't like you, she's just a stripper.
the problem with that proverb, of course, is that sometimes the stripper does like you. you, of course, always being the person on the other side of the bar, not the one in front of you. over the course of the conversation genie's gaze slips backward, sidelong, over the man's shoulder and down the length of the room like a marble on a tilt. it bumps, once, twice, against vasily's. once more, this time long and suspended, and there's the sudden, mutual friction of knowing they're in on a miniature conspiracy: his watching from afar, her avoiding what's up close.
genie touches the edge of her hair, hiding momentarily the conspicuous turn of her lips under an errant wrist. she pivots back to the man at her side, but there's a feeling of thickness about mouth now — lips overripe from stretching to cover misplaced smiles; a tongue, heavy, that suddenly wants to say a different name. sorry sugar, say that again for me?
closed -> @chorusgirls {efigenia.}
setting -> the gravity club, late, nearing the 3am hour.
if the club were located nearer to his hole-in-the-wall apartment, then his regular visits to gravity could be explained away by vicinity. but, no; it was an extra stop half the time, a slack backpack over a shoulder holding a mask, whatever else happened through pockets && fists that evening. this night, he slid from the subway to the rain speckled sidewalk, drawing his hood up close as a shield from the city's perpetual state of damp, and approached the doors of the club; no wait, not this late. a bruise would be forming along one side of his jaw, only now the soreness beginning to set in, soon treated with a vodka or a rum 'n coke, whatever vas ended up with in hand, whatever poison of the night to stop the throb of temples, pulsing in his cracked knuckles, and the quickened heartrate that now only raced to match the drum of bass. she was impossible to miss; already, he'd spotted her, ice-blue eyes locking to her own mocha stare... but vas didn't approach. not yet, he never did when he first arrived; a drink, maybe two, before he would begin towards her way. but a half-smile did pass his face when she caught notice, a silent greeting - i've returned. he did, nearly every friday now, and usually always in some state of disarray, from whatever the events of the night had held. the later his arrival; the worse off he often was.
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location: the woolworth building observation deck @fireinhislungs
The observation deck on the 55th floor of the Woolworth Building had been closed since the early 40s, but he'd read down in the foyer that it offered beautiful views of the city from an octagonal viewing deck. It was accessible via elevator but it did take a little knowledge of the stairways to find the right one, and instructions were sent for their meeting. It's not for another few hours, so he stations Freckle by the elevator in case he is disturbed. It's something he's picked up from his father; always scope out a place yourself. The little viewing desk seems devoid of people, but there's a feeling he's not alone, so he rounds the deck. His suspicions are proven correct when he sees a dark figure he can't quite recognise from his distance and he assumes it's a civilian because the meeting isn't to be for quite some time. Vas clears his throat and calls out, trying not to startle them, "hey, are you meant to be up here?"
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Rewind the Tape —Episode 3
Art of the episode
Just like we did for the pilot and for episode two, we took note of the art shown and mentioned in the third episode while we rewatched it. Did we miss any? Can you help us put a name to the unidentified ones? Do you have any thoughts about how these references could be interpreted?
On the Origin of Species*
Charles Darwin, 1859
* Not exactly art... ...and not exactly confirmed, but given the time, the subject of their conversation, and Lestat's "...this naturalist that fogs your mind" remark, this seems the most likely attribution for the book Louis is reading during the opening scene.
Darktown Strutters' Ball
Shelton Brooks, 1917
The song Antoinette is first singing was published that same year, and you can hear it performed by The Platters here.
Minuet in G
Christian Petzold, circa 1725
As pointed by @cardassiangoodreads in this post, the song Lestat first plays before he starts improvising is Petzold's Minuet in G, often falsely attributed to Johann Sebastian Bach.
Wolverine Blues
Jelly Roll Morton, 1923
While the scene in which Lestat improvises the melody happens in 1917, Morton would go on to record and release the song in Indiana in 1923.
Slave Auction
Jean-Michael Basquiat, 1982
Our very first look at Basquiat's Slave Auction comes in the third episode, though it will be the backdrop of most of the sixth. While some elements, like the crown of thorns, lend themselves to varied interpretations, it's clear this collage shows a boat (golden for money, perhaps) crossing a blue expanse, and the faces of the slaves being transported.
Mother Daughter and Twins 1
Rahmon Olugunna, undated
Rahmon Olugunna, born in Osogbo in 1975, is a member of the Oshogbo school of artists in Nigeria. His work represents Yoruban mythology as well as modern Nigerian life. He is represented by New Orleans curator Katie Koch. [Identified by @vfevermillion.]
Untitled ceramic totems
Julie Silvers, undated
Each unique totem is made by New Orleans native Julie Silvers, and they are distributed by New Orleans store Villa Vici. Two can be seen in the sitting room. [Identified by @vfevermillion.]
Javelina
Bryan Cunningham, undated
By "Junkyard Alchemist" Bryan Cunningham, who posted about it here. [Found by @iwtvdramacd18.]
In the same shot we can see an unidentified painting, maybe of a man's profile. Perhaps you can place it?
Untitled photo of loading docks in St. Paul, Minnesota
Bradley Olson, 2015 (Alamy Stock Photo)
Forty-two Kids and Cliff Dwellers
George Bellows, 1907 and 1913 respectively
Several Bellows pieces have been featured around Rue Royale already, in episodes one and two. [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]
Am I Blue?
Harry Akst and Grant Clarke, 1929 [Identified by @ouizaya.]
The song that Antoinette sings when Jonah first walks into the Azalea is actually an anachronism. Maybe a bit of commentary from Louis, as this post suggests.
Nocturnes, Op. 55: No. 1 in F minor. Andante
Frederic Chopin, 1842-1844
This is the song that plays during Jonah and Louis's escapade to the Bayou.
Roman Bacchanal
Vasily (Wilhelm) Alexandrovich Kotarbiński, 1898
Kotarbiński was a Polish artist and painter of historical and fantastical subjects, and co-founder of the Society of Kyiv Painters. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]
Weeping Nude
Edvard Munch, 1913
Young Man kneeling before God the Father
Egon Schiele, 1909
Two more artists we've seen already, in episodes one and two.
Self-Portrait
Edvard Munch, 1881-1882
Bouquet in a theater box
Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1871
While we have seen Munch's work already, this is the first Renoir featured. He was a French artist and a leading figure in the development of the Impressionist style. [Identified by @nicodelenfent.]
Church in Stein on the Danube
Egon Schiele, 1913 [Identified by @nicodelenfent, here.]
Ship in the Night
James Gale Tyler, c. 1870 [Identified by @vfevermillion.]
Tyler was a New York born marine painter, considered a self-taught artist.
If you spot or put a name to any other references, let us know if you'd like us to add them with credit to the post!
This week, we are rewatching and discussing Episode 4, …The Ruthless Pursuit of Blood with All a Child's Demanding. We can't wait to hear your thoughts!
And, if you're just getting caught up, learn all about our group rewatch here ►
#louis de pointe du lac#daniel molloy#lestat de lioncourt#vampterview#interview with the vampire#iwtv#amc interview with the vampire#interview with the vampire amc#amc iwtv#iwtv amc#IWTVfanevents#rewind the tape#is my very nature that of a devil#analysis and meta#art of the episode
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Vasily Sadovnikov | View of Palace Square and the General Headquarters Building in St. Petersburg, c.1847 | The Field Marshal's Hall of the Winter Palace, 1852 |
#Vasily Sadovnikov#painting#oil painting#oil on canvas#watercolor art#art#art history#19th century art#19th century#realism#interior#cityscape#russia#russian art#st. petersburg#landmark#winter palace#palace#chandelier#dark academia#light academia
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