It was with a bittersweet smile that she woke from an already fading dream of sweet wine and flowers that morning, the young woman's subconscious being aware that she would soon leave her homeland as well as her childhood behind to plunge into the vast unknown that would be the life of a Britannian Princess. While most girls would be thrilled by the life of luxury and privilege that awaited them, as the youngest daughter of the Prime Minister of the European Republic, Estelle Beaufort never knew anything else, and as such to her the change in nationality and status was merely a painful sacrifice she must do to ensure the land she loved so much would prosper as it did since it's funding, centuries ago. It was thus with a soft gasp and a sudden lump in her throat that the young socialite left her soft bed and slipped her dainty feet into equally dainty slippers, her silken negligee soon covered with a slightly less indecent robe of soft linen that she expertly tied into place on her svelte frame. Making her way to the main window of her bedchamber, the blonde woman delicately parted the gauzy curtains hiding the outside world from view and made short work of unlocking and opening the french doors unveiled by the parted fabrics. Her path now clear, Estelle made her way to her private balcony and leaned against the white marble of the semi-circular gallery, her manicured hands crossing upon the smooth balustrade as she took in the sight of the Mediterranean sea before her. Taking a moment to commit the sight of her homeland to memory as she knew she may not see it again in many years after the ceremony, the Beaufort daughter closed her aquamarine-colored eyes and breathed deeply for long minutes, the familiar scent of the sea and the uplifting song of the birds taking refuge in the chateau she had lived most of her life within settling her nerves enough for her to feel prepared enough to summon her maids and start the preparations that would turn her from a beloved daughter to a royal bride. Making her way back inside was disheartening, yet still she did as her duty demanded of her. Making her way to the intercom made for her personal use, Estelle tapped her index finger to the dark screen, the thing lighting up along with the smooth yet mechanical voice of her personal AI. “Good morning, Miss Beaufort, what are your orders?” It would have been slightly eerie to an outsider, that voice, for it possessed neither gender, accent nor emotion of any kind, yet to her who had heard it speak for nearly two decades, that fact was of no consequence. “Good Morning, Steward, I request my maid by my side in order to commence the preparation for my wedding ceremony that is to take place this afternoon. Please make sure that they do not forget anything necessary for it, and do tell them to be prompt in their arrival. That will be all, thank you.” Her orders given, the young woman turned her attention away from the wall and toward her vanity, sitting herself on the upholstered chair facing the large oval mirror she had used so many time before. Reaching into the middle drawer of the polished wooden furniture, she deftly retrieved her favorite hairbrush and started her twice-daily ritual of untangling her glossy, golden hair. The silky waves of her mane shining softly in the morning light, Estelle ran her silver brush gently through a section of her hair, careful to not pull out any follicle as she did so. While she had once let her maids brush the strands instead, the frequently painful tugging on hers sensitive scalp had made her decide to take on the task herself instead, the women under her employ now only allowed to help her with the more elaborate hairstyles the young woman was so fond of. To be frank, Estelle tried to focus on anything but her impending marriage. While she was not opposed to her fiance, she barely knew Arthur, and found the few she knew of Britannian customs to be utterly barbaric. She had been told all her life that it was not birth or pedigree that made someone noble, but instead their own strength of heart, morals and achievements in life. As such, Britannia's belief that only Britannian were to be treated decently was infuriating, their belief that being born in a certain social status putting a glass ceiling on all but the Emperor himself being beyond infuriating and entered the ignoble territory in her mind. That she was to be sold to such a narrow minded Empire scared her quite a bit, if she was honest with herself... yet she had to put on a strong front, so that the Republic may continue its noble stand against the oppressive Darwinian Empire. As such, her face may have really been made of creamy marble and no one would have been able to tell the difference as the Daughter of Europe dutifully followed her various maids' urging as first she was stripped bare and washed in lukewarm waters and aromatic oils then dried gingerly with the softest of cotton cloths, as to not leave any marks or blemishes on her skin. After the baths came the exquisite yet impossibly intricate garments befitting a new Imperial Princess, along with the lengthy process of perfecting her new coiffure and the appliance of expensive cosmetics on her smooth face. When all was done, she was make into a work of art with the adding of priceless jewels accentuating her features and the nearly glowing splendor of her hair. The very last part of the preparation was for Estelle to wear long silken gloves, the ring finger on her right hand easily accessible by a specially-made slit in the glove's finger. 'This is it, then... no more time to bask in the freedom that will soon be no longer mine...' Eyes shadowed yet resolute, the blonde made her way to the chateau's chapel, a small army of maids in her wake as they made sure that nothing tarnished the pristine white of their young mistress' bridal gown. The short journey to the ceremony's premises was silent save from the sound of life common to the vast domain, those crossing their path quick to make way for the regal woman in their midst. As such, it was in no time at all that Estelle took in the sight of the elaborately carved double doors leading to her soon-to-be husband, her father's firm arm that she took in her grasp as the doors opened her sole comfort as she made her way to discard the Beaufort name and to take on the name Vi Britannia.