castoraguilar-blog

[castoraguilar-blog]

ofros:

Her grin dropped into a scowl. “Cassie, don’t even talk like that this early.” She rubbed the skin at her cheek, cleaned and bandaged but still aching. Her shoulder was raw, strange even now. Ramona should’ve known he’d get a lick at her, but she wasn’t even pissed about it. She could only hope that he was just as sore. “Let’s just start with some food, yeah? Then you can talk about pain.” 

Knowing she’d be of little help in the kitchen, Ramona stayed right where she was for a few more minutes. No point in wasting a perfectly good cigarette. “Boiled carrots? What is this, war-torn Austria?” She made a face. “What about an omelette, we have enough eggs for some omelettes?” Her stomach grumbled at the thought, Ikati blinking in surprise as he glanced over in her lap. It was times like this that she wished she’d stopped by the grocer before, but hey, it wasn’t like they even used the damn stove. Ramona liked it more as a towel rack. The fridge was more likely to hold alcohol or the occasional take-out, and she didn’t care to pay attention to Cassie’s eating habits. 

She massaged a tender spot at her shoulder and scowled, for a moment just flat-out annoyed. “On second thought, let’s just have booze. It’s respectable for people like us, right?” She snapped her fingers. “That’s exactly what we need, Cassie. Booze. Don’t kill my dreams by telling me we’re out of that, too.”

Castora’s grin widened at Ramona’s scowl, though it faded slightly at seeing the bandages which indicated that Orion had indeed gotten in some good hits, the asshole. Normally, Castora was all for jumping into the thick of things, headfirst with no caution most of the time. However, she couldn’t deny that when she spotted Ramona and Orion in the midst of fists and snarled insults her heart had not jumped a little in fear--not for herself, but for her cousin. Such was the pain of love and such was something she was keen to forget, instead relying on humor and the guise of teasing to mask such emotions.

She nearly laughed at Ramona’s rebuttal to her jest and peeked into the carton she’d pulled out of the fridge earlier, “Yeah, we’ve got about fiv--” Her words were interrupted by Ramona’s declaration, tinged with an annoyed tone Castora had not yet heard today, though she knew better than to take offense at in, instead chuckling she peered back into the fridge, “I would never kill your dreams, dear Ramona. Thankfully, alcohol is something we always have.” And that was true, whether or not they were out of anything else, it seemed they could always find some sort of bottle around the apartment--sometimes in the strangest places. Even without looking Castora could guess there would bottles in their closet and also under one of their beds. In addition to the beers and vodka in the fridge, there was probably more hidden in the kitchen cupboards and perhaps even under the sink. 

Propping her hip against the counter, Castora’s lips turned into a teasing grin, “But how are we going to spar later if neither of us can stand?” Despite her words, she reached back into the fridge to grab the vodka bottle and handed it to her cousin; Ramona knew where the glasses were, if she even wanted to use them this morning. 

Grabbing a beer for herself, Castora turned back to the stove to get started on the eggs. “Anyways,” she tossed over her shoulder, cracking the first egg on most likely the only clean pan in the entire apartment. “We should get some groceries this afternoon, maybe swing by Montague territory for some fun?” Castora hadn’t nearly gotten enough punches in last night to be satisfied.

[castoraguilar-blog]

catherinedaly:

While on a simple trip to get a drink, the Capulet is soon swept up with one of many crowds, heeled feet moving in sync with others to keep herself from getting trampled over or worse. When a foot steps on her own and nearly causes her to trip, her hands fly to the closest arm to steady herself. “I’m sorry, signore,” she calls as the man gives her no more than a withering glance and a nod of his head, and then he’s gone.

 As the sound of an apology drifts over the raucous words of the others, Cat cranes her head towards the sound and returns, “Oh no, signorina, I’m fine. I know how things can get when people get too excited, and no, nothing spilled.” Driven by her curiosity, Cat lingers while the crowd surrounding her continues. "Are you okay?” Obligation spurs her question and helps keeps her rooted in her place. She only catches a glimpse of the woman’s hair, she feels this person isn’t a stranger. Catherine can’t tell if she’s friend or foe, but for the moment, she doesn’t mind. When the crowd dissipates more, her gaze settles on the woman offering her apology.

Gold. Montague. Foe. Castora.

She knows those damn golden eyes, she’s seen them in moments of anger following the masquerade ball. The feisty woman who’d she run into in one of the galleries and exchanged tense words with ended up being the one who laid a hand on her kindred spirit, her Maeve Petre. The polite twist of Catherine’s smile morphs into something far less warm and inviting–a thin-lipped grimace. 

“Castora.” She nearly spits the woman’s name out, hating the taste it leaves in her mouth (and hating how it makes her veins sing praises of anger, of revenge). This sort of hostility has never found a home in the docile woman’s frame, but in this moment, it settles heavily in her bones, coating them and filling her. Catherine swallows as she grows accustomed to the foreign heat that warms her, and she takes the time to take a breath, to remember who she is.

She doesn’t care about the Montague heir or his wellbeing, but she knows he is the reason that drove Castora to wrongfully interfere and attack her friend. Instead of starting the conversation with an accusation, she decides to begin with a simple question: “How is Roman?” 

It’d been more than a week since the disastrous masquerade, and in quiet moments since then Castora had done her fair share of thinking, piecing together whom she spoke with and who they had revealed themselves to be after that fateful gunshot. The terse banter she’d engaged in the gallery, only for a short moment that night, a passing cloud over the moon that only momentarily eclipsed its cool glow, had not crossed her mind until a few nights had passed and the more exciting instances had been dissected and, mostly, brushed off. Once she’d put some thought to it and pieced together the clues she’d garnered from their brusque conversation with flashing memories of what happened after she’d landed on just one name: Catherine Daly.

However, Castora could not help but feel the woman standing before her was slightly different from the Catherine she’d met between framed paintings and smooth sculptures. Though their conversation hadn’t been entirely polite the location and their masks allowed them a level of civility; there was very little of that in the other woman’s pale eyes today, instead replaced by fury and retribution, and that almost brought a smile to Castora’s face. She had not thought the woman who spoke of artworks and legacies so ardently could maintain such a look of disdain and even hatred on her face. It seemed she’d misjudged the brunette.

The venom which coated her name as it was spat from pretty lips also surprised her, and this time, deciding it would properly anger the other woman, Castora allowed her smile to show. “Catherine,” Castora responded, almost coolly despite the eager gleam in her golden eyes. Though Castora was always eager for a confrontation, especially with a Montague, she was more intruiged than offended this time around--Catherine’s seemed to harbor an inordinate amount of anger over their disagreement in the gallery, or could this simply be because of their differing loyalties?

It was to do with Roman?

Catherine’s question caught Castora momentarily off guard, her smile wavering and her lips parting almost instinctively to provide a rebuttal her mind had not yet formed. However, she realized the last time Catherine had seen the Montague heir had most likely been that same masquerade, and only one interesting thing had happened to Roman as far as she knew. “He’s doing quite well, unscathed for the most part,” she said, her smile widening again, though with a savage edge as she replied with a question of her own. “And how is dear Priam?” Though the way dear fell off her tongue indicated that he was the furthest thing from it. A gentle face and a pounding in her knuckles reminded Castora of someone else who’d gotten in the middle of that tussle, and she nearly laughed. “Even better, how is sweet Maeve doing?”

[castoraguilar-blog]

ira furor brevis est

date: january 9th, 2017 time: 3:34pm location: the colosseum @catherinedaly​

The heavy sun did nothing to wilt Castora’s smile as she peered out at the dusty floor of the stadium, the only indication of the afternoon’s excitement soft hoof marks in the tracks that would soon be thundering with beasts and cheers from the audience alike. As someone who reveled in excitement and who loved the thrill of winning, Castora found the Palio electrifying. There was something about the buzz in the air as money exchanged hands and bolstered egos warred with each other that sent a jolt of energy through Castora’s veins. The frenzy of the crowd was palpable and contagious; she’d seen the horses and riders on their parade about an hour ago as she sat in the stands and was confident the Montague horse would take the race--so confident that she’d braved the crowd to place her sole bets on the black stallion. Though it wasn’t until afterwards did Castora realized she’d lost her previous companions. 

The race would not start for some time yet--and would only last upwards of a minute--but the invigorated crowd, filled with sudden shouts and boisterous laughter provided the most anticipatory atmosphere to await the main event. Castora weaved her way down the stands, a bubbly cocktail in her hand, as she tried to remember where she’d set down her hat, sorely regretting leaving it, and her friends, behind to beat the rushing crowd. 

The stands were too full of people to allow her to weave seamlessly through it, and Castora found herself taking a detour along a row of mostly empty seats. As she merged into the crowd climbing down the next set of steps though, she felt a sudden push at her back, and Castora stumbled onto someone’s foot. She felt the bump beneath her low-slung heels, and hastily swerved out of the way as the group behind her descended, which conveniently prevented her from getting a good look at the woman she’d accidentally trodden on. Castora called over their bobbing heads, “Sorry about that, it’s absolutely mad here. Did I spill anything on you?” When the group descending the steps finally revealed the woman though, Castora realized she’d spoken too soon.

[castoraguilar-blog]

celesteduval:

She smiled, a fickle curve of her lips that couldn’t seem to decide whether it embodied happiness or heralded danger, and Celeste paid her homage as demanded (and deserved), honeyed eyes drinking the sight of her in as she spoke, as she turned to the bartender and ordered a glass of whiskey, the drink of choice of a woman intent on throwing caution to the wind.

For a woman like Castora Aguilar, it was a lifestyle; for a woman like Celeste Duval, it was an indulgence—a risk, one she’d taken many a night in the presence of Roman and the others or rarely with Alexander, but one she feared more than she was willing to admit. She was brave, that girl. As brazen as she was pretty, and twice as dangerous. The emissary watched, a pleasant half-smile etched upon her painted lips, as the other woman’s golden gaze slid over her features—searching. Her eyebrows quirked up when she leaned in, seemingly admiring the earrings that dangled from the Duval woman’s ears to the ignorant observer but doing something much different in the eyes of her colleague: acknowledging the need to look for scars and finding none. She let herself feel victorious, despite the fact that the choice wasn’t hers to make, and when the Aguilar girl inched closer, her voice lowering as if to share a secret (and surely she was, for voicing her concern wasn’t something she did often—genuinely), she nodded slowly, breaking her golden-eyed gaze only to press the glass of whiskey she’d ordered into her palm. You had the right idea, you know. “Yes, I should say so. Is everything alright on your end?”

The cool glass of whiskey pressed into Castora’s palm, and the chill, spreading up from her fingers to her elbow and slowly creeping into her chest to fight the tightening band, seemed to release her of some sort of haze, the worry. Inching back and righting herself, her features, Castora gripped the glass firmly before raising it, as if in a toast to Celeste’s unharmed state, and took a healthy drink. Despite her changed demeanor, back to one that was carefree yet detached, Castora didn’t know whether or not to believe the other woman. She seemed well, but one did not deal with the mobs for five years without knowing all the best places to land well-placed blows meant to stay hidden, not to mention the type of scars that would never be seen by the naked eye. 

Ever so unaccustomed to asking after someone though, Castora was at a loss for how to ask, bringing her ire towards the night to the forefront of her expression once more. If only they were anywhere but here, Castora would not be so worried about appearances and watchful eyes. Instead she took another mouthful of burning liquid and shook her head at the sting it made down her throat. “Everything’s great,” she said waving her hand as if to ward off any concern Celeste had about what was happening at home. “Things are a little tense ... considering, but there’s not much to be done after the fact.” Castora paused, and as if her mind had been trying to conjure up the most artful question, but had suddenly given up and decided to hell with it, her mouth parted seemingly of its own accord and she blurted, albeit in a softer tone, “But I’m surprised the watchdogs let you come tonight. Does that mean you’re coming home?”

[castoraguilar-blog]

inside the aguilar apartment with @ofros

[castoraguilar-blog]

catherinedaly:

Her companion’s words regain their sharpness, though Catherine is unbothered. If retaining control of herself is what she constitutes as acting as something she isn’t, Catherine has no place to judge. As the other continues and finishes just as abruptly, she muses, “You never asked to know who I am.” Cat’s voice is as leveled as it is amused. “Just as I never asked to know who you are. Takes the fun out of things, don’t you think?” She takes another sip of her champagne, blue eyes settling comfortably on the masked woman. Catherine is nearly one-hundred percent sure the other is a Montague–fiery-hearted and headstrong, no less–and she knows their conversation wouldn’t be going as smoothly (if one could call it that) as it was if the golden-eyed woman knew. “I think you know who I’m not, though.” She figures that’s more than enough. Dripping in silver, oozing with politeness, and much too formal–certainly not a Montague, certainly not a friend.

“Do you really think so? You don’t think it matters?” Catherine asks, not entirely sold on the woman’s stoic exterior. “Forgive me, but this is much more than what we want out of our lives. And who’s to say we’ll even get that?” She ignores the pang in her chest, pushing away the dreadful thoughts (What if I never become an emissary?) with an arch of an eyebrow. She notices the contemptuous gleam in the woman’s gaze, but still questions, “If our claims on Verona fade, our legacies are forgotten, and the lives of fallen comrades go to waste–why do it? Our lifetime pales in comparison to the bigger picture.” And she refuses to be painted (no matter how exquisitely) in a bloodthirsty way; Catherine Daly is not a murderer.

The Capulet finishes off the last of her champagne and she’s satisfied with the warm feeling it’s left in her. Feeling generous, she shrugs. “Maybe we don’t give a damn.” Her reply is curt and honest–a verbal embodiment of all that is the moral soldier. “But I do. And I don’t know exactly who any of this will matter to in the years to come, but I do know that Verona will be here long after we’re gone. I’d love to give a good story.” 

“It seems that’s something we can’t agree on--I think tonight would be much more ... entertaining, if we knew who the other was,” Castora said, unable to keep the eager gleam from her eyes. Rash, that’s what people most often used to describe her, and although she rarely contradicted them, she always thought that it wasn’t entirely correct. Rash suggested that she didn’t understand the repercussions of what she said or did, which was wholly incorrect. Though Castora had never been the most cunning, she understood how she came off, she just decided not to care, because it was a hindrance to what she wanted, and what she wanted had always been more important than any inconveniences it may have caused. 

However, there was one boundary she wasn’t willing to cross, or more appropriately, some people she wasn’t willing to cross. “Unfortunately, our hosts wouldn’t very much like if we revealed ourselves, hmm? I guess they share your opinion that anonymity is somehow synonymous with ‘fun’. But you are right, I know who you are not, just as you must know who I am.” Castora would leave it at that, knowing to further toe the line would most likely draw the ire of the witches.

Castora’s nails dug further into the flesh by her elbow with every further word out of the blonde woman’s mouth. Idealistic, Castora wanted to lable her, ridiculous. It was idealistic and ridiculous to worry so much about leaving a legacy, to care about something so far out of her control it was laughable that she would ever try reign it, even design it. Yet the thought of her own mortality brought a sharp pang to her chest--hence the nails in her skin, to distract Castora from the discomfort squeezing behind her ribs. 

“You shouldn’t try so hard,” Castora’s voice was biting, it had to be to cover the underlying waver in her speech. “We get what we want out of our lives because we work for it; I am certainly willing to, are you? It’s a much better use of energy than trying to appease to someone else’s ‘big picture’. The only picture I will ever get to see is my own.” As if to punctuate her next words she waved an arm around the space they were standing in, one hand still clutching the other arm, “So yes, I don’t give a damn, about these paintings, about tonight.”

[castoraguilar-blog]

ofros:

date: december 27, 2:00 p.m. location: castora and ramona’s apartment closed: @castoraguilar

Ramona shifted against the window, legs tucking beneath her as she leaned forward to ash a cigarette above the street. She’d just woken up, bleary-eyed and stiff-legged, eyes blinking against the sun while her head throbbed with a hangover. There was also the issue of Orion’s handiwork, but Ramona didn’t have the mind to think about that as she breathed in the fresh afternoon air. 

Ikati purred by a potted fern, a random attempt at gardening, the tabby stretching from his coil beneath the sunlight in a way she envied. Ramona watched him for a few moments and smoked, lazy and slow and not at all in a hurry for anything. A creak in the floorboards caught her attention and she looked up, expecting no one but Castora. She wondered how Castora was feeling, if she heard anything from anyone else. Ramona refused to check her phone, more than content with taking a moment for herself, but Castora was supposed to be the responsible one, right? The thought sounded like a tease and Ramona chuckled to herself. Castora — if she wanted them to work out, she’d have another thing coming today.

Ikati hopped up into her lap and Ramona curled her fingers into his hair, glancing at Castora with a smile, ever happy to see her.  “Morning, sunshine. You feeling all right?” She gave another flick of her cigarette. “All right enough to make some breakfast for a pal?”

The light slanting through her window, which she’d forgotten to cover over with the curtain the night before, indicated that the day was already well underway when she opened her eyes. Castora stilled, looking at the light reflecting off her ceiling, streaked with shadow from the window panes, to the even brighter sunlight spilling over her windowsill, and she thought how strange that this morning could feel like any other morning, despite the events of last night: chaos, blood, death. But then again, these were quite the norm when working with the Montagues. Her dress from the night before was still partially on, her hair surely a mess--part of the reason she’d always cut it short, less fuss. Sighing, she reached for her phone, usually somewhere next to her pillow, only to feel scratchy sheets beneath her palm. She’d worry about it later; she’d probably left it somewhere in the common room after getting back last night. Castora made her way to the bathroom before heading out to the living area.

The first thing Castora saw as she appeared in the doorway was Ramona by the windowsill, no doubt already well through a cigarette. She returned her cousin’s smile and shot the devil-cat on her lap a warning glare before stepping more fully into the room. “Yeah, a bit disoriented from so much sleep,” Castora half-joked, before indicating towards Ramona, “And you? Orion better not have gotten a good hit in last night or else we’ve got a lot of practicing to do.” It was just like Castora to cover up her concern with admonition and a bad attempt a humor. And it was just like Ramona to wait for Castora to cook despite being the first to wake up. 

Heading towards their open kitchen, not any less messy than their living room, she opened the fridge to see what she was working with. “Okay,” she said, straightening up. “We’ve got eggs, cheese, and lots of carrots. So I guess I’m having scrambled eggs, you want boiled carrots?” 

[castoraguilar-blog]

in fair verona - the montagues

[castoraguilar-blog]

Considering the commotion of the night before, Castora had gotten home much earlier than she’d expected--well before ten--but she’d also been more exhausted than she had expected and had fallen neatly into her bed, ruined gown, makeup and all well before she could process much besides the ache in her left knuckles, evidence of the one good punch she’d landed in the mayhem. She blamed the chaos of last night and her fatigue for her current phone-less state. Well into the afternoon now, Castora’s boots pounded a staccato rhythm on the cobblestone back alleys of Verona, a shortcut from the museum where it all started to the hotel where the answers, hopefully, lay. 

She’d never had much cause to pay the witches a visit before, at least not alone and not on personal business--they brought chills to her spine and a prickling awareness to her skin that made the usually unflappable girl uncomfortable--so she counted herself lucky when she spotted Cinead as Hotel Emelia came into view. Though as she drew closer any thought of luck fled quickly upon seeing what was hanging overhead. What Castora had mistaken for shadows from the building had actually been crows, each with it’s eyes trained on her and much too still to be natural, causing goosebumps to raise along her arms. Cinead’s sharp question brought her gaze forward once again, though she could still feel the unwavering eyes of the birds on her skin. 

Castora explained in a voice too firm for the unease she felt, “No, but I lost something last night--my phone. I’ve been by the museum, but no one was there. Did you guys find anything after all the ... excitement?” 

Castora had veritably turned her and Ramona’s apartment upside down this morning once she awoke to realize her phone was not in it’s usual place. Although it had a lock on it, her most recent messages would be blatantly shown on the screen for anyone who came across it, which was the driving force behind her urgency. Upon finding nothing at the museum, she’d then spent her walk to Hotel Emelia trying to convince herself that the witches would help--surely there was a reason they were neutral right? Except now that she was under the scrupulous glare of Cinead and their murder of crows, Castora was beginning to rethink her logic.

date: December 27 time: 2:30pm location: Hotel Emelia Open to: ALL

The problem isn’t so much that someone got shot– in fact, they don’t really care much. They’d moved with their siblings to help only because they wouldn’t have looked like a good host otherwise. What they really cared about was the fact that someone had decided it was well within their power to disrupt a party that had been thrown by all three witches of Verona. A person within the city had taken it upon themselves to play and Cinead needed them to understand, needed to show them just how easy it was for a god to be killed. 

All of the crows were out.

A black cloud hung over Verona and it constantly shifted to fit the needs of the person who had created it. Crows were good for information gathering, but even greater for scare tactics. All it took was the shift of their finger and the cloud would shift, breaking apart until the birds were allowed to come together again. Footsteps from behind caught their attention and they balled their fist, the crows above stopping their movements and focusing intently on the person behind them. Thousands of black eyes staring down in anticipation – waiting, ready to perform the commands of the leader. 

They glanced back, eyes locking in on whoever stood behind them. “Do you have an appointment?” 

[castoraguilar-blog]

castora !

Send a character / ship name and I’ll give you:

The name of your muse in my phone

Cas✮

A picture that my muse has of you in contacts

This picture was taken the day Castora took Odessa out on the streets for the first time, in between stops. With the scenery of the city behind them, Odessa raised her phone and told Castora to smile. She pouted instead.

The ringtone for your muse

Monster - Jay-Z, Nicki Minaj, Rick Ross, Bon Iver. 

(However, it’s only the Nicki verse)

My muse’s last text to your muse:

what does one wear to a drug deal??

[castoraguilar-blog]

These so-called ‘feelings’ are ruining my reputation as a heartless bitch.

Francis Abernathy (via idiotarps)

[castoraguilar-blog]

catherinedaly:

“It would almost be rude to decline,” she chuckles. “At least the hard liquor is behind the bar, and needs to be sought out in order to get it.” If the waiters were to walk around with anything more than the warming champagne on their trays, there would be more rowdiness than she would like to deal with. “Do you not want to let go for a night?” she asks, nodding at the other’s mask. “No one knows who you are unless you tell them, signorina. A gift, really.” It’s the only night Cat can easily ask a stranger to let go of their inhibitions because she knows no one would dare disobey the witches’ one wish. 

There was in twinge in the woman’s words that catches Catherine’s attention, and while she can’t quite place what it is, she knows there’s more emotion behind it than her companion is letting on. “The point?” she echoes thoughtfully. “I imagine they offer an escape for some people. For others, a moment’s reprieve to take a step back and think about how things were back then. Maybe even consider how the idea of ‘art’ has changed from then to now.” For herself, the pieces were an invitation to exercise her mind and see just how many times she could come up with a unique interpretation. “People dedicated their lives to these pieces and never lived to see the recognition they’re getting,” she sighs.

They planted seeds in a garden they’d never get to see.

“It’s sort of easy to relate to when you give it more thought,” Cat muses as she mills to the next painting. “Everything we do today has an instant reaction. Their artwork was either cherished or ignored–but a lasting effect? I doubt that’s why any of these artists were painting and creating.” She takes a moment to glance back at the other woman. “Who’s to say we’ll leave a lasting mark?”

Castora allowed a matching chuckle to escape her lips at the woman’s comment–it surely was true. She had needed to stop herself from approaching the bar and asking for something a bit more substantial nearly as soon as she’d walked in and seen the champagne tower. Castora didn’t think she was going to make it through the night without some hard liquor, but she’d hoped to last a little longer without, because once she caved, there wasn’t anything else she could hope to rely on for a reprieve.

“If tonight is the night to act like something we are not, then not letting go would be the right course of action for me,” the frank tone of her own words startled her; perhaps the woman was getting to her, drawing her into a complacency she was not comfortable with. Stiffening her shoulders she shook her head, as if to remind herself of her present situation and company, “I’d rather my gifts didn’t come with stipulations; no one knows who I am, but I don’t know who you are either.” The use of her pronoun was not a mistake, but it was aimed for as a reminder for herself than a challenge to her companion.

“I imagine they offer an escape for some people.” Castora’s initial question had simply been disdainful posturing, but the reply she received hit much too close to home, making her regret the turn her inquiry had brought to their conversation. Alcohol had been a much safer topic. Yet even as her shoulders drew even tighter as the blonde continued on, Castora was too drawn by her words–they were too reminiscent of what had attracted her to art in the first place, reminiscent, too, of why she had tried to give it up. Despite her better judgement, Castora found herself inadvertently moving along to the next painting, too.

It took the woman’s question to remind herself of where she was, who she had chosen to be. Crossing her arms tightly, she shot the other woman a derisive look, “It doesn’t matter–as long as we get what we want out of our lives, whether or not we’re remembered for it is not worth thinking about.” Castora glanced around at the paintings, beautiful landscapes and portraits suddenly turning into a grim sort of graveyard, each piece commemorating a dead man long past with dreams long gone and a life she would never understand. “Like you said, none of these painters gave a damn when they were painting, so why should we?”

[castoraguilar-blog]

celesteduval:

“You know, if you ask for something stronger than champagne, they’ll give it to you.” If the woman’s voice alone hadn’t been enough to identify her, what she’d chosen to say (and how) painted a more complete picture. It was just like Castora to encourage her to go for something harder, possibly without even knowing it was Celeste she was speaking to. She smiled at the thought, at the emergence of yet another thing she and the Aguilar woman didn’t see eye to eye on, and turned her head to look directly at her. 

It’d been weeks since she’d seen her, but the look in her golden eyes—the gleam of a wild thing barely tamed—remained. The Duval woman found herself, though certainly not for the first time, admiring the other woman for her ability to be impeccably, even recklessly blunt. Her blatant disregard for poise had led to many a disagreement between them, but sometimes (more often than she cared to admit), she envied her for it. 

“Of course they will,” she said evenly, fingertip tracing the rim of her glass once she’d been given it. “The key is to not ask for it.” Her dark eyes flitted to the older girl’s in search of a reaction, familiarity curling her painted lips at their edges.

Only a few words, but there was no mistaking the composed reply, mixed with equal parts warm teasing and light censure: the way it usually was with Celeste--and oh, how Castora had missed it. The tightening behind her ribs was wholly unfamiliar, and instead of dwelling on what it meant, she mockingly shook her head, a real smile gracing her mouth for the first time that night, “The key, my friend, is to not be so cautious. How else are we going to make it through this night?” As if to punctuate her point, she addressed the bartender, drawn by her previous wave, to ask for a glass of whisky. 

Order placed, Castora turned back to Celeste, and took a moment to survey the crown of her head, the cheekbones peering out from beneath the mask; Castora even made a point of leaning to both sides to check both Celeste’s ears were still present. Everything seemed to be in order, yet the fist that had grabbed hold of her chest didn’t seem keen to let go. Castora wasn’t even sure how to begin asking the things she wanted to ask; she wasn’t privy to much information due to her rank, but people talked and it was naive to think even those in the mob didn’t gossip. But it was just that, rumors, and Castora wanted the truth; she just never knew how to ask for it, it was this way with her mother, too. Castora had never been particularly good at being tactful either, but that was what these circumstances required, and so she made note to switch from English to Italian as she drew closer to Celeste, hoping the general shuffle around the bar would mask her movement, and asked, “Is everything ... okay?” Almost immediately she grimaced at showing even this amount of vulnerability, but she couldn’t very well take back her question, and she didn’t want to, despite the uncomfortable ache still wrapped around her chest.

[castoraguilar-blog]

priamtaravella:

Priam quirked a brow at the distinctly sharp tone. He remembered the girl sitting at his table, though he didn’t think they shared more than a cursory greeting with each other. Who this little hurricane was, he didn’t know. But it seemed, judging by her voice and body language, that someone wasn’t doing such a good job at keeping her mask on. “You forget I was here first,” he said lightly, turning to give her his full attention. She sounded feisty, on edge. He always did like a challenge.

Looking out at the exhibit that was quickly becoming crowded, he nodded at her observation. It may have been forward, but she wasn’t wrong. “Maybe we just haven’t looked hard enough.” With everyone striving to get away from those they weren’t sure about, it did leave the museum feeling far more filled than he thought it might be. Surely there was some place that hadn’t been occupied yet, some place in this massive building where someone could find a quiet spot. “Care to join me for a stroll? I’m sure we could find something that resembles what we’re searching for if we join forces. Unless you’d prefer to see what the sculptures have to offer.”

Castora told herself she wasn’t impressed by his bit of logic, and she wasn’t, she was irritated and decided to punctuate her feelings with a firm cross of her arms, allowing her cool glass to rest against her elbow. Deciding his comment didn’t warrant a response, she took advantage of the time to better appraise him now that he had turned to face her. Unfortunately, her current assessment was for nought; he looked exactly like all the other men here: well-fitted in an expensive suit, unidentifiable eyes flashing behind a mask. And while she could rule out some names due to his height, hair and complexion, it still left an uncomfortably large pool to pick from. 

His question drew her thoughts away from his possible identity and back to the infuriating mask that hid it. Her mouth quirked up in a semblance of a smile, “It seems you’re not too familiar with the idea of alone, as in it’s not synonymous with ‘we’.” Castora’s first instinct was to deny him, but something, and she could not yet pinpoint what, made her hesitate, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand. Perhaps it wasn’t too poor of an idea; it was certainly something to do. His last words--“unless you’d prefer to see what the sculptures have to offer”--seemed to echo in the space around them, mocking the very location in which they stood; she didn’t prefer to stand among sculptures and drink alcohol and wallow in her increasing frustration. Her soft sigh was the only outward sign of her capitulation, before adding, “But I’ve stopped caring, as long as it’s away.” She feared the need in her voice was too telling, but it was the closest thing he’d get to an agreement from her. Finishing the shallow whisky in her glass, she drew closer, asking, “Well, where to search first?”

[castoraguilar-blog]

what does castora think of her father?

TBH Castora probably can’t even really sparse out her feelings for her father; they’re mostly a mixture of disgust and admiration. She hates him for the power he continued to hold over her mother and her own life, although he was long gone–because after all Castora’s pity for her mother is born out of love and disdain. But she’s also partly jealous and impressed by him for the same reason. The one thing Castora is sure of is that she wants to be nothing like her mother, but she can’t quite figure out whether or not she wants to be like her father. It’s best for her to just not think of it for the time being. 

[castoraguilar-blog]

bellamysantodomingo:

The disappearance of the case from his hand made Bellamy smile faintly. Approvingly, even, but any such deduction was likely hindered by the twilight and that he did not turn in additional greeting. Whilst he did not know the thoughts of the newcomer, it dawned on him that such an ignorance must be reciprocated. And yet they had accepted his offer. He was not so desperate as to see it as any sort of sign, but as raised his own smoke for another easy drag he couldn’t help but mark it as an interesting observation.

The woman’s words were a little damper. The contrast and the question itself drew quietly hummed laughter from him as he glanced at her. The voice had felt faintly recognisable in the air but that hardly narrowed the field of possible identities; it was like an oddly tense game of Indovina chi? The feeling behind her words, however, was unmistakeable. Perhaps not everyone was chasing after positives that evening. “That’s the spirit. I have a feeling I’m merrier than you, at least.” Another quiet huff of laughter accompanied his words, gesturing pointedly back at the hall with a slow grin. “What’s not to like? Good food, good drink, good company?”

Really he doubted anybody could be feeling particularly merry that night – though the open bar was steadily proving him incorrect. Perhaps their hosts, too, but he couldn’t tell exactly what their fulfilled intentions would like. Either way, the suffered sigh of his companion fell true with him too as he wordlessly reached for the lighter – gold and engraved – in his pocket. A click, and he met her lean with a small flame that finally offered some illumination. With it, a faint recognition. “Perhaps it’s a trick of the light,” he mused, lighting her balanced cigarette with ease, “But I’m sure I know you, signora. Unless, of course, the mystery is the only thing you’re enjoying.”

Castora’s eyes followed the gold lighter from the man’s pocket to her cigarette still tucked between her teeth. She narrowed her gaze at the familiar flicker of gold, obscured now by the small flame her hand had instinctively come up to cup as it burned between her eyes. Her memory wasn’t the best--certainly partly because most of the time, she had trouble concentrating to notice, much less remember. However, the entire scene, down to the press of a cigarette against her lower lip, the slight tilt of her hand to block the wind, the engraved lighter now being drawn away, was too familiar for Castora not to recall doing this before. She didn’t know if it was that first inhale of smoke or the recognition of her companion that eased a bit of the irritation bubbling beneath her skin. 

Drawing away, her cigarette pinched comfortably between her fingers, Castora let her mouth lift up in a wry smile, “No trick; I’m not a big fan of those.” A false hint, but a concession, too; an indication that she was willing to give, that for lack of a better word he was among a friend. “I’ve had about enough mystery tonight to last a lifetime, thanks,”--her gratitude was sarcastic, though her eyes remained affable--“as I am quite sure I know you, too.” Her head dipped towards the lighter in his hands, “A flashy lighter like that is sure to get you noticed.” 

The words were reminiscent of the first time they’d stood, four-feet apart on a balcony of the library, matching cigarettes spilling smoke from their fingers and their mouths, when she’d commented “nice lighter” in a tone that bordered sarcasm and approval. Other than that, Castora could only remember a handful of interactions with Bellamy, and any other time, she wouldn’t have lingered. However, she had no wish to rejoin the enigmatic crowd swirling through the museum. Though this man next to her was not that much more familiar.

Matching Bellamy’s previous pose, Castora leaned over the low wall, returning to their previous conversation, “Out of those three I can only agree with ‘good drink’ so far, though I can try to be good company for you.” She waved her cigarette, the closest thing to a ‘thank you’ from her. She looked out over the gardens, harshly lit this close to the museum, but quickly fading into darkness the further it stretched. “Though this party doesn’t put me in a good mood, if couldn’t tell,” her laugh was too sharp to be successfully self-mocking. “Everyone mingling with god knows who, as if we haven’t hated each other for years. Doesn’t it bother you?”

[castoraguilar-blog]