#i WILL be making them plot relevant though i have such a fierce desire for multi-character fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

diveronarpg · 5 years ago

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Congratulations, RACH! You’ve been accepted for the role of JULIET with an approved FC change to Ashika Pratt. Admin Rosey: I'm doing a happy dance right now because we finally have a Juliet back in our midst - our lovely, shining principessa has returned back to us again! Rach, your application was so enjoyable to read. It has the soft, melodic cadence of Juliana throughout the interview and laid a great foundation for her growth and development. There was an ease to it that I absolutely adored and I cannot wait to see how she will come to life on the dash! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER

Alias | Rach

Age | 20

Preferred Pronouns | She/Her

Activity Level | 8.5 ; These quarantimes are doing wonders for my activity levels.

Timezone | PST

How did you find the rp? | See below!

Current/Past RP Accounts | Ahhh, so I actually played Delilah FOREVER ago @delilahbello and applied for Halcyon a while back! I know I’ve been in and out of rping for a while, but I literally have so much love for Diverona & it has such a special place in my heart I thought I might try my hand at another character. But if you wanted a more recent account I have @zubeidakhan!

IN CHARACTER

Character | Juliet; Juliana Arina Capulet (Could I request a FC change to Ashika Pratt and an age up to 26? )

Juliana - “youthful.”

Arina - “peace”

Capulet- “determined, or head-strong”

What drew you to this character? |

I think there’s something to be said about characters that stand the test of time. The very concept of Juliet Capulet has transcended centuries, but I find there’s something particularly alluring about this modern iteration of her. In Juliana. I see this aforementioned transcendence. I see a girl who’s on the cusp of something big-- and I cannot help but be consumed by a desire to sink my teeth into her complexities and uncover every nook and cranny she has to offer. Juliana is, after all, a girl who’s been forced to grow comfortable with toeing the line between certainty and the great unknown. Yet, beyond that line, I see something much sturdier. I am drawn to Juliet in that I see her as less of a dainty flower and more of a spider’s web (though it is fascinating how morning dew collects on both). It seems to be a recurring tragedy that girls who like flowers and pretty things are often mistaken for being merely that. But with Julianaa, I’m attracted to her haunting, persistent strength, a beauty that is equal parts aching, stubbornness, and gilded thorns.

I am drawn to the weaving of Juliana’s web-- her paradoxes, if you will. Humans are, after all, paradoxical creatures. She has loved just as much as she has lost (and she resents with equal rigor). She has the world in her hands, but remains uncontent, her heart bursting at the seams. Pride, compassion, loyalty, obsession-- they all coexist within Juliana manifesting in the form of her ambitions, motivations, and sense of self. Juliana is no stranger to blood and yet hate feels so foreign to her. Her sweetness does not precede her dedication nor her obedience. Juliana feels the weight of the world upon her shoulders, but charges forward unflinchingly.

And above all, while perhaps cliche, it is love that draws me to Juliana. There is something Machiavellian about Juliana. Not the ‘ends justify the means’ Machiavelli that has been ingrained into our cultural misunderstanding of the man and his philosophies, but rather the Machiavelli who wrote and acknowledged the power of Cupid’s bow. The Machiavelli who loved his wife in a time where love before marriage was a relatively modern idea. The Machiavelli who understood the reach of a beloved leader. Needless to say, there are so many aspects of Juliana’s character that I adore, I would be delighted to play her if given the chance!

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

One.

I imagine Juliana’s mother passed away when Juliana was quite young. Young enough for memories to futilely slip away, old enough to mourn and remember her loss. I see Juliana craving for good memories of her mother, just as she aches for the approval of mother’s ghost, a ghost which evades her like wisps of wind slipping through her dainty fingers the moment she's managed a secure grip. I see her as wishing she had more of her mother to replay within her mind like film-- the fire in her smile, the warmth of her embrace, her laughter like melody on a warm, summer day-- but alas, I think Juliana’s found herself trapped with something far more icy-- the frigid image of gaunt woman helplessly falling away from this world and into the next.

Because of this, I imagine Juliana still hasn’t come to terms with the fact that she will never know her mother in her prime. It remains the one hollow in her heart, so with all that said, I would love to explore how she attempts to fill that part of herself through her relationships with the other meaningful people in her life. With her father, I think that she finds blood loyalty. I love the notion of delving into Juliana being both a daughter in the singular (Cosimo’s daughter) and the daughter of the collective (Verona’s daughter). Then again, perhaps it speaks volumes that she sees her father as Verona itself. With this, I want to explore what does blood loyalty mean to Juliana? This is blood loyalty, that very thing that constantly inspires the darkest parts of hers-- frustration, fury, and desperation. Perhaps it ought to be said that even desperation requires ‘lighter’ traits like hope and fealty, but is there a breaking point for Juliana? Does love bolster or shatter her loyalty? Either way, I think that the answers to these questions will guide Juliana’s actions moving forward and would provide an interesting challenge to her character.

Two.

As for the other major figures in her life, Vivianne is arguably her most obvious maternal figure, which is why I think it would be interesting to explore how she seeks a mother’s wisdom and experience from someone who isn’t her blood. I am fascinated by what drove her initial resistance to Vivianne-- was it merely a child’s mourning or perhaps was it foreshadowing that her loyalty is more complicated and pliable than what meets the eye. While I could envision Juliana being played either way (most likely a combination both ways), Juliana’s relationship with Vivianne is a fascinating fixture of her character that I would love to delve deeper into. I think there is much to be learned for Vivianne in the ways of both womanhood and business (though I suspect they are far from separate entities). Vivianne has been a fierce advocate for Juliana, something she’s immensely grateful for, but I would like to see Juliana learn how to advocate for herself. How does the Capulet heiress give weight to her words-- is it the fulfillment of promises? Or better yet, is it the threat of something dangerous to come?

As for Rafaella, Tiberius, and Priam (and possibly even Roman) I cannot help but root for Juliana in her quest to find understanding in this lonesome world. Here is Juliana Capulet, surrounded by people but still so incredibly alone. Such a sweet, vivacious girl ought not to be as lonely as she is. I think that there is a part of Juliana has equated love and understanding. But where love can be evasive and consuming, temporary understanding is achievable. For Juliana it is found in small, kind deeds and shared life experience, but I would love to explore this on a larger scale. How do these tangible aspects of generally abstract concepts apply to Juliana’s unestablished relationships? I think there are many themes to explore there-- generational similarities, shared loss, forgiveness, ect. How do each of these external factors affect her internal sense of duty and loyalty?

Three.

Finally, I would like to see Juliana confronted by her privilege. Juliana is a girl born heiress to an empire, free from any want, and while her life has been far from ideal, I would like to see Juliana in a position where her fortune and name loses its relevance. While I suspect that in such a situation. Juliana would be moved to cling on to her faith in love even more, I do wonder if Juliana would take such an opportunity to relieve herself of the burdensome weight of being an heiress, even if only momentarily. Alternatively, on the topic of love and burdens, I do wonder, how Juliana would grapple with the choice between love and loyalty. Just as she has equalized love and understanding, one of Juliana's biggest blindspots is that she has mistaken love and loyalty to be synonymous, when in fact they are arguably quite contradictory. While she sees herself as loyal to love, I would love to explore Juliana’s mindset as she’s forced to reckon with the two as opposing forces. It’s niave of Juliana to believe her loyalty is enough and I think there’s a part of her that knows that, which would make such a choice all the more enthralling to unpack.

Are you comfortable with killing off your character? | Yes, I mean after all, Romeo & Juliet did end in a very specific way...

IN DEPTH

Please choose between the interview or the para sample (or both, if you like!)

What is your favorite place in Verona? |

It’s begun to lightly drizzle in the garden. It’s a hazy summer afternoon, sticky and humid, but Juliana finds herself hard-pressed to move from the bench. Eyes closed, head tilted upwards, she finds she understands the thunderclouds, the raindrops, and the floods that rise to her knees. She’s become numb to the water’s presence, for it’s a cleansing experience to be drenched by the clouds in the sky. They do not know it yet, but she is one of them, a cloud—one moment an innocuous softness, the next a violent hurricane.

Opening her eyes, Juliana is shocked to find she is not alone, but rather in the company of an older stranger who eyes her with burgeoning curiosity. While mostly bare-faced, she still retains her aura of glamour, perhaps aided by the presence of her designer coat and untouched umbrella. Still, for Juliana it is strange to be regarded with such unfamiliarity. In her experience, perfect strangers were so terribly rare in Verona. She seemed to know everyone, or rather, everyone seemed to know her.

The stranger finally approaches her, taking a seat beside Juliana as the rain continues to pick up pace, drenching the garden and all its inhabitants in a light mist.

“Do you have a favorite place around these parts?” the old man asks, his voice deep and raspy, but not entirely unkind. His words are laced with a thick Italian accent, though she suspects he is not a native Veronian like herself. She had always had an ear for accents, an eye for details. His small talk was quaint and unusual, but who was she to deny herself some company and an exchange of words on this drizzly day.

She ponders his question monetarily, mentally tracing through the city in her mind, akin to skimming an elegant finger over a spinning globe. To choose a favorite place in Verona, Juliana thinks, is to choose a favorite child, in that even if one were to say they didn’t have one, they’d certainly be lying. This was not to say it was a particularly simple choice for her, as she liked to think all of Verona was her home. Her soul was old, her heart young, her mind fashioned from little snippets of the city’s vibrant history, forging a strikingly beautiful tapestry of a true Veronian girl.

“Why, here, of course,” Juliana says, smiling a glossy-lipped smile that could stop lightning in its tracks. “The museum and club are both lovely, but I must admit I’m quite partial to the Twelfth Night’s gardens. When I was younger my father would always hand me a coin to toss into that little fountain by the pond and make a wish. It must be the luckiest, if not the wealthiest, fountain in all of Verona.”

It’s a response that feels breezy and challengeless, but lacks a certain levity that would make it wholly true. It is, of course, only partially true as Juliana had in fact, tossed many coins into the pond over her lifetime. As for the notion of luck, it was fair to say she had been met with mixed results and limited success, but given that her earlier wishes had begun in vain (first begging for her mother’s health and later, for her father to step away from Capulet business) she never found it in herself to fault the fountain entirely. Most recently, she’s begun her newest ritual, tossing in a coin for luck right before particularly dangerous missions, that is until Rafaella had caught her one afternoon, shattering her already precarious spell of belief.

“You do know they just collect the coins at the end of every week,” she recalls Rafaella telling her.

“And what do they do with them?” Juliana remembers asking with genuine curiosity.

Rafaella shrugs, “They donate it to the youth program-- they try and get unprivileged kids engaged with the art and history.”

Needless to say, she’s continued to wishlessly drop coins in the fountain ever since.

What does your typical day look like?

She turns her attention from the fountain back towards the stranger who sits beside her, ears engaged with her every word.

“And you spend most of your days here? In the rain, signora?” he asks gently, with a small chuckle.

“Is this your way of asking what my typical day looks like, signore?”

“As I grow further from my youth…I cannot help but wonder what it is like to be young in these times,” he responds, with a knowing twinkle in his eye. Ah, so that is what this is, a recaputurement of his youth. While her instincts urge her to avoid such potentially revealing conversation, she cannot suppress her overcoming sympathy for the man. There’s a loneliness in his eyes that she recognizes, the very one she faces each time she peers at her own reflection.

“If you must know, I do not spend all my time in the rain,” she clarifies, humoring his original query, “I spend most of my days working for my father...it keeps me busy enough.”

“And your father? What does he do?”

“He’s a--” Juliana pauses, as if to search for the right descriptor of her father’s work, that won’t immediately reveal her own identity, “--a businessman, of sorts.”

She supposes if blood and bone were merely a form of currency, then businessman was certainly an apt descriptor. After all, it took a certain business-sense to run any sort of empire. While she may have inherited her father’s astuteness, she hasn't been rid her of all mercy, for she kills with a precision only a kind girl could have, pulls blood with an accuracy only one who understands pain could know. It takes a delicate touch to snap a neck, elegant restraint to pull life from body, a silken touch to strangle. She takes no joy from causing harm, but she is meticulous in her work, her fingers so soft, so stained with red, it sometimes hurts to say she’s done it all in the name of love.

What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“Business…” the old man mulls, “It's a difficult way to make it in this world...so little room for error.”

“Indeed, mistakes can be lethal,” Juliana nods in agreement. If only he knew that the agreeable girl before him spoke of lethality in the actual sense, as opposed to the metaphorical one.

“And you, signora? What has been your biggest mistake thus far?”

Juliana looks at the man with surprise. What odd questions from a stranger. Still, she’s captured by the conversation, a chance to talk so deeply with a man she’s never known, who seems entirely content with listening. She doesn’t know too many listeners in her own life.

She is, however, unsure of how to respond. For one, did not like to dwell on her mistakes and misgivings. It was unbecoming of someone in her position to fail and furthermore, to brood on such failures.

Nonetheless, her mind flits to one of her earliest missions where her merciful ways had gotten the better of her. She had hesitated a second too long and she quickly learned her lesson when the coolness of the marble floor pressed painfully against her knees, gun digging painfully into her head. She does not weep, for crying would be too easy. Instead, she refuses to let herself drown. Vivianne gives her second life and her father gives her a second chance.

“I think my biggest mistake does not matter, signor,” Juliana replied, “what matters most is that I will never make it again.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“You are a very wise one, signora,” the man comments and Juliana surprised at the way her heart swells with pride in response to the compliment. He was a mere stranger and yet she already placed value in his approval. Old habits, she supposed.

“And your father-- he is good to you?” the man asks, “Doesn’t expect too much of you?”

“He is good to me,” Juliana affirms, “Though I fear I am never entirely sure of what he expects of me.”

“In that case, what is the most difficult task that has been asked of you?” he inquires further.

Juliana knows the answer to his question, though she’s not sure if she prepared to reveal it to herself, much less a stranger. Truly, the most difficult thing that’s been asked of her had been to watch her mother fade away so brutally, so slowly. It was, after all, her first acquaintance with injustice. Her failure to do anything to save her mother was painful and lingering, but her salty tears could only last for so long. If only for a moment, she had thought of herself a killer then, unaware of the true brutality that festered within her sweet, blue veins.

Her father had responded to the grief by throwing himself into his work, and she too would follow for reasons entirely different, and yet, entirely the same.

“To live with loss,” Juliana says with a certain finality, as if to clarify she had no desire to elaborate.

“Indeed, it is the most difficult task of all. It’s quite strange how one is never explicitly asked to live with loss, and yet here we remain.”

“Here we remain.” Juliana repeats and as if on queue, the clouds begin to part.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

“Signora, forgive me for prying, but I must ask-- living here, in this city-- what are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?” the man asks, a striking turn from his previous question.

And there it was. If all roads led to Rome, then every conversation led to the feud. What could she possibly say in response? My name is Juliana Capulet. This war is in my blood.

He seems to sense her change in demeanor.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I did not mean to startle you with talk of blood and wars, I simply imagined a Veronian girl such as yourself familiar with the tales of this land,” the man explains apologetically, deep frown lines of worry, forming upon his thick brow.

“Worry not, signor, you do not startle me. I startle far less easily than perhaps it appears. I’m simply afraid I must be on my way now.”

“Of course, my dear. I cherish your time more than you know. May I at least catch your name, signora?”

She slides off the bench gracefully before turning to face the man one final time.

“Juliet. They call me Juliet.”

Extras:

Mock Blog

#accepted #accepted: juliet

5 notes · View notes

thecloserkin · 5 years ago

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fic rec: we get dark, only to shine by anghraine

fandom: The Borgias (Showtime 2011)

pairing: Cesare Borgia/Lucrezia Borgia

word count: 168k, unfinished

Is it canon: Yes

Is it explicit: Yes

Is it endgame: Yes

Is it shippable: Yes

Bottom line: hi my name is asdfghhkl i’ve been in fandom half my life and this is without a doubt a top 5 fic for me. i mean i got to the end and i went right back to the beginning to reread it

This is a Season 1 AU where Cesare and Lucrezia are each other’s first loves, as they ought to have been. First of all I absorbed more Borgia history via this fic than three published biographies put together (Sarah Bradford, Lucrezia Borgia: Life Love and Death in Renaissance Italy; GJ Meyer, The Borgias: The Secret History; Christopher Hibbert, The Borgias and Their Enemies). I found myself looking forward to the end of every chapter so I could devour the footnotes. This is a meticulously researched, perfectly paced, ingeniously plotted gem of a story that made all the historical details relevant. It is also a very cerebral story, which is not to say it didn’t sucker-punch me in the gut, just that it isn’t rough around the edges — it is SHARP. Lucrezia and Cesare are whip-smart; all the secondary characters are smart; the author is obviously brill and you, dear reader, better bring both your brain cells if you want to keep up.

To set the scene, we are in Rome at the beginning of the papacy of Alexander VI aka Rodrigo Borgia, the first pope to openly acknowledge his children gotten out of wedlock. The primary thing to understand about the Borgias is they are FOREIGNERS. They are from Valencia and their native tongue is Catalan; and while Cesare, Juan, Lucrezia and Jofre may have been born in Rome, foreigners they will forever remain in the eyes of the xenophobic populace. Rome is a cesspit of backstabbing and the Borgias are an unusually close-knit, insular clan. Here is an overview of Cesare and Lucrezia’s codependent-from-the-cradle relationship, intensified ofc by the hostile environment of Rome:

At first, Lucrezia would scream whenever the nurse took her away, and sneak after him at all hours. Cesare scarcely spoke, except to her. They looked like kicked puppies.

Yet it had always been that way with them: Lucrècia a little queen reigning over their games, Cèsar devoted to her.

he never paid much attention to other women around Lucrezia, even when she was little more than a prattling child.

Cesare had woken with Lucrezia in his bed more times than he could count. At eight, twelve, a newly-returned sixteen, he often opened his eyes to his sister sprawled beside him or curled up under his blankets. On more anxious nights, when she had an unpleasant dream or felt particularly troubled, he would find her pressed against him

“When he left for Perugia, one might have believed him going to his gallows. Their letters must have stripped a forest.”

Ok not to be an incest junkie on main but shoutout to the Childhood Bedsharing Trope. “When he left for Perguia” is when he went away to university, leaving Lucrezia disconsolate. When he came home following this extended absence is when her feelings for him flowered into sexual desire. The fic opens on the eve of Lucrezia’s marriage to Giovanni Sforza. Her impending nuptials are causing her anxiety:

”But I am a Borgia. I should not be afraid of anything.” “Nonsense,” said Cesare, “I fear dozens of things, myself.” “You?”

So much to unpack here:

being a Borgia means never letting the world see your weakness

Lucrezia’s hero-worship!!! she obviously thinks he’s the bravest person she knows

Cesare confessing his vulnerability, his fears, chief of which is “I fear most of all for your happiness. I shall not be able to ensure it from so far.” i am y e l l i n g

To relieve her anxiety about pleasing her bridegroom, she convinces Cesare to give her KISSING LESSONS. That’s how it starts. Did someone say I Want My Brother to Be My First because I love this song.

“Is there no one else?” he demanded. She tilted her head inquisitively. “Is there a man you would rather instructed me? Really, is there another man you would permit to touch me? To even remain alone with me? Juan? Should I ask him instead?” “No!” Cesare scrambled to his feet.

She knows exactly how to push his buttons, doesn’t she? She baits him with the idea of another man touching her—specifically Juan, his archrival—an idea guaranteed to get his blood up, and Cesare instantly shoves his scruples aside. A kissing lesson ensues, Lucrezia is married shortly thereafter, and that’s how things stand when this fic diverges from canon: Cesare stops by Pesaro to visit Lucrezia.

Now we all know how Lucrezia’s first marriage went—her husband treated his horse a sight better than he treated her. And we see her struggle with telling Cesare the truth about the abuse, because the importance of the Sforza alliance must stay Cesare’s hand from his natural impulse to pulverize anyone who hurts Lucrezia. I like how this fic draws a distinction between the family’s reaction and Cesare’s reaction:

as soon as Cesare understood, he would be set on vengeance. Any brother would, even one less devoted than Cesare. Jofrè would probably cheer him on. Juan would have strung Sforza up already. And of course, Cesare was Cesare.

Juan and Jofre are her brothers too, and neither of them would have let Sforza’s behavior slide. Cesare, though, is on a whole other level. Cesare actually sees red. The most romantic thing he does in this entire story is play chess with Lucrezia all night to spare her the nightly ordeal of marital rape. That was the first night. The second day he has Micheletto loosen the girth of Sforza’s saddle to cause a nonfatal riding accident which—honestly it makes way more sense thematically for the brother who loves her more than life to do this, than for an untutored stableboy whom Lucrezia met 5 minutes ago to suddenly exhibit master assassin skills?!! Fuck canon, this is what happened. Also fuck insta-love, I’m so glad Cesare and Lucrezia are head over heels for each other rather than some randos.

His pulse quickened in his throat, yet it was nothing he had not seen before, when he read to her until she fell asleep, talked to her as she sulked in her room, sat at her bedside wiping cloths all over her feverish head.

I’m so soft for this!!! Tfw it’s not the physical proximity to your sibling—that part’s familiar—what’s new is your feelings shifting like tectonic plates?? Askjdfkdjfd.

The thing that really precipitates the affair is Lucrezia’s brute of a husband, obviously. This fic has one or two Giovanni Sforza POVS and it does such a great job of depicting that discomfort of being laughed at by people smarter than you. Sforza was strong-armed into this match and he feels slighted by the choice of bride—because she’s bastard-born, because she’s Spanish, he thinks he’s married down. This brings him into inevitable conflict with Cesare, who will brook no insult to Lucrezia on his watch:

“My sister, Lord Sforza, is a daughter of Rome. Roman-born, Roman-bred, Roman to her fingertips. Is it not so, Lucretia?”

The POWER of this line—remember when i said the Borgias are forever seen as outsiders despite being BORN IN ROME? i felt that.

Perhaps their mother was right, and she loved him too much. Too much, at any rate, to spare that kind of love for anyone else. Sforza was a monster, but if he had not been, she still would not have loved him.

Vanozza is very perceptive; she fears her children’s all-consuming love for each other leaves little room for other attachments AND SHE WAS RIGHT. To put it baldly:

They had spent their hearts on each other, all they had to give, with only scraps left for anyone else.

“I am your brother, Lucrezia … There is a word for this. I would not have anyone say it of you.” “A word for what? … For loving me more than the baronessa Ursula, or some other woman you only half-know?”

THERE IS A WORD, Cesare intimates. He won’t even say it aloud. But this black cloud of rumor and innuendo that hangs over their family is not going to dissipate just because they refrain from giving into their feelings. The first time Cesare heard someone call his sister a whore, she was literally four years old. They’ve had to guard their hearts their whole lives because there is no one they can trust outside the family — and yet the family itself is riven by strife and jealousy (Lucrezia has a good laugh when her maid mistakes “my brother is coming to dinner” for “the Duke of Gandia is coming to dinner”— as if Juan would ever visit her in Pesaro!):

“I am the only person in the world you love without qualification or resentment or confusion, aren’t I?” “Yes … Well. Some confusion.” “And yet you pull away from me. You have spent our lives pulling away from me, because--what? There is a word? You will not even say it. Why should we care if people who hate us, hate our blood and our language and our father, use one more insult? For heavens’ sake, Cesare, you yourself told me that this friar in Florence preaches against my hair.”

!!!! The dig at Savonarola I fell out of my chair looooool

“We have no real friends here, do we? We don’t even have allies beyond the Sforza. Everything depends on Papa. If anything happens, perhaps--perhaps it would be better to go home.” “We could run away to Valencia,” he murmured, eyes distant, almost wistful.

They never entertain this as a serious possibility because “anything is better than obscurity” and sry2say a modern AU is the only place these kids are going to get a happy ending. They’re too ambitious and fiercely protective of their family for aught else.

the affinity they’d always felt flaring to life, the certainty that he could depend on her abilities as well as her loyalties. Together they had outwitted Giovanni Sforza and all of Pesaro; now there was the Pope, their family, Rome, and then--all of Italy? The world? Why not?

I say again, HE COULD DEPEND ON HER ABILITIES AS WELL AS HER LOYALTIES. Because they’re a team. Picture Cesare and Lucrezia, weapons in hand, back to back holding off a horde of enemies—but like, metaphorically. That’s the kind of partnership they have, that’s the kind of trust they share.

he would put her before ambition and glory. Even their father had not … Cesare wasn’t like the Pope. He loved her more than anything.

Meaning there are things her father would put before her happiness, but there is absolutely NOTHING Cesare would not do for her. What woman could resist this utter unhesitating devotion when it is laid at her feet??

gazing at her with all the adoration he had never offered to God

He would never hurt me. If she knew nothing else, she knew that.

She resolves to consummate their relationship, despite all her knowledge of sex being bound up with pain. Like, she literally doesn’t know if sex can even be pleasurable for women, but she wants Cesare in the face of her fear, which is impressive and heartbreaking:

there were Roman courtesans who knew something of him that Lucrezia did not, and it was intolerable. She wanted everything.

Yessss she already has the rest of him, she just wants this one last piece of Cesare to belong to her too. And as for Cesare, this is the first & only time physical attraction and emotional connection have been united in the same partner:

he had never been one to stay in a woman’s bed, afterwards, but he felt no inclination to move.

She laid her hand against his face, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone, gazing at him with her impossible mix of steady, companionable affection and rapture.

He had long known that he did not love anyone as he did Lucrezia; now he could not imagine desiring anyone as much, either.

What I love is that the romantic/sexual aspect is just another layer overlaid on what has always been the most important relationship in their respective lives; it doesn’t change the underlying dynamic:

“Have we been mauled by bears, do you think?” “Nothing so dramatic, I’m afraid. We would need scratches for that.”

This is them putting their clothes on after an assignation in the woods (they go riding a lot). What strikes me is the companionable tenor of their conspirational lies.

She relished each touch, yet there was something ordinary in it, familiar and commonplace. Your cross is crooked. Your cap is falling off. Let me adjust your sleeve. I can mend your tunic. They had always been peculiarly domestic together, a comfortable intimacy they never repeated with their brothers.

hello siblings being simultaneously incestuous & domestic is my kink byeeeee

“Cesare,” said Lucrezia, eyes widening, “am I your mistress now?” “You are Lucrezia Borgia. The Pope’s daughter and my beloved sister. The man who calls you anyone’s mistress will lose his tongue. As for you and I, we are what we are. I love you. We belong to each other. That is all.”

NO LABELS WE JUST BELONG TO EACH OTHER. Favorite favorite favorite line forever

His sister, his — lover? How could he give up either? What have I done?

Please picture me shoveling popcorn into my mouth as I type this. This is the pinnacle of everything I love about incest ships. You don’t fuck your sister unless you fucking mean it. It’s like you’re married from the first kiss. As Lucrezia explains later to someone who has ferreted out their secret: “He is not some lover to be mourned and forgotten. If I lose him over this, I lose him in everything.”

You can’t date your brother casually, the stakes are HIGH.

A lover is invented in order to explain Lucrezia’s love bites and torn clothing to her maid. Micheletto accepts this explanation as well, until one day he realizes the true state of affairs, and it’s such an innocuous little moment, it’s not like Micheletto wALks iN On tHEM or anything similarly dramatic, oh no. He is watching them—he is always watching—and he must have picked up on some subtle cue of body language or something bc all of a sudden it hits him they’re in love:

Valentino bent his head down; Lucrezia was saying something, Catalan, scarcely comprehensible through her heavy accent and giggles--Micheletto thought it had to do with the Duke of Gandía and a race. Whatever it was, Valentino whispered back to her, mouth against her ear, and they burst out laughing. There was no lover. He could not say, exactly, how he knew for certain then, with no proof, and not before or after. But he knew it. There were no others for them, no room for others: only Valentino and Lucrezia, and Micheletto watching over them.

The perfect encapsulation of this show tbh!!!

They are recalled to Rome to attend Joffre’s wedding to Sancia d’Aragon. They leave Lucrezia’s recuperating husband behind in Pesaro.

“If this all depends upon the impression that Juan makes--” “God help us,” said Cesare.

first of all, FINISHING EACH OTHER’S SENTENCES. but also, this is a delicate mission Juan’s been dispatched on—sent to Naples to woo Jofre’s bride—and i am l i v i n g as I watch Cesare & Lucrezia bond over their low opinion of Juan’s diplomatic mettle. it reminds me of that scene in S2E1 during the masquerade ball when Lucrezia asks Cesare if he can make her laugh, and IMMEDIATELY he causes Juan (who is dancing) to take a humiliating stumble and then Lucrezia & Cesare choke back giggles behind their masks. What’s great about returning to Rome is we get to see them interact with the rest of their family. The Pope is wroth with Cesare for staying so long away and for ignoring his summonses, but Cesare tells him the truth—that Lucrezia needed him:

“Your daughter, Holy Father, could wring concessions out of a saint, and I am anything but that.”

The audacity!! Cesare straight up confessed to fucking the Pope’s daughter but he said it flippantly, so Alexander heard what he wanted to hear.

Then there’s Giulia, who takes one look at Lucrezia and detects the glow of first love. Lucrezia fobs her off with the same story of a clandestine lover, assignations in the woods, etc.:

“Swear to me that you will not repeat what I have said.” “To your father? I already promised that.” “To anyone! … Father would separate us. Juan would kill him. If my husband discovered it …” Lucrezia shuddered. “That would indeed be a disaster,” Giulia said, “but I think you have forgotten someone, Lucrezia.” “What do you mean?” She touched Lucrezia's face. “Your brother Cesare.” Lucrezia absolutely froze.

BWAHAHAHA and then Lucrezia scrambles to convince Giulia that her secret is that Cesare is discreetly facilitating her affair, rather than the far more salacious secret that Cesare is her affair.

“Men,” Giulia said carefully, “say many things, Lucrezia.” “Other men,” said Lucrezia …. The very idea that Cesare might not love her!

And of course Lucrezia is in a v unique situation here but it is the lot of highborn girls in Renaissance Europe to be bartered off to seal an alliance; Lucrezia was raised to expect it. She did no more than her duty. She also recognizes the balance of power is never going to be in her favor when it comes to matters of the heart. With one notable exception, of course:

But Lucrezia had never shown the slightest inclination to guard herself from him. I love you, she’d said as soon as she could babble out the words, clambering into his lap, wrapping her arms about his neck, toddling after him, I love you best, I love you most. And now she declared herself dozens of times a day, in word or deed: whispering into his ear, laughing at his side, crawling into his arms when she could and watching him with a greedy, possessive look when she could not.

Cesare is the only one she trusts to never hurt her, whose interests are always aligned with hers, are never opposed to her family’s since Cesare is her family. The only wrinkle is, he can’t protect her adequately as he promised to. Cesare reflects that if the truth about the incest ever came out “he would be lucky to escape with excommunication, while Giovanni Sforza could violate her nightly and nobody would say a word.” The unjustness of this, the way patriarchy arrays itself in Sforza’s defense, galls Cesare to no end.

Another person who comes into their orbit in Rome is Jofre’s new bride, Sancia of Aragon. It’s historical canon that she slept with both Juan and Cesare; in this fic of course Cesare/Lucrezia are exclusive. Lucrezia can’t decide whether Sancia is predatory (she wants to bang Cesare) or suspicious (she has a hunch Cesare is banging Lucrezia). Either way:

Lucrezia wanted Sancia dead, or disfigured, or shamed--and she wanted her to leave happily with Jofrè--and she wanted Juan to take her away, to satisfy her with some kind of discretion--and for one mad moment, Lucrezia wanted everyone to know what Cesare was to her.

Sancia and Juan, by the way, conduct an outrageously indiscreet affair where their lovemaking is so obnoxious it keeps Lucrezia up at night. She does what she always does when she seeks solace: she crawls into Cesare’s bed. They’re young, they’re honry, they’re in love … but the sound of Juan pounding away at Sancia definitively kills the mood. Lmao. The next morning at breakfast Cesare & Lucrezia lay their complaints before Alexander, who gives Cesare a cardinal’s palace to live in and bids him take Lucrezia with him. So now the two of them move out of the papal palace into their very own palace. I mean, the possibilities are endless! Here is a gem from Sancia and Juan’s pillowtalk, where Juan’s assessment is simultaneously hilariously off base and 100% accurate:

“Cesare has always been a sanctimonious prude, if you ask me. At any rate, Lucrezia says he's having a fit of celibacy.” “Lucrezia?” Sancia said, nearly laughing. “What, he tells her about his—?” Juan snorted. “They probably tell each other about their bowel movements.”

Some of my favorite moments from this “Cesare + Lucrezia keeping house together” idyll: She visits him in the confessional, they hold a lengthy strategy conference about Sancia’s divided loyalties, and he wraps up with:

“Have you any other sins to confess?” “No … Well, I am guilty of the sin of lust, but you knew that already.”

LOOOOOL and how could I forget this:

She always wanted him: when he approached her, when he touched her, looked at her, when she thought of him, when someone mentioned his name.

I give you my main bitch Lucrezia Borgia, who fantasizes about being rawed by her brother WHENEVER SOMEONE MENTIONS HIS NAME. We stan a bona fide legend.

Ok so among the people they encounter in Rome are their cousins Isabel and Bernardo, who are also Borgias, and who independently unravel the truth re: Cesare & Lucrezia, which means that we get not one but two Outsider POVs which means I have probably died and gone to heaven. My friends TONIGHT WE FEAST IN VALHALLA. Ain’t nothing I love more than an Outsider POV angle on an incestuous romance, and in this case we are truly blessed because we get two. This is Bernardo as he listens to Cesare wax lyrical about his new paramour:

Yet Bernardo heard none of the wild passion or simpering folly of men in the throes of infatuation; Cesare looked and sounded less like a newly enthralled lover, and more like a man speaking of someone he knew well and liked a great deal. Bernardo felt a flicker of alarm.

Bruh you’re supposed to talk about your mistress’s tits not her personality clearly Cesare did not get the memo?? And this is Bernardo when the pieces finally click into place for him—he walks in on Lucrezia dyeing her hair:

A Spaniard, very fair? By nature? No, Cesare had said, half-laughing, and even then Bernardo caught the odd shift in his tone, from the adoration of a lover to an easy, familiar affection. And he remembered Cesare, indignant even for a young man in the throes of infatuation. She is not my mistress!

It’s the vehemence with which he denies it, the “not my mistress” part, that gives Cesare away. Because she’s not; she’s his everything. Bernardo cannot seem to wrap his head around how they can be both siblings and soulmates, since for him there is just no overlap between those categories:

Cesare certainly looked and sounded more brother than forbidden paramour. That, in itself, troubled him; if they had rejected the fact of their blood relationship in pursuit of their lusts, convinced themselves that they did not truly feel themselves family, pretended to be something other than what they were—well, that would have been bad enough. But they did not pretend. They acted less as if they willfully transgressed the boundary between siblings and lovers, and more as if they utterly failed to notice its existence.

Cesare and Lucrezia glanced at each other, their conspiratorial smiles alarmingly familiar. He’d seen those exact expressions on their faces before, dozens if not hundreds of times. They’d always had secrets, their little schemes and confidences, childish mischief. And now—what? Deeper secrets, more convoluted schemes, more dangerous mischief. Was that it? Did they lie together and think it little different from the rest?—altered in degree, but not kind? Did they … when had catapulting oranges at the unwary become a hidden incestuous affair?

This is Bernardo watching Cesare & Lucrezia argue about who “made the first move” as far as initiating their relationship:

he knew not whether he was witnessing a lovers’ quarrel or a sibling one. He felt uncomfortably that, subject aside, it sounded very much more like the latter.

I think part of Bernardo’s difficulty is the way patriarchy teaches men to think about women, and treat them as means to an end:

There were, after all, other ways to avoid a pregnancy—though in his experience of eighteen-year-old boys, they did not bother with such things, and rarely thought that far in the first place. But then, in his experience of eighteen-year-old boys, they did not fuck their sisters, either.

Because eighteen-year-old boys are typically in lust whereas Cesare Borgia has found the love of his life. Can we also take a moment to appreciate that Cesare and Lucrezia are eighteen and fourteen respectively?? This must be their canon ages. They’re not even fetuses they’re like, homunculi. I won’t bother to look it up since this author clearly has forgotten more details about the Borgias than I ever knew—as God is my witness I would take her footnotes with me to a desert island over 80% of the other fics in existence. Holliday Grainger was 22 when The Borgias started filming, and Isolde Dychauk was 17 in S1 of Borgia, and of course we’re used to Hollywood giving us thirty-year-olds playing high schoolers so it’s not as if Lucrezia’s been aged up an unconscionable amount, but wow, fourteen is young.

Isabel and Bernardo have another sister, Jeromina, whose husband’s neglect is indirectly responsible for her death in childbed. Lucrezia holds up poor Jeromina’s fate as a cautionary tale of what can happen to any woman who lacks a male protector in her corner:

”We are not speaking of Jeromina.” “Indeed not. Her brother never came for her.”

Shots fired!!! This is Lucrezia’s implied rebuke to Bernardo: that he wasn’t there for Jeromina, that Lucrezia’s own brother would never have let her down as Bernardo let Jeromina down. Later on Lucrezia even locates the origins of her incestuous passion in the same system that killed Jeromina—she describes loving Cesare thusly:

“Something I chose, for myself,” said Lucrezia. “Everything else has been chosen for me”

Excuse me while I emit a series of high-pitched pterodactyl noises. It’s a subject the fic touches on very lightly, but the topic of aristocratic girls falling in love with their brothers as a big middle finger to The Patriarchy? This is a topic NEAR AND DEAR to my heart.

Isabel is a woman and sees more clearly than Bernardo does that Cesare & Lucrezia’s attachment is not mere puppy love:

Nor did she believe that a passion built on lifelong intimacy would be easily broken.

Damn straight, this is the real deal. Isabel then takes a different tack—she suggests that Lucrezia is at an age where girls itch to exercise their power over men. Lucrezia grants her the justice of this observation but counters that she’d never use Cesare so ill:

“Do you mean to say that your distress was such that you would have seduced any man who cared for you? You chose your brother because … he was there?” ”I could not have seduced a satyr. Cesare desired me as I did him.”

I COULD NOT HAVE SEDUCED A SATYR lmao. But it’s true, she was bruised body and soul, and Cesare rode up like a white knight and the dam burst. It wasn’t inevitable, but a confluence of events forced them to reckon with their feelings. And once they crossed that Rubicon there was of course no going back. Because they fit and they’re perfect for each other obvs. Just look at my babies reminiscing about childhood hijinks:

“The night that Juan switched your glass with Mother’s,” said Cesare, “You were what, nine?” Lucrezia stared at him, then laughed. “Ten. I spent a wretched night, and morning too. What made you think of it?” “Only that we have shared every part of our lives,” he said. “There is nothing to hide or pretend. We already know everything there is to know.”

otpotpotpotpotpotpotpotpotp

I need to quote a few more Bernardo POV passages because that’s where Cesare gives us some declarations of love worthy of the ages:

”I cannot remember a time when I did not love her above all else. Above the family, the world, God. I remember nothing of any time when I have not lived for her, when I would not die for her.”

“Some degree of remorse would not go amiss.” “I regret nothing,” said Cesare. “And your—” Bernardo shook his head. “What do I even call her now?” “My sister,” Cesare replied.

tl;dr Cesare: I HAVE ZERO REGRETS NONE

“Tell me that somewhere in Italy, or Spain, or any other nation, exists a woman I could love as I have loved Lucrezia. Tell me that there is a woman who could understand me half as well as she does. A woman who would know me as I am, and not as the world or my father or anyone would shape me. A woman who would see my true nature without fear—see the mark on it—share it. Look me in the eye, Bernardo, and tell me there is any woman who is so much my own soul.”

If you don’t ship them after that speech then your mom’s a hoe, I don’t make the rules.

Cesare: I am sanctified in her.

Bernardo:

Narrator: Bernardo hardly knew where to look.

Me: ascends to a higher plane

Bernardo eventually comes around. He’s had longer than Isabel to adjust to the incest revelation, so he tries to soften the blow for her. This is the two of them comparing notes:

”The last time I saw them together, Cesare had his hand on his dagger half the time, and then they started arguing about which one of them was the more responsible, as if they’d stolen a pastry. He laughs about her hair. Outside of themselves, they treat the whole matter as a … a lark.” This aligned so exactly with Cesare and Lucrezia as Isabel knew them that she winced. Nevertheless, her dry voice didn’t alter. “How uncivil. They might at least have the courtesy to pretend that they regard the change as a matter of gravity.” “They don’t think they have changed,” he replied.

THEY DON’T THINK THEY HAVE CHANGED— winner winner chicken dinner. Finally he gets it.

So there is this ring. A family heirloom which belonged to their grandfather, which Lucrezia inherits from poor died-in-childbed Jeromina, and recklessly bestows upon Cesare. This is the visible token of her affection, this is her way of letting the whole world know what he means to her. The problem is that Isabel is the one who disbursed Jeromina’s effects, so she knows full well the provenance of the ring in question, and what it signifies that Lucrezia gave it to Cesare. Subtlety, these kids do not have it. Cesare openly wearing the ring clues Isabel in on the incest, which is maybe not the worst result ever because family is still family but damn kids you gotta be more careful. What happens next, though, is a scene that absolutely wrecked me. We get a a scene where they EXCHANGE RINGS:

“Isabel gave it to me.” Lucrezia clasped her fingers in her lap. “For my husband.” “Do you remember what I studied at Pisa?” “Civil and canon law.” “Yes.” His voice was hoarse. “Did you know that if a man and a woman consent together, the ring and vows alone bind them in marriage? The Church does not wish for unblessed marriages, but by precedent and decree, they are marriages nonetheless.” His cardinal ring rested still in her palm. Cesare closed her fingers over it. “Alexander III declared that if the parties concerned say I receive you as mine to one another, they are married as solemnly as if blessed by a priest.”

So he gives her his cardinal’s ring to wear. And when his father notes its absence on his finger he straight up admits Lucrezia made off with it, you know how i can’t deny her anything, and the dinner table conversation turns to another topic. Because Cesare & Lucrezia are apparently just Like That and everyone who knows them is used to it. For pete’s sake they are supposed to be the well-adjusted ones among the Pope’s children. Every other member of this family is further along the disaster spectrum than these two, according to Isabel’s internal monologue:

Cesare and Lucrezia, those oases of sense and proper feeling among Alexander’s children, committing incest. Adultery too, now that she thought of it. Perhaps. It depended on the particulars.

Adultery is almost an afterthought lol

Parenthetically I do wanna draw y’all’s attention to this passage:

“I will kill him. I swear to you, Lucrezia, I shall carve his heart out of his body and give it to you on a platter.” Lucrezia put a hand over his chest. “I don’t want his heart,” she said. “I want yours.”

The above passage has the same energy as this passage:

One night she had Jaime follow him, to confirm her suspicions. When her brother returned he asked her if she wanted Robert dead. "No," she had replied, "I want him horned." She liked to think that was the night when Joffrey was conceived.

That’s a Cersei POV and the thing about looking at Cesare/Lucrezia and Cersei/Jaime parallels is I feel like the former is usually more sinned against than sinning, and the latter is the opposite. Cersei doesn’t want Jaime, she wants Robert cuckolded, she wants to Show Them that she’s Lord Tywin’s daughter and nobody gets away with disrespecting her. Idk maybe it would have read differently if we’d had the same events from Jaime’s POV?

I realize that you guys don’t need any more reasons to love this fic but I want to end with the scene where Cesare’s gearing up to challenge Count What’s-His-Face, Ursula’s dumbass husband, for the insupportable insult he gave Vanozza at Lucrezia’s wedding. One thing I appreciate about Showtime!The Borgias over Canal+!Borgia is this Cesare’s relationship with his mom is much closer than his counterpart’s. His willingness to fight a duel for his mother’s honor demonstrates (1) that his sister isn’t the only woman he cares about and (2) that he puts his family first. Lucrezia’s “Return to me victorious” still slaps more than any line in actual canon, don’t @ me. In that moment, he could have slain Mars. “I will,” he promises her.

If I don’t burn

if you don’t burn

if we don’t burn

how will the light

vanquish the darkness?

That’s Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet writing about a folk hero who spontaneously combusted of love. In conclusion no one burns brighter than Cesare & Lucrezia, the actual loves of my life.

#cesare x lucrezia #Borgiacest #fic rec #cause of death

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jackdawyt · 5 years ago

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DISCLAIMER: This is a theory, I could be totally wrong, and for the sake of all the scary Sollavelen fangirls out there, I hope I did alright detailing this intricate theory!

{Voice ringing with fullness from both worlds, guiding me to the shining places. He calls himself Pride. Old pain, shadows forgotten from dreams too real. This side is slow and heavy, but here is what can change. Wisdom knows enduring is pain. He hurts for her, another of many he couldn't save. He carries necessary deaths}.

"Fen'Harel" "He Who Hunts Alone"

"The Dread Wolf" "Lord of Tricksters" "The Great Wolf" And "Chuckles"

Before each alias, he was known as Solas.

In ancient elvhen "Solas" means "Pride", or literally "to stand tall", it's a word often spoken in the Elvhish tongue.

In elven times, "Pride" was denoted as a figure within key Dalish-tales, like 'The Ascension of Ghilan'nain', as the Mother of the Halla proceeded to deplete her creations across the world, when she decided to destroy the giants within the deep depths of sea - "Pride stopped her hand" - sparing one of her oceanic creations for unknown purposes.

Within this tale, "Pride" is referred to as a name/figure, expressing that these actions were taken by a living body.

In modern-day Thedas, "Pride" often corresponds to a Pride Demon, the most powerful abomination among its ranks. A demon is formed when their initial purpose as a spirit is somehow perverted and twisted.

"When a spirit is forced to do something that greatly conflicts with its original nature."

Therefore, a Pride Demon's original purpose has been corrupted, once a spirit of Wisdom in the Fade, now a demon of Pride in Thedas.

"Wisdom and Purpose are too easily twisted into Pride and Desire."

According to the Chantry, spirits are the first children of the Maker, he turned away from his original creations because they lacked a soul; to emulate their creator.

Whatever the truth about the Maker is, spirits are told to be first beings in existence, they uphold plenty of relevance regarding the cultures of Thedas.

The Avvar tribes revere spirits as Gods, directly linking with them and seeking consul. The Dalish believe both demons and spirits are the same, both equally dangerous. Tevinter Imperium is known for binding spirits and using them as servants. Even Rivani hedge-witches allow spirits to posses them for the sake of their villages.

The knowledge and existence of spirits is spread throughout Thedas, with each race and culture following many different beliefs regarding the ancient beings.

The Chantry's history extends to a time after the veil, not before, however throughout the ancient elvhen times, an advanced civilization existed before the veil's creation.

A group of powerful elvhen mages called the Evanuris ruled over the Age, Elgar'nan was the All-father and leader of these mages, he lead the pact with Mythal, the all-mother.

Just like the elvhen word "Solas" meaning "Pride", Elgar'nan has an elvhen translation:

"Elgar" means "Spirit"

"Nan" means "Revenge" or "Vengeance"

The elvish meaning of Elgar'nan is "Spirit" of "Revenge" or "Vengeance", by this definition, Elgar'nan is a spirit (or apropos a demon) of revenge, with Mythal, his counterpart acting as the opposite force (or spirit) of justice and love.

{"Mythal walked out of the sea of the Earth's tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar'nan's brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew that his anger had led him astray."}

Perhaps each of the Evanuris mages follow this same origin, each fulfilling their own purpose, nuanced between a spirit and demon. For further context, the counterweight of Wisdom is Pride.

Seemingly Solas, one of the members of the Evanuris Pantheon, "was" a Wisdom spirit forced to enter Thedas with a body gifted by Mythal.

"He did not want a body, but she asked him to come. He left a scar when he burned her off his face", and "Bare-faced but free, frolicking, fighting, fierce. He wants to give Wisdom, not orders."

Solas, as a Wisdom spirit had no desire to enter this world with a body, (such limiting things), but for whatever reason 'she' asked him to come, she being Mythal, a woman whom Solas loves as queen and ruler of his people.

Perhaps Mythal knew she was in-danger with the Elven Pantheon, she asked for a trusted Wisdom spirit to join her in the flesh.

Once given a body by Mythal, Solas burned the vallaslin linked with Mythal off his face, leaving a scar, no longer baring the slave markings that once were marked by the previous occupant.

Solas's original purpose was to give Wisdom as a spirit, not to be given a body and become a lieutenant in Mythal's ranks, his purpose seemingly changed.

Solas's body was given by Mythal, potentially one of her servants offered it as a sacrifice for Solas to come, however, the ancient elves originally created their bodies from the "Earth."

"They made bodies from the earth. And the earth was afraid. It fought back. But they made it forget."

The elves mined the Titan's bodies for their blood, lyrium, which they used to create bodies for their spirits to occupy.

Lyrium is a most powerful substance throughout Thedas, it has many uses ranging from sustaining magical spells, charging dwarven runes, enhancing a person's talents, replenishing health, mana and stamina, it's even been infused onto a person's skin for combat purposes.

One can imagine the possibilities of a lyrium body and how someone could become most powerful.

The mining and extraction of lyrium among the elven people caused the Titan's to retaliate in war, shaking the very world until Mythal "struck them down."

("Hail Mythal, adjudicator and savior! She has struck down the pillars of the earth and rendered their demesne unto the People! Praise her name forever!")

The greed of the Evanuris's thirst for lyrium caused the ancient elves to somehow make the Titans forget, never waking their anger again, and forgetting there place.

("What the Evanuris in their greed could unleash would end us all. Let this place be forgotten. Let no one wake its anger. The People must rise before their false gods destroy them all.")

Mythal was killed by her own people, the Pantheon plotted against their own queen in lust for power and greed.

It was Solas's love for Mythal that he joined this world physically, he never possessed any desire to become flesh, Wisdom merely wanted to help his queen.

After Mythal was slain, Wisdom went to each side of the betrayers, he told them the other had forged a terrible weapon, a blade that would end the war. He told the Creators it was forged in the heavens, and the Forgotten Ones, that it was hidden in the abyss. And when the gods went seeking it, he sealed them both in their realms forever.

"He broke the dreams to stop the old dreams from waking. The wolf chews its leg off to escape the trap."

The Chantry teaches that the Maker created the Veil before He created men, this is false as it was Solas who "held back the sky" to banish the Evanuris.

The veil severed many ties the elven people had to the Fade, since their kingdom was founded on strong magics and the gifts of immortality, all irrelevant when the veil was forged.

Creating the veil was a sacrifice for Solas, destroying his own kingdom, yet knowing the people will be saved from the Evanuris in the process. Ultimately, he stumbled alone in this world, resting to see the future of the elven people.

Cole: Bright and brilliant, he wanders the ways, walking unwaking, searching for wisdom... Solas: I do not need you to do that, Cole. Cole: Your friend wanted you to be happy, even though she knew you wouldn't be. Solas: (Sighs.) Could you... if you would remember her, could you do it as I would? Cole: He comes to me as though the Fade were just another wooded path to walk without a care in search of wisdom. Cole: We share the ancient mysteries, the feelings lost, forgotten dreams, unseen for ages, now beheld in wonder. Cole: In his own way, he knew wisdom, as no man or spirit had before. Solas: Thank you.

Solas, sealing away the Gods and creating the veil felt undecided about his actions, his only purpose was to give Wisdom, however, he was given more, birthed a body to serve Mythal and the elven people.

He yearns to know if he was wise, if Mythal would agree, if the pain was worth it. As Cole depicts, locking away the elven gods and creating the veil was the right thing to do for all the elven people's sake.

He had saved his people from a life of slavery, servitude and near annihilation, for fear of what the Evanuris may have wrought onto Arlathan.

After Solas woke from a long slumber, his next aim was to destroy the veil her originally erected, and restore the world of his time, the world of the elves, bringing back the ancient magics and destroying modern-day Thedas.

He planned on using the Orb of Destruction, however, he was to weak to unlock the orb, he passed the weapon to Corypheus through his network of spies so he could unlock it and die in the process.

As Corypheus unlocked the orb, destroyed the Conclave, killed the Divine and proceeded to ascend to Godhood, Solas decided to defeat the Magister by joining the Inquisition, once defeated, he'd reclaim his newly unlocked orb and destroy the veil.

The Inquisitor destroyed Corypheus in a heartbeat, however, Solas's orb wasn't so lucky, it had broke in the process of trembling rocks falling back to the ground.

His original plan failed, and now he seeks a new scheme to rip open the veil and restore the time of the elves. In hiding, Solas sought out Flemeth who carried but a wisp of Mythal's essence, remorsefully reconnecting with his queen.

"But the people, they need me"

It's unknown what exactly Solas and Mythal collaborated as they embraced, has Solas possessed Mythal's spirit into his own body or has Wisdom taken on a new purpose in order to destroy the veil?

Has Wisdom became Vengeance, so a reckoning that will shake the very heavens can be unleashed onto Thedas?

Is Wisdom no more but deceit, has his purpose changed? Is Vengeance his only hope at saving the elven people? Or will he become mad in the process? Perhaps even prideful?

Could this be the undoing of Solas? By possessing Mythal and becoming Vengeance, destroying the veil and perhaps turning into the Dread Wolf to cast the Evanuris out for good?

Or will Wisdom recollect and stop before it's too late? The ambiguity between spirits and demons are far too tightly linked, even the thought of pride can make one stumble into damnation.

What is the future for Wisdom? Will he become Pride? Has he become something different, like Vengeance? Is his path already too late to be altered, or will Wisdom recollect his original purpose and save this world?

"Alas, so long as the music plays, we dance."

Tell me your thoughts down below, I have an Instagram account now so follow jackdaw journalism, but for all your things BioWare, you're already in the right place!

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hazeywrites · 6 years ago

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WIP Prep Tag Game

Tagged by: the amazing @delphwrites (tysm!) Rules: Answer the questions and then tag as many writers as there are questions answered (or as many as you can) to spread the positivity! Even if these questions are not explicitly brought up in the novel, they are still good to keep in mind when writing. Note: This will be for The Angel Peter.

FIRST LOOK

1. Describe your novel in 1-2 sentences (elevator pitch). Danish girl runs away to another country and is accompanied by a man who claims to be her guardian angel, who calls himself ‘Peter’. Her involvement with him gets her caught up in something intergalactic in scale. I’m super bad at pitching, as we can all see lol.

2. How long do you plan for your novel to be? (Is it a novella, single book, book series, etc.) At the moment, I’ve ended it so that it can be continued in a second book. I do intend for it to be a duology.

3. What is your novel’s aesthetic? Friendship, loss, grainy photos, nights where you stay up until 3am talking, loneliness and the crippling fear that comes with it, adapting to somewhere new, love

4. What other stories inspire your novel? His Dark Materials, the Phantom of the Opera.

5. Share 3+ images that give a feel for your novel. I’m just gonna be lazy and use an old edit for this. Also it’s kind of relevant since I only ever talk about these two??? omg

MAIN CHARACTER

6. Who is your protagonist? My lovely girl Lotte. She’s a kind but fierce soul. Due to her perception of the world she feels trapped and overwhelmed in Denmark, so she decides to flee the country and pursue something she feels will free her.

7. Who is their closest ally? Honestly this is almost always a toss up between Peter and Andreas. At the end of the book especially. She is always connected to Peter and shares a link with him that cannot be broken, but at the same time, sometimes she chooses to ignore it.

8. Who is their enemy? Looool.

9. What do they want more than anything? The things that Lotte wants changes drastically throughout the novel, as she changes as a person and discovers more about herself and her limits. In the beginning, she wants to escape Denmark and study photography. Further to the end, she accepts more and more responsibilities and takes it upon herself to change things.

10. Why can’t they have it? She is able to achieve some of her desires. In the end, she finds herself within a network that welcomes her but has been established for millions of years prior to her initiation, with individuals who are far stronger and more intelligent than her. She’s outmatched in every sense, but she refuses to back down defending what she believes is right.

11. What do they wrongly believe about themselves? That what happens is ‘her fault’, that her perception makes her ‘broken’ and that she needs to ‘fix’ herself. And that she’s physically strong enough to fight an angel, lool.

12. Draw your protagonist! (Or share a description) Lol I wish I could draw.

PLOT POINTS

13. What is the internal conflict? Lotte wanted to escape and ends up doing so, to a degree she didn’t anticipate, but then she realises that escaping did not really help her, which makes her even more bitter. She wonders if she did the right thing in leaving her home and her parents, and there’s no definite answer to that. She loves Peter but always questions some of the things he did on earth (and what his race in general is doing), since the morals of angels do not match those of humans entirely.

14. What is the external conflict? This doesn’t really manifest until the end, and it’s a bit of a spoiler.

15. What is the worst thing that could happen to your protagonist? To be isolated and alone, even within the company of her own guardian angel.

16. What secret will be revealed that changes the course of the story? That Lotte is more bitter and pissed off than we realised, lol. And that the angels have their own motivations for their actions.

17. Do you know how it ends? I do, but I’m tossing up with rewriting bits and pieces of it

BITS AND BOBS

18. What is the theme? Guardian angels is a huge underlying theme, which probably sounds obvious but there’s more to it than that. Like, if a human truly did have an angelic mirror of itself, what would that mean? How would that change a person, if at all? What if the concept wasn’t as simple as it’s made out to be? What kind of sacrifices do both parties have to make? Is it possible to be so poisoned by bitterness that one could hate their own guardian angel? I try to introduce some of the paradoxes that would manifest as a result of their existence, and there’s a historical and cultural overview of them, but it’s spread over the span of the story. idk. guardian angels.

19. What is a recurring symbol? Mm I don’t know. Photography? Quantum mechanics? Moments you wish would last forever but they can’t?

20. Where is the story set? (Share a description!) It’s initially set in Denmark, then moves to Sweden, then moves to another planet.

21. Do you have any images or scenes in your mind already? I do. I need some more though, because the middle of the novel needs to be fleshed out a bit more.

22. What excited you about this story? Everything. I love writing about angels. I love writing about Denmark and Sweden, and another planet entirely. I actually love the main cast and their interactions. I love Lotte.

23. Tell us about your usual writing method! Honestly I had a fantastic method during NaNo, which is why I got so much done. Sticking to a routine helped so much. Now I’m kind of all over the place. I’m also dying over editing (already) and trying to accomplish other small writerly things, so I haven’t been making as much progress recently. My method is: sit down and do it. Once you start typing, it’s hard to stop.

Tagging: @novelistcore, @erinoddly, @mybookisbad, @carumens, @apollchiles, @angelwriteblr, @omgbrekkerkaz, @florhiver, @sancta-silje, @girlnovels, @ikilledmyocs, @atelierwriting, @hepiit, @katabasiss, @nerocael, @vellichorwrites, @nathanielbooks, @nepeinthe, @nexiliss, @mangowriter, @rosequills, @russowrites, @lefttowritee

#the angel peter #tag game #prep tag

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echo2themoon-art-music-games · 6 years ago

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Kingdom hearts 3 spoilers

This is just some of the first impressions I had after finishing kingdom hearts 3 . Idk how to properly tag it so sorry if I did it wrong for this. Seriously, don't read this if you haven't finished and please keep in mind these are my personal impressions and opinion of this game, as someone who has waited 12-13 years for this and have been playing the other entires, patiently waiting for kh3.

Finished it today. Was very disappointed. So many issues it had that made everything feel rushed compared to all other installments.

I hate that Kairi was just there for plot convience with no real character development, compared to the other games, and didn't have a real purpose to be there, other than to futher push Sora's own plot along. The way they used Riku was clunky I feel. He's so strong in this verison, yet so weak and really took a back burner in this game, even though his role was still important.

Just like for Kairi, it feels like he was held back a lot due to plot with how often he was struggling. Even though his will to carry on is probably the most fierce it's been. It still felt very off, especially compare to 3DDD Riku's role. In the other installments as well, even when he wasn't featured much, he still progressed in the story and as a character in his own way.

I know it's because he's was more of an equal lead in 3DDD than here. But, I feel at this point, with the way they've develop the characters, they can't keep just acting as though Sora is the only important thing in the series for main installments due to plot. As it cheats him out of character development as well when convenient things happen for him due to plot.

I have a slight idea how they could have fix this but right now I'm just commenting on my first impressions of the story.

They really wanted the importance of a trio reuniting to be a driving factor with everything they did in the story but but it felt like they made Sora, Kairi and Riku extremely distant from one another in terms of interaction and that really to me, broke the flow and line of friendship the series has stayed true to with all other games leading up to this moment.

I was seriously irritated with how they handled this. It be different if they all were doing their own actual character development during this game but there's really no reason why they're separate here, other than wanting Donald and Goofy to always be the main teammates no matter what, with only guest Disney characters appearing in Disney worlds until end game.

Yeah, they explain what each of them are doing but there could have still been more reasons for them to see one another I feel. It would have served Kairi better to get "real battle experience" prior to just throwing her and Lea/Axel in the final battle and expecting that to go well. That would have been a good opportunity of development for her and Sora, too.

Maybe her going with Riku for a bit to save Aqua would have been too much but that also could work since again, they just throw her in the final battle fighting on the front lines with no real prior experience fighting other than in kh2, in the world that never was. Her "training" with Lea, is not realistically enough to fight not only all of organization 13, but all other boses and heartless we've come to learn about in the series as well. This makes sense and is doable for everyone else we end up gathering towards the end, but Kairi does not fit this dynamic of fighting experience and it was honestly obvious something was going to go wrong with this decision to bring her into battle with no real preparation.

Especially since they had established earlier, that Kairi was an important piece again, because she was still a princess of light. They did really nothing to prepare her for this and it's bothersome because it was for basically plot to purposely sabotage her readiness for end game battle.

She should have been featured a lot more in getting stronger and interacting with everyone since she basically was one of their last hopes in keeping the enemy from fulfilling their plan. That could have also been another way to develop her and Sora's relationship as well and show where Riku has finally settled in how he sees himself in the trio. ( I'm not suggesting shipping stuff just wanting them to flush out the obvious plot they tried to ham out at the last minute using her as a plot point end game so Sora could have an excuse to sacrifice himself again for the next KH game )

Riku was originally very envious and jealous of Sora and Kairi getting closer and feeling like he didn't have a place in the trio, this is basically what malefacent fed off on. (I know there was more than that, but to me, this was the initial issues he had ).

This was resolved already in other games and even though they have more pressing matters in the story, it still would have been nice for them to show their trio was doing alright instead of having them all so distant from one another and especially making Riku be off by himself all the time again. I would have liked all of them to have shared the paopu fruit together to keep along the lines of staying together no matter what. Riku has always been shown to care about Sora and Kairi both, but his reaction to Kairi getting sucked up and her getting basically killed, didn't seem in character at all due to the plot they wanted to push for Sora.

Getting her use to dealing with darkness and tough enemies early on as fast as they could, to me would have made much more sense. I know Kairi wasn't what the story was focusing, and only just put her there as a way to conviently push Sora's plot along, but they used her as a plot convience anyway, so at least this would have made up for it a bit. Her getting a chance to see what Riku and Sora have been dealing with all this time. A lot of times, alone, would had been a great opportunity for her character, I feel.

I feel it would have been more appropriate if her desire was to protect both Riku and Sora from harm, than just Sora. Because that's always been her personality. And see how hard they've been fighting In their journey, while traveling and fighting with them, I feel would have been great for the story while still allowing them to stay on the same course of the game.

Just this time, instead of Kairi being used against Sora, she would perhaps willingly try to fight and protect both Sora and Riku. Making Sora's words, " I won't let her be alone a minute longer" and acknowledging his journey started because of her, a lot more impactful.

I'm not even a big Kairi fan, I just was expecting so much more out of the original trios story and felt like this could have been handled much better than it was. It's tiresome seeing a female character be discarded in the way Kairi keeps being done. Aqua is written well and is strong, so I feel they could attempt to do the same for Kairi, so when she is sacrificed, it not only impacts the progression of the story but her character arch as well.

We haven't seen them all together, together in a real way since kingdom hearts 1, in all honestly. I was really looking forward to seeing how their dynamics between one another had changed since being kids. Especially since Donald and Goofy has served as much development for Sora as they possible can at this point. They could still be teammates, just have Kairi or Riku also trade off in traveling in joint with him occasionally, so we could get more insight on their dynamics.

It really bothered me how distant their friendship all seemed and how very little screen time Kairi and Riku got. I hoped for Kairi to have a least one wow moment and Riku to be more emotionally present than he was.

Also, the worlds we visited lacked so much in terms of content and story relevance.

It really hammered things in, all at once and I feel that some of the worlds, especially the final last world, should have happened in the beginning of the story because the start of the game seems like there's zero reason or direction on why we're going to other planets. I know he's looking for the power or waking. But there's zero leads to this and the planets barely have relation to khs 3 main story. Sora is just wondering, aimlessly. He literally might as well went with Riku and Micky to get Aqua. What would it had mattered if he didn't have the power of waking? He didn't need it for her, who was the only one that knew where ventus was and we could have gotten more story content sooner than we did.

If the final world, and even a bit of the final battle had happened more near the middle or beginning, that could have been Sora's reason for searching for the power of waking even more, plus recovering his powers and trying to prevent everyone from dying. Needing to go to each world, to get access to different parts of the final world, then, would have possible fit.

I know this probably makes no sense, I just feel like this possible could have worked out more than having us just go to Disney planets for the sake of Disney planets. The previous games always felt like we went to them for a reason and a purpose. We didn't leave empty handled and it helped push the story along for Sora and the gang. Not just revealed stuff to the player we may have already been aware of but Sora oblivious to.

Yes, he lost all his powers in 3ddd but this could also could explain why the game is rushing towards the end. Like a race against time and helping things feel more dire. Which also would excuse the worlds themselves being so empty or not needing Sora's involvement at all. He wouldn't have time to " meddle" in the affairs of the worlds, he just needs to try to keep the organization from getting what they need while also purposely entering the final world, to get more pieces of himself, hoping it'll help him recover the power he needs or he feel he needs.

Him purposely going there would be the risk of him "never coming back" but he has to take it in order to reverse the events that happened. Needing to find the power within himself so he could do what needed to be done by gather the pieces of himself he's been loosing all this time. ( Since you can collect more than just 111 pieces of Sora in this world ) also maybe have him go there one final time to save Kairi, which takes aways the shock of the ending, but gives us more closer in him basically sacrificing himself again and going there and risk loosing himself permanently, to bring her back. Because then we could get another touching goodbye scene between then, that could be a throwback to kh1 ending but this time, it'll seem even more final.

They could have kept their same plot, but this maybe would have felt like, we the player, had more "purpose" in our actions. Even have like all of the final fight, happen in the beginning where Sora maybe uses Mickey's time magic to reverse things so he can alter everyone being wiped out. A second chance to fight better and not lose hope. Idk. That may not make sense but nothing in kh series does at this point. Lol..

Sora just ends up places in kh3 by happenstance and not because of real leads. The worlds we visit in most don't see integral to the story as previous KH hearts games. It feels more so like I was just rewatching Disney films instead of being apart of plot related to kingdom hearts. Toy story felt flushed out but frozen was disappointing. Majorly.

Stuff would progress in the Disney worlds regardless of Sora being present or not and it really made me feel like there was no real purpose in going there. Especially since there was nothing in particular Sora was searching for. He was just there. If story order had changed a bit, I feel it would have given purpose for why he was on the other planets. Other than us just running around, bumping into plot. Making things feel more "fulfilling" and making Sora purposely trying to save everyone, because he wants to prevent their deaths in the final fight, that gets revealed to him due to time reversal plot. If Sora is going to sacrifice himself. I feel like rearrangement of the story points would have made it all feel impactful and made it all seem like there was a real drive in Sora's development. Making the ending even more meaningful and not just giving us straight whiplash.

#spoilers #kingdom hearts 3 #major spolilers don't rrad if you haven't finished...#kh3 spoilers

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buckyslightsaber · 7 years ago

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Paranoid

Request: None

Pairing: King Arthur (The Legend of the Sword) x Reader

Summary: Arthur can’t find you and he get’s extremely anxious. (Happens while Arthur is still in Londinium)

Warnings: I think I swore somewhere in there.

Word count: 2,650

A/N: I’m debating whether or nor I should delete this account since I barely even post anything ever, but for now, have this King Arthur: Legend of the Sword imagine because i just rewatched it for like the fifth time today. I swear this was meant to be short and lightweight but you know me wh00ps (honestly don’t even like this one sm, I’m just posting it bc it’s the first thing I’ve written in aaaaaggeesss)

My Masterlist

Paranoid

Arthur let out a deep breath as he felt himself being pulled out of his unconscious state and back into his bed, where the sunlight began to stream in. It flooded the room, illuminating it with a dim glow and slight warmth, something he appreciated deeply. He had yet to open his eyes, but a small smile already invaded his features.

This smile was due to one thing and one thing in particular: you. Arthur’s mind was swamped with memories of last night’s happenings, contently basking in every touch and laugh the two of you shared, not to mention everything else that came after that. His brain recreated your face so beautifully in front of lids, which were shut, that he couldn’t keep himself from thinking of you persistently.

After a while, Arthur’d had enough of imagining your face and felt an urge to see it for himself again. He wanted to be able to study every dip and curve on it, and engrave it into his memory more than it already was, if that was even possible.

Prompted by these desires, Arthur slowly rolled over, gently cracked his eyes open. To his dismay, he was greeted by an empty bed.

How weird; he could’ve sworn you’d stayed the night. Hell, he remembered all the times he’d fallen into fleeting moments of consciousness, looking around only to be met with your angelic features, unbothered as you rested next to him.

It couldn’t have been a dream. No, he was sure of it.

Maybe you’d already gotten up.

Following this thought process Arthur slowly peeled the fur blanket off his almost naked figure, swinging his legs over the bed as he pulled himself up. Quietly, he padded over to the bathroom. He stood in front of the door. “Y/N?” Arthur called out, not wanting to sneak up on you and scare you. He stayed still, observing the unperturbed wooden door, which he later opened, only to find the bathroom was empty. His frown only deepened at this finding, assuming you must’ve gone downstairs. You always did like having an early breakfast with the girls. Walking back to his room, Arthur snatched up some clothes and got dressed quickly.

Downstairs, the main room was rather full. The girls ate breakfast and chatted as some men hung out with them, striking up conversation, too. As he descended down the stairs, Arthur adjusted his jacket, scanning the room. You were nowhere to be found. He sighed, walking up to WetStick and nudging him, drawing his attention. “‘Haven’t seen Y/N, have you mate?”

WetStick raised an eyebrow. “Thought she was with you.”

Arthur blew out a breath. “Was. I think she left earlier this morning. ”

“You sure? I’ve been up since the wee morning, ‘aven’t seen her.” BackLack chimed in joining the boys. He had a piece of bread in his hands and crumbles falling out of his mouth as he spoke.

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat. There’s no way you could’ve left without him seeing you. Still, he tried to ignore the uneasy feeling he got. He was probably just being paranoid.

WetStick and BackLack shared a look, which then fell on Arthur, who’s gaze was instead fixated on the floor. WetStick spoke up, stealing the words out of BackLack’s mouth .“Is she alright?”

Arthur didn’t reply immediately, instead nodding. “O’ course”. It wasn’t a lie, was it? Y/N had to be alright, she’d just left early without anyone seeing her. That had to be it, right? Without directing another word to either of them, Arthur simply strolled out of the brothel, calmly closing the door behind him, leaving the two men to wonder what was going on.

Arthur, however, didn’t mind that he’d just left his two pals completely dumbfounded. All he wanted to do was find you and make sure you were alright.

He plotted out a path in his head, the first stop being the market. On his way there he saw Mike, who was selling furs. Instead of pestering him and demanding money from him, he decided to first ask about you instead. “Oi Mike. You know Y/N, yeah?”

Mike, who was busy unloading his furs, merely looked up to answer. “Your girl? Ye.”

“Great. She hasn’t happened to have strolled through here, has she?” He pressed, leaning against Mike’s wagon, calculating how much Mike would owe him for transporting all this fur. Mike shook his head. Fuck.

“Alright then.” As Arthur began to back away, he tried his best not to sound worried. He turned to Mike once more, considering whether or not he’d make Mike pay up. Finally, he decided he had more important matters to attend to, and just let him be for now. He’d have to have another talk with him about paying his damn commission later.

Upon arriving at the market, he noted it was, like the brothel, quite more packed than usual. On a regular day he’d stop and observe amateur pick pockets with WetStick and BackLack, an activity they found rather entertaining when they had the time for it. Other times, he’d work his own thieving magic on passerbys, but today, he had time to do neither.

His eyes stopped on a small figure, wearing a coat he’d seen on you many times before. As relief washed over his system, he moved swiftly, his expert footwork allowing him to sift through the crowd seamlessly. He snaked his arm around your waist, making you jump and instantly turn around to face him. Except it wasn’t you.

The lady staring back at Arthur was a complete stranger. She stared at him as if he were a pervert, and honestly, he couldn’t blame her. “Sorry miss.” He murmured, scurrying away quickly to hide his embarrassment, feeling the nervousness and anxiety regarding your whereabouts settle in again: If you weren’t in the market, where the hell else could you be?

Arthur kept his head down as his feet led him towards the ports, still making sure to be very aware of all the faces moving past him, not wanting to miss yours because he was distracted.

Unlike everywhere else today, the ports were relatively empty. It wasn’t absolutely devoid of people, he realized, it was just because the vikings’ spot was empty.

Shoving his hands into his jacket and pushing down his nerves, Arthur neared a familiar man working at a fruit stand. He’d met and talked to the man before, but his name always seemed to slip Arthur’s mind for some strange reason. The man called Arthur’s name, to which he replied with a nod.

“Where are the vikings?” Arthur asked, glancing back at the spot where the men had been just days ago.

The man merely shrugged, his lips falling into a straight line. “Lord knowns. They left at the crack of dawn. Raided the streets, took some girls wit’ ‘em. One girl was particularly petrified.” Arthur scrunched his nose as he began to get a bad feeling about this story. “Twas sad really. But you know how it is, I wasn’t about to intervene and get me head chopped off.”

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d heard anything the man said after mentioning that ‘one girl’, but he nodded anyway. “What else do you know about the girl. What’d she look like?”

As he heard the man’s description of said girl, Arthur could feel his stomach sinking deeper and deeper inside of him. Apart from how each characteristic he listed sounded peculiarly like you, he couldn’t help but imagine all the things that would happen if that truly was you. He bit down on his lip hard, trying to listen to the rest of the explanation, but the blood pumping fiercely through his veins and behind his ears almost kept him from being able to. Not that he minded, really. That information alone was enough to get his mind going. It killed him to think of you, his beautiful, sweet girl being manhandled by those bastards. Oh the things he’d do if they laid a single, dirty hand on your precious skin.

Arthur felt like he wanted to do multiple things, mostly scream out in anger and beat somebody to a pulp, but for now he just balled his fists at his sides. As soon as the man finished talking, Arthur thanked him and excused himself.

Arthur moved like lightning, marching with heavy footsteps back to the brothel. Even though the menacing frown etched on his face made him look furious on the outside, he felt like he could cry, but he’d save that for later on in the night, when he could be alone with his thoughts. For now he’d have to try his hardest to ignore his dreadful thoughts that were now beginning to eat away at his brain.

“Outta the way.” He called out, shoving people in all directions, moving with fast, abrupt motions. You were his top priority now, it’s not like he’d stop and think about his manners. He almost kicked down the door to the brothel, not bothering to even acknowledge the surprised faces that stared back at him upon entering.

Arthur trudged up to WetStick and BackLack, who were both already conveniently sat together. “The Graybeards took Y/N.” He blurted out, wasting absolutely no time with euphemisms.

Both men looked utterly shocked as they tried to take in Arthur’s words as well his facial expression, a mixture of disgust and genuine anger. They looked like they were about to speak, but Arthur dismissed them with the wave of a hand. “I’ll go upstairs and get my things, then I’ll be back to come up with a plan.” And just like that Arthur was gone again, bolting up the stairs as his mind clouded over with all the different contacts he had that could help him, all the different routes he could take, materials he’d potentially need, and anything else that seemed relevant. He was ready to flip Londinium upside down to get you back safely.

Arthur swung the door to his room open, feeling seconds away from ripping it off its hinges. He took a single step into the room before he froze completely, unable to believe his eyes.

You sat on his bed, nonchalantly looking off somewhere in the distance. You were right there. One thought swam through his head, jumping out apart from all the others, the most important to him. You were safe.

A couple seconds later you looked up, finally acknowledging his presence. As the weight of a thousand worlds lifted off his shoulders, you began to greet him, but he cut you off as he dove down and hoisted you off the bed in and into the air, his muscular arms nearly knocking the wind out of you. The joy that swelled up inside of him in that second was just indescribable. A section of your clothes was bunched up in one of his hands while the other tangled itself in your hair, pushing you safely into the crook of his neck while he squeezed his eyes shut. He held onto you so tightly that if he pressed even just the tiniest bit harder he’d probably leave an unintentional bruise.

“Arth, you’re hurting me.” Your voice sounded out small and fragile, squeezed through the layers of Arthur’s clothes.

“I’m sorry, baby.” He mumbled into your hair, instantly letting go. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you. Arthur pulled you back by your shoulders and took a moment to contemplate your face. Although you were completely confused, to him you looked more beautiful than ever. He didn’t want to waste any time, so he pulled you back into his arms, this time more gently. The hand that was once ferociously gripping onto your clothes was now delicately resting on your waist, while the other stayed on your back. He proceeded to plant a kiss on your forehead, later laying his chin atop your head.

You allowed him to cradle you as you rested your head against his broad chest, listening as his heart beat began to settle down. Both of your hands went under his shirt, rubbing circles on his bare back, something that you’d learned was especially soothing to him.

“My god...” He whispered, thanking every god he could think. He couldn’t be happier to have been wrong. “I was so worried about you, darling.” Arthur mumbled into your hair.

His hands unwrapped themselves from around your figure, letting you stand up straight once again. “What? Why?”

Arthur ran a hand through his hair, letting out a troubled sigh. “I didn’t know where you were. I thought something happened to you. I thought the vikings had taken you, I-”

“Shh, calm down Arth. It’s fine. I’m fine.” You assured him as you ran a hand down his arm, all the way to his big hands now encased around yours.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I was just so worried.” He repeated, stopping again to look at your face. “Where were you, anyway?”

“I went to the market to grab some apples to make your favorite apple pie.”

“But I went to the market. I didn’t see you there.” Arthur replied, confused. He even remembered looking specifically at the apple stand and not seeing you at all.

“I was probably there before you. When I came back the boys said you’d just left.” Oh. His mind took him back to few minutes, when he hadn’t given either of his mates a chance to speak because he was so caught up with all the viking stuff. If he’d let them speak he’d probably spared himself a couple minutes of agony.

Arthur chuckled softly, feeling incredibly stupid for making such a big deal out of nothing. He ran a hand down his face, which you must’ve interpreted as him feeling annoyed with you. “I’m sorry I left so early, but you know how it is, if you don’t get there early you won’t get to pick the good ones. Please don’t be mad.”

Instantly, Arthur shook his head. “Oh, no love. I’m not mad. It’s my fault, I was just being paranoid.” He couldn’t be mad at you, not even if he tried.

He reached over to stroke a piece of your hair that’d fallen out of place. He twirled it around his finger, not looking you in the eye at first, but slowly making his way back up to meet your eyes. “You know I love you right, sweetheart. Very, very much. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

You nodded slowly, looking at him with loving eyes. “Yes, and I love you, too.”

A smile spread across Arthur’s face, the smile that only appeared when he was around you. His eyes danced around your features, stopping at your lips. Scooting closer to you, he leaned in as you did the same, your lips willingly parting. His tender lips moved slowly against yours, not pushy, not needy, but loving and caring instead.

He drew back, still letting your foreheads touch as he brought a calloused hand up to your cheek. Arthur’s didn’t allow his eyes to leave yours until he brought his lips up to your forehead, letting his chin place itself on your head again. “I will always protect you, love.”

Running his fingers through your hair, he felt himself let go of all the emotions he was previously harboring. He never wanted to have to feel that way again. Never wanted to have the thought of something being wrong with you even cross his mind.

You were one of the last bits of happiness and love in his life and he didn't know what he’d do with himself if you were gone. Shuddering at the thought, he closed his eyes again, allowing his mind to drift. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” He repeated, more to himself than to you, but still a promise nonetheless.

A promise he very much intended to keep.

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wassup-zdravey · 7 years ago

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@amozon28, Why yes, I think Arya’s storyline absolutely could have her end up leading the BWB. It would make a lot of sense for her story and the books, and there seems to be possible foreshadowing and parallels. It would also add a lot to her arc and development, and possible future. (More detail on those later)

Above all else, Arya prizes family. She will likely head to the Wall again, as was always her goal; the original destination she was headed to with Yoren, the place she tried so many times to reach in order to be with Jon. This time, Arya is returning older and wiser, with new skills. She will need to pass through the Riverlands; and we get our plot opportunity.

Cut for length.

Would they ever choose her as their leader?

I think we can all agree that Arya is likely to return to the Riverlands and meet up with Land probably end up killing her. After that, the Brotherhood will need a leader, and Arya will be right there. I don’t think it would be absurd for them to pick Arya. She is the daughter of their previous leader, and was well liked and taken care of by their first leader; not to mention the other members. She is a highborn, and while the BWB believe the smallfolk have many rights, they still follow many class rankings and beliefs. Beric was named their leader partly because he’s a lord. Catelyn is also highborn, and was resurrected after Harwin begged for her, because she was Lady Stark, and there is a huge respect and love for the Starks. Arya is even more a Stark, and specifically very similar to Ned. It was he who sent out the men, and who they all know was all about honor and justice, as all of House Stark was known for honor and justice (The primary values the BWB was later formed on.) Her previous interactions with the BWB means she understands them quite well; how they work and what they stand for. Reversely, they know her. Admittedly, they saw her mostly as a willful highborn girl, though of course things like her intelligence and other skills must’ve been known. Arya is basically at the age when she’ll start to be considered more adultlike, and she is older and has learned and been through a lot. GRRM said he thinks Arya is one of the most mature characters in the series, and I have no doubt that maturity, and her intelligence, leadership and diplomatic skill, values and kindness, and sword skills will be quite obvious when she returns. There’s good reason to believe the BWB will see her as an option for their leader.

Does it match the rest of her story?

Arya’s previous arc in the Riverlands was about learning and experiencing the plights of the common people in times of war. (Which the post you commented on was about, so I’m assuming that’s what made you consider Arya leading the BWB) From Arya’s very first chapter, we see that she defends those of a lower class than her, and that is in direct parallel with the mission of the BWB that she knew under Beric. Under LS’s leadership, it has become darker and driven more by revenge. At the same time, Arya has become partially driven by justice (she always believed in it and fought for it, but I mean her story becomes more and more involved in it, as does her personality, thoughts, and spirit.) No, revenge and justice are not the same things, and that contrast will come to a peak with Arya meeting LS. This is likely the event (or one of them) GRRM plans on using to demonstrate his views on Justice/Mercy/Revenge; major themes in the series, and specifically in Arya’s chapters.

Revenge Vs. Justice/Lady Stoneheart Vs. Arya:

Arya’s list is a list for justice, and not revenge. bitchfromtheseventhhell made a good post explaining that and much more about Justice/Mercy/Revenge in Arya’s storyline, but I’m going to summarize the relevant bits here. Revenge is a lot more about when something is done to you personally, and the fact is not a single name on Arya’s list is about herself. Over half is for war criminals like Chyswik. Some of those she most likely blames primarily for seemingly minor/personal things like stealing Needle because she is not familiar with ”war crimes” other than the fact that they feel like they’re bad. But Arya knows that they’re bad in her heart. We see that with truly personal things, Arya is quite quick to forgive for the smallest thing, like a bit of kindness. The rest of the names are for people who killed people Arya cares a lot about. LS’s motivation is similar. The Freys did indeed do something very wrong, and deserve to be punished. What sets it apart is the way it’s done. I believe revenge goes beyond what’s done in the name of justice. Of course, as was said in the post and by Ben Franklin, it’s often a matter of perspective.

BUT, when we, outside parties, name something either justice or revenge, there is often a pattern. In revenge, There’s usually no care about the laws, and it’s often crueler than justice. That’s because it’s fueled by hate, not a desire to right wrongs. LS is just out for blood, for anyone that had anything to do with her and Robb’s betrayal. A big difference with revenge vs. justice is that you can’t argue justice went too far, whereas revenge is often personal, spiteful, and crueler. The victim is not often at direct fault for what their being given “justice” for. It’s just that the person wants to punish anyone that is somewhat related because they feel it would make what happened okay if they can make them suffer the way they did. That’s not the motivation for justice. Another characteristic we attribute to revenge is it’s all consuming in the mind. it’s important to realize that there is nothing for LS in her life other than revenge. It’s all she’s been reduced down to, and therefore it’s currently what the BWB is helping her work for. Arya has much more to live for, much more going on in her life. Her main drive if for fairness, her family, her home. Arya is not going to be okay with everything LS is doing, especially when she knows that the previous BWB was more dedicated to the people, and trying to help them. Compare that purpose to the current one. We’ve seen before that when she faces the choice, Arya chooses helping people, helping her living family, over bringing justice or revenge for the dead ones. Arya could return the Brotherhood to their former ways and total purpose of helping people by using the BWB to help restore some peace in the Riverlands, and/or help the Northerners and her family there. How is a different post though.

Foreshadowing and Parallels:

-I can see Nymeria as foreshadowing. In Nymeria’s story, there is a She-wolf who leads a great pack that fight in the Riverlands, often helping the North in their victim choice. If Arya were to lead the BWB, it would significantly parallel that. If you need more proof, the original Nymeria led her people to safety, which is likely what Arya would work towards in the Riverlands with the BWB, and later in the North. Arya, who in-text is called a She-wolf and a wolf-bitch, would lead a pack of many men in the form of the Brotherhood. Before Nymeria arrived in the Riverlands, the wolf packs there were made of many small groups, but Nymeria unites them. Similarly, the BWB is made up of men who are Northerners, Tyroshi, southern knights, commoners, etc. All sorts of people brought together as one, because they are stronger together, as a pack. The Brotherhood owes most of their success to the amount of people helping them, with secret connections and loyal commoners. They would not be able to do what they do without the support of so many smallfolk, without the support of their pack. Arya has been constantly searching for a pack; people to lead, protect, and call her own. Until she is reunites with her family, the Brotherhood could be that for her.

-Arya’s rise to that leadership position would also parallel Catelyn’s, and set up some rules about how someone can become the leader of the BWB. First, the old leader must die (Beric). The person directly responsible replaces them (LS). It’s pretty much a given that Arya will kill LS, and be that person directly responsible. As of such, she would be the one to take her role as well. None of this means I think Arya will get killed. She won’t die, because no one replaces her. I think after they accomplish what the Brotherhood was originally created for, they will disband. Aryan lives, and the pattern can stay true.

-It’s already been pointed out that Arya spending so much time in the Riverbanks parallels Catelyn, given it was her mother’s childhood home. Aryan and Cat both grew up in the Riverlands. So if we can say Arya “got” Cat’s childhood, the beginning of her life, isn’t it fitting for Arya to “get” the last of it too? If Arya parallels and experiences Cat’s childhood, it would make sense to have Arya go through the same thing as the last of Cat’s life as well; her time as Lady Stoneheart being the leader of the BWB. Arya could parallel the beginning and end of Cat’s life.

-The last time Arya was in the Riverlands, she was a scared little girl. Arya was a captive of many different people. She was beaten, starving, dirty, nearly raped or killed numerous times. Throughout it all, there was one thing that Arya kept wanting. She wanted to be fierce and powerful, so that she could help herself and the people around her. So that she could bring justice. Arya wanted to be a water dancer and a wolf, not a sheep or a mouse or a lamb. She wanted the ability to do something, and not stand by in silence. When Arya returns, she will be a better Water Dancer than she was before, after completing her training. While it’s not even close to the most important or emphasized skill she’s learning with the FM, how to kill someone is something we know she’ll be good at by the time she returns. All the practice and training means she’s gotten quite good with a sword; especially in the Water Dancer style. Arya will be a fiercer wolf than before. Not just because of all she has learned, but after reclaiming her identity. She will be surer of who she is: Arya Of House Stark, the Night Wolf, Of Winterfell. Arya will be a stronger, fiercer wolf more sure of her identity as that wolf after being tested to abandon it. She wished to be a Water Dancer and a Wolf so that she could protect herself and the people. When she returns, she will be.

The relationship Arya had with Catelyn also makes me like this idea. This isn’t exactly a parallel, but a contrast (and sort of ½ a parallel) that I think fits well and would be very important. Lady Stoneheart and Arya represent two different ideas, revenge and justice. I think LS might be there to show us more about Arya. What would have happened to Arya if she was not such a kindness and equality driven person? Would all that happened to her, and her wishes for certain people to die turn her into someone more like LS? What’s more, LS is basically the stereotype most people put on Arya; no doubt largely encouraged by the show? But even many book readers fail to understand the difference, and see Arya as murderous and vengeful person. (Nevermind that Arya’s prayers were originally just for the people to die, no for her to do it. And Arya’s personal kills from the list have only ever been opportunistic, not seeking them out.) Having them interact and disagree will be the perfect evidence against that. LS can also be meant to show us what Arya would be like if she became no one. Catelyn was dead for three days before she was found, and Beric has said that fire consumes a lot of you every time you’re brought back. Much of Catelyn left her in those 3 days, and what was left was mostly burned up. There’s not much left. All that LS is is someone who is out to kill, and won’t question who it is much, or if it’s right, as long as they match her questionable criteria. Catelyn became only the worst inside her, and we could get to see that that wasn’t ever an option for Arya. She holds too strongly to her beliefs and identity to ever be turned into a FM, or even someone who gets twisted from terrible experiences. What’s really poignant is that Arya, by dragging Catelyn’s corpse out of the river is sort of the reason she was resurrected. Arya herself (while warging) thought something along the lines of “rise and run and hunt with us”. That’s exactly what she does. In the end, Arya will also be the one to kill LS, and bring her peace.

And my favorite part about this plot:

Leading the BWB would give Arya the large-scale ruling position she has so far been lacking. Bran was lord of Winterfell for a time, Jon became Lord Commander, and Sansa is helping run some things in the Vale. Yet Arya’s chapters are absolutely full with ruling and queenship foreshadowing. Still, GRRM has said he wants his books to be realistic, and people in King/Queen roles should have previous experience and will have to face tough decisions and their fallouts. It’s (hopefully) well known that Arya has many skills, attributes, and natural talents that are valued for leaders, but Arya has yet to be put in a position where she would gain that kind of experience beyond natural leadership roles over a smaller group of people. Fans have had to wonder how to reconcile these facts, as Arya is obviously headed to this type of future. Arya becoming in charge of the Brotherhood would fix this problem quite well. They are a large organization spanning a large area, taking part in battle and domestic issues as well. Arya would have to deal with strategy and conflicting advice from people below her. She’ll have to deal with money, and getting food, weapons, and housing. We know that Arya had a good head for figures and said she knew more about running a household, but if this were to happen we would see it in action, see Arya practice and prove she can run things.

Overall, Arya becoming the new leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners would be a good arc, and a reasonable option to expect.

#Arya Stark #arya stark predictions #asoiaf meta #Arya Stark meta #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #lady stoneheart #Catelyn stark

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bb8fan · 8 years ago

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The Racist Treatment of Bonnie Bennett

I contemplated coming up with some cool title with a ring to it, or maybe something veiled that made you scratch your head and wonder, before reading further, BUT... why not just call a spade a spade? - “But, BB8fan, that’s such a BOLD statement to make!” I KNOW. But don’t worry, I have the facts to back it up!

The definition of the adjective “racist” is showing or feeling discrimination or prejudice against people of other races, or believing that a particular race is superior to another. In this article, I will prove that Bonnie Bennett has been CONSTANTLY treated, made, and portrayed to feel as though the predominantly white characters of “The Vampire Diaries” were superior to her. #RacistTreatment

DISCLAIMER: LET THIS POST SPARK EMPATHY AND AWARENESS, NOT ANGER AND HATRED, LEST WE BECOME ADVOCATES OF THE VERY THING WE DESPISE...

Firstly, when it comes to men:

Bonnie Bennett has been treated, made, and portrayed to be the least desirable of the three female leads of TVD. While Elena was sought after by the hunky Salvatore brothers... and Caroline by the all powerful, Klaus, All-American, Matt, beefcake wolf, Tyler, Professor Alaric Saltzman, AND STEFAN to boot... BONNIE was sought after by Ben (who only wanted to use her), Luka (who only wanted to USE HER), Jeremy (who was grieving over the ex, he later CHEATED ON HER WITH), and Enzo, who had literally exhausted all other options!

IT IS DISGRACEFUL! IT IS STOMACH CHURNING DISGUSTING, AND BLATANTLY IN YOUR FACE, WHEN YOU PAUSE TO ACTUALLY LOOK AT IT! THE RACIST TREATMENT...

Elena was given the show leads, Caroline was given literally EVERY GUY ON THE SHOW, while Bonnie was whiny Jeremy’s third choice (after Vickie and Anna), and irrelevant Enzo’s third choice, for that matter! (Don’t forget CAROLINE and Lily! ;)

WHY have BOTH of her only relevant love interests end up with her BY DEFAULT?! And WHY IN THE WORLD couldn’t Ben or Luka start out using her, and then GROW TO CARE FOR HER?! Why did her stupid STEP BROTHER not even want her?! She had to literally THROW herself at him! WHY DID THE WRITERS TREAT THE BEAUTIFUL BONNIE BENNETT IN SUCH A DEMEANING MANNER??! In my opinion, she’s the most gorgeous of all the females, but NO. TVD made her undesirable. They put her white friends on a pedestal, and portrayed her as the inferior oddball NOBODY wanted and NOBODY CHOSE FIRST. #RacistTreatment

But in case you need more evidence...

Secondly, when it comes to empowerment:

Bonnie Bennett has been treated, made, and portrayed to be the most powerless out of the three female leads of TVD. ‘How so? Elena was a weak human for 3 seasons! And Bonnie’s the baddest witch in the land!’ I’m glad you asked... YES Bonnie’s a fierce witch, and yes, Elena was human for 3 seasons. BUT!

1) Bonnie was possessed, beyond her control. (S1) 2) Bonnie was held back by Stefan, while Damon KILLED HER MOTHER. (S3) 3) Bonnie was CONSISTENTLY FORCED to do magic for Klaus! (S3) 4) Bonnie helplessly witnessed her grandmother being tortured by the spirits, to the point where she lost the ability to do her magic. (S4) 5) Bonnie had to lay there and watch Jeremy die right in front of her! (S4) 6) Bonnie’s dad was KILLED RIGHT BEFORE HER VERY EYES! (S5) 7) Bonnie lost her magic. (S5) 8) Bonnie became the anchor, and had to undergo enormous magnitudes of pain. (S5) 9) Bonnie was stabbed, chased, and tormented by Kai. (S6) 10) Bonnie had no magic. (S6) 11) Bonnie was hunted by the armory and had no magic. (S7) 12) Bonnie had NO MAGIC! (S8)

So yes, Bonnie’s an all powerful witch! But HALF THE SERIES she’s spent WITHOUT HER MAGIC! Elena was weak and human, and used for the cure! BUT Bonnie has been used as a magical tool EVERY OTHER EPISODE - and by literally EVERY character on the show! It’s not just Klaus and Katherine who’ve made her feel powerless! BUT Damon, Stefan, Katherine, Klaus, Silas, Enzo, and EVERYONE!!!

Elena watched Jenna die. But Bonnie watched Jeremy AND her DAD die! She found her Grams dead, and was held back while her Mom was killed!

This woman has been beaten down in ways that are just deplorable and unheard of! She has been FORCED, she has been ABUSED, she has been TRAUMATIZED in the appalling ways she’s been made to feel and be POWERLESS! More times and with more damaging magnitudes than with any other female lead! Fight me on this! It’s #RacistTreatment

But just in case you still REFUSE to see the light...

Lastly, when it comes to worth:

This is the most serious and damaging of them all! Fine! Portray your only lead POC character as undesirable! Portray her as powerless! But worthless? This is just unacceptable... But TVD did it! My gosh they DID it with Bonnie Bennett!

Caroline doesn’t put her life above Elena’s so why should Bonnie? TIME AFTER TIME AGAIN??! And then not only does she do it with Elena, she does it FOR JEREMY TOO!!! She literally GAVE HER LIFE for the two them! For Jeremy to be alive, and for Elena to be “happy,” she GAVE UP HER LIFE, because it is worth THAT little! Or so the show would have Bonnie believe, - AND the other characters, as no one has ever corrected her, - and we, the viewing audience!

This is unhealthy, abusive, and DAMAGING, this belief system! But it has gone unchecked and uncorrected for YEARS! AND TO ADD INSULT TO INJURY, the one time people claim their “superior” white faves did sacrifice for Bonnie is complete BS! Talk about #RacistTreatment

The ignorance of the show BLEEDS into the fans/viewers of it, and it is SCARY! To say that Elena or Damon sacrificed ANYTHING in season 6, when Kai linked her life to Bonnie’s, is not only absurd, it’s HORRIFYING! I don’t know if people are losing brain cells watching this terribly written show, but Elena was IN A MAGICAL COMA! That was done! It happened! -- NOW. The loophole is that she could wake up, IF BONNIE DIES! So when people say Elena sacrificed, and Damon sacrificed, they’re literally saying “Delena didn’t KILL Bonnie, they’re supposed best friend! What a sacrifice!”

They’re literally patting them on the back, for not MURDERING their “friend!” Do you realize how messed up that is?!... But then again, a messed up ship breeds messed up fans! And a messed up show breeds messed up viewers! Bonnie’s life isn’t worth anything! That’s been the running theme of the show! So why wouldn’t viewers pat DE on the back for not killing her?! She isn’t worth crap!

“Bonnie’s superiors are her white friends, and she needs to be ready and willing to lay down her life for them, at all times!”

That’s the message of TVD. I am SICK. I am utterly disgusted and SICK! I cannot BELIEVE I wasted SO MANY years of my life on this show, thinking they cared about this beautiful person of color! CONVINCING myself they were saving Bonnie for DAMON, and that was the reason for her lack of love interest! Reasoning they were making Bonnie a stronger, more layered character, by putting her through so much crap! Believing they’d have the right man DECLARE Bonnie’s worth to her, and put a stop to her self harm!

NOOO!

They’re not saving Bonnie for Damon. Why would they put the “inferior black girl” with one of the most desirable males of the series?! Even though Bamon is canon in the books, they will not even share a KISS! They will be the only important book!ship left COMPLETELY UNEXPLORED (they even did Meredith/Alaric!), when if this were Bonnie Mccullough they’d already be MARRIED!

You know, back in season 3 of the show, I started to wish for Bonnie’s death. I thought, ��if her character is going to be used and abused THIS much, she might as well be gone... Kat Graham deserves better, and I deserve better than to be stuck watching this show for her!’ But TVD kept her alive. They kept their token black person to keep their demographic viewers.

And yeah, a couple seasons later things seemed to be getting better... but then season 8 happened. :/ But I guess I should be thankful! My eyes are OPENED because of it.

Bonnie Bennett is ENDLESSLY treated, made, and portrayed to feel undesirable, powerless, and worthless, next to her white friends. It’s #RacistTreatment and she deserves better. Kat Graham deserves better. And we as VIEWERS deserve better.

I am SO DONE with this show, and I hope you will be to! Don’t put yourself through the heartache! Don’t put yourself through the twisted brainwash! I wish more than ever now that Bonnie Bennett would die. There’s just no winning. :/ She deserves better than emo Enzo AND self-centered Damon, who doesn’t give a crap about her! So just kill her! The writers have been emotionally stabbing her from the beginning anyways...

I’m hurt. This hurts me... In a world full of constant injustice for people of color, I thought I was finally witnessing a powerful character... an attractive and beautiful black woman, who would be cared for and loved by others... It turns out she was nothing more than a plot line punching bag, created to make Elena, Caroline, the writers, and the viewers of this show feel better about themselves. :/ The abuse Bonnie Bennett has undergone has abused me worst than I think I’ve ever experienced in life. They have subliminally consistently told me I am less desirable, less powerful, and less worthy. I didn’t realize it before unfortunately, but I realize it now! And I’m DONE listening to the lies!

Well, I hope this article has enlightened you all! Don’t get so happy next time you see a diverse cast! Pay attention to the way the show/movie TREATS their people of color! Don’t be fooled, and left heartbroken and damaged, after believing and putting your faith and support into complete filth...

Last, but not least, don’t let the ugly behavior of this world turn you into the very thing you despise. Fight hate with LOVE! And remember, we’re all brothers and sisters, whether we like it or not!

Pray for the writers of TVD. Pray for the actors. Pray for it’s fans. Pray that they see the error of their ways, and learn to love and treat others the way they’d want to be treated... We all make mistakes. We’re all human. “We all have sinned.” Now it’s about moving FORWARD from that, and not repeating the same mistakes! :)

P.S. Go show Kat Graham’s twitter page some love! As hurt as I am by Bonnie’s treatment, she’s probably 10x more hurt! It’s probably why she decided to leave the show! She knew things weren’t going to get any better for her... :/ Anyhow, go show her some love! Thank her for gifting us with the lovely Bonnie Bennett! And compliment her on being the gorgeous and talented PROFESSIONAL she has always been!

God bless!

#bamon #bonnie bennett #tvd #cwtv #racism

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cinnamonaes · 8 years ago

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Okay so I’m really into Attack on Titan and Fire Emblem so naturally I made up a crossover in my head with AoT characters in a FE formulated type of world. The idea started because I really like Knight!Reiner and Prince!Bertolt and it kinda...grew from there. But yeah, below the ‘Keep Reading’ is basically the 104th training squad’s (and Marcel’s) profiles that I took way to much time writing up and detailing. If anyone wants to talk about this AU with me, give me ideas, or wants to push me to write for it (I respond well to pushing!) I would be more than happy to speak about it!

(And if you were wondering about romance in this AU, Reibert and Yumikuri is a given. The rest I’m still contemplating, which you could see in how I handle some profiles)

Okay so a lot of the profiles have character descriptions that we are all familiar with since we already know how these characters are in the manga/anime but I gave them some twist based on the new universe they’re in. Plus some have to change more than others due to them being more plot relevant in this AU.

(Note: Some of this is tentative and open to change.)

Republic of Havilah: aka desert country

Eren Jaegar

Class: Mercenary

Weapon: Swords

Profile: A mercenary from the republic of Havilah. His father went missing when he was young and, soon after, his mother was killed by bandits. He’s on a mission to kill the bandits who murdered his mother and find out what happened to his father all while taking on mercenary work around the continent. Hot headed and driven, he’s the type to not stop until he gets what he wants which also tends to get him in trouble. Luckily for him he has much more level headed friends.

Mikasa Ackerman

Class: Myrmidon

Weapon: Swords

Profile: A mercenary from the republic of Havilah. Her parents were killed as an act of revenge on the Ackerman family and, afterwards, she was taken in by the Jaegar family. Doesn’t actively seek revenge on those who killed her parents or adoptive parents, but the trauma has made her fiercely protective over the only family she has left, Eren. Serious, focused, and seemingly not interested in making friends outside of Eren and Armin but can open up to others given time. Her hard exterior hides a much more fragile interior.

Armin Arlert

Class: Wind Sage

Weapon: Wind Magic (mastered), Fire Magic, Thunder Magic

Profile: A mercenary from the republic of Havilah. His parents were mercenaries who died on the job leaving him in the custody of his grandfather until he died of natural causes. Level headed and intelligent, he makes sure his best friend, Eren, doesn’t get into too much trouble. Has low self-esteem but gets more confident over time thanks to Eren and Mikasa’s constant support. The type to support the idea of “the end defeats the means” and whose realism can create friction with both idealist and pessimist.

*Note: In regards to romance with these three I’m still unsure of who I want them to be with. I’m leaning towards ArminxAnnie and MikasaxJean but I’m also open towards Annie or Mikasa being with Eren...hmmm.

**Extra Note: Magic users are going to go by the FE: Radiant Dawn formula of Fire/Thunder/Wind Mage->Fire/Thunder/Wind Sage->Archsage.

Okay so this whole idea started because I love the idea of Prince!Bertolt and Knight!Reiner, so lets get to them now!

Kingdom of Abaddon: a cold, mountainous country. Volcano land.

Bertolt Hoover

Class: Wyvern Rider

Weapon: Axes

Profile: Crown Prince of the absolute monarchy of Abaddon. Extremely sheltered, kept inside the castle grounds, never ventured outside to even the castle town. His father tells him it’s for his own good because bandits have been roaming the land and would like nothing more than to use the king’s only son as a hostage. Shy young man with low self-esteem. Has a wyvern named Mathilda who is kept on a long chain (long enough to fly off the ground, short enough to not go far). Believes he has no will of his own but as he gets older he longs to interact with the people he knows he will one day rule.

Reiner Braun

Class: Great Knight

Weapon: Swords, Lances, Axes

Profile: Retainer to Prince Bertolt. An orphan taken in by the aristocratic Braun family at a young age. Being a noble from a high house he was allowed to briefly interact with Bertolt when they were young. He and his older brother, Marcel, were also the ones to train and spar with Bertolt as they got older. Doesn’t have a shy bone in his body and believes he could do anything he sets his mind to but can also be hard headed and oblivious. In love with Bertolt and completely devoted to his protection. Unaware that Marcel loves Bertolt as well. Has a loyal horse named Clive.

Marcel Braun

Class: Paladin

Weapon: Swords, Lances

Profile: Retainer to Prince Bertolt. First born son to the noble Braun family. One day found little orphan Reiner and refused to let go. Like Reiner, he was allowed to briefly interact with Bertolt when they were young and trained together when they got older. More serious than Reiner and worries about everything about as much as Bertolt. Extremely protective of those he cares about and suspicious of people he doesn’t know well. In love with Bertolt but knows that Reiner is too and finds it hard to reconcile his desire for Reiner’s happiness with his own. Has a horse name Claire that he spoils rotten.

*Note: Marcel’s hard to write about because there’s so little about him in the actual manga, so I took some liberties with his personality.

**Extra Note: Okay so I HATE love triangles! You might be asking yourself now “Then why did she make one?!” It’s because I want to show a love triangle that ends in a well and healthy manner. At the end of the day Marcel...well, doesn’t stand a chance and I think it will be nice to write his longing but eventual acceptance and all the emotions he feels in between.

Theocracy of Elysia: plains and beautiful rolling hills.

Historia Reiss/Krista Lenz

Class: Troubadour->Valkyrie

Weapon: Staves, Light Magic as a Valkyrie

Profile: Illegitimate daughter of the Reiss family. Niece to the Hierophant, Uri Reiss, and daughter to his brother, Rod Reiss, and Rod’s mistress, Alma. Ignored and neglected, Historia runs away from home and assumes a fake identity. The type to always help people but only so that she could be praised. Outwardly selfless, inwardly selfish. Doesn’t actually know what she wants out of life or what she hoped to find by running away (death? recognition? love? acceptance?). When she finally thinks she knows what she wants, a meeting with a mysterious woman named Ymir may change her mind.

Ymir

Class: Thief?

Weapon: Swords, ???

Profile: A mysterious young woman with no family and no past. Wanders around and steals to survive, though never from the poor. Talks in a brash, selfish manner but does many acts of good faith. All she wants out of life is to survive it. Has nightly, cryptic dreams that she tries to ignore, feeling that figuring them out will lead her to trouble, or worse yet, death. Is confused and intrigued by Historia after meeting her and in an effort to begin understanding her, decides that they should travel together.

Kingdom of Zephyria: aka forest country.

Annie Leonhardt:

Class: Pegasus Knight

Weapon: Lance

Profile: Crown Princess of Zephyria. Cold, distant, and slow to warm up to others. All-in-all, not the friendliest person. A bit of a pessimist though appreciates a good dose of idealism. An intelligent young woman who uses her words wisely and could come off as philosophical if in the presence of someone who might appreciate such insight. Her father taught her hand-to-hand combat with the idea in mind that she shouldn’t always rely on her pegasus or weapon to get out of bad situations. Constantly annoyed by her retainer’s, Marlo and Hitch’s, bickering but knows they’re both actually kind-hearted people, a trait she values. Has a pegasus named Catria.

Jean Kirchstein

Class: Cavalier

Weapon: Sword, Lance

Profile: A soldier of Zephyria and Marco’s best friend. A pessimist who wants to rise in the ranks so that he could live a better life in the capital rather than dealing with the minor issues of the people in the backwoods. Cynical but, when push-comes-to-shove, will fulfill his duty as a soldier. Despite his hard exterior, he deeply cares for his comrades and friends. Is infatuated with Mikasa the moment he sees her. Has a horse named Sully.

Marco Bodt

Class: Cavalier

Weapon: Lance, Sword

Profile: A soldier of Zephyria and Jean’s best friend. An optimist who wants to rise in the ranks so that he could serve the royal family and dedicate himself to their safety. Probably has a motivational speech thought up for every occasion. Tries to see the best in everyone, which sometimes can come off as him being naive. Waiting patiently for Jean to tell Mikasa how he feels but begins to wonder if he should just annoy Jean with motivational speeches until he confesses. Has a horse named Stahl.

Sasha Braus

Class: Archer

Weapon: Bow

Profile: From a small hunting village called Dauper in the southern part of Zephyria. An incredible hunter in her own right, she has good eyes and sharp instincts. A simple young woman who loves to laugh and has a ravenous appetite. Eventually receives a horse she names Sigurd.

Connie Springer

Class: Villager

Weapon: Axe

Profile: From a small lumber village in southern Zephyria called Ragako. After his village gets razed to the ground and his family killed by bandits he begins traveling with Eren and his friends. Though saddened by those turn of events, Connie is normally an optimistic, caring, though somewhat naive and slow to understand things young man. Likes to joke around with Sasha, especially because it’s so easy to make her laugh.

(While I’m not writing a profile for them right this second, Erwin is a Hero who uses swords and axes, Levi is an assassin who uses swords, daggers, and bows, and Hanji is a trickster who uses swords and staves.)

#What do I even tag this?#SNK #Shingeki no Kyojin #Attack on Titan #Reibert #Yumikuri #err...lots of characters #104th Trainee Corps #104th Trainees Squad

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thickasthievesrpg-hidden · 8 years ago

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WELCOME TO THE HEIST, HAYDEN!

YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF CIRO CAPECCHI

A note from Admin Risa: Welcome back, my love! I’m so glad to have both you and Ciro back. Undoubtedly, you’ll do his role all the justice in the world, and I’m very excited to see you both on the dash again! Congratulations on your acceptance! You’ve been to the museums, the banks, the isolated manors with their black dogs and gilded keys. You’ve stolen their necklaces, their jewels, the prized heirlooms in their vaults and their safes. They’ll watch out for you. Please visit the after acceptance page and submit your account within the next 24 hours – we’re excited to have you with us!

I. INTRODUCTION

Name/Alias + Pronouns:

Hello! Before we jump into my actual application, I just want to extend a sincere thank you for giving me and so many others the opportunity to apply to such an impressive roleplay. No matter what the outcome ends up being, I am genuinely so excited to be applying, and I hope that I’ve been able to convey that in what I’ve written. Of course, that isn’t to say that I’m not a little nervous, because I most definitely am. Eek! Honestly, though, it feels like an honor to be given the chance to even briefly enter the world you’ve created, so I’m immensely grateful to each of you for giving me that. As someone who has administered several groups over the span of her roleplay career (though never on the scale that Thick is Thieves is on), I know how mentally taxing it can be, as well as how much free time it can eat up, so kudos to you for the wonderful job you’ve done, Risa and Taryn (and Ashley, too). With that small bout of praise and gratitude squared away, my name is Hayden, and the pronouns that I use are she/her/hers!

Age:

I’m currently only seventeen years old, but I will be turning eighteen very soon. My birthday falls on June second, and while I’m slightly intimidated by the idea of being a ‘real adult’ in the matter of just a few weeks, I’m also quite excited at the same time and very much looking forward to it. I mean, you only earn the privilege to vote once, don’t you?

Timezone + Activity:

I. BASICS

Desired Role:

Ciro Maurizio Capecchi

Analysis:

sexuality/romantic preference — At just thirteen years old, Ciro Capecchi—burgeoning on adolescence and tiptoeing the line that divides careless childhood and disillusioned juvenility—began to realize that he failed to have much of a preference at all among genders when seeking companionship, physical or otherwise. Perhaps such realization would not have taken so long, but he had never thought to entertain crushes as a child, already too fixated on the blackened underbelly of his precious Palermo to take note of anyone around him in that way. However, the intense rush of hormones that accompanied puberty quickly transformed Ciro’s perspective on the matter, and without a word of warning, he found himself acutely aware of boys and girls alike: how each of them fashioned their hair differently from the others; how midday light caught the slopes of their cheekbones and the sharp curves of their jaws; how their lithe bodies filled out their Armani suits and Dior dresses, and later, after he had grown into himself a bit, how they didn’t; how easily mere glances could suddenly light a flame deep within him; and how, despite his best efforts, he was hopelessly, irrevocably invested in each and every one of them. His tendency toward brief, fleeting bouts of infatuation emerged with the rapid cycling of his crushes, a new one surfacing nearly every other week. The entire experience jilted him to a tremendous degree, particularly once he began to develop unexpected and unwelcome feelings for the very picture of French aristocracy, a boy two years his elder and princely in a way that Ciro felt he could never quite match. In a thinly veiled attempt to either avoid or suppress his crush, he rapidly redirected his attention to Silas Beauregard’s frigid younger sister. Beautiful Xanthe, her golden hair swishing at waist length as she spurned his advances with a girlish giggle and a twinkle in her crystal blue eyes, proved an effective distraction, and their flirtation—or, rather, his dogged pursuit of her—has persisted to this day. While his fixation on Xanthe has not changed, Ciro certainly has, which is perhaps most evident in his acceptance of himself, a development that is largely the responsibility of his mother. When Eleanor’s abrupt departure tore the Capecchi family asunder, his problem of liking boys and girls suddenly seemed trivial at best, and he was rather quick to reassess whether denying half of himself was worth the effort anymore. Seven years later, Ciro is still not officially out as bisexual, having never formally or directly acknowledged it to anyone, but it is an open secret among all five families and the Magpies in particular exactly whose beds he spills drunkenly into after the exorbitant affairs he calls parties.

birthdate — Ciro was born messily and painfully on the edges of winter, just as the crisp autumn of October gave way to the seeping chill of November. His was an ugly birth, one that came in the midst of Francis Villiers’ ascension to Thief Lord, a gruesome delivery that part of him suspects his father would prefer to forget altogether. Were he a religious man, he might think it divine intervention that someone such as him, with a heart so deliberately forged with steel and frost, was brought into the world just as the air of Palermo began to slip into unusually wintry degrees; were he privy to the gory circumstances of his birth, he may find some depraved metaphor somewhere between the deep crimson his mother spilled out onto the cot beneath her and the blood now on his hands, a stain left behind by the wicked things he has done. However, finding himself more attuned to hedonism and intemperance than worship and poetry, he instead chooses to focus the energy that would be expended on that analysis into organizing one of his most lavish parties of the year: a decadent festivity second only to his extravagant Bacchanalia, held in celebration and honor of his birthday, the fifth of November. Upon closer inspection of his birth date, it is quite appropriate that he was born on Guy Fawkes Night, an English holiday commemorating the dissolution of the Gunpowder Plot. From the attempted assassination of King James I to the bonfires lit throughout London following its failure, the entire day screams of Ciro’s fiery, deadly nature, while also paying homage to his absent mother’s homeland. However, forfeiting the historical relevance of his birthday, each winter, Ciro’s party proves to be nothing more than a grandiose, self-indulgent ode to himself, sung to the cacophonous tune of white powder and crackling fireworks and expensive liquor. Guests still willingly attend, though, in spite (or perhaps because) of Ciro’s blatant, unwavering egomania, and he revels in the attention he receives from them. He revels in all of it: the debauchery, the vanity, and everything else that comes with the parties held in his underground den of wonders.

birthplace/hometown — In spite of his persistent habit of cavorting across the globe, back and forth with such swiftness that it is quite remarkable he ever gets any rest at all, Ciro will always consider Palermo, Italy his home. It is where he was brought into the world, choking and bathed in blood, and it is where he intends to die as well, most likely in the same manner. He led a… comfortable childhood in Palermo, doted on by his mother and ignored by his foolhardy father. From early on, he was a brooding boy of melancholy disposition, but lacked the propensity for deliberate cruelty that his elder sister, Alessia, exhibited so thoroughly. If he were asked today, he would not claim that he was a happy youth, per se, but he certainly would not deny that he was taken care of adequately, and in the grand scheme of things, that was more than enough. After all, he was given free reign of the expansive halls of Villa Capecchi, given room to frolic and play and create extensive fantasy realms, ones where the dragon was never slain and the princess was never saved and the kingdoms all eventually fell to ruin. The dragon—a big, angry, foul beast and Ciro’s exclusive territory—would always triumph over the poor knight, blasting through his shining armor with its fiery breath, leaving nothing but ash and scorched silver where a valiant would-be hero once stood. Then, with mechanical predictability, the dragon would take the princess that it had been lording over to yet another dilapidated castle to wait out the next onslaught of knights, armed with nothing but a fierce greed and fire. More often than not, Ciro delegated the roles of knight and princess to Santino and Violetta, respectively; Tommaso and Alessia were always either too old or too busy to make believe with him, and the structure of his play allowed him a certain degree of cruel control over his younger siblings, one that he relished. Although not entirely intentional, his childhood games were told in three mostly unchanged acts: hope, loss, and recovery. If he were just slightly more self-aware, Ciro would perhaps notice a sort of subtle parallel between the cycles he goes through today and the recurrent nature of those long-forgotten games: his unremitting hope to someday ascend to power within either Cosa Nostra or the heist, the feelings of deep loss he experiences when an opportunity to seize that power slips through his clutches, and the gradual recovery of his bearings that occurs when he skulks away to lick his wounds and plot revenge on those he believes have slighted him. In a way, this uncanny resemblance almost makes Ciro appear prophetic, but mostly, it points to a young man doomed to repeat the same stagnant, cyclical pattern of hope, loss, and recovery forever, barring a dramatic shift in behavior. However, so long as his beloved Palermo is still there for him to come home to, his priorities will most likely continue to lie outside of attempting to avoid his own systemic self-destruction. The city is almost like a mother, filling the shoes of the one who abandoned him. It nurses his wounds and coddles his bruised feelings, but instead of doing so with bandages and gentle words, it offers him liquor and women, and he fervently accepts. Palermo may be his home, but he prefers to call it his patria.

occupation — Born to live and bleed and die for Cosa Nostra, Ciro knew from quite a young age that, eventually, he would be formally initiated to the ranks of the Capecchi cosca, Palermo’s faction of the sprawling criminal syndicate that lords over Sicily with powders and pistols and pills. Part of him feared this fate as a child; after all, his position within the mafia was all but carved in stone, an inevitable and unalterable part of his future, and the mere concept of irreversible change easily struck fear into the heart of the young boy. However, as he grew, eventually losing the glimmer of impressionable childhood in his dark eyes, so did his curiosity in and wonderment at the cosca. At just eleven years old, small and stealth, Ciro began to slip past the Capecchi children’s au pairs at opportune moments to follow his elder siblings through the cobblestone streets of Palermo, desperate to catch even a fleeting glimpse of something related to the future waiting for him in the dim alleyways and smoky villas of the city. While sightings of mafiosi in the flesh were few and far between, this behavior persisted for quite some time, until Ciro was eventually caught in the act; as surreptitious as he had been, he had not managed to escape the watchful eye of Vico Capecchi’s soldiers completely. Within the year, the boy was being utilized by the mafia, although sparingly. Sneaking here, stealthing there… it was all just fun and games to Ciro, fantastical tales of swashbuckling and delinquency to relay to Hale Rothschild at their next conclave. However, his natural agility did not negate his youth, and it was eventually agreed that twelve was simply too young to be fully immersed in the dark netherworld of Palermo. With the swiftness of a ship at sea, he was ejected from a society he had only just been introduced to, and he would have been lying if he had said it did not sting. Their attention refocused, neither Vico nor Lorenzo took note of the fire that had been lit within Ciro, the insatiable hunger for more. Still just a child and naïvely enthusiastic about the utter devastation he was capable of bringing, he had already found his greatest lover: the tantalizing thrill of danger. He wanted more. He neededmore. In a cruel twist of fate, he succumbed to the beginning of his long, illustrious affair with crime just as the mafia excluded him from it. Over the next several years, Ciro tried his best to keep up with his father and elder siblings, but his pace always seemed just a step too slow to match theirs. He ached as he watched Tommaso and Alessia move strides ahead of him, each of them with a sturdy hand clapped onto their shoulder, Lorenzo guiding them with what little parental instinct he was able to muster. The game was rigged, and from the very beginning, it appeared as if he was rigged to lose. Eventually, Ciro managed to carve out his own niche within Cosa Nostra, one that reeked of sweat and sex, but his ascension within the mafia resembled a crusade for acceptance more than it did a volley of death. Fighting tooth and nail was what it took, but he did it enthusiastically, with a fervor that went entirely unnoticed by his father. These days, he wields a revolver forged with steel and blood, the weight of it comfortable and familiar in the palm of his hand, and rakes in cash for Cosa Nostra through the sale of various narcotics. The majority of his transactions occur during his infamous soirées, pounding bass serving as background accompaniment to low murmurs and quiet taps of sharp metal against glass. Every euro that he earns is a small reminder that, in spite of his father’s disinterest in his advancement within the cosca, Ciro has managed to make a name for himself, both as a soldier and a socialite, and he has no plans of slowing down any time soon. Still, beneath his inflated sense of accomplishment, there is a lingering, slowly festering bitterness reminding him that while he sits lamely at the bottom of the mafia’s hierarchy, both Tommaso and Alessia—his cherished elder siblings, each of their temporary absences not yet forgotten by their brother—serve as caporegimes beneath Don Herrero.

criminal occupation — Sharp of tongue and quick of wit, it only seems a natural progression of his person that Ciro serve as con man for the heist alongside Alessia. After all, one of his greatest talents, outside of begetting death and inhaling blow, lies in manipulation and untruths. Deception comes so effortlessly to him that, were he not bred for the mafia, he would assume that he was born for guile and theft. He is the antithesis of James Bond, clad in stolen couture and silver-tongued lies—women want him, men want to be him—and he exploits it to its absolute fullest. In short, harnessing his forceful personality for the sake of the heist is easy for Ciro; it always has been, ever since his initial invitation to the underground society of thieves. However, his true power lies in manipulating that charm to add to his sprawling, intercontinental web of connections. Alessia, with her feminine wiles and duplicitous leers, could con the entire crew without breaking a sweat, and there is a part of Ciro that believes every affected simper is but a calculated ruse of his sister’s design. Were he still in his youth, he would almost feel sorry for her, knowing that her precious corpse of a husband was the only one who ever knew the woman beneath the wolf. He has no energy to waste on pitying her, though; he is no longer a child, and his cruel sister’s heart is no longer his concern. Ultimately, the point is that neither Alessia nor the society truly need Ciro to act as a con man, particularly when he is far more adept at acquisitioning useful outsiders to assist in heists. He has contacts on six different continents, all but desolate Antarctica, each with distinct strengths that they bring to the table, but Ciro is all too aware of the risk that comes with involving outsiders in their heists, so no one ever gets the whole story. It is always just a fraction, a small excerpt of whatever plan the Capecchis are concocting, and not a syllable more. He murmurs a cool, collected, “I need your help,” into one of his many cell phones and leaves it at that, because for the most part, it seems his associates have learned better than to go fishing for information. The ones who have not have been swiftly removed from his list, without hesitation or remorse. Separate from his cons and his connections is his presence within the Magpies. Ciro adores the Magpies in spite of finding the Villiers’ bird imagery ridiculously silly and would defend them fiercely if a situation required it. He loves the concept of willfully blurring the lines between the five families just for the sake of feeling like he is part of something special and exclusive, and over time, he has grown to love his feathered comrades as well, but feigns detached aloofness in their presence. Emotional investment is a sign of weakness if he has ever heard of one, and in their world, the weak are shoved aside, forgotten, and excluded. They end up like little Cecily Villiers, in all of her sickly uselessness, and that is the last thing that Ciro will ever allow to happen to him. Even the deepest of loves are not worth obsolescence.

Four Characteristics:

agile [+] — There are a vast number of things that Ciro believes he excels at, but agility was the talent of his that initially forced Vico to take note of him, and that is something that he continues to take a paltry sort of pride in to this day. Just eleven at the time and already so full of lust for the world of malfeasance lying in wait for him, he had been largely ignored by the mafia in favor of his elder brother and sister, and for good reason. Tommaso and Alessia, at their respective ages of twenty and sixteen, were older, wiser, and altogether a more sensible choice for Cosa Nostra. However, Ciro’s ability to sneak surreptitiously through the streets of Palermo, stalking his siblings like a hungry feline in the grasses of the African plains, drew a small fraction of attention away from the pair, enough for the cosca to involve Lorenzo’s third-born in a handful of their simpler maneuvers for a handful of months. He has honed his ability over the years, so he is capable now of stealthing so thoroughly and with such haste that he almost seems to meld with the shadows themselves; this proficiency in nimble movement has aided him during jobs for the heist far, far too many times to count. The fact that he now, fully grown, stands at a diminutive five feet, nine inches tall and weighs little more than one hundred and sixty pounds sopping wet only enhances his natural agility. He would be grateful for his stature if it were not for Tommaso towering several inches over him, even further emphasizing the authority that their father has inculcated him with. It may be nothing more than a simple trick of the light, the way his brother seems to stand at his fullest height while in Ciro’s company, but he still resents him for it.

ambitious [+] — The feeling of hunger, rooted in the pit of his belly, gnawing and insatiable, is one that Ciro has grown quite comfortable with over the years. It has been smoldering within him for as long as he can remember, swelling and bloating him little by little, slowly distorting him into the man that he is today: a grotesque, rapacious version of himself, unrecognizably different from the impressionable child that he was in his quixotic youth. He is driven by an overwhelming greed, a predatory yearning for more, but it is not nourishment that he craves so thoroughly. Ciro hungers for power, for control, but most of all for validation. All that he has ever been is the neglected middle child, forgotten by his father in clear favor of aloof Tommaso and callous Alessia, overlooked in the presence of dovelike Violetta and elegant Santino. The only thing that he has ever wished for is the chance to follow in his father’s footsteps, to prove himself a worthy and capable leader, but he was forced to watch as that opportunity was ripped from his grasp and passed off to Tommaso, who neither desired nor appreciated the privilege that he had robbed his brother of. Despite being jettisoned to the sidelines long ago, Ciro continues to burn with an angry, white-hot hunger. It has cooled somewhat since his youth, not out of choice but of necessity, but his selfish ambition still thrives, and in it lies his motivation to keep pressing forward. Were it not for his drive to rise above his station in the mafia, in the heist, and most importantly, in his father’s eyes, even he is not entirely sure what would spur him on.

belligerent [-] — Violence pulses in Ciro’s veins, and it is obvious to anyone who has ever spent longer than a few minutes in his presence that he absolutely adores the metallic scents that accompany blood and gunpowder. He has recently taken to denying his lineage, but he is entirely incapable of changing how very Capecchi his aggressive tendencies are. Fighting is one of his many vices, but throwing punches and brawling is not the only way that Ciro’s belligerence manifests. While he enjoys showing off his scarred knuckles, he is frequently openly hostile using just his quick wit and his words, particularly with those whom has taken a dislike to. Even when confronted with people that he fears, like his elder sister and Bastian Castillo, he speaks with a pronounced bellicosity on his tongue; against them, he is sometimes even more antagonistic than he would be otherwise, as if his ire is, in some way, a way of coping with his fear, although it is logically warped. Much like his reckless father, Ciro’s immediate response to frustration is to lash out violently, attacking and shattering and breaking things in a fury. It is not the most efficient coping mechanism that he has developed, nor is it the fairest to Villa Capecchi’s maids, but he lacks the will to seek out healthier ones. Until he learns that he cannot destroy everything that angers him, Ciro will maintain his pugnacious and belligerent attitude… but at what cost?

callous [-] — Ciro has never been tactful, and almost as if to justify it, he decided long ago that it simply would not be very aligned with his family’s values for him to be so. He believes that, first and foremost, Capecchis are meant to march into moonlit battles with their guns drawn and at the ready, leaving only the pooling blood of their enemies in their wake, and fortunately, aiming his revolver has never required him to possess any substantial amount of social grace. The belief that he can lack diplomacy so long as he is a capable killer and a capable thief has shaped him as he has grown into a cruel, insensitive young man. He frequently masks this heartlessness, favoring to play the part of a silver-tongued, smooth-talking Lothario—the perfect counterpart to Hale Rothschild—but his true colors often bleed through. Surprisingly enough, his awful flippancy extends even to his closest colleagues and confidantes. Although he cherishes his self-made family, his precious Magpies and his wily thieves, not even they are safe from Ciro’s sharp, caustic words, which is exactly how he prefers it: it keeps the rest of the society at arm’s length, and it keeps anyone from daring to toe any closer. He knows better than anyone that, no matter how severe he’s capable of being, his bite will always be far worse than his bark.

debonair [+] — Ciro has always valued the finer things in life, an appreciation that is never more apparent than in the way he styles himself. Ever attentive to the latest fashion trends, he actively seeks out the finest menswear that money can buy and sinks thousands of euros into it each year; it is one of his few vices that he purposefully avoids obtaining through theft and deceit, though he sometimes cannot resist breaking his own rules. The way he presents himself to his colleagues clearly reflects his dedication to style, and he brazenly allows it to pervade various other aspects of his life as well. For instance, although nine millimeter Glock pistols are standard issue for the mafiosi initiated into the hierarchy of Cosa Nostra, Ciro’s weapon of choice is an antique Smith and Wesson single-action revolver, barrel black as night and inlaid with gleaming golden swirls and flowers. Its grips are mother of pearl and engraved with an insignia he has never quite been able to pin down: an exquisite, scripted R laid beneath a crown. Every now and again, he fondly remembers the jokes that Hale made when he first acquired the gun, flippantly suggesting that his friend had accidentally stumbled across a Rothschild relic. As far as Ciro is aware, the gun dates back to the late nineteenth century, but he could not care less about its origin; what is important to him is that it is within arm’s reach at all times, loaded and ready to sear hot metal into flesh and bone. It is startling, the lack of hesitance that such a handsome, sophisticated young man has to get his hands slick with blood, but he has always operated under the reasoning that one suit stained is simply an excuse to buy another.

dutiful [+] — The duties expected of him, both from his beloved Cosa Nostra and the global network of thieves that he considers his family, are perhaps the only thing in the world that Ciro holds in higher esteem than himself. Contrary to what many of his associates may think of him, his callously juvenile antics—from showing up to important society meetings on the tail ends of cocaine binges to speaking with unfettered filth in his mouth—conceal an earnest respect and passionate ardor for the criminal lifestyle into which he was born, and it is exceptionally rare that Ciro does not pull through when it is required of him to do so. Beneath his mask of red-rimmed eyes and expletive-laden speech, Ciro is dependable almost to a fault, and there is a part of him that wishes he could bear to let Lorenzo down just once. However, he is fueled in part by a rabid desperation to impress his father, and that does a splendid job of preventing from ever truly risking his disappointment. Whether his assignment is to execute a hit for the mafia or pull in one of his many contacts for the heist, he nearly always manages to accomplish it with a swiftness that could quite easily betray his childish behavior as a mere ruse were it not for the haste with which his filthy derision returns.

fastidious [+] — Within the society, the Capecchis are perhaps best recognized by their rash, gunslinging violence, and Ciro has, for the most part, been an avid supporter of such an approach to thievery. They sidle into the joint, murmuring a hotheaded mantra to each other in anticipatory whispers—prendono nessun ostaggi, prendono nessun ostaggi, prendono nessun ostaggi—and eventually leave with their pillage; if they are lucky, and they usually are, they go out in a white-hot blaze of exhilarated gunfire and glory. Ciro adores it, the bloodshed and savagery that comes with the Capecchis’ impulsive frenzy, but there is a part of him that yearns for order. He has an attention to detail that his father seems to lack, a diligence and desire for precision that sometimes seems better suited to the larking Villiers or even the minimalistic Lees. While he is rarely able to exercise it during jobs, Ciro’s meticulous nature oozes freely into his private life. He keeps his personal quarters at Villa Capecchi eerily neat, he is almost obsessive about organizing his extensive wardrobe (first by piece, then by color), and he is extremely particular about the state his numerous luxury vehicles are kept in. The same attention is lavished on each of his parties, as well as Il Coniglio Nero; his guests need only ask, and their every wish is usually taken care of in a matter of minutes, largely thanks to Ciro’s careful planning. In short, no effort is spared in making his life as comfortably precise as it can possibly be.

insecure [-] — Hidden beneath all of Ciro’s bluster and bravado and belligerence lies a profound and entrenched insecurity, one that has been slowly, but surely building ever since his youth. Lacking the natural inclination for introspection required to benefit from thoroughly examining his flaws, he purposely avoids thinking about it too deeply or too often, and consequently, he copes with his revulsion at himself by attempting to drown it in his many vices. Fighting, drugs, gambling, drinking, women… they are all carefully selected distractions, ones that prove surprisingly effective in spite of exactly how extensive his insecurity is. Each of them allow him to funnel the energy that would otherwise be focused on hating himself into something else entirely, something equally self-destructive, but requiring far less contemplation. If he did not make a point to ignore his self-loathing, it may occur to Ciro that the root of it, like so many of his other problems, lies in his father’s apparent prejudice against him. Lorenzo has never had any tangible amount of faith in his son, nor has he ever actively tried to conceal that from him. Unfortunately, a person can only endure that for so long before they begin to lose faith in themselves. Living under Lorenzo’s thumb has warped Ciro’s perception of himself grotesquely, but he does his best to mask that ugly insecurity with an unrepentant, imitated arrogance.

multilingual [+] — As a pensive child with more spare time than he ever knew what to do with, Ciro spent much of it schooling himself on the ins and outs of foreign tongues. He found himself fascinated with how their syllables clashed discordantly with those of his native Italian and even more so with how effortlessly he could manipulate his thick accent to better suit them. At best, his early dedication to multilingualism was borne out of pure childhood boredom; at worst, it was the first subtle sign of festering resentment at the attention that his father lavished on Tommaso, nearly a decade Ciro’s elder and seemingly without flaw. Regardless of the root of his small obsession, he has managed to amass fluency in seven languages over the years, matching his comrade, Evie Villiers. Among them are Italian, English, Spanish, French, Russian, Portuguese, and German. He learned Portuguese and German during periods of idleness in an attempt to relieve himself of some persistent lethargy, and Spanish was rather easy to grasp due to its innate similarities to Italian, but the other three have served a distinct purpose over the years: to ease communication with the Villiers, Beauregard, and Rozanov families using their respective native languages. He also picked up bits and pieces of broken, conversational Arabic during the time his crew spent in Cairo, but rarely attempts to flaunt it. Barring Arabic, he can speak each with the eloquence and articulation expected of a Capecchi, but favors his mother tongue above the rest.

opinionated [-] — For lack of a better phrase, Ciro sticks to his guns. He is obstinate and unyielding in the worst way, often refusing to change his opinion or course of action in spite of clear, irrefutable evidence that he is in the wrong. The best and most obvious example of this lies in his ceaseless pursuit for acceptance and power: he persistently blames his apparent inability to advance within Cosa Nostra’s hierarchy on his father’s purported prejudice against him, but truthfully, it likely has more to do with Ciro’s intrinsic inability to compromise or concede his argument in favor of a fundamentally better one. Inflexibility and leadership simply do not mix, and when they do, despots reign. He argues and bickers and feuds with whoever will entertain him, frequently just for the sake of doing so. Even in circumstances where the outcome of a dispute has no material importance, Ciro often stubbornly refuses to back down, like a feral dog whose sole instinct is to bite and scratch and snarl in hopes of victory or death in the pursuit of it. In fact, to his memory, the only times that he has voluntarily surrendered to an argument was when it occurred to him that doing so could potentially provide some benefit to him, either immediate or delayed. Otherwise, Ciro only submits when absolutely forced to.

persuasive [+] — Perhaps he was born with a natural command over language steeped into his bones, or perhaps it is a result of nearly two and a half decades’ careful practice, but Ciro possesses a certain charismatic articulation that draws people to him like moths to a glowing flame. He is a silver-tongued devil in every possible sense of the phrase, accoutred in fine suits with names like Valentino and Armani and Givenchy attached to them, coercing left and beguiling right, his victims too enamored of his mesmeric speech and hypnotic gaze to even notice that they have been duped until it is already too late for them. In another world, one where he strayed from the world of malfeasance and crime that he currently thrives in, he may have been a successful attorney or business magnate. Instead, he has focused his natural talent for blandishment elsewhere. This is how he lures hordes of women (and men, too, particularly the overtly boastful ones who think that they are much too clever to be swindled) to his bed and between his sheets. This is how he manipulates and exploits his dynamic personality for the sake of his family (not the one forged by flesh and blood, but rather, the one that he patched together himself using miscreants and thieves). This is how he has managed to survive this long in a game that has been rigged against him from the very start: by wielding his sharp wit and cogent speech like a pair of lethal weapons.

Expansion:

evan alexander — From the moment that he first laid eyes on Evan Alexander, Ciro loathed him. He was not unlike the boys that Ciro had spent his youth with, heirs to fortunes too large to even conceivably imagine, and in truth, he was not unlike Ciro himself, striking and dignified even in the face of overwhelming uncertainty. However, from where he stood, Evan seemed to reek of a particular arrogance, the type exclusive to vile and narcissistic Americans. His charm, which Adelaide Rothschild and Xanthe Beauregard both fell rather quickly to, gleamed with the fakeness of a veneer, a flashy show in the place of substance. Ciro resented him with a fury, and somehow, naïve little Violetta had the audacity to suggest that his hatred was borne out of envy. Wasting no time to entertain that ludicrous idea, fifteen-year-old Ciro retreated to plot against Evan. However, in due time, his scheming proved altogether unnecessary. All it took was an accusation splattered on the front of a sleazy tabloid or seven, and the interloping American heir had ruined himself, no intervention required. Adelaide was heartbroken, Xanthe was suspiciously self-satisfied, and Ciro was disgustingly smug. With little regard for her grief, he spent the next several weeks informing Adelaide of how right he had been about Evan. Whether the moment was appropriate or not, he was eager to say, “I told you so,” and made a show of it each time he did. Years have passed, and Ciro no longer bothers mentioning Evan, particularly in Adelaide’s presence, having decided long ago that he had spoken his piece, but he still harbors a deep, unjustified resentment for him. His only hope is that the Alexander family remains where they are: lurking in the shadows, licking their wounds, out of sight and out of mind.

estela alvarez — There is something deliciously taboo about Ciro’s longtime fling with Estela Alvarez, and in truth, that makes him all the more invested in it. His attention first latched onto her when she was still dancing at Il Coniglio Nero, provocative and supernal in the dim lighting of his beloved club, and her grip on him has been viselike ever since. However, in the initial stages of their affair, Ciro was more enthralled with her lineage than her. Bedding the granddaughter of Alejandro Herrero was (and still is) a thrill for him, because it provided an opportunity for him to retaliate against Lorenzo Capecchi by crawling into the enemy’s bed and sleeping with her. As far as Ciro is aware, his father never found out about his small act of rebellion, but he received a sort of paltry satisfaction out of it anyway, one that eventually morphed into an attraction to the woman herself, pure and untainted. In comparison to Estela, chasing the skirts of unattainable women like Xanthe Beauregard feels like mere child’s play, and he is reluctant to keep up the pretense of those boyish flirtations. He still keeps an assortment of girls on retainer, each of them ready to heed his beck and call, but Estela is the woman that can be found between his sheets most often. Their vibrant personalities have a tendency to clash, but that occasional friction aside, Ciro prizes and spoils and treasures her, and in spite of his hesitance to involve himself in matters of the heart, he feels deeply for her. When their parents were wed, he made repeated attempts to quell those emotions, driven by the knowledge that their fling would forever be second to the marriage, but those efforts appear to have been in vain. Estela is the worst drug that he knows of, irresistible and devastating at once, but like an addict, Ciro cannot seem to keep himself from coming back to her.

silas beauregard — To be frank, Ciro is fairly certain that Silas Beauregard despises him. The sons of two members of Reginald Avery’s original crew, close in age and fiercely competitive, they have a history spanning back to even before their births, one of teasing cruelty between their fathers, and they have managed to continue that legacy, though on a much realer scale. However, their relationship was not always quite so feral, nor was it always composed purely of vitriolic glares and complacent sneers. In fact, he remembers a time when it was distinctly the opposite: at fourteen, imbued with a certain awkwardness in spite of his dignified upbringing, Ciro found himself developing an upsetting, unwanted crush on his his closest friend’s cousin, two years his elder and possessing a divine elegance. While the feelings confirmed the questions that he had been asking himself about his sexual preferences, they made him feel weak, and he was quick to suppress them. As soon as Ciro began to focus his energy on pursuing Silas’ sister, the feelings he had been experiencing for the Beauregard heir seemed to transform overnight, shifting from gnawing attraction to pure resentment. How dare someone make Ciro Capecchi feel weak just by existing in the same space as him? Like a child denied a toy, he realized the indignities that fate had served him, and in that instant, he decided that he loathed Silas Beauregard. From that moment forward, he acted accordingly. However, he does not, in fact, loathe Silas, particularly since his schoolboy crush has dissipated into nothingness over the decade that has passed since it first emerged; he has, at the most, a mild dislike for the man, which actually puts him rather close to the bottom of Ciro’s lengthy list of enemies. The Italianprincipe oscuro, in all of his savage glory, has always had a proclivity for melodrama, and Silas is simply another hapless victim of it.

lorenzo capecchi — Throughout his life, Ciro’s relationship with his father, the foolhardy and reckless Lorenzo Capecchi, has been tumultuous at best and toxic at absolute worst. Something has always seemed to lack, and in spite of his best efforts to earn his father’s approval via flashy displays of diligence, he has never felt visible or appreciated or welcome in the sleazy underbelly of Palermo. For as long as he can remember, Lorenzo has shown a clear and unabashed preference for his two eldest children, and over the years, that ignorance has proved as damaging to Ciro as the world of depravity and sin that he openly glorifies. While the drugs alter his mind and the liquor burns his throat and the women break his heart, the lack of attention that he receives from his father eats at him, gradually degrading all of the parts of him that were once whole and good, twisting and distorting them into something else entirely, something sinful and selfish and rotten; in his youth, he had aspired to grow up in his father’s image, to eventually be identical to him in every sense of the word, but now, as a disenthralled young man, he only wishes to someday be better than Lorenzo. Unconditional love has morphed into a fierce aggression, one that lacks any consideration for boundaries or territorial sentiments. In other words, Ciro’s current objective is to attain anything that his father holds dear, from Cosa Nostra to the heist and everything else in between, and destroy him and the rest of the Capecchis in the process, with little concern for how long it may take him to succeed.

santino capecchi — From the moment that Santino Capecchi was first brought into the world, screaming for air in a way that made his brother’s blood curdle, something within Ciro envied him, a condition both inexplicable and indelible. He was only five years old at the time of Santino’s birth, still enough of a child for the idyllic fairy tales and swashbuckling pirate stories that their mother told to help lull him to sleep, and yet within a matter of just a few weeks, he had succumbed to a preoccupying resentment for his infant brother. Like a leech, Santino clung to their mother and monopolized the attention that had once been lavished on her middle child, and Ciro absolutely loathed him for it, in spite of the fact that his helplessness could not realistically be avoided. As a consequence and a punishment, Santino received the brunt of Ciro’s cruelty as they grew up. He bullied his brother constantly, but learned early on that he would have to be subtle if he wished to get away with it, and so his torment was never overt. Never scrapes and bruises and sobs, but rather, derision and ridicule. His rancor only subsided when Ciro was a teenager, after he took note of their father’s clear preference for and faith in their older brother; incensed by Lorenzo’s ignorance and envious of Tommaso, his anger shifted permanently, and Santino was left unburdened by his brother’s ire. Their relationship cooled, and over time, Ciro grew to care for him in a way that he had assumed impossible for the better part of his life. Despite initial reservations, he eventually came to respect and even admire his brother, and that makes his plans to disintegrate his family all the more painful. He knows that if one of them is deserving of punishment, they all are, but that knowledge does not make ruining his brother any easier on what shreds remain of his conscience. What keeps him steady through his confliction is the quiet reassurance that not even Santino is innocent. After all, he, too, has blood caked into the crevices of his Apollonian hands and lies sleeping beneath his tongue; he, too, has a graveyard of sins and a mouth full of rotting golden teeth, gums blackened and sunken from the sweet decay of opulent vice. Ciro may pity the man, but he will never allow himself to pity the deed that will destroy him.

magnus lee — Growing up an heir to a fortune of inconceivable size is difficult. Although privilege pervades nearly every aspect of his life, there is a persistent, insurmountable despondency that has followed Ciro since birth. His efforts to drown it in booze and drugs and women have never proved successful at anything other than robbing him of his sobriety, and beneath his bravado, his melancholic boredom lingers. In spite of coming from different worlds within the heist, that leads Ciro to suspect that he and Magnus Lee are not entirely unlike each other. The pair have a taciturn friendship, one built on a foundation of parties and poker chips, but there is a parallelism between the two that is difficult to ignore. While Ciro has spent the better part of his life trying desperately to impress his father, Magnus was born with Raphael Lee’s faith already invested in him, and he rejected it. He grew up with the one thing that Ciro has always desired laid on a silver platter and placed in the palm of his hand, but with an impressive disappearing act, he utterly destroyed it. As a consequence, the two now serve as unexpected, but perfect foils to each other: the heir who spurned power and the one who hungers for it. However, their friendship does not revolve around the ways that they mirror each other, but rather, how they can best cheat the other out of their hard-earned money. Ciro is a man of many, many vices, and gambling is just another one of them, but he is often reluctant to submit himself to the presence of the common folk of casinos. In short, they lack the finesse that he values in a gambler, and that is where Magnus enters. Ciro lauds his talent with cards and chips, and he is, by far, his favorite person to wager against. They visit casinos together often, arm in arm, a devilish smile painted on each of their faces, and in return, the Lee progeny frequents the parties held at Il Coniglio Nero. In the entire world, there is nobody that Ciro prefers to lose to than Magnus.

adelaide rothschild — Much like a collector who has amassed a surfeit of wares, Ciro has accrued a handful of women he collectively refers to as his girls. They are sacrosanct playthings to him, past conquests to be kept on retainer for future use, and he spoils each of them recklessly. Belonging to this exclusive clique is a status defined by a steady trickle of fine jewels and couture dresses and pricey foodstuffs. In short, Ciro spares no expense on pampering his women, and in exchange, they heed his calls, a relationship that is eerily comparable to that of courtesan and client. He has never struggled in attaining new girls, but something about his small harem has always seemed to lack, and in a cruel parallel of so many of Adelaide Rothschild and Xanthe Beauregard’s experiences with men, Ciro has spent nearly a decade ignoring the former in favor of pursuing of the latter. Until recent months, the Rothschild heiress had never been extended so much as an invitation to his bed, save for the occasional contemptuous summons; he had never required her presence between his silken sheets because he had instead savored the years of fierce warfare that they had been engaged in since his besotted gaze first fell on Xanthe. Every withering glare, every snide remark and cutting word exchanged between Adelaide and Ciro brought him a repulsive sort of pleasure, and as a result, he quickly developed a reputation for deliberately instigating arguments just for the sake of seeing her getting worked up. In the months after Evan Alexander fled from their world, Adelaide grew ever more acerbic, her words spat out with more vitriol and less elegance than they ever had before, and in return, Ciro grew ever more infatuated with their hostilities. His captivation with her has mounted in recent months, and the rancor between them has as well. However, as much as Ciro adores seeing Adelaide bare her teeth and snarl at him, he also knows that he would much rather watch her bare other parts of herself for his pleasure.

hale rothschild — In the grand scheme of things, Ciro and Hale Rothschild are brothers first and foremost, friends second, and associates third; in other words, he values their fraternity more than he does their friendship and their friendship more than he does their fraud, and he does not foresee that changing in the near future. Ciro respects and cares for the Rothschild progeny with everything in him, and if there is anyone on the face of the Earth that he believes is as capable and intelligent as himself, it is Hale, his sole confidante. It almost amuses him, how they have evolved from childhood games of hide-and-seek and champagne jelly beans to where they are today, but he would not change them for all the money in the world. Hale is a shoulder to lean on, a pillar of strength (though he would never dare admit out loud that he uses him as such), and Ciro is fond of likening them to pairs like Frank and Jesse James, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and Leopold and Loeb—criminal duos from years gone by and the undeserving subjects of Ciro’s reverence—largely because he sees little distinction between them and the great crooks of the past. If anything, he believes that they are better. However, in spite of Ciro’s utter dependence on Hale, something always seems to be lacking, and he has never been able to wholly identify what it is. At first, he suspected that he was perhaps envious of Hale’s Kingfishers, but envy is an old friend of Ciro’s, one that he knows well, and this is a different feeling altogether. While he roisters, Hale idles, and there appears to be nothing that Ciro can say or do to fully rouse his friend to the decadence that he enjoys so thoroughly. They still cavort across the globe together, arm in tuxedoed arm, but there is a part of Ciro that fears their exploits may soon be coming to a grinding halt.

cecily villiers — Cecily Villiers, although young and sickly and useless, is a girl that Ciro finds especially peculiar, and despite writing her off as clumsy and awkward long ago, he finds himself musing on her place within the heist more often than he would like to readily admit. He finds it strange, baffling even, that a child of Francis Villiers, the Thief Lord, lacks the most basic abilities required to thieve and con, and he frequently ponders how such an inherently contradictory situation was ever allowed to occur. As if she were not eclipsed enough by her own father, Cecily appears particularly ineffectual in the shadows cast by her elder siblings, an unfortunate circumstance that Ciro empathizes with in spite of his distaste for the girl. Amid his recurrent contemplation of her struggle, Ciro has, in fact, considered that Cecily’s ineptitude could be excused, were she to shine in even one disciple of delinquency, but he has seen little evidence of her excelling at anything in particular. With no criminal prowess, she becomes a liability, and any insight that Ciro has into her plight is forsaken in favor of protecting his trade. Rather than attempt to relate to Cecily in any substantial way, he instead regularly toys with her, his express purpose embarrassing her. She is far too young to be a legitimate conquest of his, and he is well aware of it, but he has made a habit of flirting with her anyway. To the best of his ability, he keeps his language tame and unassertive, and that alone seems to do the trick of making the flush rise in her cheeks and the stutter emerge in her speech. Out of fear of Francis and respect for Evie, Ciro would never dare to legitimately toe that boundary, but it brings him more than enough satisfaction just to see Cecily grow uncomfortable.

charles villiers — Although he does not possess the discernibly brutish choler of the Capecchis, Charles Villiers shares an insidious guile with Ciro, irreplicable in nature and indicative of their mutual capability for delinquency. In another world, Ciro may have sought out Charles to serve as a mentor or adviser in place of the one that he lacks in Italy; alas, their world has not played out to such a fanciful end. Growing up, Ciro did admire Charles, to a certain extent, though he was an adolescent before he ever saw much of him in the flesh. Between Charles’ voyage to Jamaica, his obligations to his enigma of an uncle, and Ciro’s youth, there was little chance for the two to ever feasibly cross paths, and perhaps for good reason. Even as a child, Ciro was a force of nature, all wide eyes and devilish grins, and a pair of dynamic personalities acting together can end one of two ways: terrific or terrible. Years later, after the little Italian principe had been given ample time to play catch up with the rest of the heist, they met their end not with an explosive spectacle, but an underhanded, tactical move that left Ciro in a catatonia of astonishment and anger. In all truth, Charles most likely did not recruit Artemesia Cipriani into his gang of Daggers with the sole intention of riling Ciro, but it often feels that way. He had laid claim to her first; some part of him may have even loved her (crookedly because crooked was the only way that he knew how), and it all appeared to have been for naught because Charles, aided by his own vicious sister, had swept in and plucked her from his grasp, lacking an ounce of contrition. In another world, Ciro may have looked to Charles as a mentor, but in this one, he looks to him as a rival.

evie villiers — If Ciro is Butch Cassidy and Hale is his Sundance Kid, Evie Villiers is their enigmatic Etta Place, the final puzzle piece required to round out their little trio. There is a delicate refinement to her, an unattainable noblesse and a peculiar elegance, and even Ciro, who claims immunity to such resplendent qualities, often finds himself utterly enthralled by her. She is a force of nature with a powerful charisma steeped in her blood, and he sometimes muses that perhaps if their paths had crossed differently or if he were a different man altogether, he, too, would have fallen in love with the ebullient glow in her dark eyes and the bluster in her speech. Instead, Ciro harbors a deep respect for Evie and the capable thief that she has proven herself to be, one that is entirely platonic in its nature. Were she anybody else, he would have grown envious of her position as leader of the Magpies and accused her of lording over the group in a fashion not dissimilar to the way her father lords over the society as a whole. Forfeiting his envy in favor of friendship, Ciro stands loyally at her side, satisfied for the first time in nearly seven years not to be in charge; she temporarily quiets the power-hungry beast that has taken root in his belly, and there is a part of him is grateful for it. When he is with her, he does not plot or scheme, except to steal, and even then, those subterfuges are ones that they concoct together. On the nights Hale is consumed by his oppressive languor and unable to romp with him, Ciro turns immediately to Evie in the hope that she will fill his shoes, and more often than not, she does. He admires her as a woman and as a thief, and he enjoys her presence, but most of all, Ciro is grateful for Evie. She fills a space in his life that would otherwise be lacking, and if that presence were to disappear, much like the way Etta Place herself vanished from history books, he believes that an lonely, unwelcome hollowness would come over him. If that were to happen, he is not entirely certain what he would do.

II. WRITING

Para Sample(s):

Blinding sunshine glinted off of the exterior walls of Villa Capecchi as the oppressive heat of early August soaked itself into each of the crevices and alcoves of the seaside abode. Massive and threatening, the villa was a sprawling fortress nestled against the precipice of the rocky cliffside, a terracotta façade looming powerfully over the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Heavy midsummer air hung thick and stagnant around the Capecchis’ home, a wet blanket of humidity pooling between skin and cloth, leaving a moist and sticky film on everything that it touched. The sound of waves breaking against the shore echoed from below the villa’s clifftop perch, carrying with it the briny scent of seawater and a cool, forgiving breeze. From within the home resonated its usual bustle: the piercing sound of men barking orders in sharp Italian, the clack of dogs’ claws against glistening marble tile, the low purr of various female voices, the operatic tune carried from the antique record player in Lorenzo Capecchi’s private office. In short, nothing appeared out of place. Silhouetted by an expanse of clear blue and tufts of soft white, the midday sun hung high as it cast its light over the villa and the three bodies laid out within one of its many open courtyards, their bronzed limbs splayed lazily across cushioned chaises.

In the soft haze of early afternoon, idling in the sunshine, the trio—a girl of no older than fourteen or fifteen and her two male companions, each of the three’s complexions sun-kissed and glowing—evoked the image of the ancient Roman pantheon. Their resemblance was evident at a mere glance; the smooth curves of their lithe bodies, their languid movement, the golden luster gently glistening atop their tans, and the self-possessed way in which they drawled to each other all spoke of an ancient divinity, one that could only be discovered buried beneath the rubble and ruin of the temples of yesteryear. Conversation among the three was not frequent, mostly because their basking lent itself more to a comfortable silence than idle chatter, but when they did speak with each other, they did so with a confidence that flowed freely from between their teeth and suspended itself tangible in the open air. Lacking a reasonable explanation for their rampant arrogance and alluring beauty, they had turned to the divine, and as they lounged beneath the sun, even they seemed aware of their holiness.

The girl, impeccably poised with locks of dark hair intricately plaited so as to keep it away from her face, could have been Minerva herself, the patron goddess of wisdom and symbol of strategic warfare. She spoke with tender conviction and a prepossessing wit, carried herself with an elegant impertinence, and radiated authority; both of her companions appeared to be utterly enamored of her presence. On her far right was a young Apollo, the patron god of the sun, all long limbs with an absent smile twisted onto his pink mouth, hands folded beneath his head and kaleidoscopic eyes slid shut. There was something inherently boyish about his disposition, from the crossing of his bony ankles to the slight tilt of his strong chin, and this youthfulness only appeared to build the longer that the three lounged there. After some time, his sprightly demeanor seemed to cause a gentle glow to emanate from where he lay, a soft sheen not unlike the radiance of the sun. He was a child of sunshine basking in his own brilliance, a bright and shining beacon stretched out comfortably in the center of a courtyard of Villa Capecchi, effortless and enticing all at once.

Laid between them was the third of their group: a withdrawn and pensive young man, mouth pressed into a firm line and one dainty hand curled around a crystal snifter. It was filled with some unidentifiable liquor, tawny in color, that he had been absently sipping for several hours. He was just a few months shy of eighteen, but the hard angles of his face and the severity of his expression did not betray his youth; his demeanor spoke instead of a grotesque, acquisitive opulence and a sophistication attainable only after a number of years living with the taste of silver in one’s mouth. In the soft light cast by the afternoon sun, the boy appeared serious and contemplative, a stark contrast against his languid and relaxed companions, although he shared their bronzed complexion and divine composure. Just beneath the surface of his handsome, chiseled exterior hid a darkness, barely restrained, lurking insidiously in the turbid gold and muddy green of his whiskey-colored eyes; it was only the most obvious sign of the recklessness inherent to his person, the foolhardiness that, when unleashed, was capable of wreaking havoc. This boy was Mars, patron god of war and destruction, violence pulsing white-hot and angry in his bloodstream, anger bubbling tempestuously beneath surface, his gaze fixed on something in the distance that neither Minerva nor Apollo could perceive.

Eventually, he spoke, and the illusion was shattered. Their holiness crumbled to dust, to dirt, to ash, all in an instant, and it became obvious that the trio were sunbathing adolescents, not the Roman deities of years passed.

“You know, Hale, when I invited you to spend the summer with me, there was a part of me that thought you wouldn’t come,” he murmured, his words warped by a thick and unmistakable accent. The English language came effortlessly to Ciro, his mouth curving around the syllables of the foreign tongue with ease, but he had never quite managed to eliminate the Italian timbre from his speech, and his companions suffered for it. Time dragged forward slowly, the quiet of the courtyard thick and weighty, as if he were making a careful decision on what to say next; after a long moment of sun-drenched silence slipped by, he finally continued: “After all, why laze away the days with Evangeline and I when you could be off chasing the skirts of Parisian women?”

Hale laughed then, a dry chuckle coated in derision, and shifted lazily onto his side, eyes sliding open in search of his friend. His shirt, an expensive white button-down that he had matched that morning to a pair of cuffed khaki shorts, crumpled beneath him as he moved, leaving creases and lines where the fabric had previously been smooth, but the crinkling went unnoticed by the trio. After all, none of them had ever been the type to cry over spilled milk (or, in this case, wrinkled linen). Once his eyesight had adjusted to the sudden wash of bright sunlight, it took just a moment for Hale’s gaze to find Ciro’s, glowing hazel locking with deep chestnut in an instant. In spite of his disparagement, his mouth was still curled upwards, his gleaming white teeth still exposed in a boyish grin. His look was one of disgruntlement, but happiness. The moment that his smile faltered and his expression was replaced with one of furrowed brows and skepticism, that changed.

With an intense exasperation, Ciro said, “Oh, don’t look at me like that.” There was an indistinct lilt to his voice, a slight twinge of barely suppressed laughter, and although his firm line of a mouth did not betray his amusement, the playful glint in his eyes did. From his chaise, he could see an identical bout of laughter threaten to burst from Hale’s lips, but he, too, was just able to curb it; its only outward manifestation was a slight smile, toying at the corners of his mouth, and a soft, throaty snort. Contrary to how it may have appeared, this kind of mischievous back and forth was not at all unfamiliar to the boys. The vast majority of their time together was spent teasing each other relentlessly and quelling girlish giggles, and over their many years of friendship, they had learned to drop any pretense of maturity or sophistication when in the presence of each other.

“Like what, Ciro?” Hale asked after a long moment. The cadence of his voice rose and fell rhythmically as he murmured his friend’s name in a gentle singsong, and that, coupled with his furrowed brows, conveyed a look of innocent questioning across his features. To anyone else, his skepticism may have appeared genuine, but his friend—more accurately, his brother—was not just anyone.

“Like how you’re looking at me, stronzo,” Ciro said, peering through Hale’s transparent attempt at incredulity with ease. As he spoke, his eyes rolled in a blatant act of snide dismission and then slid shut. Sprawling lazily across the chaise, he took a long drink from his snifter and drained it in the process, apparently ready to return to sunbathing. However, the swiftness with which their companion—who had previously been mentioned as Evangeline, but preferred Evie—raised her head and looked at Ciro, an accosting gleam in her dark eyes, indicated that the meaning of his insult had not been lost on her. Although he was unable to see it, there was a small fragment of her expression that spoke of a gentle disappointment. For the most part, though, the subtle quirk of her strong eyebrows and the small but quizzical smile on her mouth suggested some sort of challenge.

Her gaze still fixed intently on Ciro, Evie clucked her tongue chidingly and said, “Don’t tell me you kiss your mother with that mouth.”

Without a beat, he responded, “No, cara, of course not.” His brows pulled together as if he were confused or even offended by her accusations, but his eyes remained closed, the orange light from the sun dancing gently behind them. Ciro’s vision remained obstructed as Evie relaxed, the fabricated tension in her face quickly dissipating as a giggle began to bubble up from within her chest. However, her laugh, undoubtedly accompanied by some clever quip, was cut abruptly short when he added, almost as an afterthought, “Just yours.”

Neither Hale nor Evie were able to get a word in edgewise before a familiar voice sounded from the shaded portico behind them, gruff and accented and altogether unwelcome in their brief moment of youthful tomfoolery. Although the trio’s reaction was initially delayed, each of them hesitating to glance back and acknowledge their intruder, it was immediately apparent that the voice was that of Bastian Castillo, one of Lorenzo’s many companions and advisors, standing with his pair of ugly dogs in a stream of radiant sunlight that was partially obstructed by the thick stone column on his right. When Ciro did crane his neck back to look at him, he was somewhat surprised to see that the man, who was midway through his thirties and stood as if his body were naturally sloped to the left, appeared even wearier than usual. It was obvious even from where the three teenagers lounged that some kind of stress had taken hold of him, robbing him of the fire that normally lay dormant, but flickering in the deepest hues of his eyes.

Clearing his throat, loud and brusque, Bastian said, “I don’t mean to interrupt, but your father asked that I collect you.” His gaze lay intent on Ciro and Ciro alone; Hale and Evie seemed to register as insignificant presences, barely there and of little importance.

Ever an antagonistic little spitfire, Ciro’s only reply was to roll his eyes once more, turn away from the portico, and say, “I actually believe that that would be the very definition of interrupting.” Without waiting for Bastian to respond, he resumed his conversation with his friends, the beginning of a squabble on the horizon. However, their chat did not get far, because within a few seconds, the young Capecchi felt the hard tug of a hand on the scruff of his neck, weathered and scarred fingers hooking themselves on the linen collar wrapped loosely around his throat. The only warning of Bastian’s approach had been the dull clack of his shoes against the stone tiles of the courtyard, a sound that had been ignored entirely by the trio in favor of quarreling with each other.

Bastian’s voice was quiet, its bite barely audible above the distant crash of waves against the cliffside, but lacked any semblance of gentleness when he said, “I think you misunderstood me, Ciro. That wasn’t a request.” The silence that fell over the group then lay thick and heavy like molasses, a burden that seemed to choke each adolescent with an insidious dismay. While they remained enveloped in the soft glow of the midday sun and the briny scent of seawater, the tone of the courtyard had shifted considerably. It felt abruptly serious, like something had gone horribly wrong, something that the three of them had not yet been deemed important enough to know about. Now that Bastian had closed in on them, Ciro could see the worry smoldering in his eyes and the tension embedded in the lines of his face. That kind of pronounced upset was rare in a man like Bastian Castillo. He was not the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, much less his anxiety, and so with every second that ticked by, Ciro could feel a sinister apprehension begin to build within the cavity of his chest, creeping up his throat and threatening to spill out of him like the ugliest kind of vomit.

Mustering as much nonchalance as he was able to, Ciro rose, brushed traces of invisible dirt off of his salmon-colored shorts, and muttered, “He had better make it quick.” With that, he followed Bastian through the massive villa to his father’s office; when they arrived, the room was dark and eerily quiet, the record player cold and silent, and Lorenzo sat behind his heavy, gleaming mahogany desk with a cigar to his lips and his fist clenched tightly around something that Ciro could not quite make out. Seated in the two tufted leather chairs before the desk were his two younger siblings, beautiful Violetta and handsome Santino, confused expressions twisted onto each of their faces. The moment that he opened his mouth to question the situation laid out in front of him, his father unfurled his fist so that he could raise his hand and silence him; out of it tumbled a crushed piece of paper, its writing warped and illegible from where Ciro stood in the doorway.

Unbeknownst to Ciro, he was in the calm before the storm. His life had splintered and fallen apart without his knowledge, and his father had already begun to deal with the fallout, but he was just on the verge of discovering the true extent of the upset that he had perceived. Unfair as it was, he had already experienced his last moments of truly happy, truly vulnerable youth; in time, he would come to yearn for it again, but the death of his childhood was quickly approaching. Ciro had thought that Bastian was leading him to just another meeting with his father, but in truth, he had been led to his own execution, one decreed by a note written in his mother’s hand.

Starter Example:

Idling between two of the trees lining the front terrace of the magnificent Chescote Manor, a cigarette smoldering between his lips, Ciro could not help but observe how brightly the stars seemed to glow in the wide expanse of midnight blanketing the English countryside. That is not to say that they did not shine in Palermo, pricking the night sky with their soft light, but here, the atmosphere was distinctly different. The stars of Ciro’s home illuminated the sea beneath them, lighting up the Mediterranean coast with luster and effulgence, but in Berkshire, the heart of the Villiers’ domain, theirnest, surrounded by the ambience of antique aristocracy, the stars seemed to glitter like diamonds.

He took a long drag off of his cigarette and, after a moment, exhaled a stream of smoke into the night. There was a metaphor lost somewhere in his thoughts that Ciro wasn’t quite sober enough to decode, and like the wisps of gray slowly fading into pungent nothing, he let it go. He had stumbled drunkenly out to the grounds of the manor in hopes of finding a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of the Villiers’ New Year Ball, and his cigarette and his place between the trees had provided him that. However, the familiar sound of footfalls approaching the grand entrance to the manor indicated that his solitude would quickly be coming to a close.

When the interloper came into full view, Ciro was not able to fully suppress a chuckle. In his drunken state, he lacked the prudence to withhold any unnecessary remarks, and without even announcing his presence, he stepped forward and asked, “You really decided to wear that? For this?”

III. FREESTYLE/EXTRA

Headcanons:

pets — A handful of years ago, Ciro decided to adopt a pair of purebred Ragdoll cats from a newborn litter of kitten with little to no warning provided for his family. Part of him had been longing for a companion with a semblance of permanence in his life for a while, but he stubbornly refused to accept the attention of a man or woman outside of his many sordid affairs, preferring transience and solitude to the risk of vulnerability that comes with monogamy. Instead, he sought his companionship in a pet, and, through an unexpected twist of fate, ended up with two: a red female and a solid black male. In a clear nod to the ancient Roman pantheon, he gave them the names Bellona and Bacchus, the former the goddess of war and the latter the god of intoxication. His cats’ namesakes reflect his aptitude for violence and dissatisfaction with sobriety well and, at the same time, serve as a subtle homage to Italy, his precious patria. Bellona, with her orange-tinged fur, is largely independent, lounging lazily on chaises around Villa Capecchi and almost always rebuffing Ciro’s attempts at affection. She eagerly sinks her teeth into the flesh of strangers and is quick to pick fights with Bastian Castillo’s massive guard dogs, and Ciro adores her for that, but he is not able to stave off the envy that bubbles up within him when Bellona voluntarily approaches his friends (generally Hale or Evie), imbued with far more warmth than he ever receives from her. On the other hand, Bacchus is obsessed with Ciro, clinging to and following him constantly, desperate for the affection that Bellona rejects. His purr deafens, and at times, his clinginess gets tiresome, but Ciro treasures his large ball of black fluff. In fact, just over three years have passed since the cats’ adoption, and he dotes on and spoils them like it is still just their first day as Capecchis. From collars encrusted with diamonds to luxurious beds threaded in gold, no expense is spared on his gattini, and he would not have it any other way. Much to the amusement of his many colleagues, it seems as though the singular soft spot of the mafia’s principe oscurois one of fluff and fur.

religious affiliation — The Capecchis—the devils of Palermo, swathed in obsidian silk and permanently reeking of false divinity and unrepentant arrogance—have never been welcome guests in the Lord’s house. They hail from the motherland of Catholicism and claim proud Italian heritage, but lack any substantial footing in the faith whose tenets run so deeply into the essence of their beloved country. Lorenzo Capecchi has always fancied himself holy, and that belief alone appears to have prevented any of his gaggle of children from pursuing religious enlightenment, his third-born in particular. However, that is not to say that Ciro has led a life entirely devoid of worship. In his infancy, he was baptized into the Catholic church at the Palermo Cathedral, the dark hair lining his scalp sprinkled with holy water as dead kings lay entombed around him. The ceremony was held out of tradition rather than any real allegiance to Catholicism, as was his Confirmation, and he cannot recollect a moment in his life that he has spent within that cathedral outside of the two rites. There were times in his youth, though few and far between, when Ciro sought out confessionals in misguided attempts to cleanse himself of lingering guilt over actions and feelings that he had not entirely come to terms with, but the cathedral never served him in that purpose; he was always careful to pursue his penance elsewhere. However, in spite of all of this, Ciro would never attempt to lay claim to Catholicism. From his perspective, he is not Catholic, because, like his father before him, he is both blasphemous and arrogant, and he clings like a vice to the idea that he is holy.

weaponry — In addition to his beloved revolver, Ciro has a rather wide assortment of other weapons that he wields on a regular basis, ranging from his own marred knuckles to sharp blades kept hidden in discreet leather sheathes. For the most part, he favors his revolver; there is a certain thrill that comes with firing a gun that he believes simply cannot be replicated, and even after all this time, he still gets that rush. However, guns are often impractical, and even mulish Ciro is capable of admitting that. They can be far too obvious and far too loud, and as technological advances emerge in blatant attempts to keep pace with modern criminals, far too traceable. This dilemma sometimes forces the young principe oscuro to resort to blades: a much messier weapon, one that requires a degree of otherwise unwarranted personal contact with whoever is unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of his blows. In spite of his preference for firearms, Ciro frequently keeps a pair of knives—antiquities, like his revolver, and exquisite in their design—concealed in wrist sheathes, hidden away from prying eyes, while his gun stays beneath his jacket in a leather shoulder holster. The purpose the blades serve most often is not the one they are intended for, but a rather unsavory one instead: to cut sharp lines of cocaine in the intimate back rooms of Il Coniglio Nero while lithe, glittering bodies drape themselves on velvet chaises around Ciro. Meanwhile, his fists tell an entirely different story. While he considers himself above the grimy barbarism of Cosa Nostra’s underground fighting rings, he still enjoys the feeling of skin splitting and bone splintering beneath his bloodied knuckles and frequently seeks out brawls, most often when he has been otherwise incensed by some immutable force. Ciro’s fighting is treated like a hobby, something to be done by bored youths under mutual consent by the laze of afternoon or the lull of late evening, and as such, he fights without the savagery that the rings’ fighters have adapted to. His punches lack real force, and he secretly fears what would happen to him if he were forced to brawl for his life. Beneath that fear, Ciro has a wolf’s heart, and like all other children of the moon, he, too, has grown accustomed to the taste of blood in his mouth.

Mock Blog:

I’ve been reblogging and posting things onto a mock blog for the past few weeks in an attempt to both inspire myself and showcase parts of Ciro that I felt I couldn’t effectively convey through writing. There are well over a hundred posts on the blog, so I entirely understand if neither of you are able to go through all of it. In the interest of time, here is a tag of posts that I’ve made. It’s rather short and primarily things like questionnaires and character development surveys.

Playlist:

This is sort of a playlist. I say ‘sort of’ because it just doesn’t really have much of a structure. Normally, when I make playlists, I try my best to stick to fewer than twenty songs and dedicate a couple of hours to ensuring that they flow, but that simply wasn’t happening with Ciro. I couldn’t stick to just one genre, nor could I limit myself to fewer than twenty songs, so instead, I ended up making a gigantic song dump. I pretty much went through my entire Spotify library (and then some), added every single song with lyrics that reminded me of him, regardless of whether or not they flowed with each other, and I ended up with this mess. Some songs are more on the serious side, but there are a lot of fun, silly ones, too, which I think is a nice break from his intensity. Again, I totally understand if you don’t have the time to listen to all it!

#accepted

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