archivesdiveronaevents

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: April 28th

TIME: 10:48PM

LOCATION: Hotel Emelia Ballroom

TRIGGERS: guns, death, blood

They were in cages, like doves with broken wings. But their wings had been broken forcefully, brutally. They were in cages, like dogs made for fighting. Some of them cut, bruised, and bleeding. They were in cages, like animals – for only animals knew not the rules of reason. So, the witches thought it necessary to enforce respect, to make a spectacle of all who thought themselves above the laws and traditions that all in Verona abided by. The Spades were in cages, as the witches had wished. Their wishes were their desires, and their desires were not to be ignored. Which was why each member of Verona’s elite – and more – had come by to pay homage. Had come to pay tribute to the punishment that had been neglected for too long.

Which was why, when they sought to take vengeance they did so brutally. And with little reservation. 

In their cages, they turned about, spinning gently as the onlookers milled about below them. The chandeliers of the room refracted nicely off the silver of the cages, catching the light of the scarlet blood that spotted some of bars here and there. It was difficult for the audience to take their eyes -- some of them gleeful, some of them solemn -- from the faces of those who incurred the wrath of the witches. But they did, after much difficulty, to gaze on the prizes that were placed upon pedestals. Guns of the highest quality, butterfly knives, grenades, and an assortment of other weaponry for all to gaze upon and perhaps even buy. Sentries stood in front of them, guarding the goods that were placed behind velvet ropes. They were placed there to see, to gaze at, to bid on -- but not to touch, never to touch. Just as the Spades were. A show of power and a show of ruthlessness, with the witches sitting on their thrones to watch it on. 

Cinead watched with their fingers in the shape of a steeple, lips resting gently against them as they watched the cages turn about slowly, eyes hardly blinking. In contrast, Mallory sat next to them, fingers tapping restlessly, eyes flitting about -- occasionally their gaze staying too long on someone else’s, too long on something else. There, to the left of Cinead, sat Hea, their body as still as a lynx’s before it pounces on the prey, tensed with the barest of smiles upon their lips as they watched the crowd shiver beneath their gaze. They did not move, they did not speak, they simply observed as items were bid on and weapons were whisked away to be transported to wherever the client wished. Juliana made occasional bids here and there, only to have Tiberius whisper furiously in her ear, a scowl on his face. A frown would quickly follow on the young Capulet’s face as she would quietly wave off the bid, before quietly walking away to the next exhibit. The Capulet soldiers exchanged glances, their lips pressing together as they quietly walked on -- the small exchange hardly ever going unnoticed. 

Roman bid here and there, somewhat distracted as he bent his ear to listen to this counsel and that. Ramona, Castora, and Valentina stood close at his side, as did Bellamy who would occasionally give his opinion on this weaponry or that. Many of the Montagues were loathe to leave his side, their shoulders tensed as they glanced at either the Capulets or the Spades above. Their losses had been heavy, of late, and they were not willing to lose anymore. It showed in their faces, in the darkness that pressed itself under their eyes and the way that their fingers ticked, shifting and waiting for the bullet to burst out of the gun that they did not carry. Yet, even in their suffering state they still seemed to have pity enough for the Capulets, whose leaders were not to be found and whose boss lay in his bed, wasting away. 

But, who felt pity for the beaten birds with broken wings, wasting away in their cages? No one. 

Save for the Americans, the three who kept to themselves, but for the moments when they placed their money on this item or that. Typically, the more enviable ones. The new concoction that the witches had liberated from the Spades -- the drugs that had been the ones to start the mess of this all. A shipment of M16A4s that had been taken from the American army itself. Bulletproof suits that would save more than one soul after the night was over. They mingled with the Veronans selectively, their conversation warm, but their eyes cold. Looking down their noses at these simpleton affairs of mobsters whose beliefs were antiquated, whose systems were outdated. Time was passing them by, yet they remained oblivious to it. It was something that the Americans found distasteful -- and it was apparent by the way that they carried themselves, with a facade of amicability and gratitude. However, distaste could be easily swallowed when liberal amounts of money were thrown into the game. 

The money was there, evident in the fine silver cages that held the antagonists in their place. It was there, in the weaponry that glittered so temptingly for all to wield about. It was there, under the thumb of the three witches that ruled the town as gods of justice once ruled Rome. “You would think that they would have seen the money that could be gained from the dark web,” the one American muttered to the other. “The money that could be made off of the tourists...” said one. “Easy pickings,” sighed the other. They saw the glamour that the witches put on -- and the purpose of the show -- yet what would it come to but another century of warring between two families that should have killed themselves off long ago? “What a waste.” The three Americans sighed in unison, their gazes casting themselves in different directions, only to meet upon the prettiest bird of them all: Faron Vasiliev. 

His reputation of misdeeds and antagonism had preceded him with the Americans, who were now glad that justice had caught up to him. If one were to look, they would see the slight smirk that ghosted across Faron’s face as he looked down on them all. The satisfaction in the men’s featured seemed to be shared, seemed to be similar. As if there was a joke that only those four men knew, but would never really be privy to. But the satisfaction was also there for another reason, for ones that would not be revealed until --

A runner, a street urchin turned soldier, burst into the room, cheeks red from her running, eyes tearing up slightly. Before she could step much further, Theodora had their hand on the small girl’s shoulder, eyes narrowed as they crouched to talk to her. There were a few moments of murmuring between the two, the Capulet’s head canting to the side thoughtfully as they tucked their bottom lip carefully between their teeth. Catherine quickly came to their side, the few words that Theodora said to them clearly having an affect on the other. It seemed as if the Daly woman’s breath caught, the blood suddenly missing from her cheeks. Her fingers pressed to her lips, and it was because of this that Cinead slowly stood from their throne. Mallory’s eyes grew wide, their pupils dilating as they, too, followed -- Hea, not even bothering to rise. Instead, the one witch remained where they sat, sinking into their seat even further, one hand on Mallory’s and the other grasping the arm of their throne. 

A soft humming came from above, Calina’s lips peeling into a rather disconcerting smile as one of the broken, damned birds suddenly decided to sing. 

Catherine ran to Juliana and -- in a few words -- had her collapsed in a sobbing heap. Catherine looked from Juliana to Tiberius uncertainly, Tiberius whispering a few words to Priam, who stood close at hand. The young Capulet woman seemed as if she were trying to collect herself from the mess she had become, but to little avail. Her fist was pressed to her lips, heaving cries shaking her chest. In contrast, Tiberius glanced about the room, eyes meeting every Capulets in a silent call to rally around him. And they did, one following the other. Catherine met his eyes -- her lip trembling for a half a second before she nodded at him -- and grabbed Juliana by the arm, half-dragging, half-carrying her out of the room. But, before she could, she was stopped by the quiet laughter that echoed in the room, acting like a ripple as the crowd began to still, began to listen to it in silence. 

“Care to tell us what you find so amusing, Faron?” Cinead asked, their voice half-tainted by the tremor. 

A bark of laughter escaped Grace. The goading in it was answer enough for Faron.

“Well?” Mallory asked, their soft voice carrying in the pin-drop silence of the room. 

“Well is something Cosimo Capulet will never be.” The Spade boss answered, after a time. “Because he is quite dead.” 

At that Theodora grabbed Juliana by the arm as an inhuman wail escaped the girl, who was half-fighting against the underboss (for how long?) because she was loathe to be dragged away from her cousin. But it was in vain as Theodora shoved their way through the crowd, only to be almost killed by a falling cage. Out of it rolled Faron himself, who brushed himself off as if it were nothing, taking the time to mime a gun at both woman. He fired two shots at the woman, only to have Theodora shove Juliana aside to land vengeful blows on the weakened Vasiliev. 

The next cage came careening down and from it came Calina, her steps slightly shaky as she picked herself up. Alexander came barreling at her, but before he could, Orion stepped in his way. The bullet flew before Alexander could reconsider, hitting Orion in the stomach. Down he went, only to have Hector fly to his side as Calina made her escape. 

But, before she could make her way to Faron, Priam had her in his grasp. Who could count how many blows he landed on her before Lillian tore him away. Taking Calina’s hand in hers, the two woman ran to Faron, pulling Theodora off of him. 

The cages kept on dropping -- Alva and Grace the last to fall. Grace saw Hector run to Orion’s side, grabbed a butterfly knife, then threw it into the Montague’s side. He barely made it to Orion and she was already have to wreak havoc on those she considered blood. Before she could grab another, Kai had grasped her hand and the two began to exchange blows, one as thirsty for blood as the other. 

Alva only wanted to escape with their fellow Spades, but before they could go to help Faron, they were stopped by Valentina standing in the doorway. They began to back away, but the Montague captain lunged at them, throwing punch after punch. Alva was about to throw up their hands to fend off the brutal blows, but Faron was at their side, grabbing the woman by the hair and knocking her out cold. 

Castora was about to come to Valentina’s aid, when Calina confronted her, having been reassured that Faron and Alva were fine -- as ready for blood as an animal that has been cornered. Ramona spotted her friend and cousin in trouble and quickly made her way to Castora’s side. It was an unfair fight, two against one, when Pavel decided to throw his dice into the fray. Grabbing Castora’s attention, he began to toy with her as Calina fought tooth and nail against Ramona, although it quickly turned vicious. 

As Alva and Faron turned, they found their path blocked by Lucrecia, her pistol aimed steadily at the Spades boss. Alva quickly moved in front of Faron, and Lucrecia adjusted her aim - but the sound of a gun cocking right next to her ear had her dropping her weapon. Pavel had broken away from his fray. Faron saluted him, and Pavel spat at him in response - he’d kill him in an instant if it was worth the trouble. Priam, spotting Lucrecia, storms over and wrestles the gun from Pavel’s hand - the two have at it.

Odessa had been about to run to Alexander’s side when she was stopped by Lillian, who wished to stop the woman from getting caught in the gunfire more than anything. But Odessa certainly did not see it that way. She came after Lillian ready to draw blood -- and Lillian only sought to defend herself as well as strike the woman down to stop her from fighting anymore. Nikolai watched and waited to see which way this fight would go. When Lillian seemed to be gaining the upper hand, he wanted to tip the scales. 

But Tiberius was not about to let him do that. It only took but a couple of minutes before Tiberius had Nikolai at his feet, then made his way over to Faron. But, just as he did, he saw Roman with the same intention in mind: to remove this man before he could create anymore problems. However, one wanted to rid the world of the evil while the other wanted blood for blood. Tiberius was not about to let Roman take the only bit of honor the Capulets were likely to have left. 

Tiberius had been about to put a bullet Roman’s head when Bellamy stopped him, the two fighting with Tiberius clearly having the upper hand. It was not until Regina pulled Tiberius back that he stopped beating the Montague boy senseless, but she had not done so without putting herself in danger. She had been able to remain out of the sight of her sister until now. 

Grace had left Kai bleeding upon the floor and now had her knife at the ready to draw family blood. Just as the knife left her hand, Catherine stepped in the way to defend her Regina -- catching the knife in her shoulder. Just as Catherine cried out, Regina flew to engage her sister. Cain had killed Abel, so couldn’t Regina kill Grace? 

But before that question could be answered, the witches had moved to the doors, impeding anyone from leaving. Their sentries had long ran away from the fray and Faron had just made his way to the door. Faron stood, looking Hea in the eye, Calina looked Cinead in the eye, teeth bared as she had just bested the Montague woman. The frays were slowly dying down, each Spade making their way to stand behind their boss as they waited for the witches to move. Hea whipped out a gun, pointing the barrel at his head --

                                                          BANG. BANG. BANG.

Ding dong -- the witches are...dead? Cinead clutched their middle, Hea clutched their hand, Mallory cried out as they clung to their side. The “Americans” shoved through the crowd, stepped over the grimacing witches, then opened the doors, holding them open for the Spades. No one moved, too stunned by their gods having been cast to the ground, to do much else except watch in shock and fury as the Spades walked out of the room, worse for wear yet having all the cards in their hand. Calina was the last to leave the room, her eyes casting about with dark satisfaction as she cleared her hoarse throat. When her gaze landed on Juliana, she spoke -- partially to the broken woman, partially to the whole entire room. 

“The Spades have ceased the Capulet assets. We control your goods, your funds, and what remains of your mob. You will be cast out within three days’ time -- and you can either take up with the Montagues or do as you see fit. Either way, since we now have your assets, as well as our own, we more or less control the city. We, more or less, control you all.” To punctuate her sentence, she glanced down at the bleeding bodies of the witches, whose hearts beat less with each minute that passed. She closed the doors behind her, leaving them as spectacles. 

She had been a caged bird, but these were ones that had been broken and knew not how to recover. To cage them would be senseless -- cages were meant for the living, not the dead. 

And, when the door closed, it seemed as if a spell had been broken. The Capulets and the Montagues picked up their beaten and their battered, calling for the aid of medics who had just arrived. Tiberius and Roman sat on the steps of the thrones that had been once occupied by those whom they had considered invincible. As everyone milled about like soldiers, half-dead after a battle, they looked at one another -- a silent exchange as they sat in the wreckage of their common enemy. The blood of the Montagues and the blood of the Capulets mingled upon the hallowed floor of the Hotel Emelia, the ichor of the gods mixed in there with them. Both their hands were stained with it since the two men had done what they could to keep the witches from bleeding out more. 

Its fate was sealed as Tiberius Capulet and Roman Montague shook bloodied hands upon the steps of a throne that would know its final war. 

OVERVIEW: Cosimo Capulet is dead. The Capulets and Montagues have called a momentary peace and alliance as the Spades have taken over Verona. The Capulets are removed from their place of honor in Verona, their home is taken from them by the Spades -- both literally and figuratively. The Spades are able to implement their authority through the police force, who they have in their pocket since they have their revenue as well as the Capulet’s -- who have made much more what with their deals with the Koreans, thanks to Juliana Capulet. The Spades, reigning supreme, have the people of Verona under their thumb due to the fact that the witches are incapacitated as well. Both Cosimo Capulet and Damian Montague are dead. The crowns that the mobsters once wore are broken and their kingdom is being run by a tryant. The people of Verona have forsaken the Capulets and Montagues because of this and the two mobs are shunned. Anyone affiliated with them is now treated as a common person, or less than that. Italians do not look kindly upon the fallen. Things are getting shaken, Verona, you walk on unsteady ground. Take care. 

OOC: As always, feel free to play these interactions out on the dash. You may now date your interactions between the dates of APRIL 30TH and MAY 20TH. Keep in mind your character’s injuries and recovery time. The Montague and Capulet alliance is not likely to begin smoothly and we expect character interactions to follow as such. The Spades will likely hunt them down -- if not to kill them, then to goad them into a fight. Things are going to be tense, bloody, and painful for the next couple of weeks in Verona. How will your character react to these new changes? Who else is going to die before the city pieces itself together once more? Again, tag your interactions within this event as event:reckoning. If you have any questions, feel free to drop an ask in the main’s inbox!

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Date: April 3rd

Time: 8:00PM

Location: Twelfth Night Galleries

It was a scene of lush decadence, the gardens running with deep colors of burgundy and cobalt and jade as models marched down the runway like Verona’s new gods, bleeding silk and velvet rather than blood, their jewels shining like beacons in an unforgiving night. Some of the guest models have found their footing faster than others, but everyone, models, spectators, witches alike, glow with something holy. The respite of a show, of drinks, of mixed company with the threat of violence and escalation neutralized by the presence of three dark wardens was perhaps what the city needed. All mobs remained on their best behavior, ever mindful of where they were, perhaps, relieved for three pairs of watchful eyes keeping vigilant, and the show concluded without a hitch (except, perhaps, the one or two clumsy guest models nearly tripping over their own feet).

At eight, the doors to the Museum flung open, and everyone begins their slow trickle into the galleries to find that in place of the large spaces and benches that filled each exhibition hall before the grand paintings was one large marble table that spanned the entire length of the hall, already set with silverware, wine and appetizers and apertivos. Seating was at the guests’ discretion, and everyone gravitated close to their respective mobs and allies - even on neutral territory, it is nearly treasonous to wander too closely to a sworn enemy with benevolent intentions during a war. Only Cosimo and Juliana Capulet and Roman Montague and Faron Vasiliev are assigned seats, the first two to the left and the last to the right of the Witches.

The air is thickest with vehement tension the closer one is to the heads of the respective mobs and the head of the table, expectedly, but words are kept low and free of blatant antagonism… for now. There is nothing to be said for the hostile glares Roman shoots Faron from beneath his lashes, nor the knowing smirk Faron offers Juliana when Cosimo has turned his head.

Reverent servers, quiet and quick on their feet, begin carting out dishes one after the other, Brasato all'Amarone served with polenta, platters of prawn, oysters and clams, Lesso e pearà, Risotto all'Amarone, and the table quickly becomes full of all of Verona’s most famous and fragrant dishes, the guests easily putting aside tense words for the succulent food placed in front of them. Soon, only the sounds of forks scraping on plates and hushed, content murmurs fills the museum, and the Witches glance at each other, satisfied.

Hea stands first, glass raised, then Cinead and Mallory - everyone else knows to remain seated while the triumvirate stands, but to raise their glasses as well.

“Veronians, thank you for partaking in our revelry tonight. In divided times, it’s important to know that while we all share one city and one kingdom, there is a balance that runs through us all. It’s as pervasive as time and space, invisible to all but those who are conscious of it, and we, the Witches—”

The sound of violent retching cuts Hea off, and they appear to be mildly irritated by the interruption until they realize the source: Cosimo Capulet. He clutches his chest in pain, retching, and when he opens his eyes they are weeping crimson. The Witches’ eyes widen, and they swivel their head to Juliana, who has grown pale with fright, realization that the vision she saw at the circus has come true— and she abruptly throws  her head to the side as bile rises from her stomach into her throat. Many others follow suit, falling violently ill, the sound of them hitting to the floor in agony fills the hall while those unaffected struggle to help them and call for help.

The first thought is this: Why have the Witches done this? But then, Cinead doubles over in pain, their face contorted in anguish and nausea— Mallory catches them before they can fall, and they turn to Hea.

“We are left with more questions than answers,” they hiss. There is the knowledge shared only between the three of them: Hea recognized the backdrop of the vision Juliana had frantically showed them as their museum, had organized the show and dinner in order to see who dared to inflict biological damage on neutral territory. What they didn’t anticipate was the extent of the trauma - nearly half of the attendees have fallen ill.

But then, a realization. Only Montagues, Capulets, and neutrals are afflicted— the Spades remain untouched. Three stony gazes fall upon Faron, and the rest of the room follows.

“This is your doing,” Mallory says coolly, their usual whimsy chilled into steel. Faron only grins and rises from his seat slowly, taking their hostility as his cue to receive his due credit.

“Potent, no? Call it a modern Cantarella.”

“Perhaps you are too green to understand the heinousness of the crime you’ve just committed, signor,” Hea says, “But to incite discord on our territory is a trespass no one commits, if they are wise. You ask for consequences you’re not prepared to receive.”

“I think I’ll manage,” he hums, bringing his hands behind his back as he surveys his work like the proud architect of the third circle of hell. He watches Cosimo, bent over in pain, and returns the Capulet’s incredulous stare with his own bemused gaze. “You’re sick, my dear Cosimo, don’t waste your time asking ‘why’ when I’ll tell you anyway. Because right now, as we speak, The Taming of the Soup burns in the night, and with it, a chunk of the Montague empire. Sometimes I’m patient. Sometimes I’m not. You don’t move quickly enough for my tastes.” He turns to Roman. “Funny how easy it is to distract a city with a good show, isn’t it?”

Priam, stricken by the sight of Cosimo and Juliana writhing, runs to fling open the museum doors to let in air and open up a means of escape for his boss and heiress, but is blocked by Brielle.

An anguished yell erupts, then a gunshot—Odessa doesn’t bother to hide her guilt, nor her hands shaking with rage as she lowers her pistol. But her anger becomes confusion when Faron doesn’t fall. He opens up his suit jacket for everyone to see the light catching on the emeralds and rubies and sapphires sewn into the fabric of his shirt, the bullet lodged firmly in between. “Looks like I’ll have to thank Ornella. Allowing me to use and commandeer her long awaited debut to serve as a distraction, and now this… she truly is a gracious woman.”

“She serves the Spades well.” Grace chimes in lowly.

“She does. Which is more than what could be said of the Capulets now—you’re far too sick to even serve yourselves.” Faron raised an eyebrow and turned to Cosimo and Juliana, both pale and shaking. “Luckily for you, we’re here to fill in the spaces. Rest assured, it will only be temporary, until you’re fully recovered.

“But by then we’ll have the rest of Verona.”

Overview: This marks the end of our scene, dear readers. The Taming of the Soup lies in ashes, and with it, a part of the Montague empire, the territory now belonging to the Capulets and Spades. With many of their clients stolen by their neighbors to the east, the Montagues are now struggling to maintain their current clientele and influence. Nearly half of the Capulets and Montagues are incapacitated and the Spades remain untouched, their power growing as everyone else weakens.

Victims of the poisoning will have experienced severe nausea, temporary paralysis, shortness of breath, aches, and in extreme cases, bleeding from the eyes.  The following have been afflicted by Faron’s poisoning and will have to be hospitalized for at least a week:

ALEXANDER

JULIANA

VIVIANNE

TIBERIUS

VALENTINA

CINEAD

PAVEL

REGINA

HUGO

NIKOLAI

RAMONA

BELLAMY

COSIMO (critical condition)

In the meantime, Faron has taken over as interim boss for both the Capulets and the Spades, with Boris as the underboss and Calina as adviser. All Capulets and Spades now report to him while Cosimo, who was the most severely affected by the poisoning, remains in the hospital in critical condition. He will relinquish his position and return to his post as adviser to both Capulets and Spades once Cosimo is released.

The Montagues do not intend on taking this lying down. There are whispers among the mob of guerilla warfare, evening the playing field by any means possible.

Assignment: If your character is one of the above listed above, you may plot and thread the moments at the dinner, visitations at the hospital, and their first few days back with anyone you’d like! As for everyone else: Montague muses will be engaging in guerilla warfare—plot with anyone you’d like on your character attempting to incite small-scale attacks against the Capulets and Spades. Desperation drives them, although it is up to you and whoever you plot with whether or not they are successful in their attempts. Some suggestions include ambushing emissaries and soldiers, damaging Capulet and Spade property, recruiting more soldiers (NPCs), etc. Some Capulets may find they’re fighting two fronts: resisting Montague attacks as well as their own internal conflict with their new leadership, if applicable. Spades must ensure they maintain control of their new territory and members while discouraging any mutinous thoughts or attempts.

As always, you are encouraged to play out these interactions on the dash or in a chatzy. If you hold these interactions in a chatzy, please post it on the dash so we may all be a part of the excitement. All interactions may occur between the dates of APRIL 3RD to APRIL 17th. As always, feel free to ask us questions!

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: April 3rd

TIME: 5:00 PM

LOCATION: Twelfth Night Museum

In the wake of Cirque Arcana, Verona is left to collect itself in the dawns and twilights following. Psyches made fragile by false visions and prophets, wounds inflicted in the chaos, shattered pride and words that can never be taken back—these are traumas with which the city and its inhabitants are intimate. The Cirque had made its mark in a world of permanence and, like a stain that had set in, it remained on its perch on the edge of the city, watching, lying in wait, as if to taunt. Add another piece to the scales and this is what the board looks like: The Montagues on one side. The Capulets and Spades crowded into another. The Siblings in the middle and, at the opposite end of them, Ringleader Severine.

“They must be talking.” A black cat emerges from the dark of night, their movements slick and deliberate as they wind their way around marble and abstract installations.

“They never stop,” the raven remarks from their perch. The last of the The Tempest’s patrons have trickled out, and all that remains is the company of statues, the quiet of a sleeping city as its sentinels deliberate.

“They think we’re losing control,” the third says, their voice floating to the beams, through the ceiling and into the night air. “First the Auction, now this.”

“That damned ringleader and her jesters,” Cinead grouses, “made us look like fools. We were caught off guard, and for what? For her to prove that she could touch us?”

“Her flagrancy made us look weak.”

“The City will think we’re starting to lose control.” A sigh, and then a beat. Clockwork workings to which only the other two are privy. “Unless…”

“Unless what, Mallory?” Cinead says, their voice taking on an uncharacteristic impatient edge. It is the first time the other two siblings hear of it in a long, long time.

“We remind the city who it is who holds the key to its center. Its balance. After all,” their fingers flutter against the window, their eyes tracking lights blinking through a sea of black in the distance, “It’s been some time since we took to the stage and hosted an event.”

“We are Verona’s final arbitrators,” Hea says. “Although Faron has not committed an offense towards us, it shall serve as a reminder that as long as he is in our territory, he is not immune to our authority or our rules simply because he is new blood. Him and that ringleader.”

“Then it’s decided. This next act is ours.”

The Siblings’ words carry the weight of finality that resonates in the very foundation of Verona, subtle and running undercurrent of its ancient bedrock. The authority of true deities does not demand excess nor announcements—it makes itself known in the flow of cause and effect, their influence reaching the peak of its power in the event of a cosmic imbalance, the tilting of the scales when they must right the wrong. They are neither benevolent nor malicious, and it’s what demands the city’s respect—they are untouchable when everyone thrums with the frailty of mortality. Death counts and violence have no home on the Witches’ territory.

But for deities to be made mortal, even for a moment, is blasphemy. The veil is parted and some of the mysticism has dissipated, like candy confetti on a warm tongue. Those who were present at Cirque Arcana watched, some in terror, some in ignorant delight, as the Witches were silenced, bound, and made to be a laughingstock at another’s hands. A minute lasted an infinity, and the humiliation is not readily forgotten by any witness and any party. Luckily, the Witches know better than anyone that an immediate show of power and authority is needed to reclaim dignity lost. Exactly a week later following the calamitous night, an invitation dressed in embellishments is sent out to the luxe of Verona.

“You are cordially invited to Ornella Fallaci’s fashion designer debut. Join us in The Twelfth Night Gardens under an intimate canopy of stars and lights as Verona’s most illustrious socialite unveils her Spring Collection.”

Then, printed below, almost as if it was an afterthought: “The theme is Aching.”

The days pass, and the Twelfth Night Museum remains as it always was until the week’s end, when the Gardens transform from a verdant green refuge to an opulent centerpiece, resplendent with a shimmering Tanzanite chandelier strung up above the elevated catwalk, silver and black silk hangs off of edges and lines the antique settees and loveseats that face the catwalk. Photographers and a select few members of the press are in attendance, the light of their cameras flashing intermittently through the evening as the more well known attendees are pulled aside for interviews. Peacocks slowly roam the greens, some perched atop statue arms—guests are discouraged from allowing the birds to sip from their cups. A serval lounges on the steps leading from the Museum to the gardens, never lifting its head once even as guests stream in. At the entrance of the catwalk sits a small orchestra donned in white and Alva Gwon, singing sweetly as the pianist plays the beginning notes of a slow, haunting requiem. Tonight has a bite to the air despite the mild weather weeks beforehand, and crimson, fleece blankets are provided on each seat. In their fine gowns and suits and swaddled in their blankets that look more like cloaks, lounging with their arms and legs outstretched, the attendees look not unlike half-gods of old, awaiting their next diversion to lessen the burden upon their shoulders.

The hosts themselves are dressed in their finest, standing tall despite the spectacle they’d been a part of not a week prior, stern as gods who have come down from the heavens to guide their flock back on its path.

Attendants roam the grounds with trays of champagne and cocktails commonly served within The Tempest, but there are no hors d'oeuvres to be found—following the show, attendees will be invited to join the Witches for dinner inside The Twelfth Night (which is currently roped off to everyone until the start of supper).

There are glimpses of Ornella as she makes her rounds, kissing ladies daintily on the cheek and smiling cryptically as men shove each other out of the way to make their way into her line of sight. Rumors abound of the designer, who still insists on dressing all in black and living in her sprawling estate despite being without her father and brother for years. She herself is a vision in a sweeping, inky gown with silver accents, a nightshade who has the misfortune of being envied and coveted simply for the curve of her lips or the jewels adorning her neck, and she walks to the dying rhythm of the orchestra as silence falls over the crowd.

“My friends, thank you for joining me today, and taking part in my passion. Thank you to the Siblings for allowing me a stage for my art.” She smiles as the applause dies down. “Everyone here has surely ached at one point in their lives - be it with grief, for vengeance, for a love they’ll never have—do not forget the sting. Let it consume you, let it harden you, for life is fleeting, but it is relentless.”

Applause. The curtains part. The night begins.

OVERVIEW: Be forewarned -  for you tread on neutral territory now, and the Siblings are ever vigilant about maintaining peace on their grounds. All those who have been invited to the show have been searched thoroughly for knives and guns before entering the premises, and violence is strictly forbidden.  Attire is black-tie formal. There are those who were asked to walk once by the Siblings, either because of their high visibility or because they, for one reason or another, seem to embody the show’s theme:

Roman Montague Juliana Capulet Faron Vasiliev Delilah Vogel Orion Massetti Odessa Vernon Lillian Wen Catherine Daly Lucrecia Falco

The seating for the show has also been prearranged with two to three people to one settee. They are as follows:

Row 1: Roman & Juliana & Faron, Cosimo Row 2: Alexander & Lawrence & Priam, Calina & Boris & Vivianne Row 3: Alva & Clark & Lillian, Lucrecia & Hugo & Grace Row 4: Orion & Catherine, Orpheus & Bellamy, Regina & Ramona Row 5: Valentina & Nikolai, Pavel & Theodora, Tiberius & Hector, Delilah & Odessa

Guests are allowed to move from seat to seat or congregate by the open bar or the photobooth off to the side or off in the gardens further away from the runway. Date your threads April 3rd, with time stamps ranging from 5:00 PM to 7:00 PM. The runway show begins at 6:00 PM, and everyone will reconvene at 8:00 PM in the Galleries for dinner.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

For a single moment, they are in paradise. As close to it as they ever thought they could be. Paradise, to them, were a few hours without the terror of bombs hanging over them, without the sound of planes flying in the sky like Valkyries -- ready to bring death to the battlefield and pluck the soldiers they deemed worthy.

But earthly paradise is fleeting.

The only thing everlasting is war.

And it raged on.

The music on the radio was drowned out by their despised noise, the buzzing of the planes that -- when they draw closer -- turns into a crazed roar. It was then that everyone in the room knew that this was Germany’s last vengeance and fascist Italy’s last stand. They were so cruel as to bring the whole of the city down into their damnation. It was not enough to retreat gracefully, to call a surrender when the battle was last. No, they had to make sure that if they burned in hell then their enemies had no choice but to burn with them.

But the people of Verona, the rebels that took up their arms in the face of adversity, would not burn. No, they would shine so as to eradicate the darkness that tried to eclipse their city. They would take their guns and stand for their people and their city. Or they would not stand at all.

HERE LIES THE SOUL OF:

Orion Massetti

Calina Sokolova

Lillian Wen

Alva Gwon

Valentina Gallo

Lucrecia Falco

Odessa Vernon

Lawrence Vernon

Orpheus Ahulani

Hugo Kim

ASSIGNMENT: The names listed above are those who died fighting for the cause. If your character is one of the names above, you may plot with however many people you want the cause of their death -- whether it be by guns, bomb, knife, etc. You may even write your own self-para if you wish! It’s not often that we get to write the death of our own character -- so feel free to make it as absolutely heartbreaking as you wish!

SUMMARY: And thus concludes our first AU event! We have taken all your suggestions into account and will begin to hold AU events more often. As always, feel free to keep these threads going if you want -- there is no expiration date on this event. We really hope you enjoyed it and the muse you got from it! We love you all and can’t wait to show you our next event drop!

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Date: March 27th

Time: 12:00 AM

Location: Cirque Arcana

Have you ever been in love?

This is like that, and it is not.

It starts with a heart in your throat. That’s where you feel it at first, something lodged in a vital place that you can’t quite clear. You turn your head to the side, cough, take a glass of something sparkling, yet it remains stubbornly lodged in place like it has signed papers thrice over and taken up residence. In the beginning you may imagine that this peculiar feeling is nothing more than a sugared almond caught in your pharynx, but as time goes by and the feeling does not dissipate, you begin to realize this is something else entirely.

You think you’ve caught the vulnerable, pretty little aorta of the circus in your teeth and taken it in your throat.

It’s not hard to believe, with the way this world unfurls before you at the touch of your forward-facing shadow like morning glories: the people, these maddened and magenta-clad jesters, peel open like they want you to lean in and drink honey-sweet from the dips of their collarbone. They are cruel; oh, they are cruel in ways you do not understand - but like all meager-hearted humans, you cannot deny the pull of their attentions. The girls are tall and short and lithe and always, always beautiful, pulling you in close to stain silver lipstick all over your collar. One pinches a piece of confetti between her painted fingers and passes it to your tongue. It takes like strawberries and cream. This is a righteous bacchanalian, a sweet ecstasy that was left stuck to the corner of Pandora’s darling little box when all the wicked things flew out.

And it feels all yours.

So what do you do?

You swallow the heart. Your throat relaxes and you take it all at once, feeling full-up and arrogant and hungry for your triumph.

Oh, darling, oh, dear. What have you done now?

Revelry springs forth the way sea spray did the day the severed pieces of Uranus hit the sea to give birth to Aphrodite: rolling forth in all directions. The night has progressed to the hour where no more tender daylight exists, the twilight having pried off the last of its elegant fingers from the clouds and sent it down beyond the horizon. There seems to be something thick about the air now; something that, if one opened up their mouth and sucked in a breath, you would find chewable. Though there are men with thick moustaches and entertainment wearing nothing but clever lacquer smoking cigarettes, nothing smells of ashes. Everywhere the scent changes, just like the themes from tent to tent, air lifting from carbonated hyacinth that pops in the nostrils in the garden to the lead-and-Chanel N5 permeation of the Hearts Club.

There are children running knee-high through the tents, though they seem dismal compared to the adults - even the ones that have made it through the front gates seem forgettable, having latched to their parents sides in fear or awe.

(What is it that is said? That a children’s heart is pure and therefore knows far more than the rest of us? Well. Perhaps that isn’t a myth after all).

As time weaves on it seems to weed out the youths, as with each passing hour the younglings that had once been visiting make-believe sirens and statuesque angels are seemingly removed, replaced by their slightly-older teenage counterparts. Maybe it’s the late hour that takes them home with wide-eyed parents looking over their shoulder as they descend the hill, the adults racing back to their pretty little apartments in order to tuck their little ones in, lock the door, and scramble back up.

Or maybe it’s the inability to jar one’s head any way that isn’t straight: the midnight and witching hours pass on and over heads, al with no consequence and every bit of pomp and circumstance. And with each one tucking into Orion’s belt, the visitors of the Cirque Arcana find themselves untraceably altered. There is a sudden lightness of the mind and body, a hot-holy elation that seems to prick each individual by the spine and left them up above the floor to ghost over the ground, as if it is only by a gracious convention to modern science that feet still touch the carpet. Though no two livers are alike, and indeed no two mouths consume the same palette here, a strange and wonderful intoxication has ubiquitously spread over the populace of the circus. All colours seemed to match the inside of a swallowed heart -- dark, thick with something you could swallow and taste in the air, bleeding with bruise reds and purples in the uplighting. All other colours seemed to be leaking out of the world into one point, like God had reached down and pulled out a giant drain plug in the center of the tent, into which everything - words, people, common sense - sank.

Those inside this cocoon the tents felt surrounded and safe, blanketed by the anonymity the half-shadow and strange environment around them provided -- but even the best of Verona, those with pearls for teeth and diamonds for hearts, are slanted. They stand leaned to the side, a shoulder of a fur coat fallen off, the part of their hair raised and flipped over in a messy concession to the state they are currently existing in: a being with their feet on the ground but an angle to their mind and body. It’s in mouths as much as it is in spine: the way syllables stand slightly straight when engaged in conversation, but rush into one another at the tail. The thoughts inside skulls curl into themselves, turning into perfect little metallic balls that roll and gather in the corner of a brain as minds wander and tilt.

Of course, when everyone is down the rabbit hole, nobody notices the descent. Nobody notices the correlation between the sticky-sweet confetti pouring through the air and the odd things seen in the corner of vibrating vision, imagining things that aren’t there at all -- nobody traces the thread tied to their quickly-beating heart and charged loins back to the perfumed smoke rolling through the main stage and all the side tents. Instead, given no forewarning and no choice but to accept their current state, everyone falls.

And here is the truth of it all. When lost in the maze, you can become but one of three people:

Ariadne.

Theseus.

Or the Minotaur.

In the Tent of Veils comes a final Salome, a pulse of a woman that beats through the entire tent. The six dancers before her part and spread out into the room, hands roaming over the broad barrel-and-gun chests of occupants and pulling them into the shadows as the Queen rises. The sleeves of her dress rise and fall in a Grecian manner as she twirls, something at once arcane and licentious, a neo-Isadora Duncan undressing before the masses. After several minutes there were no more veils, no more pretenses. Only a naked body that, once seen, could only be described as an altar built to worship at - something to be crucified in sweat and ecstasy. The people around her burst, swinging into each other’s laps and across tables, flinging bodies into bodies as if love is a war. Through it all the smoke rises, corrupting, choking out any virtue that had been left existing in the surrounding bodies before this moment.

And Salome looks on, smiling.

Puzzles can have no start or end -- it cannot be in their nature to be easily solvable -- and that is why this room has two entrances. Only one door has been used all night, the suspiciously-inconspicuous arch with an unmarked, lacquered black sheen, guarded by an effervescent sprite of a jester. They speak in a high-cackle of a voice, something more mockery than has ever been proper speech, and have been leaned on the shoulders of politicians and gangsters all night, gouging them into the Puzzle Room by means of vocal prodding. Now is no different, as he spots Roman Montague and ushers the unofficial prince and his entourage into the living enigma - All kings must know how to solve mysteries, your highness. Bring only your most trusted knights with you. And with the pull of a curtain (as all things are revealed in the circus), this door is hidden, and another exposed. The menacing jester of the night is gone, and replaced by a nymph of a girl with a sweet smile. She extends her hands towards the next group like postcards for the taking. They find her charming, and her challenge exciting. They enter the maze.

At the place of losses ring the voices of torn-and-tried men at The Hearts Club. Bets and heartrates increase until they hit the ceiling, no longer a palpable pulse but one long vibration. The games grow shrewder, the narrowed eyes of dealers peeking ravenously from behind tipped bowler hats - a mass sum had been won only hours earlier, and since this victory they seem to be crueller-handed, either by way of fate or something else entirely. Groups have congregated like holy disciples around the demi-gods that persist in their siege of Mount Olympus, cupping dice in crude fists and cards in battered fingers. It takes only the slightest disturbance of peace for it to be smashed over the knee completely, church glass left shattered on marble floor. CHEATER. LIAR.

The wolves descend.

Ariadne, Theseus, Minotaur.

And as our heroes and players chose their roles for the night (not mindfully, you must understand dear reader; when one is revealing the very core of themselves, they have very little choice over who that is), our gold string of this maze watches on from behind the curtains. She is the thread that links through every corner and chasm, the sanity amongst the madness (or is the madness amongst the sanity?).

She wears dark velvet like rose petals around her, and on her tiny, lithe frame she seems to be swallowed by the luxe costume. There is something so unassuming and lovely about that little face, and as she stands alone and shining away from the spotlight, there seems to be something triumphant about the repose of her stance, simple as it is.

It is her act that culminates this night, her slim build that cuts through the wheezing-harsh laughter the last round of jesters incite on the main stage as the clock strikes far past midnight. The crowd hushes in expectation, respectful despite their delirium of the woman they know as the Ringmaster. Though the depth of the audience is great, all could swear that from their place on the plush bleachers, they can spot her smile with a resounding intimacy - could trace the petal shape of her lips on the back of their eyelids, as they likely will when they return home. There’s something about the woman that is large, blooming, irresistible, despite the lack of space she takes up. She tremors like a mirage in their eyeline, halcyon and dewy.

This time, she’s introduced as the illusionist. Severine, the booming voice calls her.

“For my last trick,” She speaks at the start of her very first, like everything that follows is one grand act. And it’s a lie - the whole night has been one act. “I’m going to show you what magic looks like. Now, close your eyes. Place your heart in your hands and your hopes on your tongue and breath. Count to three.”

One -

Two -

Three.”

The eye of the storm is the safest place to be.

That heart you swallowed cracks open inside your stomach like shrapnel. Chaos explodes with it.

12:00 AM: Trapeze. Two sets of twins engage in death-defying and gorgeous aerial acts above the mainstage. 

12:45 AM: Jesters. Clowning jesters to entertain the crowd as the stages are cleaned and changed.

1:00 AM: Aerial escape. A stunning, twenty-something girl takes to the air bound and harnessed amongst hanging silks. With a towering grandfather clock ticking off exactly thirty minutes, the performer at once entertains as an aerial artist while completing her escape. The event finishes with a burst of paper flowers so thick, she is lost for a moment  as she seemingly tumbles to her death - until she reappears a moment later, once more in the air and blowing kisses from a hanging swing.

INTERMISSION.

2:00 AM: Illusionist. The ringmaster takes the stage for the final act of the night.

SIDE TENTS REMAIN THE SAME.

What the characters have not been aware of is the effects of what they have been consuming all night: the flavoured confetti are hallucinogenic, and the machines effusing smoke and incense are aphrodisiacs, which has altered their state of mind and their actions.

In the Puzzle Tent, ROMAN, leading VALENTINA, and SANTINO through, hears the chaos unfolding outside and urges the rest of them to hurry as the combined hallucinogenic drinks, food, and confetti start to take their toll. The rooms shift and morph, monsters materialize and disappear all in an instant. Finally, they burst through what they think is the final door, only to find themselves in the middle of The Room of Infinite Mirrors - ROMAN reaches for the Gallos, only to touch solid glass. Hundreds of reflections blink around them and, on the opposite end of the room, REGINA, TIBERIUS, AND BUNNY burst in, all just as jarred and discordant.

TIBERIUS sees ROMAN and, under the influence of drugs, imagines the Montague Boss has taken on demonic qualities and has drawn a gun, and tackles him through a mirror in panic and rage, glass shattering around both of them. The two men struggle, injuring each other, until ROMAN manages to momentarily incapacitate him.

VALENTINA catches REGINA just as the Capulet captain goes to help TIBERIUS up, grabbing her by the neck and slamming her into a mirror as retribution for their earlier confrontation. REGINA fights her way free with a surge of adrenaline.

BUNNY, seeing SANTINO go to his boss’s aid and covering him as ROMAN stumbles out to safety, grabs a piece of glass shard and lunges for him. SANTINO turns just in time to catch the glass with his bare hands, and the two struggle, and he begins to weaken from the pain and blood loss.

ORION, weaving through the fray outside of the tents, spots an injured ROMAN leaning against a post and bleeding profusely with many shards of glass sticking out of his skin, and goes to help take him away from the chaos - the Montague Boss urges him leave him alone to avoid attracting suspicion.

Anornate and grand mirror catches JULIANA’s attention throughout the chaos - The All Seeing Mirror. She comes closer and sees foggy visions of hooded figures dangling above a dancing crowd in large, golden cages. Then, a vision of Cosimo and herself falling violently ill. Frightened, she grabs the closest passerby, HEA, to verify she isn’t simply seeing things due to the hallucinogenic drugs. HEA, visibly and genuinely disturbed, attempts to coax the mirror into showing more, but while JULIANA’s back is turned, suddenly vanishes.

MIKAEL fights with LUCRECIA, having been shown a false image of her conspiring to kill him by the oracle. LUCRECIA attempts to give themselves some separation as he madly rambles, and steers them past off-limit areas. As their argument grows more heated, LUCRECIA stops suddenly and stares into the distance - the hallucinogenic aspect of the confetti has given her a false image of the deceased Maeve. She begins to weep uncontrollably without explanation, which MIKAEL believes is a means to distract him. LUCRECIA rushes towards the image of Maeve with MIKAEL following. She grows hysterical when the hallucination disappears and demands they begin to look for Maeve.

HECTOR has eaten the hallucinogenic confetti and is overwhelmed by the visions, real and imaginary, of the circus. He stumbles into the elephant ring, where DELILAH is, and is nearly trampled by an elephant, narrowly rolling out of the way. He falls and sprains his ankle in the process and attempts to crawl out - DELILAH runs to his side and tries to help him out, but a call from outside the ring gives her pause. GRACE has been watching the entire ordeal and demands that DELILAH leave him to fend for himself.

On the other side of the grounds, CATHERINE, high on the hallucinogenic confetti, attempts to calm herself by taking a ride on the carousel. She hallucinates that the animals turn into macabre monsters, screams and stumbles trying to run away. By some twist of fate it is GRACE that she runs into at full speed, who takes pleasure at her sister’s strange horror. While CATHERINE clings to her weeping for help, GRACE feigns kindness and guides her away from the carousel and through off-limit tents, only to shove her into the corral that houses the actual show horses, locking the gate behind her. GRACE leaves as CATHERINE shrieks, her terror inciting the otherwise harmless animals to startle and run.

In The Gardens, the thick, humid air fills with something far more sinister - aphrodisiac gas. ALEXANDER, inhales the gas and is filled with unnatural, abrupt lust - he stumbles through the smoke and nearly knocks ODESSA, also dazed and having inhaled the gas, over. They pause for a beat, and draw close.

In the middle of the Illusionist’s acts, three volunteers are called from the audience to sit and be “transformed.” The illusionist swears no harm will come to these individuals, and has them sat on three chairs centre stage, hands tied behind their backs with rope and a bag placed over their heads. While the magician performs another feat on the other side of the stage, a ring of jesters arrives and begins making a good-natured menace of themselves upon the unsuspecting volunteers: water is dumped over their heads, their legs used as a springboard for acrobatics, and various other humorous parts as living props. With a show of what appears to be an aurora borealis swirling about them, when the illusionist returns to her volunteers, she pulls the bags off to reveal the siblings MEDEA, CINEAD, and HEA. The spotlight shines down upon them and the audience roars in appreciation. They are bound, gagged, and blindfolded. Despite the uproar this trick has caused, no one will notice the discomfort the witches seem to be under - they recall only being pulled behind curtains, but not how they arrived on stage. The illusionist grins, slices through their restraints, and offers them a smile as they are ushered off stage by her jesters.

RAMONA, inebriated and originally intending to ride one of the circus horses, instead finds CATHERINE being battered by startled horses. Unable to see who it is she is helping, she leaps the gate and diverts the attention of the stallion before helping the girl limp to safety. The pair is found and apprehended for trespassing.

In the Hearts Club, chaos erupts out of nowhere. ORPHEUS accuses the staff at the of cheating when he loses out on a substantial bet, and the staff accuse him of cheating in return. He lunges for one of them in a maddened state, but is tackled by several others who drag him off behind the curtain. VIVIANNE enters the tent just in time to see ORPHEUS being dragged away, draws her blade and threatens the staff. One of them covers her from head to toe with a burlap sack, and when they pull it off, she’s vanished.

The pyrotechnics booth that NIKOLAI operates has caught ablaze by malfunctioning wire and become swallowed by smoldering heat and fire. LILLIAN spots a weakened and stunned NIKOLAI’s within the booth and, with the help of BELLAMY, manages to pry the door open. Due to his own minor injuries sustained trying to navigate through the frenzied crowds, he is unable to carry the man himself, and they both work to escort him out and resuscitate him.

BUNNY, thrown off by the events of the Puzzle Room, starts acting manically. She begins shoving handfuls of confetti in her mouth just as THEODORA runs over to try and stop her. BUNNY slaps the Capulet in response before tremoring and falling to the ground with her eyes rolled back. THEODORA, having recognized the effects of hallucinogenic drugs only moments before, had been attempting to prevent the same overdose happening at her feet. They take the young girl in their lap and try to soothe her as they call out for medical attention.

HUGO has been doing his best to guide horrified and frantic circus goers find their way out, all while trying to find a fellow Montague and gain his own bearings. He catches sight of ORION and ROMAN conversing and, mistaking the situation as ORION being the one to have injured ROMAN, intervenes and firmly insists that he leave. From HUGO’s side, ROMAN sees the priest’s hand hover over his gun and, fearing escalation, is forced to fill HUGO in on ORION’s status as an informant.

In the Tent of Veils, there is a lone figure stumbling through the incense and dancers. PAVEL, in his drug-induced delirium, sees glimpses visions of his family long passed in between the writhing bodies. He lunges for them and goes through the red velvet curtains, reappearing in the Sweetheart Table tent.

ALVA seeks shelter in The Depths and, in their hurry, forgets to grab ear plugs. The mermaids lure them with their sweet, coaxing song and, as soon as they are close, drag them into the tank. They are pulled out and resuscitated by SEVERINE, the mysterious ringleader.

By the Sweetheart Table, BORIS finds that he’s missing large bills from his wallet as well as his sleeve cuffs. He sees PAVEL nearby, dazed, and accuses him of pickpocketing - you never truly grow out of pettiness. PAVEL taunts him in turn, and the confrontation escalates into a full-on fight. Jesters form a dancing ring around the two, seemingly intent on never breaking the circle until someone falls.

OBERON suddenly finds himself falling through the curtains of the Sweetheart Table and shoves his way through the ring of jesters. Seeing BORIS and PAVEL in the middle of fighting, he defends his former associate and pushes BORIS back and away from PAVEL, to which BORIS retaliates.

FARON and PRIAM, visiting the Tent of Veils at the culmination of the night, is beguiled by the Salome that enters as the climax of the show. As the dancers disperse amongst the crowd and pick out men that grab at their wrists, they are simultaneously plucked from their seats and brought into a hidden room sectioned off by curtains. Placed in plush chairs sitting parallel one another, they are asked if they want a private dance - both, while feeling the effects of the aphrodisiacs, acquiesce eagerly and receive them. As part of the dance, they have their hands tied gingerly with the women’s scarves. The longer the dance progresses the lighter headed and more intoxicated they feel; upon finishing, they pass out. Both regain consciousness some time later in an entirely different room and find their belongings - wallet, watch, and phones - stolen. As a pair they rally on the security and insist the dancers stole from them, only to be told they walked out of the tent tipping lavishly twenty minutes ago. FARON demands to see video footage while PRIAM attempts to reenter the dance tent, only to be strong-armed away by the bouncer. This results in a fight that has both men kicked out of the grounds and sent home.

LAWRENCE, attempting to find either ROMAN or ODESSA, shoves his way through to The Gardens and interrupts ODESSA and ALEXANDER, who separate moments too late. He drags ODESSA away, who protests indignantly at her brother’s overprotectiveness, yanks herself away, and storms out of the tent and into the fresh air where the aphrodisiac’s effects immediately weaken. LAWRENCE warns ALEXANDER to keep his hands to himself as ALEXANDER also takes his leave.

In the Butterfly Tent, onlookers stream throughout the ring in a panic as they try to find their way to the exits. CALINA is one of them, and as she weaves in and out she’s snatched by one of the aerialists who flings her to another. She demands to be let down onto the ground, but the aerialists ignore her, and she spots one of them flying through the air with a large sack in their arms. They remove the cloth to reveal a jarred VIVIANNE - both women are stranded atop a perch high above. CALINA demands VIVANNE’S cooperation in figuring out a way to safely get down, but the Capulet Underboss is hostile, still sore over the death of her own adviser and peer.

OOC: This marks the end of our scene, dear readers. Everyone involved in the Puzzle Room violence, as well as PRIAM, FARON, ORPHEUS and RAMONA are escorted off the grounds for trespassing and/or breaches of safety. CATHERINE, NIKOLAI and BUNNY have been taken to the hospital, with BUNNY in especially bad condition. All others have managed to escape detection by Cirque Arcana’s staff for their terrible behaviour - for now.

As always, you are encouraged to play out these interactions on the dash or in a chatzy. If you hold these interactions in a chatzy, please post it on the dash so we may all be a part of the excitement. Play out your character’s odd events, injuries and aftermath. All interactions may occur between the dates of MARCH 25TH to APRIL 13th. As always, feel free to ask us questions.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Date: March 26th

Time: 9:00 PM

Location: Cirque Arcana

IT ARRIVES….

It arrives while you hold your breath, in the space it takes to blink, the time it takes to swallow a heartful of good intentions for a mouthful of the bad.

One day you look away, and when next you look back, it’s there, jutting out of the ground like the sore thumb of God -- imposing, purple, swollen, and majestic.

The circus has arrived in Verona, and it seems to have pulled all the stars down from the night to wear around its neck, a dazzling ring hovering above its velvet tops. But look closer -- lean in, dear audience -- and you will see that the stars have not been made into jewellery; they have taken a step down from their place in the firmament of their own volition, slinking into the foreground and craning their burning necks over the clouds so as to better watch the magic unfurling below them.

Everyone is a guest tonight.

For seven days the tents stood dark and unmoving in the light of day, the only detectable motion the stirring of its crowning flags in the breeze, with no singular body seen passing in or out of its flaps. At times this solitude was disrupted by curious locals and passersby who walked up the hill and through the grass to pass their hands over the thick velour of its exterior, peering curiously at its entrances as if they might open up. Though none were escorted away by thick-shouldered, broad-mouthed men with SECURITY emblazoned on the backs of their shirts and written across their foul expressions, all felt the impression that they were an intrusion, a hand jostling a locked door. Each left with a furrowed brow and an imprint on their countenance that they had stumbled upon something not yet meant to be seen. None came back to disrupt its grounds a second time, but some - the ones who dared to tiptoe close enough to press their ears to its walls - swore they heard something beating within it, steady and echoing, like a heartbeat.

Every day it stood as a monolith on that hill, unmoving and enigmatic, providing no answers to the eyes that pressed upon its scope, and every night it lit up from the inside out. Like a paper lantern it became incandescent, aglow with a warm, churning light that circled and ebbed and exploded into pinpoints against the inside of the tent. Music and laughter and sounds that took the pitch of every inexplicable moment you’ve ever had poured forth from its arena, bubbling down the hill and into town.

Still, no one came in or out.

It was like this for seven days and seven nights, silent during the day and filled with galaxies during the night, the flaps of its entranceway pulled tight and never lifting so much as to let even a single eye look through. But on the seventh day, at the time when twilight breaks over the knee to true dusk, the curtains lifted -

                               and out poured god and all his heavens.

Carrying torches of brightly burning fire, jesters decked in amaranthine and black leotards drain out of the newly opened curtains. Music accompanies their maddened descent, a crank-box tune drowned out by their loud yips and hysterical cries of joy as they roll and leap down the hill in a show of acrobatics and bacchanalian impulse. They spill into the streets and usurp all they can: clad in full-face black and white masks, they are all the same and yet distinctly unique, seemingly a sea of madness until you can still one long enough to notice the disconcerting detail that has gone into making each one a one of a kind. The gender or age of these harlequins themselves is hard to estimate; though certainly the dips and swells of their costumes at times gives away the game, they speak few words and will not stay still long enough to answer questions. Yet they are all alike in their overwhelming eccentricity, the undeniable magic of their blinding similarity as they perch and howl on the edge of the Castelvecchio bridge and backflip in the middle of small cafe tables, stealing hats off of locals to perch on their own heads before dancing away into the shadows. They are everywhere: flitting through restaurants without permission on the tune of their mad laughter and gesturing hands, performing feats of acrobatics stacked on top of one another amidst moving gondolas, and knocking on doors. And no matter how fast or ferociously they run, those flames - burning so murderously they are nearly pearlescent - do not die, even as some toss them in the air as juggling batons.

Just as you are sure you’ve seen the last of them, they seem to multiply, more and more flooding the streets with every passing minute. They are everywhere, and they all point in the same direction:

                                 to the circus.

Perhaps it is their strange and otherness that entices, the manic way with which they move a carefully deployed marketing strategy to incite excitement, or maybe it is the lights at the top of the hill calling. No matter the reason, no matter the rhyme, the ascent to that majestic velvet castle in the distance is taken by crowds of people, forming a line flanked on either side by more twirling jesters hoisting their torches and pointing towards the entrance.

There is no ticket stand nor any worn wood concession, instead beautiful girls with painted faces and cigarette boxes strapped over their shoulders take payment for entrance and offer various treats: liquor for the adults, shimmering galaxies in a bottle, and powdered sugar confections for children.

The crowd shares a natural dispersing upon entering, groups of people with their necks dropped back turning into one of the numerous passageways that evolve once inside the main gates. No signs or instructions are left as to what may lead where, and each tunnel is hung with the same plush material as its exterior, in a purple dark enough to be called black. There are shifting, pinpricks of light hidden behind each row of fabric that move in such a way as to imitate the clearest of night skies, and this maze of starlight and mystery is as intoxicating as the flavour-changing drinks in each person’s hand.

There is no right way, no wrong way. There is only forward, into this beautiful abyss of a place that seems to hold secrets like a melting candy under its tongue.

And suddenly - all at once - in the same way this place arrived (with no explanation and great expectation), there is a beautiful woman in the center of the main stage. She blinks once, twice, three times; and waits for the din of voices around her to quiet. Perhaps in respect or awe or something else entirely, the world grows silent.

“Dearest patrons.” Her voice rings into every corner and crevasse, painting each wall and collarbone with loveliness. She extends her hands in greeting, and in every tent and hallway her gesture echoes, a startling picture of her exact image broadcasted as the walls become makeshift screens. “We’re sorry to have kept you waiting for so long before welcoming you in our doors, but endure my pandering and take my word as truth when I say: it is us who have been waiting for you.” A cry of accord rises and paints the ceiling of the high tent, assent given from the ringmaster’s performers. “I am the creator and proprietor here, but a right-hand to your dreams and fantasies.” There’s an innuendo here, a slick tongue over lip of a pause while she allows those who understand to chuckle. “And as such, it is my absolute pleasure to welcome you all to the place of your imaginations -- here, we aim not to defy expectation, but explanation.

                                     Welcome, my friends, to the Cirque Arcana.”

Welcome to the circus! All characters have found their way to the circus tonight, feeling an inexplicable compulsion to join its revelry. All are welcome to explore the attractions, acts, and scenery as they please and move from tent to tent. Characters have also received a pass via an unorthodox method: a kiss placed on any visible part the body by a staff member, leaving a long-lasting silver lipstick mark that entitles them to food and drink without pay. 

In lieu of a task for this plot drop, we’ve brought something new to the table: you can unlock fun extras and advantages for your mob by working together to collect points and hit your designated quota. For this scene, the extras are as follows:

Reach your mob’s first quota and win €500,000 in winnings from The Hearts Club. 

Reach the second quota and have characters from your mob selected to participate in Cirque Arcana acts. 

Reach the last quota to have any one character randomly selected to have their fortune told and receive a sneak peak of forthcoming events.

Keep in mind that only one mob may win any extra, and that is whomever reaches their quota first. In this instance, points may be earned by starting threads pertaining to the text message missions we sent out via the main last week. If you did not ask for a mission/did not want one, don’t fret! You can complete a self para pertaining to the event and earn points. Each thread and/or self para is worth 5 points, and we have accounted for uneven numbers among our mobs to create staggering goals. They are as follows:

CAPULETS: First quota 30 points. Second quota 45 points. Final quota 60 points.

SPADES: First quota 10 points. Second quota is 20 points. Final quota is 30 points.

MONTAGUES: First quota 30 points. Second quota is 45 points. Final quota is 60 points.

NEUTRAL CHARACTERS: Get those bribes comin’! You may gift your collected points to anyone you choose. Donate your points to the mob that ends up winning and you’ll be eligible for the prizes as well!

TO HAVE YOUR POINTS COUNTED YOU MUST SUBMIT YOUR THREAD TO THE MAIN WITH A LINK TO A RESPONDED START, AS WELL AS COPY AND PASTING YOUR TEXT MISSION INTO IT. FOR SELF PARAS, PLEASE STILL SUBMIT THE LINK. IN ALL CASES, TITLE THE SUBMISSION “TASK COMPLETION - X POINTS TO MONTAGUES/CAPULETS/SPADES.”

We ask that you please bear with us as we try out this new system. We know there may be a few hitches and that it isn’t perfect, but we want to give you guys something fun and new! This will be the first trial run and if you have feedback as to how to move forward with it in the future, we are open to suggestions.

9:00 PM: Equestrian acrobatics. Two dozen white horses and six acrobats performing in tandem both on and off the animal’s backs.

9:45 PM: High wire & strength. There are two types of people: those that look up, and those that look to the ground. This act caters to both, with a ballerina balancing high above on the high wire and a strongman below displaying feats of strength, telling a story to music of their star-crossed love.

10:30 PM: Chair balancing & equilibristics. A true rabbit hole experience, where nothing is as it seems -- or used as it should be. This performance features those with exceptional skill at stacking innumerous objects, balancing on rolling or tilting objects, and the creation of human columns.

11:00 PM: Jesters. The very same black-and-purples fellows that brought everyone in and back and on stage! A mix of acrobatics and physical comedy, this is the rest period before the night’s more intense acts begin. Beware, however - the jesters have a very loose concept of personal space and crave time spent with the audience.

12:00 PM AND ONWARDS: To be announced.

SIDE TENTS REMAIN THE SAME!

At the end of acts across all tents and even in the tunnels between them, confetti rains down. Stick out your tongue or hold out your palm and catch them to find they are edible, and come in unending flavours!

Beverages (alcoholic and otherwise) are available to all, served by cigarette girls and boys in various costumes and painted faces. All cool drinks begin looking like this, but shift in colour and taste as time goes on. More traditionally, champagne, liquored coffee/hot chocolate and spiced wine are also served.

Snacks are also available from the aforementioned staff if the confetti doesn’t fill you up, with options including paper bags filled with powdered donuts, macaroons, hot pretzels, and small bowls filled with whip cream and various fresh fruits. More substantial foods such as fried prawns and fillet mignon (both on a stick, both of outstanding quality) will be passed around.

Jesters wander the grounds in and around the circus, and they have no rules - and certainly no respectable attitudes! Meant to entertain and tease in true jester fashion, they interact with all guests in any number of ways.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Date: March 3rd

Time: Midnight

Location: The Dark Lady

Triggers: Violence, blood, gun violence, death

It was presented like the birth of Aphrodite—a thing to covet, to desire, to guard with life and limb. A material god, constructed to coax out the avarice of even the holiest of saints. The spotlight shone on the black leather of the suitcase, but what caught the eye were the contents that caused the light to dance about the stage. Coins, antiques, priceless rarities that were all tied to the the suitcase in name and memory. There were rumors about where it came from, but the more one listened, the more one noticed a consistent pattern. Though it was stolen from one place, reappearing in another, it was always tied to Russia. But the Capulets had no contacts there, and the Montagues would’ve made their involvement known, so then who could this mysterious donor be? Names were whispered in the dark, murmured into the ears of men and women whose pockets were as deep as the oceans that covered the world. But they all hesitated before placing their bid, the question rolling through the crowd like an uneasy wave. Who was the donor? Who? Who?

Such priceless things were not meant to be tied to anonymity. Did the Devil steal a soul and not leave his calling card? Was this donor more conniving than Lucifer?

Oh, miei bambini, if only you knew.

The golden suitcase was presented second to last, the guards around it shifting about restlessly—like a dog might do before the tremors of an earthquake. They shook their arms out, turned their heads this way and that, every crow of laughter a reason for them to cringe or flinch. But for all their wariness, they would never be able to reconcile how they let their guard slip enough for the devil to move within their ranks, working his dastardly deeds. Then again, would it really be Verona if everything went as expected? The series of events happened like clockwork—like dominoes, their movements as seamless and practiced as if Father Time himself had bowed his head to them to allow their work to take place.

It began with a man whose smile did not quite meet his eyes; if only one were to look long enough and see the duplicity that lingered there. He cavorted with a wild-haired Capulet, her smile a bit sadder than it had once been but there all the same. At her side was Cosimo himself, who looked at the proceedings with the boredom of a king whose kingdom was no longer at war—oh, the price of peace.

There if you looked to the right of stage, there was the woman, the harbinger, the scorn. She called herself the hand of justice—but should such a hand really be so bloody? Hand-in-hand she walked with the lamb, taking it to the slaughter with a joyous smile on her face, eyes alight with an ecstasy that was often reserved for when a worshiper partakes in something holy.

Look to the left and watch the angel of death wield its quiet weapon, sniper rifle as their glaive, eyes barren save for the reminiscent sadness that hid in dark hues. The guards dropped atop the stage, as if they fainted—one, after the other, after the other, too quick any one of them to notice before they themselves fall and too quiet to be called brutal. But fainting is not followed by blood pooling upon the ground, painting the stage in a rather morbid picture of fallen soldiers who were picked off by a sweet-singing Valkyrie. The crowd takes notice slowly then all at once, a sheet of silence falling over them as if choreographed.

Turn to center stage and watch the director of it all step into the light, his ever-present assistant at his side. She watches the bodies fall with an unwavering gaze, as if she has seen worse and still has yet to see even more terrible deeds wrought. While he, the rival king, Verona’s newest puppeteer, takes his place in the spotlight, closing the suitcase carefully so that all might gaze upon him. Why stare at the cause of greed, when greed himself, personified in the flesh, was there for all to see?

“Patrons,” Faron Vasiliev says, hands behind his back as he looks around at the silenced revellers. “May I welcome you all to my Dark Lady—The Dark Lady.”

All teeth, all grin, and all the ravenousness that screams devour me—I dare you. Akin to a wolf as it corners its prey, he smiles.

“Now, I believe it’s time for proper introductions. My name is Faron Vasiliev -- “ a scream of horror, quickly followed by the familiar sound of someone choking on their own blood “ -- and THESE ARE THE SPADES.”

In the few moments of Faron’s introduction RAFAELLA CAPULET had fallen to the ground dead. Her drink had been poisoned and no one had known but MAEVE PETRE. The Capulet soldier had been about to cry out a warning, but before she could TRINITY CRUYSSEN had slit her throat. The police chief had not wanted her boss’ introduction to Verona to be warned by a squawking little duck.

COSIMO CAPULET held Rafaella’s corpse and had tried to drag her away. To leave one of their own would be disrespectful as well as embarrassing to the Capulet name. He ordered PRIAM TARAVELLA and TIBERIUS CAPULET to drag her body away. Once they are relieved of her body by some shocked soldiers they return to the fray.

While this is occurring JULIANA CAPULET goes to try and get Maeve’s body to be taken away as well. However, standing over it is BORIS KOVROV. He’s cleaning up Trinity’s dirty work, but doesn’t mind scaring the little Capulet child either. When TIBERIUS comes back, he sees Boris bullying his cousin and the two exchange blows.

ROMAN MONTAGUE notes that this is not his quarrel and grabs MARCELO ROSSO so they can grab as many Montagues as they can and organize a retreat. However, MIKAEL FALCO notes that the two are about to flee and doesn’t see why only the Capulets should suffer. He tries to stop them from leaving with the aid of EVERETT CRAVEN.

HECTOR SAWIRIS, seeing ROMAN and MARCELO fighting against the CAPULETS, drags ROMAN away at MARCELO’S request, then sends his boss away. The Montagues do not need their only king to fall.

LUCRECIA FALCO goes to retrieve Maeve’s body, but is stopped by GRACE DALY who is wearing a vindictive smile. Grace calls for her sister, REGINA DALY, to come to her side and the two gang up on Lucrecia.

Blood is now being spilled by BORIS and TIBERIUS, so ALVA GWON and DELILAH VOGEL try to tear them apart. The two end up being hurt in the process, but are successful in stopping the fight from ending in a fatality.

However, MATTHIAS WARREN misreads the situation and thinks that ALVA is the one who hurt DELILAH. Matthias begins to exact his vengeance and is stopped by BRIELLE KING. She sends both MATTHIAS and DELILAH off, then begins to help ALVA.

ALEXANDER RALLIS has been searching for Roman and Marcelo, but to no avail. Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with PAVEL LAM and thinks him a foe, since the hired gun has been happily watching everything unfold. ALEXANDER attacks PAVEL and the two go at it, the assassin more than eager for some chaos of his own.

This whole time VIVIANNE SLOANE has been searching for her son, CYRUS SLOANE, in the crowd. However, she is stopped by CLARK GODREJ, who takes the opportunity to stab her in the midst of the chaos.

CLARK then joins GIYA GODREJ. HALCYON SANTOS had been watching the whole time, but was unable to help her dearest friend. She takes a gun and aims it at CLARK, but is shoved at the last minute and hits GIYA instead.

CYRUS SLOANE hears the gunshot and turns to see his mother has been stabbed. He shoves through the crowd, but is stopped by LAWRENCE VERNON, who is more than willing to see the other underboss die. CYRUS and LAWRENCE begin to fight. However, BUNNY DU PONT sees her friend being attacked and, in desperation, grabs a knife and stabs Lawrence in the side before running away with CYRUS.

The chaos begins to reach a high-point and ODESSA VERNON still has not found her brother. She begins to grow frantic in her search and runs into HUGO KIM who helps her. The two stumble into ORPHEUS AHULANI, who, surprisingly, steps aside to allow them to go on their way.

However, ORION MASSETTI spots ORPHEUS’ moment of weakness and goes to let the other know of the leverage he now has. PANDORA RHEE steps in with her gun in hand, her heart set on eliminating the threats before they become one. She raises her gun to shoot ORION, when ORPHEUS grabs her and the two begin to fight.

ORION slips away only to run into HIRAN GODREJ. ORION and HIRAN begin to fight -- and just when ORION is about to be beaten, he lets it slip that he saw GIYA’S corpse. HECTOR SAWIRIS finds HIRAN and ORION at this moment, then helps HIRAN knock ORION out.

CATHERINE DALY finds her sisters fighting against LUCRECIA and tries to help the outnumbered woman, while trying to calm her sisters. But to no avail. CATHERINE and LUCRECIA incapacitate GRACE and REGINA, then drag Maeve’s body away from the fight.

VALENTINA GALLO was perhaps the most unfortunate of them all. She stumbled into LILLIAN WEN and, in a rush of adrenaline, began to fight the woman. The two begin to go at it, but LILLIAN was much less willing to fight than the other.

Upon seeing this CALINA SOKOLOVA steps in, stopping the fight before LILLIAN suffered too many bruises. She holds a knife to VALENTINA’S back and drags her to FARON VASILIEV. He grabs a gun and shoots it off once before pointing it back to Valentina’s head. SANTINO runs to join them, stopping before getting too close and begs on his hands and knees for his sister’s life to be spared. HUGO joins the soldier and entreats Faron to stop the bloodshed before it drowns the city.

The chaos stills, for the King of Chaos himself is now speaking. His eyes scan the room, pausing each time he encounters a still body in the river of blood. They’re easy to pick out—scattered and tossed about the room, trampled on and desecrated, save for the bodies that were held by their loved ones.

Faron turns to his advisor, brow raising. “How many do we have dead? One? Two?” She does not answer his question, knowing that he has the answer to it in his mind already. “I believe that I counted three. Rafaella Capulet, Giya Godrej, and Maeve Petre. All prominent names within their own respected groups, am I correct?”

Slowly, he cocked the trigger back. “Shall we make it an even number? Unless Vivianne Sloane can be added to the count already.” At this, Trinity gave a quiet chuckle, her hands somehow immaculate despite how much blood she had spilled. Next to her stood Boris, who smiled quietly in response. Alva and Brielle stood beside him, the former looking blank and hollow, the latter appearing almost rueful if it were not for the steel in her spine.

Calina spoke up, her quiet voice carrying throughout the room. “We should let her go, Faron. As a sign of our good will.”

Whatever good will there was left to salvage from the carnage of the red-painted room.

Valentina darted away as she as she felt the gun’s pressure leave her temple. She was quickly grabbed by a beaten Marcelo, who placed themself between her and Faron’s line of sight. The king of the Spades, however, seemed to have lost interest with the woman as soon as she was gone. No, did they not see by now that he had his sights set upon bigger and better things than a lowly soldier? He walked about the stage, like an actor, commanding the attention of the audience.

“It looks to me, Cosimo,” Faron began, “that you are in need of an advisor—and perhaps, even, an underboss.” At that point, a low growl came from the back of the room where Vivianne found herself revived to consciousness by Halcyon. “Or perhaps not an underboss,” Faron conceded. “But an advisor is of the utmost importance, is it not? They encourage you to make daring decisions, guide you onto a path that’s meant to profit us all.”

The Capulet boss remains quiet, his face unreadable, save for the flush that besets his features. Not even the king can hide his shock at the uncalled-for carnage that lay beneath his seat on the throne.

“So, here is my proposal. I work as your advisor, while you, my friend, profit from the debauchery that my business entails. Capisce?”

Long live the king...long live the kings…

Cosimo stands, smooths the blood-speckled jacket of his suit and nods. “Capisce.”

OVERVIEW: Ah, my dear Veronans, now we truly begin our Act II. As noted, the dead are GIYA GODREJ, MAEVE PETRE, and RAFAELLA CAPULET. While VIVIANNE SLOANE is being treated for her critical wounds in the hospital. In summary, Faron Vasiliev is now the “advisor” to the Capulets—his Spades remaining a subgroup within their ranks. Of course, they’re to be ostracized and more or less remain separate from the Capulets. They mainly act as Faron’s own, personal team and their first loyalty is to him. Cosimo knows this, but keep your friends close and your enemies closer, yes? He is keeping them housed with the Capulets in the hopes that the Capulets will be able to glean information from the Spades. To the public, it merely seems as though the Capulets have gone into the drug business with the Spades. Everyone is speculating that the Montagues will be run out of business with Ace and Fairy’s Blood taking over the streets, not to mention the Capulets and Spades now outnumbering the Montagues in heads and territory.

OOC: As always, you are encouraged to play out these interactions on the dash or in a chatzy. If you hold these interactions in a chatzy, please post it on the dash so we may all be a part of the excitement. Play out your character’s injuries and recuperation. All interactions may occur between the dates of MARCH 4TH to MARCH 25TH. We hope you have enjoyed ACT II thus far and cannot wait to reign down more agony on you all. As always, feel free to ask us questions.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

ACT II SCENE I

Date: March 3rd

Time: 10:30 PM

Location: The Dark Lady

He sat at the helm, one body, one head, one crown and one seat for him to fill when there had once been two. Was it rather tasteless of him to host Verona’s annual auction in a period that called for mourning and respectful grief? Perhaps. See, there is no reconciliation between deities, even when there is the death of a respected equal. One or the other must prevail. The laity care not for who the victor is; all they are meant to do is serve and leave their gifts of homage. They understand that just because one god has died, the city need not mourn for too long -- the world continues spinning, sinners keep on sinning, and the devil has more hands to shake and souls to snatch. There are more deaths to ensure and powers to crumble, more politicians to pocket and vengeances to exact. It is fitting, then, that the devil’s business meetings be conducted in a den of inequity. Not just any old den, no, Satan’s new palace must be befitting of his new power, which is why Cosimo Capulet called for the auction to be held at the Dark Lady.

Tonight he is the dictator of the depraved, the overseer of the overzealous.Though he sits in the corner of the room, watching the night unfold from the comfort of a secluded booth, it seems as if everyone takes care to move around -- as careful to work themselves around his pull as planets do orbiting the sun. Even celestial bodies are subject to the pull of the powerful; humans are no better. To his right the Capulets revel in the night, still drunk upon the victory that Fate dictated for them. How could they feign grief when the man that had taken away their brothers-in-arms -- bled them out and gutted them like pigs time and time again -- was now six feet under with nothing to his name save for a crumbling empire and an equally deteriorated son? Their loud, lewd howls can be heard throughout the club, the dark giggles of their escorts clear as crystals. Truly, a melody that carried with it the song of indecency would likely be sung throughout the night.

To his left lingered the Montagues, their eyes ceaselessly shifting about as they stirred uneasily like the ocean before a storm -- water seemingly still and calm, but beneath it lies a dark and vengeful darkness that will doubtlessly arise the moment the water begins to ripple. All it would take is a single drop. Their soldiers slipped in and out of the shadows, watchful of the unbridled zeal with which the Capulets celebrated. Captains murmured and talked among themselves, eyes glancing up every once in awhile either in the direction of the little songbird that crooned a deceptively sweet tune. The newly christened underboss, Lawrence Vernon, surveys the captains and never wanders too far from his boss, his shoulders square even as a whole new set of duties and responsibilities weigh him down. A lion who need not roar for the jungle to fear him. Around Roman gathered the emissaries, soft whispers traded among them as the Montague boss ducked his head to listen. Even in mourning a revolutionary’s work was never quite done, now was it? Every once in awhile Rafaella and Vivianne would glance over at him, the king with the bloodied crown.

If only his crown were the only thing that would be bloodied tonight…

Smoke hung low and heavy in the Dark Lady, making the red lacquered walls, as red as a lady of the night’s lips, and the strangers in the room seem as enticing and lush as a lover’s embrace. The lights that lit the corners and caverns of the place did not seem to be there as a means of illumination, but intoxication. They drew the eyes to the dancers, people draped in threads and jewels, their bodies glimmering as they danced on their platforms -- the movements being the only form of worship that they know. Oh, how Dionysus himself would have loved to drop from the heavens to lavish in this sinful parade. At the center of it all, upon the stage where the prizes of the night would be announced, stood an angel, singing a sweet melody of depravity and the vices of human nature. However, wherever there is an angel one will soon learn that its seraphic companions are not far behind. If one were to look once, twice, thrice around the room they would not be able to see them, but there they stood. Mingling with the poor, unwitting souls that were doomed for dismay on the night of the revelry and mourning, on the night when sins were purchased and fates sealed.

They were there in the soft smiles that almost seemed pitying, in the warm gazes that held cold calculations beneath it all.

All heads turned to the stage as Alva’s lush voice trailed off, leaving the audience with coos of encouragement on their lips, hands clapping and breaths sighing. On the stage stood the heralder -- worse for wear, perhaps, but ever pompous as he took the stage. He cleared his throat and wet his lips nervously, glancing from his tablet to the woman who stood off-stage, not quite hidden by the red curtain. How familiar she seemed…

“Exalted ones of Verona,” he began, eyes flickering back and forth on the faces before him. “I welcome you to the 56th annual auction! This year we are being hosted by the Dark Lady and my, what a wonderful venue it is!” The blush on his face could almost rival the red of the paint that colored the whole place.

“The items that we have up for auction this year are highly prized by various powers of the world. Some of our items are various powers of the world.” A smattering of laughter, then silence.”As you are all aware, the selection of items are more difficult to ascertain than previous years -- making them all the more competitive in their beginning prices.”

He seemed to be readying himself, his sweat becoming evident even in the dim lighting. “Tonight is a night of tradition, of expensive, and of indulgence. The time of death is over and it is time we buy the path to a new beginning. So, fair Veronians, let us do as we do best, and lavish in treasures we have reaped!” And like a thief in the night, he sought to steal away from the spotlight -- but not before an arm reached out and snatched him. The audience’s eyes were not privy to the scuffle that occurred off stage, but they heard a blow being struck, followed by the herald’s reappearance.

The blood on his crisp, white tux was a rather nice touch. “To be clear,” he said, his voice now thick since his tongue was undoubtedly heavy with blood. “No violence shall occur tonight. The owner of the Dark Lady dictates that he--” his eyes widened, face growing as pale as the suit that he wore, “hell will reign down upon us all should we disrespect the one rule that has been instituted for this night of tradition.”

He swallowed, his movements twitchy as he blessed himself. “Let this night of depravity be for Damiano Montague and the legacy that he left.” One of the dancers brought him a drink, the smile on their face somewhat wicked as they handed him the liquor. “Long live the new kings, Cosimo Capulet and Roman Montague.”  Oh, the look that the poor bastard gave Roman as he ripped open the fresh wounds of the death of his father for all of Verona to see.

                        “LONG LIVE THE KINGS.”

“Now let the bidding begin! In bocca al lupo!”

                        “CREPI!”

And let those be his last words. For they were better than the pitiable ones he uttered ten minutes later, as a knife slid across his throat.

OVERVIEW: And so begins Act II! This is the prelude before the real fun begins. It’s a time for your character to truly lose themselves in a way that they might not imagine. The Dark Lady tends to do that to people -- bring out the worst in them, cast their vices into the light for everyone to see. But there’s less shame to be had when not only your worst vices, but everyone’s, comes out to play. Throughout the night, however, items will be auctioned off and sold to the highest bidder. The auction will be held in the main room, with the items put on display -- bids are placed by the traditional means of raising golden paddles with your numbers assigned. In the other rooms the items may be enjoyed or gathered. Smaller items are available for purchase (jewelries, yachts, vacation homes). This is the itinerary of the main items for the night:

IN CELEBRATION OF DANTE’S INFERNO

Sloth --

Fairy’s Blood -- special order offered by Titania

Gold Dust -- highest grade available from the Montagues

Ace -- Rumored to be what the shooter was on, unknown seller

Wrath --

Product from the Capulets

Nerve gas rumored to be a part of the deal

Poisoned bullets said to be recommended by Titania

Product from the Triads

Transportation provided

Local government official affiliation/approval

Revolver used by Tokutaro Takayama from the Aizukotetsu-kai

Rumored to have had 850+ man hours go into its construction

Gluttony --

Hotel Syrene Capri

For sale due to untimely death of owner

Perfect for money laundering, business meeting, etc.

Employees are willing to perform Other Tasks

Environmental laws are more stringent, but government officials are willing to comply

Cayman Islands

Environmental laws are lax

Often frequented by potential clients

Clients are said to be ready to trade with new owner

Indigenous people offer no resistance

Envy --

Vera Wang

Dolce and Gabbana

Ellie Saab

Deals regularly

Strict confidentiality

Often uses clients/client-affiliates as models

Balmain

Lust --

A clandestine journey through rooms 2-10 of The Dark Lady

Greed --

Chief Operating Officer of Google

Very influential on company’s big-picture agenda

US Congressman

Clean history

Willing to divulge government secrets

Pushes sponsor’s agenda

Parliament Member

Flexible, sometimes requires pressure

Knowledgeable about international dealings

UN Ambassador

Large clout in global arena

Well-respected, influential, though moves slowly

President of the Philippines

Willing to divulge government secrets

Promises a wealth of new clientele

Former Korean President

Willing to divulge government secrets

Still has notable, relevant connections

Pride --

The Golden Suitcase

Found in Russia

Recently recovered

Crowned Jewels of Ireland

Last owner murdered

Must go to highest bidder

Highest bidder must have means of relocation

Imperial Seal of China

Historically famous piece of jade

Owner no longer has room in collection

The Paper of Infinite Mouth Decadence

Ten year old preserved gum with its original casing

Auctioned by Pavel Lam

Characters are encouraged to interact with one another, but beware them in their state of inebriation. The Dark Lady has a way of making minds drunk, lips loose, and money spill like water. Careful, darlings, don’t let the smoke cloud your head…

...Also try not to fight. The Holy Trinity is watching and it’d be a shame to bring the wrath of God upon you because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Interactions may occur from 9:00 PM to 12:00 AM.

TASK: Some life events are more difficult to swallow than others. Often times our characters make themselves forget about the worst acts they have committed. Write a self-para or a flashback para about your character in their most depraved state -- a time in their life when they knew that they were likely damning themselves to hell. How old were they? Do they do this often or was it a one-time thing? What induced them? Was this when they felt like they were a part of the mob? Is this when they felt like they could never be a part of the mob because they felt even they had too much blood on their hands? You needn’t go off of this questions, they’re simply smaller prompts that might poke at your muse. This is a chance to delve into the darkest aspects of your character -- take it!

Please tag your paras/self-paras as #diveronatask and your event interactions as event: auction. There is no deadline to complete the task or interactions, so feel free to continue threads or put a hold to old ones to focus on new ones. We hope you’re as excited for Act II as we are!

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: February 21st

LOCATION: Castelvecchio Bridge

TIME: Midnight

TRIGGER WARNINGS: DEATH, SUICIDE, BLOOD

The buzz and bustle of the soup kitchen opening that filled Verona during the day had petered out by the time the curtain of violet whorls of night and specks of stars unraveled behind the sharp edges of manmade monuments and edifices. Here, the night breed emerged. The dishonest, the dastardly, the deadly - on the ashes of the day, they danced and conspired and warred. On this night, a demand for justice eclipsed the forgiving light of the moon, an accusation of guilt and wrongdoing and a declaration of one’s own innocence. The stage had been set.

The accused: The Montagues.

The accusers: The Capulets.

Two kingdoms meet at a divider as ancient as their feud, heels that could cut glass and flesh alike quiet against the stones of the Castelvecchio Bridge. Blood has run torrid and unending like a river between these twisted sentinels, but amid the ceasefire, Rafaella Capulet, arming herself with secrets and truths, called for a meeting between the two courts. Damiano and Cosimo stand stark amid the rest, two kings in the middle of their army, stoic and as curious as their subordinates. Why Rafaella has called this meeting has yet to be revealed, but there is nothing on either boss’s expressions that give away anything more than unrushed nonchalance. Damiano lights up a cigarette and blows into the air, every movement sharp. “What’s this about now, Rafaella?” His rumbling voice fills the air like smoke.

“This is about putting an end to the blame. The lies. The Capulets are innocent, and we won’t have you smearing our good name any longer.” She takes a shaky step forward, her body still ragged and worn from the injuries inflicted at the Exhibition, voice hoarse. Vivianne moves, as if to reach for her shoulder, but her hand stills before it can touch her.

“The innocent do not torture!” A Montague jeers from behind Damiano, and more join in on his sniping. The Montague boss quirks his lips, half-amused.

“Noble intentions, but they have a point,” Damiano says. “Violence begets violence begets violence. An innocent person might say you weren’t kind to my emissary, or my captain, or my underboss. For heaven’s sake, I saved your heiress from certain death at the hands of a madwoman with a gun.”

“We did nothing to your underboss or your captain,” Rafaella thunders. “Your emissary… we did what we had to, to get what we needed.”

She reaches into her pocket, unbidden by the gazes that fall to her and her every movement, and pulls out a pill bottle. Flashes the label, and tosses it to the space between the two kingdoms. Clozapine.

Behind Damiano, Roman coughs, his eyes wide. Damiano stares at the bottle with the cold indifference of a god presented with evidence of his mortality. Silence befalls the two crowds. After a moment, his lips creep into a grin.

“How antiquated, Rafaella. Are you using my illness as a scapegoat for your crimes?” He takes a few steps forward more, his features losing its languid nonchalance and giving way to something lethal, something terrible and calculated and unreadable. “Are you so stupid that you think it’s responsible for my cruelty? For my sins? That I’m helpless to my own burdens?” He sneered as he crush the bottle underfoot, an emperor crushing a rebellion. Priam grabs Rafaella’s arm and yanks her back. The Montague’s wrath rumbles quietly in the silence, beneath the very stones of the bridge and up into the air, and the tension has become palpable. Suspense fills the spaces between his every move. “I’ve always been this way, you poor girl.”

“But you were never this greedy, signore. Not always,” Cosimo pipes in, stepping forward. “A competent boss ought not to fear insurrection from his own men if there is no reason for it.” Juliana touches his arm, a silent plea to remain silent, for her sake. At her side, Maeve and Catherine shift to position themselves in front of her.

“So you did do it?” Roman’s voice is shaky and unsure behind Damiano. “Alvise? Pandora?”

Damiano turns slowly to face his son, making eye contact, first with him, then Lawrence, Odessa, Pandora, Hiran, Alexander, the predatory edge in his eyes never shifting. “Have you picked an underboss for us yet, Roman?”

“What? No, I-I’m still thinking.”

“Do not forget we’ve been betrayed once already by a man as capable as any of them.” Damiano surveys the captains and the adviser with a critical, almost mocking stare, the clarity sharp as glass. Whatever warmth he’d ever shown any of them throughout the years, whatever praise and advice he’d bestowed upon them, seemed a far-reaching memory, an echo in a tunnel growing dimmer and smaller. There was only a beast, driven by instinct to guard what was his and nothing else. “Can you truly say you trust any of them not to grow hungry? To thirst for what is rightfully yours?”

“Answer Roman’s question,” Rafaella hisses.

“They grow like weeds, Roman,” Damiano continues, swiveling on his feet to face the Adige, his back turned. “And they grow long and tall, and they fool themselves into thinking they can touch the sun if they believe hard enough. But in the end, they’re nothing but an invasive species, and they’ll coil their tendrils over your throne as soon as your back is turned.” Guns are quietly drawn on the Capulet side, kept to their sides - Alexander notices, expression stricken but strict nonetheless, and signals for his captains to do the same.

“They would die for you, father,” Roman says.

“They would watch you die if it was by their hands.” Damiano turns, revealing the pistol in his hand and those on both sides suck in a breath sharply. The stakes have been raised and the gods, it seems, are thirsty for blood tonight. An emperor who fancies himself divine but fears the mortal blade paces on his platform. His Senate watches in horror - his enemies fear he will take them all with him. His expression is contorted into something strange, something anguished and serene all at once. A sudden tenderness falls over him as he gazes upon his only son, and Roman steps forward, raising his arm halfway imploringly. “And I would rather raze everything to the ground rather than let them have it. Understand this, mio figlio prediletto, understand this most of all.”

BANG.

Blood paints the stone of the bridge as Roman crumples to the ground. Screams cut through the air like sirens. Pandora and Hiran run to his side while Alexander barks orders. Damiano raises his gun again, high, high, rather than east or west, but another gunshot rings out, deafening through the chaos, and Damiano staggers back, clutching his side as blood spills from his fingers - he looks up and meets Lawrence Vernon’s eyes, the captain’s pistol still smoking and jaw set as stone. A slow, terrible, resigned smile cracks his lips and he raises his gun again to where it’d been, higher, higher, to his ear.

“Go!” Cosimo’s voice thunders just as the final shot rings out across Verona, and he turns Juliana away from the sight, ushering her back towards the Capulet side. The rest of the Capulets scatter in the organized chaos back to the east while the west is left to pick up the pieces.

Hidden far from the moonlight atop a rooftop overlooking the scene, a small motley crew stands impassive as blood fills the streets below. The leader is the first to dare to step into the light to peer below, his silhouette stark and clean relative to the luridness below. He tilts his head, pulls a cigarette from behind his ear to light. “Alva,” he hums, “Is the Montague son breathing?” A beat passes while his sharpshooter peers into their scope, their voice softer than air when they answer.

“Yes, boss. His chest is fluttering like the wings of a wren. Poor thing.”

“And here I thought Verona would be dull,” a voice, silky and languid remarks. “As good as you left it, Boris?”

“Better.”

“Let the Spades make themselves known while the Montagues put back together their prince,” a woman, proud and tall, murmurs. “And crown him king. And let us make it clear with whom we intend to align ourselves.”

“Hear hear, Calina.”

“But first,” the man in the moonlight says, “let’s make ourselves at home.”

ADMIN NOTE: And with that, this event marks the conclusion of Act 1! We hope you enjoyed the finale, and we hope you’re more excited than ever for Act 2, Scene 1, which will be released soon. In the meantime, feel free to date interactions from FEBRUARY 21st-MARCH 1st. Members of the Spades will begin to introduce themselves as foreigners who hail from the east, but their intentions are still shrouded in mystery. The Montagues have scrambled to rebuild what has been lost despite everyone’s shakiness - Roman is still confined to the hospital while Lawrence, Hiran, and Pandora have temporarily split underboss duties among themselves while Alexander maintains his position as adviser. Major decisions are postponed until Roman is released. The Capulets have been absolved of the blame for Alvise’s murder and Pandora’s assault, though Celeste’s torture continues to mar their hands. An uneasy peace has settled in the aftermath, but rumors abound of the newcomers and the mysterious ‘Spades’.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: February 4th

LOCATION: Bar Grifone

TIME: 11:49 PM

The crowd roared as another one of the opening fighters dropped to the ground, their head listlessly lolling about as they slumped against the corner pillar that marked the edges of the ring. Roaring in approval, the crowd stamped their feet as the victor grabbed the unconscious man by the throat and tossed him before the two men that concocted this gladiatorial display. Damiano Montague and Cosimo Capulet looked at each other briefly, then turned to the trophy that was laid at their feet, Damiano’s lips ticking upward in something similar to a smile. In tandem, they both raised their arms, thumbs at eye level for all the crowd to see. Then slowly, deliberately, they both turned their thumbs down – a move that caused the roaring to rise to the volume of not a room full of people, but a stadium filled with blood-thirsty wolves. Teeth gnashing, howls of approval, screaming, they urged the victor to put the defeated soul out of its misery.

        One breath, one snap and victory was rightfully, and truly his.

        Now it was time for the real fight to begin.

        One moment the crowd was a wild cacophony of noise, each hoot and shriek more wild and feral than the last. In the next moment it was silent, a quiet murmur rippling over them as they licked their lips and held their breath as the two tributes took their places in the ring. Two aisles parted, each on opposite ends of the room, as they made way for the subjects of the exposition. A wiry girl walked through the first aisle, her steps slow and deliberate as she made her way to the ring. If one were to look at her hands, they might have noticed the imperceptible tremor in her fingertips. Small, subtle tremors, but tremors nonetheless. But most were too busy looking at her face, some in clear satisfaction while others looked at her with concern, with fear for her fate. She glanced at no one and looked at nothing but the man, the opponent that would either kill her or be killed by her.

        He strode through the aisle, his gait as sure as a predator that sought to meet its prey. Or, more accurately, a wolf. That was his title, that was his right – that was what he had earned among those gathered in the room with him. There were some that whispered about a smile being on his face, there were others that dismissed it as nothing more than a confident curl of his lips. He was born and bred for this, the crowd murmured as they watched him pass, fingers longing to brush against him as though he were a god. But if one were to look closely, they would notice the slight furrow of his brow, the heaviness of dread upon his shoulders. No one did, though, for they were too busy eyeing the knuckles that were rumored to be ruinous; they were too busy watching his teeth bare in a half smile, half growl. It was a wolf against a lion, but a wolf, at least, was never without a pack.

        And his pack was just as ready as the wolf himself.

        When they reached the center of the ring, they turned to their superiors, who looked more marble and stone than flesh and blood. (Gods were never meant to look like humans anyway.)

        Their chins dipped down into nods, the crowd held its breath and – the real exposition began. Rafaella threw the first punch, a rookie mistake which would set the tone for the fight. All it took was one half-spared glance to know that Alexander was experienced, that fighting was as effortless to him as breathing. His first blow struck Rafaella and part of the crowd gave a sympathetic groan, while the other half cheered on the wolf that had caught the lion-cub’s neck in its teeth. But the feeling of his skin breaking under his blow only seemed to encourage her because in the next moment she was flying at him, one fist connecting with his torso while her leg whipped around to meet his face.

        Alexander had been anticipating it, and he grabbed her leg, pulled her forward and lifted her up, only to throw her at the pillar. Again, the division between the crowd was clear; some were howling in protest while others yelled in savage delight. He waited for her to rise once more, chest heaving as he paced the edge of the man-formed ring. So, rise she did – wincing and gasping the whole entire time.

        “Do you enjoy this?” She rasped, spitting up blood in the ground between them as she did. “You spilled so much blood and you’re craving more?”

        Her words stilled him, and those few seconds were all that she needed. She vaulted herself at him, catching him by the torso and hauling him to the ground. Like a wildcat, she was scratching him – but the traits that she picked up from the Capulets began to catch up with her; she curled her fingers into fists and punched him until her knuckles began to break. It seemed like Alexander was almost letting her, as though he wanted her to build her confidence. But he let it go on too long, let her hatred burn a little too hot. Before he was aware, he was spitting up blood – and so the canine began to howl. In the moments between her breaths, in the pauses between her punches, Alexander struck. He blocked her, the punch just catching him enough to jerk his head back.

        “Yes,” he hissed back, “I am craving more. I am craving yours.”

        Then he threw his punch and there was a distinctive crack. Rafaella’s mouth opened in shock while Alexander’s smile twisted into a sharp grin. She held her ribs and struggled for a breath while he rolled them over and struck again and again and again and again –

        “Alexander!” Cosimo yelled, rising from his seat.

        “Finish her.” Damiano ordered, his voice almost bored.

        She was unconscious now, but he didn’t dare stop – not with everyone watching, not with the possibilities of finally having retribution in the Montague name –

        A scream made him stop, the sound of gunfire that followed quickly after making him rise to his feet. Matthias was holding his shoulder, face contorted in pain and in front of him stood a skeleton, a woman that might as well be one, her face gaunt and twitching. Her finger pulled at the trigger relentlessly, indiscriminately. His trigger finger twitched…Soldier, emissary, civilian – they all fell like wheat to a scythe, their blood reaped by this one woman. His trigger finger twitched…

        Cosimo and Damiano were barking orders, two kings calling for war against this banshee of a woman who screamed for more, more, MORE. More of what, the victims whispered from their shelter in the corners, what does she want more of? But the answer to the question was lost among the din of the chaos. Bullet after bullet fell to the ground and when one clip emptied she reloaded it with another, her hands shaking in yearning for something that she couldn’t get enough of.

        Regina clasped her leg, trying to stifle the blood that flowed from her wound while Catherine tried to help her. The woman had created a wide berth around herself and her gun was pointed at Juliana, she blinked once, twice then smiled and –       “Not quite the exposition we expected,” Damiano murmured as he wiped the flecks of her blood from his face, stepped over her body. The gun laid inches from her hand, and Damiano shot a faint smirk at Juliana, tickled by her shock. “But a lively one nonetheless, no?”

ADMIN NOTE: You may roleplay threads from February 4th -20th, including aftermath threads or flashback threads to the day of the actual Exposition.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Shakespearean Character Ask Meme

ANTONY: What bad habits do you need to break? BEATRICE: What is the achievement you’re most proud of? BENVOLIO: What comes to mind when you think of peace? BIANCA: What do you want most in life? CELIA: Do you want to fall in love? CIRCE: Would you rather be loved or feared? CLAUDIUS: What is the worst thing you’ve ever done? CORDELIA: Do you consider yourself a good person? CRESSIDA: What makes you feel trapped? DESDEMONA: Do you believe that the truth will set you free? EDGAR: Do you want to make your family proud? EDMUND: Do you ever wish you’d been born someone else? If so, who? GERTRUDE: Would you (or have you) ever cheated on a significant other? HAMLET: Do you prefer to think things through thoroughly or act on impulse? HECATE: Do you consider yourself an introvert or an extrovert? HELENUS: Do you believe in God? HIPPOLYTA: What is your biggest regret? HORATIO: Who do you love most? JULIET: What is your favorite luxury? LADY MACBETH: What is your favorite thing about yourself? MACBETH: Have you ever killed anyone? Would you? MALCOLM: What does honor mean to you? MEDEA: Do you have any quirks? MERCUTIO: Is there anyone you would die for? MIRANDA: Is happiness a choice? OBERON: Does reputation matter to you? OPHELIA: Is there anything you regret not doing? ORSINO: If you could have any material thing in the world, what would it be? PARIS: If you had the chance to rule the world, would you? PORTIA: When did you lose your innocence? PUCK: Do you consider yourself a mischievous person?  ROMEO: How far would you go for love? ROSALIND: What does your ideal day entail? ROSALINE: Which people from your past haunt you? SEBASTIAN: Is violence ever the answer? TITANIA: Do you believe in magic? TYBALT: If you could kill one person without consequences, who would it be? VIOLA: How skilled of a liar are you? VOLUMNIA: Describe the biggest sacrifice you’ve made.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

Hello everyone! Thanks to everyone who volunteered their character to be paired up for the event task. The pairings can be found under the cut, and the details and motives were left intentionally vague so that you may make them your own. We can’t wait to see what you write, and remember to tag your thread starters with #diveronatask!

Juliana and Odessa. Odessa could confront Juliana, demanding a spoken declaration of the Capulets’ guilt in regard to her slain father. She corners the Capulet heiress, not intending on leaving without a confession.

Alexander and Delilah. Delilah, intent on proving her loyalty and how far she’s come, challenges Alexander. Alexander intends on saving his energy for his fight with Rafaella, but Delilah won’t be swayed.

Giya and Orion. By now Giya has heard of what’s transpired between Orion and Hiran and has since hardened since the masquerade. She seeks Orion out, eager to exact vengeance.

Pandora and Maeve. Pandora has, by now, heard of the scandal between Maeve and Alexander and is curious to see what exactly it was about her that has Alexander so fond. She challenges Maeve to prove her worth.  

Hiran and Lucrecia. Lucrecia sees Hiran while he’s out and resolves to taunt him about the recent news surrounding his adviser and Maeve.

Santino and Catherine. Catherine finds herself on the wrong part of town and gets cornered by a Montague soldier (NPC). Santino comes to her aid just as the fight starts to become messy and breaks it up.

Vivianne and Valentina. Vivianne recognizes Valentina as a Montague soldier and, still incensed by the bombing, stops her and demands retribution.

Marcelo and Easton. Marcelo stops Easton in the street, recognizing him as someone who has been assigned to keep watch over Celeste. Following their apparent failure to retrieve her at the Colosseum, they challenge Easton to a brawl.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: January 25, 2017

LOCATION: The Castelvecchio Bridge

TIME: 2:45 AM

  If one were to take a walk on the bridge, one might think gaily of the serenity of their settings -- the stars kissing the dark dome of the sky, a romantic detail often missed because of the warm, yellow light that engulfed Verona at this hour. A person would coo over the chill that made their breath puff in the air, they would sigh over the sound of their shoes clipping against the aged cobblestone streets. Their gaze would linger on the scenes that played out in the windows. Looking to the left, one would see the darkness of a bar set to close, the tender wearily wiping away the assortment of liquors that no doubt stained the counter-top as she made shy conversation with the woman who gazed at her, their fingers glancing upon each other occasionally. When looking right, one would find a baker and her husband, eyes red and movements bumbling, getting ready to make the embellishments of an opulent wedding cake fit for a queen. It is difficult not to be swept away by the romance of Verona, its beauty and its brilliant wonder that calls all lovers like a lark to its mate.

  Just as it is difficult not to be swept away by the blood that runs through its streets.

  A wayfarer going through Verona would not notice the man on the bridge who wears no coat, no jacket. No, all he wears is a dress shirt and black pants, both so fine in threading that one could make no mistake that it was made for a king. He certainly looked the part too, what with his gold-plated cufflinks, embellished with rubies glinted so brightly one might have thought them for drops of blood, and his golden ring that gleamed with the crest revered by all in the western city. The cold may bite at his skin; the fog may kiss it, but he does not seem to notice with his gaze that looks eastward across the river, calculating and covetous in the way that he stares. A romantic would think that he was a scorned lover, the city being the object of his affections. What else would such a man be doing at the ungodly hours of the night, but concocting a plan that would surely win his lover’s adoration? But the city had been scourged of such romantics mere weeks ago by the hand of none other than the jacketless man who stood atop the bridge.

 After a couple of minutes he checked his watch, looking up to glance around, eyes narrowed as if he could pierce the darkness that lay between the yellow lamplight. At this time of night, one would have expected fear, apprehension even, to lace the man’s mannerisms. A twitch of the fingers, a blink of the eye. But such things were lacking, instead a person would only find impatience in the way that he smoothed his shirt ( impeccable, save for the slight, almost imperceptible, wrinkle of the fabric ) and dragged from his cigarette, smoke curling in the air as if it could not wait to dissipate.

 “Damiano.”

 The cadence of syllables broke the silence that hung on the bridge, catching the attention of the Montague boss as he crushed the cigarette underfoot. His lips curled into a smile, less sincere than one that might have been found on his son’s features. Perhaps it was because sincerity was no longer part of his vocabulary -- unless it meant sincerely wishing vengeance upon those who dared to defy him.

 “Cosimo,” the Montague boss greeted.

 And so emerged the Capulet boss from the shadows, hands held behind his back as he strolled towards his adversary. An adversary declared by Fate. An adversary confirmed by deeds. An adversary made dangerous by the ruthlessness that was demonstrated on a day that was once considered sacred. Taking one slow, clipped step after the other, he made his way from the shadows until he stood face-to-face with Damiano, one face as unreadable as the other.

 They both were quiet as a pair of lovers, emerging from the darkness of the alley, made their way down the bridge, oblivious in their heady affection to the gods that stood mere feet away. (Look closer and see how the Montague boss glances at them for a mere second longer than the Capulet boss does, eyes reminiscent and longing. Were not gods merely humans deified?)

 “Cigarette?” Damiano offered, a roguish smile painting across his face as he held up the carton. “I always like to have a smoke before I begin negotiations.”

  The two men leaned over the railing of the bridge, the yellow light of the lamps casting dark shadows over their faces -- a shadow softened by the orange burn of their cigarettes. There was a silence that settled between them as the smoke was exhaled from their lips in tandem, their shared moments neither beginning nor ending there. Who was more similar to the king of Verona than the king he contended with?

 “You know I didn’t kill Alvise,” Cosimo said, effectively breaking the quiet of the night.

  “Am I supposed to take you on your word?”

 “I am a man of tradition, Damiano. There has always been an unspoken agreement of boundaries -- how far we’re allowed to push one another. Any man who would dare to break such a thing must be driven by nothing other than pure madness.”

  “Empty words from a man with a forked tongue,” the Montague boss taunted, the downward curl of his lips betraying the disbelief better than his words did. Flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette, he glanced at the Capulet boss, fingers twitching imperceptibly. Trigger finger? Possibly. “But what’s done is done.”

  “It’s not as if I expected our negotiations to make up for the blood that was lost at the hand of your mongrels.”

  “If you did, then you would be as naive as your daughter.”

  A silence followed, punctuated occasionally by the sound of Cosimo grinding his teeth.

  “Did I strike a nerve, mio amico?”

  “No more than you usually do, Damiano, no more than you usually do.”

  A dark chuckle echoed in the night, slipping from Damiano’s lips as easily as cigarette smoke. It was easy to see why so many people were drawn to him, were drawn to the warmth of the fire that burned within. When compared with Cosimo’s cool exterior, as if the man were more Romanesque statue than flesh and blood, the contrast of the personalities was startling -- was dangerous. Everyone speaks romantically of the story of fire and ice, thinking of nothing but the tender warmth of a flame and the soothing kiss of ice. They sigh over the beauty of the poetry, they croon over the cadence of the vowels. But when they open their windows to see a world besieged by fire and frost, they do nothing but cower at the reality of it all.

Just as Verona cowered before the feet of the two men smoking on the ancient bridge.

  “We need to soothe the witches’ bruised egos,” Damiano murmured, flicking the butt of the cigarrette over the bridge.

  “We need to do nothing,” Cosimo said, his tone indicating that his hands were not dirtied by any crime. “The Capulets have been convicted of nothing.”  

  “Except murdering my underboss and stabbing one of my best captains,” the Montague boss responded, not bothering to hide the growl in his voice. Was Cosimo capable of such bald-faced lies?

  “Innocent until prove guilty.”

  “Do you want me to stick your soldiers’ heads on pikes and declare Verona a place of war?”

  “As if it had ever been a place of peace.”

  “Cosimo.”

  “You bruised their egos, Damiano, not me. If I join you in these negotiations I’m declaring myself and my people guilty when we have committed no crime.”

  “Get off of your high horse before I knock you off of it, Capulet.” Damiano spat, hands curling into fists as he turned towards the boss of the east, his lips peeling back so as to bare his teeth. Rabid hounds looked less menacing than Damiano Montague when worked into a rage. “Innocent or guilty, we have no quarrel with the witches, only each other. We need to demonstrate our remorse -- and either you do this willingly or unwillingly. Unwillingly: the witches will know and you will find their hand around your throat. Willing: my hand will be at your throat rather than theirs.”

  Cosimo stood quiet, dark, guarded eyes watching the man that now stood nose-to-nose with him. The water below them whispered of something hidden, the moon above yearning to cast light upon the darkness that engulfed them both. The Capulet boss’ head canted to the side, his face unreadable as he waited for the man to step back -- and slowly, ever so slowly he did.

  The water quieted, the moon hid once more.

  “Fine,” Cosimo stated, flicking what remained of his cigarette onto the ground and crushing it under his heel. A pause followed as the Capulet boss slid his hands into his pockets, his lips settling into a leering smirk. “Why not tell me the details of your elaborate plan? You’ve clearly thought about such things much longer and more thoroughly than I have.”

  Damiano’s eyes narrowed, a similar smile playing at his lips -- like a child who has just gotten his younger sibling to play along with a terribly wicked game. “What do you say to having those who usually fight with words fight with their fists?”

  “You mean to say you want me to pit my advisor against yours?”

 “Ah, good,” the Montague boss murmured, sharply tugging at the ends of his sleeves. “I thought I would have had to lead you there myself.”

  “This is madness, Damiano, even for you. My advisor is a child. She’s as young as my daughter.”

  “More ruthless and merciless than your daughter, from what I’ve heard.”

  “Granted,” Cosimo admitted, his brows still furrowed in disbelief. “But your advisor would beat her senseless.”

  “Would he? From what I’ve heard he has a rather soft, vulnerable part in him that needs to be exposed and... modified.”

  “Rafaella does not need to be reprimanded in such a manner.”

  “But she does need to repent for offending the witches on multiple occasions -- “

  “ -- I told you, Damiano, we had nothing to -- “

  “ -- which is why our advisors can bear the sins of both mobs and redeem us by being publicly crucified. The witches love blood, so why not give them the blood of the most guilty out of all of us?”

  “Absolute madness…” Cosimo breathed, the protest in his voice gone -- replaced with resignation.

  “Alexander counsels sin after sin -- as I’m sure Rafaella does as well. I suggest we meet in neutral territory for this.”

  “Do you think the witches would let us anywhere near their premises? Why don’t we use that new place -- The Dark Lady -- the owner knows neither of us, nor do we know them.”

  “I was not thinking of such a high profile place, Cosimo.”

  “You surely can’t be suggesting we -- “

   “-- Meet at il bar Griffone? Yes, I was.”

  “We will be murdered before we even step through the door. You know that those... people despise us.”

  “It will guarantee that they’ll kill us sooner than we will kill each other. Besides, you have your connections with that Underworlder -- what’s his name? Orca?”

  “Don’t act as if you don’t know Orpheus Ahulani’s name.”

  “Ah, yes, that’s his name. The bitter man of the Ahulani household…” Damiano murmured, a reminiscent smile flashing across his face -- gone so quickly that one might have thought it was a trick of the light.

 There was a pause as the two men quieted, the weight of their discussions settling upon them as heavily as the darkness that encroached upon the sitting. It drowned each crevice that wasn’t touched upon by the light. Cosimo’s hand swept over his face, as if he could simply remove his weariness by this action alone. His Montague counterpart leaned over the wall, looking over the water once more -- fingers lacing together, thumb tapping erratically as he waited for Cosimo to break the silence.

  “So then what is this? A public persecution? A crucifixion?” Cosimo finally asked, staring at Damiano’s profile. How could he look so calm, so serene, at a time like this?

  “Let’s call it an exposition, mio amico. It’s befitting, don’t you think? I mean -- what’s more beautiful and artistic than man in his most savage form?”

ADDITIONAL: It’s nice to see the bosses being so civil when negotiating a ceasefire, don’t you think? The Montagues and the Capulets announced the exposition to their members later the very same morning. Everyone knows that this a show of remorse for offending the witches, just as they also know that Alexander and Rafaella cannot both survive this “exposition”. The Underworld of Verona will be hosting this showdown, the Bar Grifone will be the venue of this showdown -- their basement, having seen numerous fights of the same order, would be able to house the amount of people who were invited to come and watch. One might have thought there would be a calm before this storm, but instead everything seems more chaotic, more prone to fights. Montagues and Capulets are biting at their bits to see this all go down, but stop themselves just before their loyalty to their mob bosses can be called into question.

TIMELINE: Please date all your threads between JANUARY 25TH and FEBRUARY 2ND. The Exposition will take place on Friday, February 3rd, so please do not hold any threads on that date or after that date until the next plot progression occurs.

TASK: As previously mentioned, the Montagues and the Capulets are at each other’s throats now more than ever -- unsatisfied by the fact that they’re being forbidden to fight one another because their advisers are fighting for them. Whether or not your character likes it, they’re going to be caught in a fight. Your task is to write out a fight scene with another player -- your character may be doing so as an act of self defense OR write out a fight scene as a self para with an NPC. Verona is a place of war, after all. Periods of peace are overrated.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: January 9, 2017 LOCATION: The Colosseum TIME: 4:30 PM

     The sun has sunk a bit lower now, drawn to the horizon as all lovers are. It will embrace its darling later, surely, but there’s work to do—worship to oversee, paths to light. For now, the west side of the Colosseum will do; for now, the better half of the arena is still bathed in the warmth of anticipation, and for good reason: the moment they’ve all been waiting for—some for years, some for mere minutes—has arrived at last.

     They come in streams, not waves, the witnesses of a miracle yet to occur; nothing builds up and breaks down individualism quite like faith, you know. If they wanted to carve out the stone of the Colosseum and make it the eighth wonder of the world, they could. But the people of Verona have always been gluttons for a show, and the beauty of something so subtle would surely be lost on them—an insult, even.

     There are already seven wonders, after all. If you want to be remembered, you’ve got to be the first or the only; the stuff of legends is not to never die, but to never lose. Nine horses in the field will know nothing but the smothering comfort of mediocrity; the other faces an even worse fate: the agony of having immortality in one’s grasp and letting it slip.

     But it’s the spectators that stand to lose the most, for a victory in the hands of another is scarcely a victory at all.

     They line up one by one, beasts stepping obediently into metal cages simply for the purpose of escaping them, and the world seems to fall silent. A gentleman could drop his pencil and demand the ear of every soul in attendance, if only they were able to draw their eyes away from the gates long enough. But he doesn’t, and if he does, no one notices, for things like these—coronations of lesser kings, but coronations just the same—demand utter and complete reverence.

     “And… they’re off and racing!”

     They surge forward as one, tails streaming and eyes wide, and the stadium erupts once more into a glorious cacophony of the shouts of the crowd, the blaring of trumpets, and the beating of drums. It’s awfully humbling to think that the fate of each soul in attendance is somehow tied to a race run and won in a mere few blinks of the eye—the time it takes the pack to round the arena three times—and for that reason, few stop to savor the moment, to recognize their own insignificance. For a few minutes, the riders and their jockeys are the sun around which Verona orbits.

     And what a glorious few minutes they are.

     The Capulet horse rushes around the first turn before the others, looking for all the world like a firebird in flight. The Montagues in the crowd shake their heads in disgust, avert their eyes; some even retreat to the outer edges of the stadium, hellbent on watching a horse they support take the crown or not watching at all. Waves of regret lap at the feet of more superstitious gamblers who condemned the chrome horse as little more than trouble, for the markings on his feet are scarcely visible in the way he moves—quickly, with the sort of conviction only possessed by a creature giving ruthless chase. He’ll show, certainly, if he can hold the dark bay off, netting a silver medal to match the silks of his jockey, but the horse in third is as ravenous as his rider, and the distance between them shrinks with every stride they take.

     They hurtle around the second turn of the final lap, close enough for those brave enough to stand at the barrier to jump back for fear of being struck, and the dark bay closes in on the blazing sorrel.

     “Brielle King moving into first as they turn for home!”

     A king’s steed falls to a ruffian’s pony, and the Colosseum seems to gape at such blatant revolution.

     “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’re about to see is history in the making!” The announcer is nearly giddy now, the change in his tone and the sight before them rousing nearly every person in the arena to their feet.

     History in the making.

     The dark bay thunders down the home stretch, relentless even in victory. It’s the only way to win; anything short would be but a lucky coincidence. He’s within a few lengths of the line now, and the crowd is beside itself, damn near in hysterics—a newcomer unseating a dynasty? Impossible. Incredible. Everything a poor man dreams of and everything a rich man fears.

     History in the making.

     And then the bomb goes off.

(TW: violence, gore, body horror, death, severe emotional distress)

Please note: All Montagues were made aware of the day’s events prior to their arrival at the Colosseum. Precautions of varying degrees have been taken on their parts.

4:35 - Blown skyward by the blast, Brielle falls from her horse and finds herself half-deaf and disoriented in the path of nine fright-crazed horses, each in its own state of disarray. Few notice her fall from grace, too busy fearing for their own lives to fear for hers, but those that do shout at her to stay where she is. Hugo elects to take matters into his own hands.

4:35 - Celeste, having tried and failed to lure the Capulet heiress away from the track by any other means, all but drags her out of range in what seems to be the nick of time. She and Juliana run for the nearest exit. The Capulet wants to know why, but there’ll be time for questions later.

4:35 - Santino, seated next to Maeve by chance or perhaps the pull of would-be friends, reacts as if on instinct and shields her from the blast. They’re relieved to find they’ve both survived what seems to be the worst of it, but their concerns clearly lie with others. They split up.

4:36 - Orion and Orpheus manage to locate each other in the smoke (there’s nothing quite as familiar as the voice of the man you’ve tried so often to spite) and, after a minute or two of arguing, make their way toward the exit, knives drawn. Courtesy demands that they use them against those responsible for the destruction, but the unspoken rivalry between them is quite the tease.

4:36 - In a rush to find Maeve and Theodora in the chaos, Catherine runs directly into Castora, knocking the two of them over the backs of nearby seats and leaving them both with more wounds than they started with. She recognizes the Aguilar woman’s voice when the Montague woman snarls a warning and bites out her own, accusing the other woman of being involved in the bombing. Castora makes a snide remark about Maeve, and the Daly woman throws the first punch.

4:37 - Mallory, having escaped the wrath of the explosion and seen to it that their sibling (well, one of them) has, as well, cants their head at Cinead and insists that they’d known all along that something interesting would happen at the Palio. Nevertheless, Hea is missing in action, so they agree on a place to meet up and part ways to find them.

4:37 - Bellamy, who was struck and wounded by shrapnel as he ran to save a child who’d wandered dangerously close to the blast, nearly slams into Maeve. She insists on finding him help and asks if he’s seen a certain few Montagues, but unsure of her identity and her intentions, he doesn’t tell her that he already knows that they’re alright (or that they should be). He spots Hugo carrying a battered Brielle through the smoke and apologizes to Maeve, saying he has to go. He joins Hugo in helping Brielle and suggests that they find Roman.

4:37 - Roman catches sight of a bloodied Easton stumbling out of the smoke-choked arena and approaches him. He inquires about Celeste, knowing he’s been put in charge of her keeping in the past, and entreats him to simply let her slip away in the pandemonium, but the Craven man merely laughs. When he swings, Valentina rushes in to attack him from behind. The three of them fight for a few minutes, but Valentina urges Roman to break away to go to safety, to which he reluctantly acquiesces, leaving the two to their quarrel.

4:38 - The sound of a child’s screams strike a chord in Vivianne, and she follows his cries until she happens upon a young boy trapped under a pile of rubble—and none other than Giya crouched before him. She stands back, conflicted, before moving to join her, equal parts determined to get the child out and determined to make the Godrej woman pay for being involved in putting him there.

4:39 - Hector, while waiting for Hiran to emerge from the stadium, sees Orion leaving mostly intact—ashen suit and handsome face cut—and moves to follow him, to accost him for telling Hiran what happened between them, but Lucrecia swarms out of what seems to him to be nowhere, claws unsheathed and hackles raised. Nothing angers a dangerous woman more than being caught unawares; she’d like to make his skin match her lipstick—red.

4:39 - Hiran slips past beneath Hector’s nose and taps Orion on the shoulder, seizing the opportunity to make him rue the day he ever laid a finger on Sawiris. It hardly matters that it was just as much Hector’s fault as Orion’s or that he’s had a little too much to drink; he grabs the older man by the lapels and shoves him against the nearest stable wall.

4:40 - Celeste and Juliana run clear of the Colosseum, eyes reddened by the smoke and ash clinging to their hair, but although they escaped the worst of it together, they won’t be leaving together. Priam swoops in to take the Capulet heiress by the arm and Everett steps forward to grab Celeste, believing she’s made yet another escape attempt. He pulls her away, but not before Juliana makes it known that the Montague woman was the one to keep her safe from the blast.

4:41 - Pandora advances upon Priam and Juliana with the vengeance of an animal given just enough time to lick its wounds and acquire a taste for blood. Marcelo thinks to join her in trying to incapacitate the emissary and make off with Cosimo’s daughter, but they spot Everett escorting Celeste out, and seeing the opportunity they’d all hoped would present itself, they hail the already-injured captain with more blows.

4:42 - Priam takes a hard hit to the head and is brought to his knees, but Theodora steps in to assail Pandora, giving Juliana the chance to escape—but foolishly, she stays to help the Taravella man to his feet and away from the wreckage. Theodora and Pandora are evenly matched in both wit and strength, and their fight proves incredibly tiresome for both. Both Montague and Capulet eventually pull away bloody and with bruises blooming under their skin.

4:42 - Odessa, who was able to slip away from the race several minutes before the explosion, notices that Giya is absent from the ranks of those who made it out safely and pushes against the throng of people leaving the stadium to look for her in the smoke. A red-faced Rafaella slams into her in the confusion and latches onto her out of instinct to keep the two of them from falling, but once she realizes who she’s grabbed, she recoils, disgust evident on her features. The Capulet adviser lunges for the emissary, fist swinging at the other woman’s jaw, and for the time it takes them to declare a victor, Giya is forgotten.

4:43 - Castora, nursing wounds from her earlier scuffle with the Daly girl, and Ramona, itching for Orion to have escaped the bombing so she can take care of him herself, happen upon a clearly furious Lucrecia and a clearly struggling Hector. The two girls draw the Falco woman’s attention away from her opponent by taunting her, giving Hector enough time to slip away and lick his wounds. The two Montagues manage to incapacitate her and leave her behind one of the betting booths to be found by one of her own.

4:43 - Matthias sifts through the crowd of crazed race-goers that push out of the Colosseum and into the open, keen gaze searching for the target he’s been ordered to trail and—if possible—take. He’s distracted by the sight of Delilah stumbling past, pretty little outfit stained red. Careful to make sure none of his own are watching, he pulls her into a bathroom to tend to her wounds. She’s grateful, but she leaves not long after, terrified of being discovered by the wrong pair of eyes.

4:44 - Bellamy spots Roman near a ticket booth, and he and Hugo guide Brielle, who has rather loudly objected to being carried, over to him. After a brief assessment of her multiple injuries, Brielle reluctantly consents to being brought to the hospital, and Bellamy offers to take her, as he’s in need of examination as well. Brielle and Bellamy leave the Colosseum through a staff corridor and depart for the hospital. Hugo hangs back to speak to Roman, but the coast is far from clear. Roman sets off to find Alexander, and Hugo hangs back to survey the perimeter, guilt preventing him from fleeing the scene.

4:44 - Tiberius happens upon a battered Valentina, who looks a little worse for wear after her fight with Easton. He takes advantage of her momentary weakness and rushes in, blade drawn. He manages to back her against a wall after a brief skirmish, knife to her throat, but a pair of arms slip around his neck and tighten before he has the chance to do much damage—Santino. The Gallo man pulls the Capulet off of his sister and, in the hopes of avoiding a real fight, presses the barrel of his handgun to his back. The message is clear.

4:45 - Marcelo engages Everett in a fist fight and manages to disarm him, paving the way for Celeste to run away, but the odds of her succeeding are too slim for comfort and she’s better off staying where she is, so she refuses. Ignoring the look of confusion on their face when she all but pries them away from the Capulet captain, she quietly insists that they stand down and direct their efforts toward something more feasible. It’s not the first time she’s talked them down from a fight, and reluctantly, they hurl one more threat Everett’s way before retreating.

4:45 - Odessa watches as a certain Easton Craven skirts around his brother without bothering to back him against the Montague captain, and unable to resist the temptation of getting even somehow, she taunts him from afar, inadvertently beckoning him closer. She’s had her fill of fights in the aftermath of a clear victory by her people, but whether Easton is ready to hang his head in defeat is yet to be determined.

4:46 - Alexander watches the chaos unfold as Nero watched Rome burn, eyes scanning the crowd for anything or anyone of interest. Save for two soldiers of his caught in the blast zone by mistake, everything had gone according to plan—that is, as well as a bombing could go. He’s just about to dive into the fray to deal with a Capulet heckling one of his captains when none other than Rafaella Capulet appears, blood matting her curls and all traces of teasing gone. How dare he? He could ask her the same thing.

4:46 - Hea watches Halcyon as she pauses in an alcove to catch her breath, their interest sparked by the woman’s preoccupation with her own wellbeing while others seem intent only on bringing about others’ ruin. They approach her and inquire about her injuries but don’t readily offer any aid, eyes scanning the crowd for their siblings. Unlike mere men, gods don’t lose their heads when things don’t go as anticipated.

4:47 - While surveying the area for Theodora, Orpheus comes across Ramona, who’s hungry for more confrontation. Despite his best (read: meager) efforts to entertain her, the Capulet soldier can’t bring himself to give her the satisfaction of engaging, and perhaps that angers her more than any blow ever could.

4:47 - Halcyon rejoins the fray with renewed determination, catching sight of Vivianne’s dark hair as she leaves the smoke-filled arena with—Giya Godrej? The underboss slips away before she can ask for further orders, and since she’s in no state to exact any useless revenge, she settles for brushing past the older woman with a dignified sort of force, throwing barbed words over her shoulder.

4:48 - Mallory corners Hugo to prod him for information—or at the very least, amusement—and finds little to their liking. They’d suspected a holy man would be a little less boring under pressure, but they stick around perhaps a little longer than the priest would like, barring him from being of much use to his mob for several precious minutes. What’s a holy man like him doing with them, anyway, bringing about such destruction? They want to know all of this and more.

4:48 - Clark emerges from the smoke-choked arena to find his nephew dutifully searching for his mother. After a brief (and mistrustful) exchange, Hiran and Clark look for and locate Giya and leave the Colosseum, a family more or less in tact.

4:48 - Mikael lurks in the shadows of the mostly-evacuated Colosseum, intent on searching the perimeter for his notably absent wife before he assumes that she must’ve wasted no time in leaving the scene. He finds her where Castora and Ramona left her and stoops down to try to rouse her, enraged at the nerve of whoever has done this to her. He’s inclined to suspect the man who attacked him at the Masquerade—Matthias—and Cinead appears seemingly out of thin air to inform him (incorrectly) that it was, as if the Falco man had spoken his thoughts aloud. Whether it was their intention or not, the violence Warren wishes to inflict on Mikael is no longer one-sided.

5:00 - Matthias arrives at the rendezvous point with his hands markedly clean, prompting a questioning look from Alexander. He has failed in his mission, and the excuse he gives is poor at best. Rallis is angry, but the adviser has far more important things to tend to in the wake of the bombing; Matthias will be dealt with later.

     Civilians and mob members alike flee the Colosseum, scattering like ashes on the wind. The screams have long since died down, replaced by the eerie wailing of sirens in the distance, but pockets of people remain, their cries—both for themselves and those lost—ringing out like the types of prayers uttered not for a response, but due to the lack of one. Later that evening, journalists and crime scene investigators alike would tally the death toll at nine, tentatively. A count of the wounded will be much more complex, much like the motives behind the act. They’ll call it an act of terrorism, the work of radicals far-removed from the war raging within the city. They couldn’t be more wrong, but no one stands to correct them.

     Some things are best left to the imagination; the only thing that would kick up more hysteria than the threat of a distant organization would be the threat of two empires waging war on the doorsteps of innocents.

     Somewhere in a stable miles away from the crime scene, the Montague stud stands in his stall, dark coat shining beneath the lamp burning above him. He’s a vision, despite the fact that no one is there to see him, and the black flag he carried has been replaced by one of striking gold. It hangs on the door for all to see, a message in disguise if there ever was one.

     Our mourning hour has passed. The stage is now yours.

OVERVIEW: It’s safe to say this year’s Palio was a great deal more eventful than the last, but then again, things have certainly changed in Verona, haven’t they? You are free to play out these interactions in a THREAD or in a CHATROOM. We just ask that, should you play out encounters in a chatroom, you post everything on the dash so that we might follow along. As we have said before, these events have no expiration date and you may continue with threads from the previous event.

TIMELINE: You may now play out the AFTERMATH OF THE PALIO DI VERONA. Interactions will take place from JANUARY 9th to JANUARY 23rd. Everyone will be recovering from the event in their own way and the specified characters will be expected to carry their injuries. Even characters who were not written to be injured in the interactions will likely have taken some damage; a bombing is pretty wide-spread, after all. All of the deceased are NPCs, six of which were Capulets. Several playable characters have the potential to be in critical condition, but the extent of their injuries has ultimately been left up to each player. (If you’re willing to have your character seriously injured or even killed in the future, please let us know.)

HACK: If you are searching for interactions your character is involved in, hit ctrl+f and a small box should pop up in the corner of your screen. Type in your character’s name, hit enter, and you should be able to find your character’s name in their interactions!

We hope you’ve all enjoyed our second DiVerona event!

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: January 9th, 2017

LOCATION: The Colosseum

TIME: 3:00 PM

     The Colosseum is alight with a mid-afternoon glow, the sunlight tentatively warming the dust of the arena and the skin of those who have come to worship at the altar of tradition, of the pride of a city and its kings. Utterances of the day’s beauty slip from the mouths of spectators, prayers of thanksgiving they may or may not have meant to say.

     Una bella giornata. Even the heavens have given their blessing.

     A gentle breeze breathes life into the many colorful flags of the slowly assembling parade, toying cheekily with the flaps of the contrada member’s tunics like a child come to enjoy the festivities. The horses, too, seem touched by a deity, coats slick and shining and ears pricked to the sounds of the Palio: the chorus of voices that seems to float on the wind, the faint blaring of trumpets in the distance. Each who enters the amphitheatre pauses to admire the raw elegance of it all, a glimpse of living history surrounded by the opulence of a new order. As they search for their seats—or if they’re brave enough to situate themselves in the thick of the procession, their spot beneath the white tent enclosed by the barrier—they can’t help but think that it’s not terribly hard to believe that something holy happened here, that something holy might happen again.

     It began as a celebration of the appearance of an apparition—Madonna di Provenzano, named for her sightings near estates owned by a gentleman of that name—and evolved into something of a tradition among the contradas and then among the families that hailed from them as the years went on. There are few things men love more than the feeling of self-importance inevitably brought about by the visitation of a spirit, but the most prominent of these is their pomp, their pride, so it should come as no surprise to any deities watching that the Palio has shed some of its baser traits in favor of luxury, of the glint of gold, silver, and the jewels that accompany them. There are pilgrims of two kinds in the crowd today: those who worship the God said to have walked the earth, and those who worship the gods who still do.

     The last of the historical procession fall into place, flags held high and shoulders back—ready, at last, to offer sacrifice. The call of a trumpet demands that every spectator lend both their eyes and their ears, and they do so willingly (nothing can quiet a person quite like the presence of divinity). Then, as if on cue, the stallion bearing the flag of Verona surges forward in a pompous prance, head held high in the sort of arrogance that befits magnificent beasts like him, and the colosseum erupts into cheers, each patron craning their neck to catch a glimpse first of the beautiful costumes and then of the competitors, the true stars of the afternoon. The parade makes its way through the arena, trumpeters, drummers, and flag-bearers heralding the arrival of the barberos and barbarescos—the race-horses and their jockeys.

     A blood bay decked in emerald green and royal blue leads the charge, spiriting forward at a trot that demands his lead horse break into a canter in order to keep up. Murmurs about his energy—be it of promise or nerves—arise as he passes, setting the bar high for the judgment of those horses he precedes. Next comes a dappled grey donning red and white, unique both in its coloring and its tepid temperament. Had it been a gloomy day, the wise gamblers would’ve put their money on him, for it’s been said that in rainy conditions, the only grey horse in the field will seize the crown. But alas, the sun shines down on Verona this fine afternoon, and the ashen sheen of his coat rewards him little more than momentary interest.

     The same cannot be said for the horse cloaked in purple and silver, a dark brown bay with four white socks, but the attention he garners is hardly positive. It’s been said that a chrome horse brings nothing but bad luck, and the people of Verona are considerably superstitious (why, they’re here, aren’t they?); thus, the gelding who precedes Cosimo Capulet’s horse is met with suspicion and dread—raised eyebrows, scoffs, and every slightly insulting gesture imaginable in between. But the horse bearing the Capulet crest, a fiery chestnut with an immaculate white stripe down his nose and a lone sock on his right foreleg—the mark of a swift steed, some say–draws attention to himself in a pleasing way. The sunlight hits his reddish coat and paints him nearly scarlet, a sight even if it weren’t for the silver nearly dripping from his tack. The spectators’ eyes linger, sizing him up against the others who have come before him, and many raise their pencils to jot down their bets.

     But those who are none too eager to throw their lots in so prematurely wait for what they hope will be an earthquake among tremors; it’s no secret that the Montagues have won the Palio Cup more times than one could count, and they’ve garnered a bit of a reputation for running some of the finest horses in the field. Those who pause in anticipation are not disappointed; the glossy black stallion bearing the Montague crest is every bit the stud they’d expected (if not more), but all traces of gold, save for the threads woven into his saddle blanket, are gone, replaced with black alone—the color of mourning. He’s a sight, surely, but the unusual circumstances regarding his colors perplex the audience far more than the dilemma of their wagers ever could, and murmurs arise as he passes, pitch black flag waving. “They scratched him, did you know? The Montagues scratched him.”

     “I do have to wonder why, as wasn’t he the favorite?”

     “He was; it said so. I liked his odds.”

     “Damiano did lose a dear friend a few weeks ago; perhaps he’s withdrawn in his honor.”

     All is quiet for several moments following the unveiling of Verona’s most prized steeds, and then the silence breaks. Ladies in divine silk brocades and gentlemen in suits of splendor alike surge forward to snatch their ticket and place their bets, their conspiratorial whispers a buzz throughout the Colosseum. “Which one, which one, darling?” “I like the look of that dappled fellow!” “Pass the program, who’s the jockey for number six?” “Brielle King, she’s the one to look out for, the one riding the black bay!” “Why, I heard she came in from the east specifically to ride.” Binoculars press indentations into porcelain faces, lacquered nails flip through the Daily Racing Form and programs. There is endless energy to be found in glamour and the fleeting distraction of gambling, and the stadium is alive with anticipation, their collective breaths held as they cast their bets. Anything can happen, anyone can win, and anyone can profit.

     “In bocca al lupo!” Someone cries.

     “Crepi il lupo!” Another answers.

TASK: Among the most decadent and powerful of Verona, there is no short of vices and sins, and certainly no shame. Your task is to pick one of the seven deadly sins (pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth) and describe how your character embodies it. Bonus points if you can relate it to their event ensemble!

Please tag your character’s ensemble/ensemble descriptions as #diveronaraces and your event interactions as #event: races. There is no deadline to complete the task, so take as much time with it as you feel necessary.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: December 26th, 2016

LOCATION: The Twelfth Night Museum

TIME: 8:34 PM

     The ballroom all but glitters with silks and jewels of every hue, the air pungent with the aroma of perfumes and colognes mingling—clean, spicy, new. Glasses clink, lose their contents, and are dutifully refilled, and little by little—smile by smile and drink by drink, the ice of an evening on the warpath begins to melt, warmed by the hearth of blind kinship. Decadent desserts leave a sweet taste on the lips of each guest as if in a bit of parting advice: there’ll be no bitterness tonight. Verona may live to see another day, the evening seems to whisper, but this quarrel will not.

     Whether through the ignorance that comes with drunkenness or a polite inclination to look the other way, none of the partygoers—save, of course, for the hosts, who have orchestrated this night even down to the manner in which the napkins were folded—seem to notice the change the night slips into like a silk shawl. White-cloaked tables fall away like toy soldiers, moved aside by diligent servers and all but forgotten as the music swells to a crescendo, beckoning each guest to dance, and if not to dance, to sway. These sort of things—beautiful music, fine wine, and the gods that revel in both—demand tribute even from their most unwilling subjects, and even those more inclined to embrace the shadows like lovers find themselves  drawn to the light. The room is alive with conversation—with intrigue—and so, too, are they.

     One day, they’ll write about this night in their history books: the treaty signed not with names, but with the absence of them—the end of a war that might’ve been.

     The heralder steps onto the platform once more, his pristine white and gold suit drawing the eyes of everyone who’s sober (or humble) enough to remember him and his role as a modern-day Hermes, the messenger of the gods. If he’s aware he’s been all but forgotten in the midst of the festivities, he doesn’t show it; the redness of his cheeks, likely brought about by liquor’s warmth, compensates for the absence of his scarlet sash. But of course, his value lies not in what he’s wearing, but what he has to say.

     Metal meets glass; he calls for a toast. “Honored and venerated guests,” he acclaims, the words sounding thick -- a small detail unnoticed by the most of the equally inebriated crowd. But he takes a deep breath, gathering his wits about him as he faces the crowd, their faces eagerly awaiting the commencement of the gaiety of the night. “Now that we have all eaten a feast worthy of a king and have filled ourselves with enough liquor to get Zeus himself drunk -- we shall do what is required of every Italian party—dance!” With an authoritative clap of his hands, he calls the orchestra to attention, each member stirring themselves into a state of readiness. Somewhere behind him, the shadows shift as a server slips away to store a lone centerpiece, but the oddity of his timing is lost in the swell of the moment. The conductor lifts his wand, primed and at the ready, licking his lips anxiously as he leans forward while clearing his throat. In a high, tenor voice he begins, “A-one....a-two...a-one, two, thr--”

     And suddenly the tenuous thread that had kept Verona from unraveling into chaos is cut by one, piercing scream.

SUICIDE TW, DEATH TW

8:35 -- Pandora stumbles into the dance floor from the statue gallery, clutching her side with pain clearly etched on her face. As the crowd parts, partially in fear and partially in horror, everyone removes their mask. A figure, hooded and unrecognizable to all those who stare, sprints toward the exit. In one hand they carry a bloodied knife, in their other they carry a gun.

8:36 -- Hiran and Alexander immediately rush to Portia’s side, as do the three witches. Hea calls for the guards to go after the suspect, but many of them are too shocked to move quickly. Clark, eager to be of use to the witches, rushes after the suspect while Hiran calls for medical attention and Alexander assesses the wound.

8:37 -- Vivianne searches for Juliana in the crowd, but unable to find her, she begins to grow frustrated and shove through the crowd. Halcyon, ever attentive to Vivianne, finds the underboss and the two quickly come to a consensus: all the Capulets must leave the museum immediately. The Montagues will not take kindly to one of their own being injured, and not even the witches will be able to tame the wrath that is likely to be dealt.

8:37 -- Juliana is quick to locate Rafaella in the crowd. Rafaella had grabbed a butter knife from a nearby table as a means of protection, but she knows that her cousin needs to be taken to safety. Shoving through the crowd and practically sprinting, Rafaella finds Vivianne and Halcyon. After a brief argument, they all agree that they need to find all the Capulets and get them out.

8:39 -- It does not take long for Tiberius and Marcelo to take notice of each other once the masks have been removed. A moment after they make eye contact, they both stalk towards the exit, but not the one the suspect had escaped through; no—they have other matters to deal with.

8:40 -- Bellamy is searching for Roman in the crowd when he spots Marcelo and Tiberius heading for the door. Whatever is about to happen, it can’t be good. While on his way to stop them, he runs into Rafaella, who confronts him because she believes he intends to help Marcelo instead of breaking up the fight. After a brief explanation, she reluctantly follows him outside to stop Marcelo and Tiberius from killing each other.

8:40 -- After noticing that the Capulets are in a state of disarray, Celeste tries to make a break for the exit but is stopped by Easton. He tries to quietly lead her out of the building. Everett, having kept his eye on his brother, had trailed the two and stops Easton. They begin to argue and Celeste slips away once more.

8:40 -- Matthias takes advantage of the chaos and seeks out the Falcos to exact his revenge. Lucrecia is nowhere to be found, having run off in search of weapons, but he manages to corner Mikael near the gallery. A brawl ensues, and he manages to put the Falco man down. He leaves him there, having decided that killing him now wouldn’t be as sweet.

8:41 -- Roman tries following the witches as they wait for an ambulance to arrive to take Pandora to the hospital, but they assure Roman that they will take care of her. Mallory goes after Clark to see if he has caught the suspect and Cinead rushes to stop Juliana from leaving so that they might question her. Hea administers to Portia, but they have to stop to order Roman to leave the room.

8:42 -- As Roman leaves, he sees Celeste fleeing and goes to help her, but he is stopped by Priam who begins to heckle and taunt the Montague heir. In the beginning, Roman manages to maintain his composure, but as Priam continues to needle him, the two come close to blows.

8:42 -- Maeve, Catherine, and Delilah find each other in the crowd. The three women know that to be together at a time like this is much safer than being alone. Just as they are about to leave, they hear Roman and Priam arguing and spot Celeste fleeing. Catherine quickly comes up with a plan: Maeve would stop Priam and Roman from fighting on neutral territory, and Delilah would stop Celeste. Catherine would find Vivianne and figure out what their underboss wanted them to do next.

8:45 -- Catherine finds Vivianne, Juliana, and Halcyon. She pulls Vivianne to the side and asks her for instructions on what to do. Vivianne wants to test Catherine’s loyalties and tells her to see if she can find the man who stabbed Pandora so that they can clear the Capulet name. Catherine nods and immediately goes to find the servant, having remembered which direction he had taken off in. Vivianne sends Halcyon to tail her.

8:43 -- Santino attempts to find Valentina in the crowd, and he has almost given up when he finds her trailing after Juliana, Vivianne, and Halcyon. He grabs his sister’s wrist and stops her, only to have her grow impatient and tell him to let her do her work. The two are about to get into an argument when Cinead stops the three women from leaving and escorts them to the lounge area. Valentina moves to follow them once again, but Santino thwarts her efforts once more.

8:43 -- The chaos hardly bothers Theodora and Orpheus, and they take their time finding one another amongst the crowd. They’re both content to watch the show and leave when they see fit until they see Valentina following Halcyon. When Sebastian stops Valentina, Theodora and Orpheus step into their path, giving Halcyon time to disappear with Vivianne and Juliana. Growing frustrated, Valentina tries to push them aside, only to have Orpheus push her back.

8:44 -- Giya looks for Clark, not having realized that he had gone in pursuit of the suspect. But while searching for him, she runs into Celeste. The two manage to make it outside, only to be stopped by Delilah, who was waiting for them right outside of the exit, safely outside the barrier that declared the land neutral territory. Unlike Giya, she is armed, thanks to the Falcos, who had quickly split off to gather weaponry for the Capulets. 

8:45 -- The three woman have just begun fighting, two to one, when Orion comes across them. He quickly incapacitates Giya, grabs Celeste, and hands her over to Delilah. Although she is a bit worse for wear, Delilah drags Celeste into a waiting car and sends her to the cathedral. 

8:46 -- Hector, who had been searching for Hiran since the start, finds an incapacitated Giya and Orion. The two men confront one another and eventually Hector gives up and picks Giya up to care for her, still searching for his best friend in the chaos. He comes across Ramona and, when she asks what happens, tells her that Orion is the one who injured Giya. Ramona storms away to find the culprit himself, and Odessa takes her place at Hector’s side, but only for a moment. Giya asks that she locate Clark, and eager to help in any way she can, Odessa obliges.

 8:47 -- It doesn’t take long for Ramona to find Orion. Both of them are eager for a fight and begin by needling each other, throwing taunts like knives. They begin to draw blood but before they can sustain any serious injuries, Castora finds them and drags Ramona away. They all know that this is a fight to finish for another time. 

8:48 -- As Castora is dragging Ramona away, she hears Priam and Roman growling at each other like dogs poised to kill. In the other direction, she can clearly hear Marcelo shouting at someone who could only be Tiberius, guessing from the things that were being said. She quickly decides that the Montague heir takes priority and runs to his aid.

8:48 -- Marcelo and Tiberius are in the middle of the streets outside of the museum,  heckling one another, shots being thrown back and forth, doing more damage than any number of bullets and knives. They’re both working themselves into a fury. Rafaella and Bellamy sprint their way over but not quickly enough. Marcelo and Tiberius are at each other’s throats, eyes murderous.

8:49 -- Priam continues to bait Roman and finally finds a vulnerability. Roman lands a blow on Priam and then another. Maeve is trying to pull Roman off of Priam and Castora has arrived, but she misinterprets the situation. Castora pushes Maeve off of Roman and punches her, then she pulls Roman off of Priam just as Cinead walks in. Physical violence is forbidden within neutral territory and to be caught in the offense is almost a crime; Cinead asks Roman to come with them and Castora watches as the two walk away.

8:50 -- Priam helps Maeve up and the two go to find the other Capulets, who are gathered outside in the streets. They find the Macbeths, Delilah, Orion, and Everett and Easton, both of whom look as if they have gotten into a physical fight. Everyone spots the small circle that has gathered around Tiberius and Marcelo, who have by now exchanged multiple blows. Bellamy and Rafaella have tried to pull the two apart, but are suffering the marks of having tried to interfere. 

8:51 -- Hiran and Alexander, having been sent away together from Pandora’s side, debate over who might have stabbed Pandora. But before the two can come to a conclusion, they hear Santino cry out and Valentina yell. They rush to their aid and see their two Montague members on the floor with Orpheus and Theodora standing over them. They circle each other warily before Alexander rushes to engage Orpheus and Theodora, while Hiran tries to help Santino and Valentina. Before too much blood can be drawn, Theodora coaxes Orpheus away. But not before he lands a blow that knocks the Montague adviser down. Matthias happens upon the scene and helps Hiran carry him out of the museum.

8:52 -- Catherine sprints through the alleyways of the museum, searching for the suspect and comes across an unconscious Clark Godrej. She fears that he might be dead, but checks for his pulse and quickly realizes that he had only been knocked out. When he comes to, she helps him back to the museum so that he might receive some medical attention.

8:52 -- After seeing Giya wounded, Odessa frantically looks for Clark at her request. She nearly collides with Catherine and Clark as they re-enter the ballroom and takes his other side, helping him to the exit.

8:53 -- ( SUICIDE TW, DEATH TW ) Mallory had knocked Clark out because he had gotten in the way of their pursuit, and they watch as Catherine takes him away. They find the suspect, the man who had ruined their whole night meant for peace. But before they can move, before they could utter a word of warning he takes out a gun and places it in his mouth. 

8:53 -- Blow after blow, skin breaking and bone shattering, Tiberius and Marcelo tear each other apart as their blood flows onto the ancient streets. Everyone is gathered around them, watching the gladiator show. Insults and taunts are shouted in the air as everyone watches the blood spill. But before either of the fighters can land another blow, a gunshot rings out in the air. 

                                                          BANG

8:56 -- Cinead and Hea walk down the stairs to the street, joined by a stoic Mallory who carries a swaddled item in their hand. Roman and Juliana follow, with Vivianne trailing after them. The two heirs had been kept in a room for safety, the witches informed them, and Pandora was last reported to be in stable condition. The party is over. Everyone may leave now. 

Everyone scattered, the fury of the witches evident in the way that they carried themselves. Juliana ran to her cousins, the two girls practically carrying Tiberius, as Roman ran to Marcelo, Bellamy aiding them both. Some people ran, some limped, some drove away in a flurry of squealing tires and burning rubber. The witches watched this all and waited for every last person to disperse, looking like statues that are meant to drive away demons -- but carry that bit of diabolical nature within themselves. Gargoyles. Watchers of the city. When the air around them grows quiet, Mallory slowly removes the cloth that hid the gun the servant had shot himself with, their siblings gathering closer to examine it. 

It was a Capulet gun.

OVERVIEW: Come now, everyone, you couldn’t have really expected for this party to go smoothly, right? You are free to play out these interactions in a THREAD or in a CHATROOM. We just ask that, should you play out encounters in a chatroom, you post everything on the dash so that we might follow along. As we have said before, these events have no expiration date and you may continue with threads from the previous event.

TIMELINE: You may now play out the AFTERMATH OF THE MASQUERADE and interactions will take place from DECEMBER 27th to JANUARY 8th. Everyone will be recovering from the event in their own way and the specified characters will be expected to carry their injuries. 

HACK: If you are searching for interactions your character is involved in, hit ctrl+f and a small box should pop up in the corner of your screen. Type in your characters name, hit enter, and you should be able to find your character’s name in their interactions!

We hope you all had fun with our very first DIVERONA EVENT! Now, let’s enjoy the intermission while we can.

[archivesdiveronaevents]

DATE: December 26th, 2016

LOCATION: The Twelfth Night Museum

TIME: 6:45 PM

Blood had been spilled -- which left only one recourse of action: a party. One where friend will not be known from foe, one where the line between amity and enmity have been blurred.  We take their ammunition—their knives and their names, they had said in the comfort of the darkness of the night. The proposal had been met with enthusiasm by the other two Witches and within the next week they had conjured up invitations, a decadent menu, and, most importantly, a means of upholding their theme: a masquerade. With the invitations sent, the masks picked, painted, and primed, Hea, Cinead, and Mallory awaited the night that the doors of THE TWELFTH NIGHT MUSEUM would open its doors to the Montagues and Capulets alike. Tensions had been steadily rising and there needed to be a night of recompense, a night of peace.

Sia benedetto, for that night has finally come.

The path to the museum is a sight to behold as the honored guests step out from their luxury cars, their chauffeurs politely stepping aside to open the door. No matter which direction they turn their head -- this way and that -- cameras glitter, lights flashing as they snap picture after picture, evoking a dazzling effect on all those who look in their direction. Velvet ropes guide them to the doors of the museum, where, if one looks carefully, they can see the numerous statues and paintings beckoning to them (for a kiss, what else?). Hea, Cinead, and Mallory await their guests at the entrance, greeting each guest warmly (as warmly as one can find them to be) whilst directing them to one of six curtained off sections, hidden from the prying eyes of the spectators.

Behind the curtains, they receive a carefully picked mask and, lying next to it, a matching ensemble with the exact measurements of each guest. Their table number, the name on the back of their card designating them to their seat. Everything was placed so meticulously. Genuine tears would be shed if one were to see it be razed -- not that the witches would ever allow such a travesty to happen.

How could they, when such decadence is laid out before them all? Waiters bedecked in black and white clothes wear gilded Venetian masks, carrying hors d’oeurves (caviar, carpaccio, pâté, verrine...) on glimmering silver trays caressed by fine white gloves. Wide, awe-struck eyes drink in the tables of white and gold; the vases perched atop them as centerpieces seem to be filled with diamonds, the creamy roses within them only adding to the opulence of the night. When asked about the menu for the evening, the waiters merely titter, whispering about renowned chef Guy Savoy working in the kitchen. The witches of Verona spared no expensive when it came to establishing a peaceful party while the city was on the brink of a bloody war.

Nothing in Verona comes cheap—not champagne, not loyalty, and certainly not peace. Even talk seems to be rather pricey tonight, as there’s a distinct silence lingering in the room like an unwanted guest, a sort of reverence that everyone recognizes but no one is willing to acknowledge. There’s a reason mothers and fathers hush their children in church pews.

Quiet. The gods are listening.

There they stand, three figures that are equal parts human and equal parts superstition: a hare, a black cat, and a crow. There’s a reason each mask leaves the eyes clearly visible.

Look. The gods demand tribute.

The tallest of the three raises a flute of champagne and the room holds its breath in anticipation. On either side of them, one figure smirks at their audience and the other beams: the cat that swallowed the canary and the hare that conquered the tortoise. A man dressed in a gaudy white and gold suit with a scarlet sash steps into view, although it’s entirely possible that he’s been there all along, a mortal bartering for attention in the midst of gods.

But he won’t need to barter much longer it seems, for the tallest of the hosts nods down at him, sparing their own voice for worthier ears. Blue eyes hazy with eagerness and—could it be fear?—he unknots his clasped hands and opens his arms in something akin to a warm embrace; his voice rises to fill the room in its entirety and venture out into the corridors beyond it, a herald fit for a sovereign (but for three, he’ll simply have to do).

“Buona sera!” He calls out, every bit as joyful as the angel that foretold the arrival of his god. The orchestra hushed, every visible eye turning towards him. It’s a privilege to come before them—an honor to be seated at one of these tables, and he knows it. But what he also knows—what he reminds himself when jealousy threatens to tinge his tone—is that he’s one of the lucky ones, one of the masses fortunate enough to be overlooked by the keen eyes of fate. “Welcome, honored guests of Verona, to Hotel Emilia! Tonight is a night for peace and reveling in your prosperity.” Oblivious, he neglects to emphasize peace as his employers intended, but he doesn’t need to.

Every heart in the room skips a beat, a moment of silence for a man fallen—fear and reverence, the only type of mourning they know.

The heralder weakly clears his throat after the brief pause, wetting his lips with equal parts apprehension and excitement as his eyes dart around, haphazardly focusing on the deities that fill the room. “However, there are stipulations that your generous hosts demand be followed as a gesture of good will. There will be no room allowed for the devil’s work in these hallowed halls -- only unfettered joy and merriment.” The crowd that glistened and glimmered in their silken threads exchanged glances, each one unique in the way that the message was received. The intent underlying the gentle words was clear: all knives shall be sheathed tonight. “No masks shall be lifted, no illusion shall be ruined.” There was no doubt that should masks be lifted, knives will no longer be sheathed. “And, most importantly,” the heralder’s voice wavered briefly. “Enjoy yourselves. In bocca al lupo!” In the mouth of the wolf.

There was a roar of applause as waiters and guests alike broke the silence that had been holding them captive, shouting in response, “Crepi!” A wish of good will in the most dangerous of times. A blessing in times of a distress, a call for God’s grace in moments of trial. 

                                         Tonight of all nights, they would certainly need it.

OVERVIEW: And now begins our first event! This is merely a prelude -- a little time of familiarity and repose before our whole world comes crashing down. If you would like a visual of the seating arrangements then LOOK HERE. Your character shall find their table name on the card, their seats being predetermined by none other than their gracious hosts. The seating arrangements are as follows: 

The Primordial: Cinead, Mallory, Hea

The Golden Age: Juliana, Roman, Vivianne, Alexander, Rafaella, Hiran

The Silver Age: Lucrecia, Celeste, Orion, Santino, Priam, Castora, Easton

The Bronze Age: Theodora, Giya, Catherine, Matthias, Delilah, Clark, Pandora

The Heroic Age: Tiberius, Marcelo, Mikael, Bellamy, Maeve, Valentina

The Iron Age : Halcyon, Ramona, Everett, Odessa, Orpheus, Hector

The guests are allowed to move from table to table, but most of them are unaware of who the other is because of the thoroughness of the witches. They may congregate by the open bar, at the two galleries the witches have left open (one offers artists from the Renaissance era and the other is an exhibit dedicated to sculptors of the Medieval era), or outside in the gardens. Dinner will be served promptly at 7:00 PM and the time stamps may range from 6:45 PM to 8 PM. 

TASK: Enjoy this while you can dear players -- the mystery and intrigue of it all is only the first taste that precedes the main course. So why not have fun with it? Show the outfit that the witches (most likely Cinead) picked for your character. The outfit most likely gives a material idea of the personality of your character -- no doubt the mask does too. Have fun with it and elaborate as little or as much as you want! For example, is your character more likely to wear Marc Jacobs or Ellie Saab? Vera Wang or Valentino? Slacks or skirts? Why or why not?

Please tag your character’s ensemble/ensemble descriptions as #diveronamasquerade and your event interactions as event: masquerade. There is no deadline to complete the task, so take as much time with it as you feel necessary. Have some run in, some mishaps -- but remember, there will no bloodshed or bruised limbs tonight. Save that for the future, hm? Buona notte, mi amici.