reginadalys

[reginadalys]

brutuskovrov​:

Regina knows the odds. She is not foolish to her own mortality, to the fact that she is but flesh and bone, and said flesh and bone was naturally compressed into a form smaller than the man before her. Regina knew Boris could easily best her in strength and possibly in physical combat abilities, if he was any better than mediocre. The uncertainty is what made her knew she would have to take caution against him, for she barely knew of him at all, let alone knowing what strength he possessed. She was swift on her feet to counter the strengths of others, and silent in even the most frantic of movements. She could be gone in seconds without Boris ever seeing which exit she slipped through, and yet she stayed, because as she’d said, she knew the implications of him having seen her already.

Still, Regina remained a good few steps away from Boris, outside of the reach of his muscular wingspan. While Boris’s body language didn’t make it seem as if he was eager to reach for her pale, exposed throat, Regina knew better than to underestimate a potential opponent. It was the underestimation of her that brought so many to their knees, praying to a god that Regina couldn’t ensure the existence of. Death was the only thing true in this world. Renata’s form, now finally silent save for the slight sloshing of blood spreading across the floor, confirmed this.

She watches him indifferently, though she might have been slightly amused if she could be certain that the shaking and scrambling he did wasn’t for show. Regina could not pretend to imagine this hardened-looking man to be so innocent or naive. “You have no evidence to prove so to me,” she reminds him, cold eyes unflinching in their gaze in his direction. “In every moment, opportunity is born. I cannot let it take breath for you, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

But he offers opportunity to her, instead. Specifically, he asks her to name her price, and it is in this moment he captures the attention of her greed. Perhaps it will be her downfall, but ever since she was a child, Regina has never resisted an outstretched hand. Why would she? Why should she? She had been taught to take anything that was presented to her, and the universe seemed to bow so eagerly. Now, Boris followed suit. “That depends,” she replied, taking a slight step forward. “What sort of value do you have to offer?”

[reginadalys]

paoladamasco​:

JUNE 3, IN A COFFEE SHOP (MONTAGUE TERRITORY) — closed to @reginadalys​

She’s felt this before. The air turning icy around her, an invisible hand applying pressure at the base of her throat, the compulsion to turn around again and again to check the open emptiness behind her. I’m being followed, Paola thinks with a shudder, the scar on her hip seeming to pulse as she remembers a pair of narrowed eyes, the cruel twist of Tiberius’ mouth.

Verona had taught her each lesson with a studded fist, a swift crack to her comfort and confidence. Paola does what she had not thought to do in the past. Even and measured steps take her to a coffee shop, with few patrons inside but at least two baristas to serve as her witnesses. She purchases a cup of coffee, something bitter to jolt her senses into complete awareness.

Taking small sips, Paola sits in front of the window and watches the road. Waiting for her demon to appear. Her monster. Her hunter, come to greet her from the shadows.

The face she sees surprises her. Their eyes are light, where Tiberius’ were dark. They walk with a gait of not the predator, but simple self-assuredness that exists only for itself. It is perhaps just as dangerous as Tiberius’ devouring rage. When the two make eye contact, Paola sets her cup down and does not look away. Once Regina is within hearing distance, Paola states plainly, “You’ve been following me.”

Regina rarely lost, especially not in this job. Death did not slip through their fingers so easily, lest it was to take hold of their hand. With that moment seeing Paola in the bar came this unfamiliar feeling of failure that sank further and further throughout their body. Feeling was rare for Regina, and frankly, they couldn’t stand how failure settled in their stomach, uncomfortable at every moment. They would need to take care of this, and Vivianne had given them just the assignment to do so.

If they were to find out something of note surrounding the image of Paola stark in their mind from that night, it would certainly begin to make up for the death that escaped them. Perhaps they could claim a life in the debt Paola owed them, but that was for another day. Information was just as good a currency as blood, and Regina couldn’t help but realize this sort of haunting espionage was something she’d missed from her days as a captain.

Montague territory was not unfamiliar to Regina. They’d often made trips to the library (less frequent now due to the growing tensions and hassle it took to get there) and generally never concerned themself with territorial lines. They were sure they’d even been to this very store before, though they can’t remember exactly. They find Paola already seated when they finally enter, having trailed her for a bit earlier but allowing her space so as to not grow suspicious. It didn’t quite work, they learn as Paola bluntly confronts them. Perhaps nearly killing her companion made it harder for them to be forgettable. “Do not flatter yourself. You’re not special enough to hold my attention.” Few people truly were, and yet here they were.

[reginadalys]

igagliano​:

Isabella resists the urge to snort, careful so as to not reveal their feelings in regards to what Regina says. An acquaintance, the bleeding woman says with a sort of terrible nonchalance that threatens to chill Isa to the bone. An acquaintance, Regina intones disinterestedly as though this is as common as a conversation about the weather. “Don’t you think it’s about time the two of you took it to the next step and became more than acquaintances?” the journalist jokes, though there’s merit behind their words; they want more than vague details, more than half-hearted responses. They yearn for names, for important details–the who’s, the what’s, the when’s, where’s, why’s, how’s–but Regina gives nothing.

If they have to pull, then so be it.

“Regina,” they start, “what’s the name of your acquaintance?” It’s a direct enough question, they hope, but the detachedness with which Regina speaks gives them reason to believe that she’ll find a way to blithely answer this, too. “Unlikely?” Softly, Isabella chuckles. It’s unlikely that an acquaintance would shoot her–but they let this point rest, deciding instead to focus on danger.  “Oddly enough, it seems that I’m a magnet for danger like this,” Isa says with a shrug of their shoulders. 

“What can I do to help you? Is there someone I can call?”

“I know nothing more than acquaintances,” Regina replies monotonously. It was almost true, though she didn’t care for the technicalities one could accuse her with. Yes, she knew family, and yes, she knew lovers, but Regina cared for them no more than she felt for any stranger she encountered. Everyone was the same in her mind, fleeting spirits waiting to leave their mortal vessels. Some were useful to her, and others, like Brielle, had become more of a nuisance the longer time went on. However, she did not care to unpack all of that, especially not in front of some strange person who asked for her time when she really would rather be licking her wounds in the comfort of her own home.

But Isabella pushes on, and obviously so, now. Digging would get them nowhere when she was already about to strike bedrock. “It’s unimportant,” she answered, because in her mind, it was. Brielle didn’t matter. Regina didn’t even consider herself to matter so much. A question tickles the back of her mind. She scratches the itch and asks, “Why do you care?” Regina certainly didn’t, and she was the one who had been attacked. Yet Isabella insisted on gaining this information when they were not clearly attached to the situation. Perhaps they wished to call the police, but Regina didn’t imagine such things necessary. “This city makes it impossible to avoid,” she shrugged.

“There is nothing you can do and no one you can call. I plan on returning home and feeding my cat and that is all of my night.” Regina lists such plans as if she hadn’t been involved in a brutal fight only minutes prior, as if her hand didn’t rest upon her torso in an attempt to comfort her aching rib. 

[reginadalys]

brutuskovrov​:

Regina Daly emerges from the shadowy abyss, cloaked in blue-black darkness, only the swinging warehouse lights to illuminate her. Her gun, equipped with a silencer, is still smoking.

Boris, very faintly, somewhere in the back of his head, thinks oh shit and then, for a moment after that, his mind blanks.

He’s usually good at talking his way out of things. Usually, of course, is the key word here. Every once in a while things come to a head, and a situation devolves into arguing, physical blows, gunfire. For some reason he’s not convinced he could move fast enough to get out of Regina Daly’s way. Looking at her face, for some reason, he immediately thinks of her sister, dark-haired and fury-eyed. In Regina Daly there is nothing: all void.

Regina is not quite familiar with Boris. Perhaps that will be her mistake, the reason he may walk out of here alive, but his presence had never made its way to her radar, especially not when her responsibilities in Verona had taken a pretty drastic increase recently. If she were to miss anything as a captain, though she much prefers being a spettro, it would be the ability to slough off jobs onto soldiers, giving her more time to haunt Verona as she thrived in doing. Now, much of her job still included haunting, but it mainly focused on a singular target, and thus she’d gathered more about Renata’s mannerisms and habits and had observed less of those like Boris who sought to intercept her. 

That would not happen, and Regina had made sure of it by shooting before her presence could be detected. She wasn’t quite sure just how observant Renata’s Montague companion was, and she didn’t care to find out if he was more astute than she’d like to give him credit for. Now, a woman was dead — correction, a woman was dying — at his feet, a show of how little she’d hesitate when death extended his hand to her. There’s satisfaction in the slow death, Regina thinks. It’s not the sort she’s actively involved with, gravity and oxygen and Renata’s own heart doing that slow, painful, silent killing, and that’s what makes it all the more pleasant as she glances down at the body. Renata is not special in death. Everyone closes their eyes the same, and the slowness of it, the quietness of it, brings a satisfaction to Regina. 

Her attention is brought, again, to the only other person in this room who is alive and well. Her eyes may have wandered for a moment, but the barrel of her gun remained pointed in his direction. He insists he was here to kill her too, and yet Regina does not see an obvious weapon on his person as her eyes scan her potential adversary. Then again, she figures a man who looks like that could easily kill someone with his bare hands, though she’s yet to decide if he’s the type of person to do so. Even those who wear masks, Regina’s learned, don’t pick the most complex masks to wear.

The offer to clean is very tempting, and she ponders it for a second before he continues to speak. He brings forth the fact that he would ignore all of this happening, and that, Regina certainly can’t believe. While she wasn’t sure if he was here to kill her and could even doubt his desire to clean the blood slowly spreading towards their feet, there’s something even less believable about this whole ordeal going unreported. “I don’t think I trust you to keep this quiet,” Regina states monotonously, weapon still not lowered. “I know the implications of what’s happened here.”

[reginadalys]

lamprius​:

He follows. 

Lamprius follows the woman who is a slave to her impulses, because Lamprius would be a fool to fight them. The Witch truly believes that, at the end of it all, most people will do what they want to do, no matter what the world tells them. He understands that just because you build a dam, a river will not stop existing. He sees the Montagues and the Capulets as two truths that will struggle to exist, and the concept of eradicating them completely from the city is a fool’s errand. People will always want more for themselves, will seek to build a greater legacy for their children and their names, will pursue love, seek fame, want power. They will continue existing, continue to be the river that flows, and all Lamprius can do is build a dam. There’s a memory that lingers in his mind, of a time he, Hecate, Medea, stand in a mansion on the outskirts of the city - a decrepit building that’s been dying more years than it’s been living - a moment in time where a motion is proposed and Lamprius raises his hand to cast a vote in favor of La Purga. He believes in his vote then, like he still believes in it now. This woman is going to do what she wants to do and find that roof. He might as well follow her and observe because casting true judgement. 

Besides… he knows this place has a roof. Ever since the night at the theater, lamprius doesn’t walk into any building in this city without knowing every way to get out. The stranger walks towards the back and he follows her - only to turn before he reaches the back of the room. There’s a hallway that sprouts off to the left, and he slips into it, making a sharp turn off course. Lamprius clears his throat so she knows he’s veering away, before stepping out of view. There’s a few unassuming doors in this thin strip of room, and the third one on the left opens up to a space no bigger than a closet. Inside, it has a ladder to the roof that goes up and up and up. It’s not quite the stairway Led Zeppelin sung about, but will do. Lamprius waits next to it patiently, till his new friend appears and then, ever the gentleman, he allows the other to go first.

Like mariners surfacing from a submarine they push onto the roof. Now in the cold night air, Lamprius takes a second to look up at the moon. He gestures, as if to say ‘there’s the object of your affections.’ He’s spent an evening speaking a language that is not his mother tongue, making war-time plans for a war that should have ended long ago. But now he he breathes in the night air and it sweeps him clean.

“If it’s inviting us in, I’m going to have to decline. Don’t mistake this for cowardice but… I love this city too much to leave it behind.”

Or even, watch it from above. It’s always been the way of the Witches, to look down on the chessboard, but Lamprius believes in setting himself at the center of the city. He looks to the other, gaze looking past the dark hair that falls into his eyes. He offers up a small smile. His hands, tempted to be the devil’s play things, go to his pockets. 

“But if you step through, write a letter back to me won’t you?”

Not unlike the letters he shared with Bellamy… and further back, the one she shared with Everett. Like a strange habit Lamprius begins to walk the perimeter of the roof, to get a good understanding of it and measure it with his footsteps. Just because he knew existed, doesn’t mean he’s ever stepped foot up here before. There isn’t a piece of the city that Hecate, Medea and Circe didn’t know by heart. Lamprius tries to get a little bit closer to that understanding every day.

“Do you dream of leaving Verona?” He asks, curiously.

Free will has always been stuck in a never-ending battle against reason, and Regina is not exempt from being a battlefield in this war. After all, they have wills and impulses like everyone else, though theirs may be of a harsher variety. Regina may feel the desire for blood, to feel the sensation only acquired when their hand is wrapped gingerly around the grip of their gun. But reason reminds them that they must wait for permission from the Capulets to pull the trigger, for insubordination will only see them further removed from the things they wish for. Yet, morality plays no role in this conflict. It is the same, to Regina, as an everyday person knowing they cannot abandon their responsibilities to take a spontaneous vacation, knowing their livelihood will be in jeopardy if they do. There is no moral conflict there, only a logical one, and the same conflict occupies Regina when it comes to the darker urges few others know as intimately as they do. Morality has no home in Verona, anyway. War, with logic on its side, have nearly run it out of the city completely.

Regina walked through the room, staring ahead most of the time. They know they’ll find what they’re looking for eventually, and no one seems to notice, or at least seems not to care, about the search they’re about to conduct. It seems they don’t have to look long, however, before the man following behind her slips sharply through the edge of their peripheral, a soft sound escaping his throat as a wordless signal to them that he knows more about this building than they had previously suspected of him. Regina easily turns to follow him down the corridor and to the waiting ladder. They suppose it’s adequate, though they would have preferred a normal set of stairs. But Regina did not care much about how this building decided to design its access points, and climbed soundlessly.

Their swift feet made easy contact with the rungs, and soon transferred themselves to the roof moments later when they emerged into the night. Lucien followed soon after, and his gaze easily found the obvious glowing moon, which Regina’s eyes found with little prompting from his gesture. “Do you suppose that if you step in, you’ll be unable to return, then?” Regina mused, their gaze not yet leaving the surface of the moon’s white glow. That’s the thing about doors, they supposed — some doors that opened remained open in both directions, allowing people to come and go, some were closed in both directions, and some would only open from one side, trapping people with the decision they’ve made. Death was the latter of the three, and while Regina had never stepped through that door themself, they’d been the doorman for many others before, and had grown familiar with the sensation of the doorknob beneath their palm. “That is if there is any post, where it leads.”

Do you dream of leaving Verona? For many, it may be a loaded question. For Regina, it is certainly not. “I don’t see such things when I close my eyes, though I know you speak figuratively. I have no dreams of the sort, regardless. I do not know where else in this world I am better suited to than Verona.” A pause. Regina suspects people only ask questions like this when they apply to themselves, in turn. “Do you itch to escape these views?”

[reginadalys]

lavolumnia​:

Spettri e Mietitori || ft. RD

‘I will, Donna,’ Regina agrees, and for all her cynicism about the Spettro’s abilities to weigh the odds of a social interaction, Vivianne relaxes. She may still retain some exasperated doubt as to Regina’s abilities in moments where such deft emotional intelligence is required — but there’s no doubting that, at the very least, the younger woman knows how to handle interactions with her direct superior. 

Regina doesn’t argue. And whether or not that’s because she simply doesn’t care to, is besides the point. The point is that the Capobastone does not abide excuse-riddled arguments. The point is that Regan doesn’t offer them.

Even if only for that reason, it’s been a productive symbiosis over the years.

“An organized effort?” Vivianne questions. It’s a bolder hypothesis than expected of the Spettro, who isn’t known for her imagination. If Regina’s crafted such a theory, it must be because she saw enough tangible evidence to point, almost exclusively, towards it. “It’s possible…” She muses, the gears in her mind turning numbly. The Capulet Spettri were a shadow threat to the Montagues. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility to think they’d created a new order within their own ranks to combat it. But Spettri worked solo; hitmen, lone wolves. Whatever coordinated effort Regina witnessed was obviously not intended simply to make a quiet kill. 

And, as is usually the case in warfare, an organized effort poses a much greater threat than single hitmen, when properly applied. Although she doubts the Montagues’ ability to apply it, the proposed existence of such a subunit poses an inevitable headache for the Capulet Underboss. ‘It’s a premise worth investigating,’ Regina points out and the older woman meets her gaze expressionlessly. 

“Then investigate it, Regan. Consider it your new assignment. Follow them, track their efforts, and remain unseen. Bring me evidence, details, suspects. Capito?” 

Imagination is for people whose hearts reject reality. Regina’s heart can more than handle the cold harshness it brings, but perhaps she should have been more creative in her youth, for now she finds reality oh so boring most of the time. It helps that her job is quite the break from the mundane nature of human life, but that only makes this moment prickle all the more, on account of losing that kill she’d been assigned. But it’s that lack of a knack for storytelling that makes her hypothesis all the more believable. After all, she’d had no affinity for making things up before, and what would be the use of doing so now? Besides, without practice, it would seem difficult for someone like her to speak those words with such conviction. No, the evidence presented before her had lead her to draw her own conclusions, which she presented to Vivianne as her career hangs in the balance.

Vivianne seems to at least entertain her suggestions, which is a pretty favorable outcome, all things considered. Regina, after all, had just failed after a near-immaculate record in all positions she’d held thus far. It was also her first time offering up what many would consider an excuse. Perhaps it was because of her track record and the surprising nature of her presenting failure to the Underboss that the excuse was considered as more than just that. She’d never given one before, so what would make now an exception other than the genuine possibility of threat within the speculation she gave?

Regina stood straight, arms at her sides. Emotion lacked in her body language, and yet she’d shown something of a hunger in her words, a desire, a regret. Things were changing. The void had been prodded in just the right way, and no one could tell what would impossibly emerge from this black hole. “I will,” she agreed immediately. “I will report anything I find. You will find no failure on my part again, Donna.”

[reginadalys]

The silencer is a satisfying presence in her hand when she first attaches it to her gun. It as if the width of the barrel is made for her grip, another extension of her gun which is, perhaps, another extension of her body. There’s something romantic about the way she holds her gun, a lover’s touch warmer than any skin had ever felt beneath her. And there’s something borderline intimate about the way her finger squeezes down upon the trigger, a silent form of vow to match the silent sound of the bullet leaving the chamber. 

The vow is buried deep within a target, and it is only then that Regina exhales with more emotion than some have ever seen from her — only, she’s hidden in the shadows, so no one truly sees.

There was an obvious need clawing at her as she watched the target, only now waiting for her to get into a suitable position to die. Regina didn’t care who it was she was with — it was there her typical apathy resurfaced — she only cared about the life she was ordered to take. She had failed the Capulets once before, but importantly, she had failed Death, his apprentice falling short when such things would never be sufficient. She had tasted blood in her mouth that night. She had tasted what she craved.

Wait, he now says. Regina had heard plenty of others beg for their lives; the sound was nothing new. And yet, he does not beg. He does not say a word beyond that, and she takes a step closer, still shadowed, to get a better look. He is not special for being before her gun. But his expression is amusing, and so, she entertains it for a moment.

“For what, exactly, am I supposed to wait for? I am not here to waste my time.” That much was apparent by the swiftness she took in shooting the woman who now lie in a sea of her own blood (and perhaps piss, she couldn’t be certain from this distance). Regina once thought she had plenty of time to spare, and now, Verona had made her worry that she may have been mistaken. But she would not hesitate. She would not allow opportunity to slip through her fingers again. If she must make up for it with another body, she would. Her gun remained pointed in Boris’s direction as she took another step closer, out of the shadows.

when: june 2nd, evening where: a warehouse, neutral territory status: closed for @reginadalys

He’s having a difficult week.

Well. Difficult might be an understatement, but this was supposed to be the cherry on top of the cake, something bright and shiny to talk himself out of a bad mood. This was supposed to be a victory, of a personal sort, both for the Montagues and for Boris, a way to eke himself back into the good graces of his kith slowly but surely.

Keep reading

[reginadalys]

lavolumnia​:

Spettri e Mietitori || ft. RD

“Va bene,” Vivianne concedes a little flatly, “There may not have been an opportunity this time, as you say - or perhaps not one you could see.” It’s permission for the discussion to roll along, even though cynicism has her suspicions leaning on the latter possibility. Although she knows Regina to be observant almost without equal, it takes someone with significantly greater social proficiency to accurately foretell an opening in conversation. “But next time, I want you to make doubly certain.”

Were it anyone but the Spettro standing before her, she may have attempted to drill the point home; demanded greater attention, greater emotional intelligence, even. But to spring the same demands on Regan, would be about as productive as if she tried to teach Bunny Du Pont the finer points of being politically indispensable.

In short? Unlikely in this lifetime.

“A code, calculation… What are you implying? Parla chiaramente, Regan.” Vivianne continues; speak clearly. She’s trying to find the red string in the labyrinth of the middle Daly’s mind. It isn’t like Regina to waste her words, which means every one of them offered here has a purpose, points to some suspicion she has yet to elucidate. “There’s always calculation where Montagues are involved - always, that is, barring the many times they act thoughtlessly, impulsively, stupidly - why do you feel that the calculation was different this time?” It wouldn’t be worth mentioning unless it was different, and the girl’s sparked a foreboding feeling in the Underboss.

She shifts in her desk chair, rolls back her shoulders. “Si, let’s investigate - but investigate what? What is it that your instincts are telling you?” It’s one last push, but even as the question drops from her tongue, Vivianne suspects it’s a lost endeavor.

Does Regina Daly even have instincts the kind of which could help right now?

And perhaps it was my only opportunity, Regina thought. They could not be certain, but if the Montagues had plans, and especially if they had any idea that Regina was targeting this man, they would not let him go so easily for Regina to finish the job. Part of the danger to Regina was their talent in observation; if there had been a better time to act, they would have. Or would they? They felt a hunger in a way they had never felt before. The stakes were raised, and they had become the predator, drool seeping from their jowls, refusing to let go of the prey their eyes had locked onto even when another predator interrupted them, a first for Regina. They would have their taste of blood next time. “I will, Donna,” they replied with a nod.

“I’m implying the Montagues may have a new organized effort, the likes of which we have never seen before,” they explain, their voice unmistkable. There is no doubt in their tone, though the evidence has not been gathered. If Vivianne needed a spy, Regina would do it without hesitation. But there was something about those moments that suggested to Regina that this was more than a coincidence. The Capulets had adapted to this war, and thus she was reborn as a spettro: why could the Montagues not evolve, as well? “At the very least, it’s a premise worth investigating." At the most, they do not say, it’s a threat worth preparing to encounter. 

“My instincts tell me the Montagues did not want to be left out of the innovation. Maybe they have created their own spettri, maybe not. If it is the answer to our new rank,” their new rank, “then the interruption of my business only makes it all the more incriminating.” Regina was not entirely correct, but the Montagues working together in the way that they witnessed and not just coincidentally happening to frequent the same dive bar (even just being in that bar was suspect on its own) did not strike them as a mere coincidence. If it had, it would have been already forgotten, and perhaps instead of looking at Vivianne with a slight ferocity in their gaze, their eyes may have been downcast.

[reginadalys]

igagliano​:

Isa wishes she’d come sooner. Regina has taken on someone who was able to leave them wincing and vulnerable to a prying reporter–but not vulnerable enough to so readily place blame. Even still, there’s an odd sense of satisfaction that washes over her as they gloss over her question in regards to their wellbeing. Isabella has been exposed to enough mafiosi to know that, if Regina was hurting enough, they’d have given at least some acknowledgement to their pain–they always do. And yet, the Capulet hardly winces, their tone lackluster and bored.

A fight, Regina says plainly, and Isabella Gagliano resists the urge to bristle at the early onset of tight-lipped, paltry excuses for answers. To muzzle herself, she takes a moment to drink in the scene with one of its actresses at her side. She sees shattered display cases, shards of glass; she sees tables broken in pieces, flipped upside. But more importantly, the bullet cases strewn haphazardly within and outside of the café are obvious signs, the smatters here and there of blood are just as prominent; any living being would have known that a fight occurred.

“A fight,” Izzy parrots in weary bewilderment, brown hues overlooking Regina’s frame once more as they shift uncomfortably. “A fight between who? Who would have done this to you, signora?” She sinks for her knees, careful to avoid the shards of glass. “I’m Izzy, by the way.” Izzy, not Isabella Gagliano. 

The more time passed, the more the adrenaline in her veins began to seep out, returning to the depths of the void once more, only daring to slither out again when blood was on the line once more. The results of the fight thus began to sink in. Pain began to bloom from a sharp ache in her side – a rib must have been bruised at best and broken at worst. The cuts and scrapes from fists and weapons and the unforgiving pavement began to sting under dirtied clothing, and red began to contrast pale white of what skin Regina had left exposed. Perhaps she would send Brielle her dry cleaning bill. Perhaps she would have disregarded all of this by the time she ever reached the cleaner’s. 

The woman beside Regina was certainly a curious one, she noted. Curious, for now. Regina had found in this line of business and in spending her life as a creature few ever truly knew that there was a fine line between curious and prying. The former had her craning her head to catch a better glimpse of what was going on behind a bustling storefront. The latter was often found in too many questions and a complete lack of subtlety, no matter how hard the inquisitor tried to hide their nature. Regina only knew this from so many years of others refusing to accept the answers in front of their face – she would be asked plenty of questions about her motivations or emotions, for others could not seem to be satisfied with the plain fact that she felt little and cared even less.

“An acquaintance,” Regina replied with a shrug, feeling the pain as her skin stretched over the injury at her ribs. “It is not the first time we have crossed paths. It will not be the last.” But it may be the last in which Regina bends to Brielle. She would ensure it next time they met. “Regina,” she answered plainly, looking over at the other woman. “It’s unlikely for someone like you to run towards this danger.”

[reginadalys]

lavolumnia​:

Spettri e Mietitori || ft. RD

There’s something morbidly fascinating about the Regina Daly that sits before her. 

Which isn’t saying much. Regina is nearly always morbid - what with that void-like stare that only lights up at the prospect of murder and the apathy that radiates out of her threatening to snuff out any emotion in its wake. Still, Regina is sometimes interesting to the Capobastone too… Much in the same way that it’s interesting to watch a toxic pool slowly choke the life from its marine inhabitants; all whilst knowing that one would never dip one’s feet into such poisoned waters.

In this case, what catches the Underboss’ curiosity is the strange balancing act she seems to strike between that characteristic indifference and something… Irritable? Starved? Covetous?… that this recent failure has apparently inspired within her. 

“Perdita…” Vivianne picks at the familiarity of the name with interest, eyeing Regan all the while. “Have you had any run-ins with her before? I can’t help but wonder whether you’d have been better able to succeed on task had you waited for a more profitable opening.” The Underboss points out, although her tone is pragmatic and devoid of anger. She wonders whether there’s any point in saying so at all; whether such social cues can even be picked up on by the Spettro poised before her — or whether she’d have about the same amount of luck trying to teach a lizard how to say grace. “Yes, your job’s the ultimate objective. But letting one window of opportunity pass in favour of a better one bears some kind of merit.”

Celia… Another Montague title seemingly determined to haunt her with unwanted tendrils of sympathy. “You say it was an organized ordeal… How can you be so sure? And to what end? If they sought to protect your intended target, there must’ve been something to be gained by it. If you’re so sure, give me a compelling theory, Regan.”

There’s a grumbling deep within Regina, and they know exactly what it is that calls within them. It is the darkness that took her little hand so long ago, who asked if there was vacancy and if it might stay a while. Regina knew it well, and for once, it was expressing it was not satisfied. Regina had always been passive, taking all the world gave them and making it what they desired deep down (if they truly could desire at all), but now they felt those hunger pains, and the beginning of a realization was dawning, though they could not recognize it just yet: apathy may no longer soothe this empty stomach.

“Not that I can recall,” Regina replied with a shake of the head. “I had already been spotted. I don’t believe there would be another profitable opening, not if the Montagues have learned we wanted this man dead. So I tried to act swiftly.” Even as Regina justified their actions, something they rarely felt the need to do, they still spoke in a monotone, passion lacking in their tone even as passivity began to fade. They didn’t mention the pain that pulsed from their side, the bruised rib putting them at a disadvantage that night. They didn’t use that as an excuse, for underneath their greed, Regina knew they acted swifter than they could have. They could have asked for more time, even if Vivianne wouldn’t have been pleased with that, either.

“Because they were not alone,” they answered, a different sort of seriousness overtaking their expression. “Perdita and Celia were together, and I saw a flash of faces I did not recognize. They had transportation. They spoke in code, which sounds to me like there was calculation. Whether or not it all went according to any plan, I cannot say.” They had never been bested like this, and frankly, Regina couldn’t imagine it was only the work of Paola, who had only recently joined the ranks, and Castora, who they’d had physical altercations with before. “Better to investigate than to be blindsided, is it not?” Their true thought was clear: better for you that the Capulets are only bested on my slight than suffer another great loss. Regina may have only been a mercenary, a lone agent in charge of none but themself, but their observant nature had not become lost in their promotion. Now, it was time to give it a purpose.

[reginadalys]

heloisem​:

Many deny Heloise of her desires, it’s true, but they all cave in the end. She poked and prodded at Tiberius until he surrendered, until he granted her permission to take a greedy bite from the poison tree. Castora, swatting her away like she was a buzzing fruit fly, only to tuck her under wing, to shelter her from the raging of the storm, albeit rather reluctantly. Even Calina, a woman full of fire, one who burns brighter than the sun, had not denied Heloise of her wishes in the end. Regina does not deny her, not entirely, but she doesn’t cave, not like all the others. She doesn’t know which is worse.

Yes.

It’s a simple response, one that she should’ve expected, but it’s enough to cause Heloise to stagger, enough for the chains that envelop her heart to tighten. She chokes on her tears and hardly notices when the paintbrush slips from her grip. It collides against the floor, copious amounts of yellow paint splattering her left cheek. Heloise blinks rapidly, tears blurring her vision as she takes a single step forward. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, wide-eyed and full of sorrow. Was she dropped on her head as an infant? Had her parents neglected her and left her out in the cold? That would explain the numbness that wilts away at their soul, at least.

“I don’t think I can accept that, Regina.” They’re an empty vessel, one that welcomes the darkness and fills it with a vicious hunger. The clear shadow of the moon. But the moon cannot exist without the sun and Heloise casts her own shadow and reflects her own beam of light. Regina has yet to deny her, but this feels like she’s being sent away. She takes another step forward, tear-stricken and full of despair, but determination still nestles itself between her ribs. Regina cannot dismiss her so easily. She won’t allow it. Not today.

“Perhaps it’s true. Maybe you don’t care for anyone,” Heloise acknowledges, “not even me, but I’m here and I care about you.” She takes another step forward. “I don’t know if you’re too frightened to care, or if you’re not able to, but you cannot turn me away.” It isn’t a demand, it’s a plea. “Please don’t turn me away.” She looks into Regina’s eyes as silence pierces the room, and the tears continue to stream. Heloise takes Regina’s hand and places it over her heart. It pulses an erratic beat, rapid and unsteady. “You have to be gentle with people’s hearts, you have to hold them close, because it can all disappear at a moment’s notice.”

Heloise’s eyes hold a great amount of sympathy as she peers at Regina, their hand still cradled against her heart. “I know you say you don’t care, I know that, but…” She blinks back tears while shaking her head back and forth. “I care enough for the both of us.”

mentioned: @tcapulets· @ofcastora· @cleosokolova·

“Well you truly have no choice but to.” Regina is the darkness, tried and true. She is not some swirling vortex, whose shape may change depending on what the situation calls for. She is a snake, readily apparent. Perhaps she may not appear as harmful as the other vipers of Verona, but that is her specialty, for the venom in her fangs is all the more deadly. Regardless, a snake is still a snake. You cannot deny its scales and beady eyes and sharp teeth simply because you wished it was less deadly. It is her nature, and she has never been one to defy it, for as much as she became a home for this darkness, she had also made a home of it. It did not scare her. They were one. Heloise would be wise to learn this, but Regina has seen few people in Verona wise up to such a fact, and she didn’t exactly bother to make them.

She’s not quite sure why Heloise would care about her. For all Regina had observed about the world, there were often may why’s that were missing. She could understand why her family claimed to care about her — they were related, and some feel there is a responsibility that comes with shared blood, though Regina does not. She could even understand why some Capulets appeared to care, even in a different way — she was an asset to them, and the loss of her could mean a loss of security, plain and simple. That was the easiest to understand, these transactions that weighed her as a benefit or a cost. The emotional labor Heloise put into caring for a being that could not do so in return and never had since the moment they’d met was lost on Regina. Still, she did not send Heloise away like she begged against doing. “I don’t have to do anything. The hearts of others are not my responsibility. That is their own, and if they decide to give it away so easily, they assume the risks.” It was as if she offered a waiver, one reminding Heloise she was not liable for any damage that ensued. Heloise chose to care about Regina. Regina never chose to be cared for.

“Then go ahead and do that,” Regina answered with a shrug. “I am doing nothing to stop you.” One can assume it’s because she simply didn’t care to. Perhaps that was the case, or perhaps there was something hidden there.

[reginadalys]

lavolumnia​:

Spettri e Mietitori || ft. RD

Date: May 30th, 2019. Time: Mid Morning. Place: Office of the Capobastone. Availability: Closed to @reginadalys​​

Vivianne cocks a single brow. Silence reigns companionably in the office.

Well, as companionably as possible between Underboss and Void-turned-Assassin. She spares another glance for the report lying on her desk; written succinctly in Regina’s very Regina-esque manner. But if the paperwork sheds little light on what went so spectacularly wrong on this mission for a girl who’s largely a stranger to professional failure, then Regina’s facial expression offers even less insight.

“Tell me again what happened. I prefer hearing it from your lips.”

She doesn’t, really. Regan makes for an uninspiring narrator at best — downright dull, at worst, and yet this time, Vivianne’s curious. She should be annoyed at the failure of yet another Capulet endeavor, but her professional feelings on that count are mollified by a much more personal intrigue as to whether it bothers Regan at all. 

Success or failure. Failure or success. 

She still remembers the very rare smile she’d witnessed when promoting the girl to Spettro, but she doesn’t know whether that had anything to do with success, with ambition per se — or whether it was merely the very rudimentary satisfaction that Regina felt in ascending to a position that meant less cooperation and more solo dances with a very exclusive set of weapons. After-all, the middle Daly girl has always had a morbid taste in instruments to kill.

“Dimmi, ti ascolto.” Go on, I’m listening.

Failure is not something that is associated often with Regina’s name, if it ever is. The spettro had built a reputation for themself on silent success, rising through the ranks without having to demand the favor she got from those higher up. Slipping poison was easy, pulling out her gun was even easier. The people in the files their eyes were privy to always turned up dead in days — all, now, except for one.

It was inevitable that Vivianne would call them here after that night’s proceedings. Regina was not surprised by the request, nor did anxiety fill her as she approached the Capobastone’s office. They sit with ease, their limbs lacking any nervous bounce others might acquire when in the intimidating presence of Vivianne Sloane.

“I was at the bar the target was expected to visit, which he did. However, he was unexpectedly with a Montague — the one called Perdita, to be specific. I wasn’t sure what she wanted with him, but I thought completing the assignment was more important.” Regina spoke of murder so clinically, as if it were another thing on their laundry list. “However, somehow, they’d anticipated my presence — or the presence of some obstacle, if they did not know specifically that I was assigned to this target.” It was all speculation, of course, but the thought had surprisingly stayed itching in Regina’s mind since that day: someone had gotten word that this man had too much knowledge. Someone had gotten word that the Capulets wanted him gone. Someone may have even gotten word that it was Regina who was assigned to take him out. The question was: how? 

“They had Celia waiting to attack. Because of this, I was unable to get to the mark, and he left with Perdita. It was an organized ordeal from them.” While their expression remained neutral when they said that, there was a flash of something more underneath, something rare. Regina might not have even had the words to describe it, but it was almost angry in nature, perhaps more hungry than anything else. It was thus: the Montagues had stolen the pleasure of the kill from Regina, and they craved it still. They had some sort of organized front, something new, something to keep an eye on — something to destroy. The beginnings of something that looked opposite of apathy simmered. The transparent steam rose in green curls of jealousy.

[reginadalys]

heloisem​:

Heloise stifles a yawn as her eyes swim with tears. She shakes her head rapidly, a weak attempt  to rid herself of the tiredness that eats away at her bones. In truth, Heloise believes her little project is well-timed. It’s quite unfortunate, but she has little else to busy herself with. At least nothing to occupy a mind as ardent as hers, one that fills itself with sweet reveries and thunders of passion.

When she’s with Regina, she digs and digs, until the hole is deep enough for her to climb through and investigate. So Heloise stands here, paintbrush in hand, and refuses to mull over the night of restless sleep that is sure to come. But here, the night terrors can’t seize her, the rippling of the waves can’t surge over the surface and swallow her whole.

When she does allow herself to submerge into a deep sleep, all she sees is a vicious crimson sea, a fathomless river of warmth, one that clings to her body like second skin, wet and sticky. It’s a struggle to rid herself of the tar, to scrub herself clean, to douse herself in an endless amount of bleach, but she’s uncertain if the imprint that holds her mind captive will cease as well.

“Isn’t there anyone else you’re eager to torment?” Her words are soft and gentle, but her cheeks do not flush a delicate pink and she does not shy away. “Do you enjoy hurting those around you? Do you do it just because you can?” Genuine curiosity weaves itself through her words. It is not an attack, nor is it an accusation, but Heloise wonders if she’s encroaching upon dangerous territory now. “If it were me, would you pull the trigger?” 

Regina doesn’t think much of Heloise’s reaction, or rather, they don’t feign concern for the tears that well up in her eyes if they happen to be of any substance. They simply sit there and watch with indifference as the girl works, as the colors of their walls begin to change. Heloise attempts to cast a light into the darkness, be it with the paint she rolls into the wall or some cheerful and curious disposition that Regina so easily brushes off. But the darkness is home within Regina as much as Regina is home within it, and there are simply some places where light cannot reach.

“I’m not eager to do torment anyone in particular,” Regina states flatly. They wouldn’t exactly call their penchant for violence an eager beast, as nothing about them is ever truly eager. Perhaps there is excitation as they lie in wait to strike their mark, but nothing rushes their hand, nothing hastens the weight of their finger upon the trigger. They will get the blood they crave in time, and so, they are patient with it. Plus, their version of torment is likely different than that for most, on the basis of the types of death Regina prefers to bring. “Yes.” They enjoyed it. They thrived in it. “Why I do it is context dependent.” They harm because it’s easy, convenient, there for the taking. They harm because they know if they don’t strike first, they could easily be harmed instead. They harm because they are told to. They harm because they are good at it. They harm because they like it.

If it were me, would you pull the trigger? To most, this would be a loaded question. It would be one answered with frantic denial and assurance that Heloise was safe. But Regina is not most. Their answer is simple. “Yes.”

[reginadalys]

isabellagagliano​:

date: 15 may 2019 location: the phoenix and the turtle cafe status: closed to @reginadalys

The Phoenix and the Turtle is an unexpected hit. Isabella has spent most of her evening working on articles and absentmindedly listening to police scanners, attention all but snatched as chatter about attacks near the Cathedral and Twelfth Night spurs her to action. She listens devoutly as she gathers her belongings and stuffs them in a purse. Her knife remains sheathed against her hip.

She can never be over-prepared when walking into mob dealings, after all.

Isa drives, running through the list of Capulet-aligned territories: Measure by Measure, the Cathedral, the museum, the Phoenix and the Turtle. Were she a betting woman, she’d have assumed the Montagues would vie for a warehouse or something far more profitable than a cozy cafe in the heart of Cosimo’s domain—but she pulls up to the cafe anyway having heard that both the Dark Lady and Multisala Rivoli were terse but unharmed, so far as the police were concerned. Adrenaline roars in her ears as she takes in the scene.

She knows, without a doubt, she’s just missed a pivotal moment in the war. Smoke pours idly from the cafe, bulletholes striking the windows and leaving them irreparably cracked in their wake. There’s blood on the streets and, without so much as a second thought, Isabella ventures deeper into the lion’s den while everyone else clamors away.

It’s Regina who catches her attention—Regan, Capulet-aligned and assuredly reeling after the loss of the beloved cafe. She thinks back to the Anniversary, to the pride with which the Capulets buzzed; now they’re left to pick up the pieces shattered in the wake of the Montagues. She hopes the Daly woman will be easier to deal with than emissaries, that she’ll slip up and divulge some information that should never grace la justicia’s ears, if it should remain hidden. Isa exits the car, steps leading her to Regina.

“Dios mío,” Isa breathes, brown hues skimming Regina just barely; there’s blood, but not enough to warrant immense worry and call for the immediate contact between person and hospital. Good, she thinks. It makes her feel less bad for the way in which she intends to spin Regan in a web of double-ended questions to force out answers. “Are you okay?” the journalist asks, voice wavering as though she’s a common Veronesi that’s not yet seen the atrocities caused by the warring families. “You’re hurt! What happened?”

This was not how Regina expected her night to go. They hadn’t been expecting the call of Cosimo to rouse them from their evening just to send them to Phoenix and the Turtle, for one. It seemed like a paranoid move, in their opinion, that this cafe of all places had to be guarded with so many Capulets — after all, it was a cafe. It did not have the same physical power of Measure by Measure or the same symbolism of the Cathedral. That didn’t mean they didn’t put on their boots, pocket their blade and holster their gun, and head to the assigned location, of course. They would do as they were told, and when little happened, they would help themself to whatever pastries were just going to be thrown away at the end of the night, anyways.

But that didn’t happen, either. For reasons beyond Regina, the Montagues had targeted the cafe, marching on its small storefront. And again, incorrectly Regina saw it as a mere minor inconvenience, a battle easily won, especially as they locked eyes with Brielle. They had bested the Montague before and they would best her again, and the smell of Brielle’s blood in the air would be just as sweet as the last time, and the time before that. The weight of her knife felt sturdy in their hand, and it stayed loyal to their side as they stayed loyal to the Capulets, engaging in battle that resulted in the breaking of a display case and the toppling of many, many tables.

Forced outside, Regina only figured it would be a better sight to see Brielle’s blood shine in the moonlight. But again, the unexpected tapped Regina upon the shoulder, taking their place in their dance with Death. Excused from the waltz, Regina’s attention was drawn towards Alva, and it was then the battle was lost. Blows exchanged before bodies ran into the distance, and Regina craved nothing but their blood as they laid upon the stone, their side aching something awful. The lark wouldn’t sing much longer. The soldier wouldn’t march much further. At least, once the time came.

Regina let out a pained grunt as they attempted to right themself, not wishing to stay in the area should more trouble arise. They’re only up upon scraped elbows when a voice calls out to them, concern wavering in the air. They do not need someone to be concerned for them. They have survived worse and they will survive this moment. Still, they feel the ache in their side as they inhale, and know they do not have it in them to shoo Isabella off tonight. “A fight,” they answer simply, looking up at her.

[reginadalys]

some more hayley love! you have been such a warm and welcoming presence in this group. every time we talk I am so thrilled to hear little snippets of your life and bounce plot ideas off you that I know you’re going to take and make 10 times better just because that’s how your brain works. you’re such an intense creative force and I’m awed by all that you do

[reginadalys]

[reginadalys]

you are genuinely one-of-a-kind. there are so few people who are as well-rounded as you are! lovable, kind, thoughtful, welcoming, inclusive, a great plotter and a superb writer (both at just writing and ALSO at developing characters in a realistic and nuanced way)... you're just an ace of spades and brighten up every space you're in!