#priam taravella

[ofcastora]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LIZ!

All affluent in yellow, bought and sold By Kings that hammer roses into gold: I did not know I loved their warring thorns Until they flowered into spikes so hard My blood made obdurate the rose’s stem.  My God was generous! O much too much! The nearest rose is now beyond my reach.                                       ( King Midas by Howard Moss )

@priam-taravella​

[diveronarpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with PRIAM TARAVELLA, who is TWENTY-SIX years old. He is often called PARIS by the CAPULETS and works as their EMISSARY. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

Verona was a city as coveted for its opulence as it was glorified for its legacy. Every street seemed to bear the mark of history and every window seemed to bear the phantom sigh of a dreamer who had once gazed through it. It vigorously preserved any greatness birthed within it but it just as vigorously SHUNNED those who bore the mark of mediocrity. Priam Taravella bore no such mark but he never aspired to shine alongside the brightest stars in the Veronan skyline. And so, he might as well have carried the brand of normalcy that left so many people ostracized and rejected in a city of such glory. He had been born a prince and yet he was meant to carry a HEAVY, ill-fitting crown. However, one could not perceive a skewed crown when it was balanced atop a steady, poised head and Priam, ever the opportunist, flourished under the guise of that illusion but the core of his being never changed, merely CAMOUFLAGED itself. As a child, when he didn’t like something he didn’t do it and although that rigidity carried over into his adulthood, Priam learned to soften it in his own ways. Now, his dislike would be expressed with merely an elegant snort to undermine your argument and an idle wave of his hand as though your presence was nothing more than a hindrance. However, it had taken a lot for him to learn the value of pretenses; unlike the grey-tinted world in which he now thrived, the world in which he struggled as a child was starkly black and white.

He grew into a man of shifting skins; of clashing motives and ambivalent actions but one thing remained constant throughout his metamorphosis, locked away from prying eyes and prowling beasts alike—his VOID. A byproduct of the environment he had grown up in. Suffocated by an unsentimental, work-oriented family, Priam was an anomaly of a child with his deeply-carved scowls and his tendency to wander. His eyes were never trained on the sky; instead, they lingered on the earth; on what’s attainable and in reach, constantly scanning for a place where he could truly belong. For all their attempts, his parents could never instill the notion of ambition and greatness in their son and as he was the sole heir to the Taravella name, they grew disappointed in the prospect of him taking over the family business. Priam was too stubborn to adapt but he was too stubborn to bear his throat to the world that set on casting him astray, either. So he grew and he built himself anew, burying the hollow core of his being underneath fervent smoke and elegant mirrors. But just because he could glance at the specter of his reflection and recognize it as himself didn’t make it any less of a pretense; a LIE shrouded by his perfect image and dazzling smile. If he looked closer, he would find hairline cracks in the projection and a skewed tilt to the smile for that was all Priam Taravella grew to be—a FABRICATION birthed from Verona’s apathy and arranged by influence of his own emptiness.

Regardless, he would stand tall and say that he was a fabrication that had PURPOSE, if nothing else. As loveless and detached as his relationship with his family was, they saw potential in the man he had become and in turn, Priam saw potential in himself.  He took the initiative and started running the Taravella corporation; although his family might as well have been a pack of strangers, the Taravella name meant something to him. Perhaps because it was the only part of his identity that was TRUE or perhaps because it carried a sense of belonging with it. It gave him direction and for the longest time, it was enough. Until it wasn’t. Life had turned into a blur of days and and the purpose he believed he had found proved to be nothing more than another convenient illusion to mask the hollowness that continued to surge within him, always screaming—feed me, fill me up. Until the moment where Priam finally answered its howling call. He came to the pitiful conclusion that he couldn’t lose what he didn’t build; couldn’t destroy what he never had. But on the tail of it came another conclusion: he would not turn into a man who had nothing to lose. He would not allow himself to be DISHONORED that way. And so, with the same vigor with which he cast away the throne that had been built for him, Priam left to build his own and he knew he would only find the tools in the Capulet fold.

The board was wiped clean and Priam re-arranged his pieces flawlessly. In no time, he was able to claim his self-made throne as a Capulet emissary. But this new world he had submerged himself in was starting to prove that he may have picked a WINDING path on his search for purpose. The smoke of war is bellowing on its horizon but Priam continues to walk it the same way he walks the glorious yet unforgiving streets of Verona; with shrewd disregard, elegant cunning and the same brand of RIGIDITY that brought him this far down the road. Only time will tell if he should have picked the one less traveled. After all, isn’t that what all wanderers do?

JULIANA CAPULET: Betrothed. She’s seen beneath his armor just as Priam has seen beneath hers and for that reason, Juliana has always been more than a mere childhood friend to him. As children, she had been the only person to accept him rather than shun him. He only felt like he belonged when he was with her. Even now, despite how differently they’ve both matured and how radically their circumstances have changed, he still feels like he belongs when he is around her. That’s why it didn’t feel like a bitter obligation he had to mold himself around when Cosimo Capulet had approached him with the prospect of marriage for the two of them. If anything, it has made Priam feel less alone. But that was yet another truth to be hidden and shielded from prying eyes.

RAFAELLA CAPULET: Confidante. Perhaps it is because both of them have clawed and bled for their positions in life. When like finds like, it is difficult to pass judgement when different hands have committed the same sins. Originally, he had gone to her in order to vet his acceptance but when the two of them had met it became a lot more than they bargained for. Abandonment, disappointment, then the birth of ambition. But what had initially started as a means for him to move up in the Capulet ranks became a substantial relationship that benefited the both of them. No one quite understands the pain of power-climbing quite like another who is determined to sit on the throne. Although neither of them is quite ready to admit it, there will come a time when both of them will decide who wears that crown.

CASTORA AGUILAR: Enemy.  She thinks herself something to be reckoned with, a storm that calls for the sea to rise and waves to crash. But little does she know that she is nothing more than a drizzle of rain, cold and annoying yet nothing to be feared. To exchange words with her gives him a vindictive kind of pleasure, because she reminds him of everything that he hates about his parents and more. Like his parents, she ridicules any form of affection, she looks down on everyone as her lesser, and, moreover, she considers herself his intellectual equal. To goad Castora is to goad the Virgin Mary to sin – and who wouldn’t derive a particular type of pleasure from that?

BORIS KOVROV: Hatred. Priam used to believe that he has no capacity for hatred—until he met Boris. He doesn’t know enough about the man to pinpoint the cause for the resentment that simmers within him whenever they cross paths but he’s seen what Boris can do. And he believes that Kovrov’s actions are a testament to who he is; a man bare of loyalty or any principles driving his actions forward. Priam knows that his conclusions could be completely baseless but the experience he’s gained as an emissary and everything he’s seen while working for the Capulets has made him trust in the frame of reference supporting his conclusion that Kovrov is nothing more than a treacherous beast. And it’s made him rigid in his disgust towards the man. Verona’s underworld has made him apathetic towards most things but he has no tolerance for men without honor.

Priam is portrayed by SEAN TEALE and was written by JEN. He is currently TAKEN by LIZ.

[orpheus-vault-blog]

⁇ ✿ % ♀

⁇ for a DRUNK text.

sent to PRIAM at 00:36 — I told you you couldn’t out-drink me.

sent to PRIAM at 00:36 — L oser.

sent to PRIAM at 00:36 — While you’re busy throwing up I’m going to fight these three fukcers.

sent to PRIAM at 00:36 — I’mgonna fight 3 people without you. Ha.

✿ for a SUGGESTIVE text. 

sent to PRIAM at 22:47 — That brunette has been ogling you for three minutes now, and staring into that beer isn’t going to help.

sent to PRIAM at 22:48 — I could help smooth things along, if you like. If you’re not feeling… up to it yourself.

% for a CURIOUS text.

sent to PRIAM at 12:19 — That’s the third time I’ve seen you at the Grifone in as many weeks, peeping into our little basement enterprise.

sent to PRIAM at 12:20 — Will you ever pluck up the courage to step into the ring yourself? Or does it turn you on just to watch?

♀ for a HEARTBREAKING text. 

sent to PRIAM at 07:52 — I will never say this to you again, and if you have any brains these messages will disappear as soon as you read them.

sent to PRIAM at 07:53 — I’m sorry. About Rafaella.

[…]

sent to PRIAM at 07:59 — She deserved a better end.

[priam-taravella]

Date: May 21st Time: Late afternoon Place: Some upscale restaurant in Verona Status: Open to all

The purple hues of the evening had painted Verona as a more presentable version of itself – like a morticians hand applying make-up on a corpse. The city had been just as morbid lately, the street gutters carrying to blood of the those gone far too soon.

Still, through all gore and violence the beauty of Verona shone through.

Priam never thought himself bound to something as trivial as homesickness, but even he had to admin there was a special feeling penetrating his soul after a long period of absence. For a past few months, he’d been based in New York, opening up a new office – and strengthening some of the old Capulet contacts overseas at the same time.

After a quick catch-up with Juliana, Priam sat at one of Verona’s finest, upscale restaurants, head buried in a latest status report he needed to sign off on, when the noise from a neighbouring table grabbed his attention. They were Montagues, no doubt, Priam had seen them before – certainly hadn’t bothered to remember names, though. In hindsight, choosing a restaurant on a heavily Montague populated are was uncharacteristically reckless of Taravella, but the restaurant served the best damn oysters in the city and he wouldn’t let Montagues deprive him of the pleasure.

Hell, maybe he’d even buy this restaurant on his way out.

“Do you mind keeping it down?” He addressed the group with an eye roll, “Whilst I know being civil is too much to ask from the likes of you, at least try to act like you weren’t raised on a hyena farm. My ears are sensitive to so much idiocy.”

[tomassabello]

🎬Troilus & Paris, Scene I

Date: May 18th, 2019. Time: Early Evening. Place: Restaurant in Neutral Territory. Availability: Closed to @priam-taravella​​​

It’s a basic truth of life that whatever one went out of their way to avoid, they would inevitably encounter at some point down the line. It’s a tenant of Murphy’s Law, and after two months of ardently hoping he’d never cross paths with Juliana’s fiancé, Priam Taravella is sitting here, three tables away from him in the same somewhat pretentious and overly-pricey restaurant. Of course, his bad luck doesn’t end there. The Capulet sees him too, giving a brief wave just as Tomas goes to look away - and, when the actor’s company excuses themselves to take a call outside - strolls over to greet him with a brilliant smile that only succeeds in setting him on edge. 

“Signor Taravella... Buonasera.” He greets Verona’s so-called Prince, making use of every acting muscle in his body to keep his tone polite and aloof. Comfortable. 

“I’d invite you to my table, but unfortunately as you see every chair’s taken.” Blessedly, the actor thinks, casting an eye over the two seats belonging to the couple he’s entertaining for dinner. Old friends from Rome who we currently taking a call from their son’s babysitter outdoors. Unknowingly leaving Tomas in the hot seat. 

“I do hope you’re enjoying your meal, maybe we can chat another time.” An unmistakable hint, the reluctant celebrity hopes, aiming to conclude any possible conversation before it’s even had the chance to begin.

[maskrvde-blog]

SEPTEMBER 20TH, 11:11 AT NIGHT

castelvecchio bridge

@justtotallystab

priam taravella leans forward against the stone railing, tilting his head just enough so that he could see the water below him. his mouth twists against his cheek into something like is-this-all-that-there-is, something that makes his normally refined motions retain an edge of rawness, and it’s enough to brand the concept of threat into the slope of his shoulders.

he idly dips his fingers into the pocket of his coat, retrieving an engraved lighter and flipping it around in his hands for a bit as he toys with the notion of a smoke. his thumb repeatedly flicks the wheel and a flare of heat catches at his fingers as he caves after a few heartbeats, lifting a cigarette to his lips.

smoke curls from his mouth and rises into the starless sky as he breathes out, bracing his forearms against the blessed cold of the bridge. the ember of his cigarette is the only light at this time before it, too, dies down. they say, a stray thought that flits across his mind, that wishes come true at 11:11.

they also say—here, his mouth slants into something mocking around his cig—that priam taravella is a good man.

he hears footsteps emerging from the other side of no man’s land, and his grin can’t help but to grow. too much teeth for his expression, right now, and he forces himself to redon the guise of humanity before the footsteps draw too close.

ah. how wonderful, as the dim light falls upon the silhouette of the most beloved man in verona. something in him sneers, vicious and cold, though he turns his head in a rather perfunctory manner, shoulders relaxed and mouth tilted into a roguish grin.

‘ out for a stroll, kovrov? ’ as though everything in him isn’t screaming for him to bare his teeth, as though his every movement wasn’t carefully calculated to reduce the ways men could call him a threat.

the moonlight—strange how the clouds have vanished—pools in the hollows of his eyes and falls across his frame like a tattered silver veil as he raises a hand in greeting, flicking the cigarette down—it’s not finished yet, hardly half-smoked, but he knows that if the other man comes closer, it’d take a huge amount of willpower for him not to lunge like something half-wild and burn the other man’s face away—and he’s smiling.

it’s a lovely smile, all charm and dark eyes set alight with pleasant surprise. ‘ what brings you out here, in the middle of the night? ’

[sonoilbastardo]

a chaos of his own setting: northern grove a bit before the dome crashes down, and then later at the cathedral, the capulet headquarters. 27 august 2018.  featuring: @ttitaness

The raging fire that burned the dome matched the one inside his heart, a consequence of having to bring Juliana to her fiancée. He absolutely didn't want to, but apparently, he had to. 'She'd be safe with him', they say. And yet why was it Easton who was able to come to her aid when she needed it most? His only consolation was seeing Priam Taravella's ruined face. He knew a Montague would have been responsible for it, but he was dying to shake the hand of the man who beat up the rich prick, and then he himself would bash the motherfucker's face in.     Disgruntled, he stood around aimlessly, watching everything unfold before him. He saw his earlier playmate now in the hands of the very capable Lucrezia Falco, and he wanted to join back in. Except he caught a glimpse of a much greater prize: Celeste fucking Duval. And not just that, Celeste with a bruised cheek, left alone. This second part of the witches' party is the true venue for revelry, he mused. Fire, chaos, blood and bruises – everything that Easton loved – all in one place. And now, as if God himself was granting him his deepest, darkest desires, he even added Celeste to the list.     He wasted no time closing the distance between them, a predator lunging straight for his prey – but Easton is one of those who liked to play with their food, so putting an end to her life is not the intent. It won't be fun to just kill her. There's so much more he could (and they all could, Capulets included, Easton is willing to share) with her if he just took her away and caged her.     With a malevolent glint in his eyes, he jumped at her, hands instantly closing around her throat and choking her. He had expected she’d struggle against him, and he shoved her down, choking her again, straddling her midriff, putting his entire weight down on her. He avoided her clawing hands – so far he has survived this night with no scratches on his face, he wasn’t about to change that now. This little game was getting too fucking long, and Easton decided it was time to make Celeste see stars and then make her fall into the dark void. Holding her down with all the force he had on his left arm, a huge swing of his left delivered a heavy blow to her left temple, effectively knocking her out. Easton shattered an empty wine bottle and used it to rip apart his cape and turning shreds into makeshift ropes he could tie Celeste’s unconscious form with. He tied her hands up together, blindfolded and gagged her. Hoisting her up unto his back, he slipped away from the fires and the fighting. A piece of him resented that he’d miss all the fun here, but the weight on his back reminded him why this was so much better. Reaching his car, he dumped her into the passenger seat, and drove off towards the headquarters, leaving the chaos behind, to start a chaos of his own. Easton placed her where the priests live, dumped her unconscious body in the middle of the small, empty courtyard, and waited for her to stir. He could feel the vibration of his phone against his pocket, no doubt the texts and calls from the Capulets who might have seen him steel away with Celeste. He ignored them all, and instead stared at her, millions of thoughts running through his mind, too damn many that it was difficult to make sense of anything. One thing was certain, though: Easton has never felt happier in his life than he does in this moment, sitting patiently and waiting until the first rustle of movement from her. He sat up, and called out to her when she finally did, looking up from his quiet contemplation.                                                                                            “Rise and shine, signora Duval.” 

[leaguerpg]

phone meme (@priamtaravella​)  

your muse’s name in my phone

aside from a brief stint as ‘poes’ (p***y), kai’s name for priam alternates between ‘principe’ (prince) and ‘pagliacci’ (clown).  there’s nothing really mean-spirited about it; it’s just that priam has never really been vulnerable to kai’s charm and kai has never truly seen what the capulets see in him. 

he’s a buzzkill, a stick-in-the-mud and-- who is kai kidding? priam is perfect and it’s fine. kai is fine. priam is solid, dependable, respectable. in this time and age, that’s more than anyone could expect.

your muse’s caller id picture :

honestly, actual-male-model priam taravella is hard man to catch off-guard. kai makes it a point of subtly taking pictures of him in awkward positions on the rare occasions they work together, just to have proof that priam is human. 

your muse’s ringtone in my phone :

the boys are back in town - thin lizzy

nothing about this song fits priam and kai takes a sort of pleasure in that. it makes him laugh to think of priam outside of the professionalism he wears during their work. it seems out-of-place and yet, intriguing.

anyways, what’s a better song for two oncoming kings and their fickle fickle hearts? verona best watch out for these hungry boys, bc they’re not gna settle for scraps

last texts :

(unsent) > i don’t get you (unsent) > i really don’t (unsent) >  don’t you know you’re not the only one in this world who has ever lost something before (unsent) > you haven’t wanted anything enough. all you did was work a little and now you think you deserve the world. and you don’t. you don’t. you don’t.

(unsent) > i wish i knew you better. maybe then i would understand. 

[valentina-rising]

Birthday

SEND ME A “BIRTHDAY” AND I’LL WRITE A DRABBLE ABOUT THEM SPENDING THEIR FIRST BIRTHDAY TOGETHER

it had seemed like a good idea in the briefest of moments.

Not that she knew much of birthdays. She and her brother celebrated together in their own way, quiet and private and a reminder of who she had in this world, who mattered. 

But surely he had people who’d showered him with reminders of his worth, his importance.

So why was she here? Why had he come when she called? 

             So.

“stop reading into it, Taravella. Blow out the damn candle.” 

Despite the strain of the days and the set of her shoulders, her eyes were nothing but bright as she gestured to the cupcake between them, perched on a plate. The rooftop was a new one for them, the top of Montague headquarters. Another reminder of just how much the world had turned on it’s head.

“No one knows we’re up here. I’m better than that. You’re better than that. Plus what can they say? We’re all supposed to be playing nice until this truce ends with another murder.”

The almost surprise on his face amused her more than anything, her plan as easy as grabbing the pastry after hearing an off-handed mention of the date from one of his people. It felt easy, simple. A moment of normalcy. 

“I’m not really big on birthday formalities so singing is out though. Plus, consider it a present that I don’t try.”

She turned back to the horizon, the sun having set and the soft shades of purple looming through the clouds as dusk settled upon them. A peaceful time, if there was one.

Valentina heard him move then, only a few moments before he stood next to her. Gazes set outward, her eyes flickered to him and back.  She could joke about making it this far, hoping he’d see the next one, hoping she’d be around to see him blow out another candle. So many things she could say. Did they matter anymore?

“…Happy Birthday, Priam.”

[castora-aguilar-blog]

Adronitis

It’s a skill, how they always find each other at their worst. Bloodied and bruised, and in no mood to battle wits. Bored, restless, and just waiting to snap at someone. Lonely, too, but that’s rarer. Insecure - now that’s when they smell blood in the water. Priam and Castora don’t even have to try to find each other. 

It’s exhausting, having an enemy - no one mentioned that. And unexpectedly annoying. And petty. She’s certain that’s just them though - who else but they would avoid using each other’s names for a year, until they exhausted every creative nickname they could think of.

( Tarantula, rabbit, cazzo, piccola, gigante, and on and on and on. )

It’s Mother’s Day, and hot, and she’s -- more than frustrated. She’s ready to get this day over with, and Priam, well - what is he doing here, at her favorite breakfast place? “Are you stalking me?”

“No.” He sighs deeply, and says very slowly as if speaking to a child. “You see Castora, there’s a neutral territory. Since I got here first, the sensible question would be to ask: are you stalking me?” 

She sits down in the seat across from him. “You don’t strike me as a breakfast guy.”

“Pray tell - what kind of ‘guy’ do I strike you as?” 

“A ‘my mother never hugged me enough’ guy. Also a ‘tips five percent’ guy. Definitely not a breakfast guy.” 

“Castora? Leave. Please.”

“I forgot, also that guy. Oh, get the cornetto with apricot jam. It’s the best thing on the menu.” It’s the worst. He smirks. 

The waiter at the cafe passes by, “Signor Taravella. Signorina Aguilar.” 

They share a look. “How -” 

“You?” 

“Never eating here again.” 

-- The same thing happens at the bistro a little ways outside the city. Also at hospital, once or twice, not because of each other. Sending him to the hospital hasn’t happened yet, but it’s on her bucket list. It happens, with more alarming frequency at the cemetery. 

He doesn’t see her - or if he does, he doesn’t bother her. Castora always leaves before he turns around. There’s very few lines she won’t cross, but starting a fight over a grave is one of them. The deceased probably won’t mind a Capulet and a Montague fighting, but Verona’s dead should know what they never had in life: peace. Leave vengeance to the living, she would say. 

The only time he’s ever acknowledged her is on December 23. 

“Isn’t it your birthday?” 

“Catholic guilt. Wait - who told you it was my birthday?” He looks down at her. Right. Because you, unfortunately, learn something about the people you spend time with. 

“When’s your birthday then?” When doesn’t answer right away, she rolls her eyes. “I bet your a gemini.” 

“Believing in astrology is childish.” 

“I don’t, but I’d be converted rather quickly if you turned out to be a gemini.” 

[ofcastora]

@lavolumnia replied to your post: i wanna read more from this AU

In which I continue the DiVerona Regency AU // Part 2 of me transforming Castora and Vivianne’s baking class into a Regency women’s archery club, inspired by this historical club and these outfits ft. Bridgerton-level historical accuracy. Also in which Castora becomes deeply invested in her mother-figure’s happiness and bears witness to a bodice ripper romance, but does not care for it at all. 

MENTIONED/APPEAR: Vivianne Sloane // @lavolumnia, Everett Craven // @evcravens, Priam Taravella // @priam-taravella, Cosimo Capulet (NPC), Silviana (NPC), the du Pont family, the Daly family

It was a truth universally acknowledged by all who had the misfortune of taking a stroll in Hyde Park in the morning hours in the month leading up to the Hyde Park Amazon’s Liston Hall showcase and ball that Lady Vivianne Sloane and Miss Castora Aguilar were very awful at archery. Nothing, sans for hanging at the Old Bailey for accidental homicide, would prevent them in their endeavors, however. 

Both ladies were quite indomitable and all members of the ton who sought a stroll and all squirrels seeking whatever squirrels sought quickly learned it was best to steer clear of them all together. On the bright side, while they made poor exhibition archers, perhaps in another life they would have made fine huntresses; neither of them had gotten anywhere near a bullseye, but they have gotten significantly closer to skewering a squirrel.

“It appears, Lady Vivianne, that we are actually getting worse.” 

“Nonsense.” Such a thing cannot be possible was the unspoken truth. 

Castora loosed another arrow. It did not land on the target, soaring high overhead and landing squarely in the tree behind it. “Perhaps you are, but I think my form is improving.” 

It was Vivianne’s turn to try; the arrow skimmed past the edge of the target, nestling itself in the dirt by the unfortunate tree that caught Castora’s arrow. 

“I can see that.” 

If the pair still had any arrows in the quiver, Castora was quite certain that Vivianne would have stabbed her with one. She gently placed her bow on the ground, fighting the impulse to break in two. It looked like Vivianne had the same thought as her. “Shall we?” she asked

This was, perhaps, the most depressing part of their practice sessions – collecting the evidence of their failures. 

“I suppose we have no choice –– unless you could hire a lady’s maid for this purpose?” 

“A lady’s maid for the sole purpose of fetching our arrows?” 

“I dare say she would have her work cut out for her.”

Castora pulled a stubborn arrow from the dirt, ignoring how it stained the hem of her dress. She took a look at their de facto practice field, something akin to distress on her face. “At least we did not lose any arrows in the Serpentine today,” she muttered. “Do you think it is too late to ‘come down with something’?” 

“Mrs. Silviana will have your head.” 

“Good. She can take it. She’s so often taken leave of her senses, maybe she’ll find use for my head,” Castora remarked. 

Vivianne raised an eyebrow, “You are quite bold to assume she has the sense to take advantage of such an opportunity.” 

They had reached the tree where Castora’s last arrow had lodged itself. Oh, damn it, she thought, seeing that it had landed about a foot taller than Castora herself. She jumped, trying to grab hold of it, but could not reach. 

Vivianne, who Castora was quite certain could reach it, stood by watching the younger woman take out all her energy on an arrow, the corners of her lips threatening to curve into a smile. 

A few more attempts occurred, each more feeble than the last. Castora leaned against the tree to catch her breath. “I simply have no wish to embarrass myself in front of the ton, Lady Vivianne – yes, I am keenly aware of the irony.”

"Surely you cannot be afraid of them?” Vivianne asked. Castora wished she could read her expressions better – was the woman surprised by this? Disappointed? 

“I am aware of the reality of my circumstances,” she said grimly. “And I feel like I have exhausted my quiver of accidents for this season.” Castora was a wit, a court jester the ton tolerated despite her father conning half of their father’s out of a not-insignificant sum of money because of powerful friends, a beautiful cousin they would all like to wed (or bed), and because someone had to provide some amusement, but their tolerance was ever-wavering tightrope. She could walk it, but she would always teeter. 

The fall was inevitable. 

Vivianne looked seriously at Castora, then smirked. “Yes, that game of Pall-Mall was certainly something.”

Castora’s cheeks burned. “It was an accident and Priam Taravella knows it.”

“If your aim with a bow and arrow is any indication of your aim in general, I believe you.” It was not. They both knew that – and Castora had surmised that Vivianne realized that she had been aiming for her future-stepson-in-law’s head, but that was to be expected when the beast knocked her own ball out of the way on purpose. “If it is any consolation, Miss Castora, I promise that I will be there with you to suffer Silviana and that exhibition together.” 

“Thank you.” She understood the hidden meaning – no one would insult her at the Exhibition with a future duchess by her side. 

Vivianne stepped forward, easily reaching the arrow. 

Snap. In her efforts, the arrow had split – the tip and a quarter of the shaft remained lodged in a tree. Vivianne glowered at the remnants of the arrow in her hand. 

“If I have to look at another arrow today, I think I might die.” 

“I quite agree, Miss Castora.” She was quiet for a long moment.  Then, she asked, “How about tea?”

--

A maid poured their tea and quietly left. Castora looked around at Vivianne’s apartments in wonder – surely, this was the most beautiful place she had ever been in. If I ever have the funds to decorate my own lodgings, I should like to make it look like this, Castora thought. 

“Who do you picture when you fire an arrow?” she asked. Vivianne sipped her tea, thinking over the question carefully. 

“Silviana,” she answered. “And a few others, but lately mostly Silviana. And yourself?”

“Silviana, too.” It wasn’t a lie, but it was not the whole truth. “I take turns picturing all the people who have made me cross.”

“And somehow you rarely hit your target.”

“Perhaps I would have more luck if the person I wished to strike was in the vicinity. There is only so much the imagination can do.”

A lull fell over the conversation. “I suppose you must quit this place when you and the Duke marry.” An odd expression crossed over her face at the word marry.

“Nonsense – this is mine.”

“Yours? How?”

“My late father bequeathed to his cousin, Philip Allard, in his will -–”

“–– The Duke of Beaufort?” 

“Yes. His only daughter, Lady Daphne, is married.” Castora detected a hint of a grimace in Vivianne’s voice. “Since the family hates London, he saw no use for the property, so he gave it to me.” 

Ah. This was as close to Vivianne’s as it could be, and yet it did not truly belong to her. It was charity. It was alms for a less fortunate relative. Castora understood. At least Vivianne owned something, bittersweet though it may be. 

“My distant cousin who inherited Uppercross after my Andrés’s passing pays for my lodgings in London for the Season.”

“Do you reside at Uppercross the rest of the year?”

“No,” Castora scoffed. Uppercross wasn’t the home she had as a child, the one she lost twice over. It did not belong to her anymore. It never did. “I usually take invitations from friends in the countryside. I toured the Lakes with Lady Pandora the last year.” 

“Your mother does not miss you?” It did not surprise her that Vivianne knew that her father was gone, but did not know what happened to her mother. No one really cared what befell Isabella Aguilar in the wake of her husband’s scandal. 

“My mother is dead,” Castora replied flatly.

“Mine is too.”

“I suppose that makes us both orphans.”

“It’s quite an ugly word, do you not agree?” Vivianne sipped her tea. “It comes from the Greek word orphanos, which means ‘bereaved.’”

“Orphanos.” Castora tested the word on her tongue. “You are right. It’s ugly. What is the best way to shed the label, orphan, do you think?” 

“Why, marriage, of course.”

Castora hesitated before asking, “Is that why you are marrying Duke Capulet?” It was odd, their match – after all, before all this Vivianne Sloane had been a spinster. 

Another one of Vivianne’s inscrutable expressions crossed her face. “No. Not the whole of it.”

“Is it a love match, then?”

“What constitutes a love match in your opinion?”

“The fool’s errand known as love, of course,” Castora replied. “But I suppose it can be a love match if you love his house, his title – I would hardly begrudge anyone a desire to become a duchess – although I would characterize that as a love arrangement, not a love match.” 

“I did not take you for a romantic – is that why you are still unmarried? Holding out for love, Miss Castora?” Such blunt questioning from anyone else would have offended her, but from Vivianne, Castora did not mind. 

“I do not wish to marry.” Only the greatest love could persuade me...or an offer from a Duke, a Marquess, an Earl, or a Viscount. Barons and men with gambling debts need not apply. Both options struck her as improbable, if not outright impossible. “It seems to me that every marriage I’ve witnessed has only brought misery...particularly for the women in the match.” Sure, her Uncle Aguilar’s marriage was quite happy by all accounts – surely, it helped that Ramona’s mother died young before the marriage had time to sour. 

Vivianne seemed curious. “What do you intend to do then?”

“My cousin, Ramona, is adored by the ton. She shall marry well.”

“And what if you received an offer from someone suitable?” 

“I would...consider it, as long as he is not a drunkard or a gambler. Actually, I believe I could deal with a drunkard. No gamblers,” she said. “Anything is better than ending up as a....governess.”

“I could not picture you spending your days tutoring children.” 

“My mother was one, actually, before she married. She worked for a good family, too. One that Vivianne was likely acquainted with. That was the other thing about Isabella Aguilar – she was intelligent. She was unfortunate, but bright. Love robbed her off her senses and killed her in the poorhouse. “She was unable to get back into the line of work with a child, however.” 

“Children complicate matters,” Vivianne said solemnly. The rumors of Vivianne Sloane’s first Season being delayed by a year floated back to the top of Castora’s head; there were whispers of a bastard child, but Castora had know interest in Vivianne’s secrets unless she chose to share them with her. 

“We do,” Castora said. “Lady Vivianne – I hope this goes without saying, but could you –– could you not repeat that my mother was a governess?” 

She nodded. “You have my word. Drink your tea, Castora. Before it gets cold.”

--

Liston Hall was a lovely country estate of middling size; it was pretty, spacious, and very green, everything a country estate ought to be, but it paled in comparison to the surrounding homes such as Campden Court. The true glory of Liston Hall was its apple orchard, where the archery exhibition would be held. 

Castora had not been to Gloucestershire since she was a child, accompanying her mother and forced to bear witness to her demise. During her year here, she had never been to Linton. The families of the other Gloucestershire estates – the Craven’s of Campden Court, the Daly’s of Aubrey Park, and the du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall – were not the type to deign to visit Linton Hall.

At least, that’s how Castora remembered them. She prayed that some things never changed. 

Whether or not the neighboring aristocrats visited seemed irrespective today – more than half the ton was here, but no one in the ton that Castora actually liked –-- except for Vivianne.

Who she could not find. 

Good God – she had one friend, or one person who was close to a friend, here and she could not find her. There was only so much small talk a girl coud do with a glass of lemonade, as anything stronger would not be served until dinner.

Leaving the hall to look for Vivianne, Castora collided into the chest of a gentleman, almost spilling her lemonade all over him.  Well, perhaps there was a splash or too on his shoes....and slight more than a splash on his white cravat. Said gentlemen did not seem angry so much as annoyed, however. Still, Castora wished she could melt into the floor.

“I apologize, sir, I am sorry,” she started, her cheeks aflame. 

“It is quite alright.” Oh no, this was worse – he was trying hard to be genteel about this. Something about his voice – and face, and countenance – looked familiar, but she could not place him. 

“Let me fetch a servant, perhaps they can....wash it?” 

He looked at her curiously, as though he was trying to place her, too. “I live at Campden Court – I shall send for a change of clothes direct.” 

Realization hit Castora like a ton of bricks. “You are Everett Craven, Marquess of Montrose.” She dropped into a courtesy and cursed every God for not answering her prayers. “I apologize again, my Lord.” 

He had come into the title several years ago with the death of his father and was one of the most desired bachelor’s in England –– and one of the most skilled at fending off ambitious mamas. He was almost more desired because he was, by all accounts, a proper gentleman who left rakish activities to the rest of his peers; it truly was a miracle he left London alive and unmarried.

She had heard more fearsome stories about him, however. The Season before her and Ramona’s debut, he accompanied Catherine Daly to London, as Lord Daly was unwell at the time, and practically bit off the head of every man who came near her.

“I am. Pardon me – have we met before, my lady?” 

Yes. See, while Isabella Aguilar was unable to find work as a governess, her former employer, the damned du Pont’s of Kellnych Hall, had found employment for Isabella at a lady’s maid to Lady Daly of Aubrey Park. She told them she was a widow, and with Bastian du Pont’s introduction, they accepted a lady’s maid with a child of the right age to be a playmate to their three daughters. 

Melting into the floor suddenly seemed insufficient. Perhaps she could suddenly collapse and die, like a lady in a novel, and be reincarnated as a bee. Yes, that seemed good. 

“No, I do not believe we have had the occasion, my lord.” She shook her head again, “Just Miss. Miss Castora Aguilar of Uppercross.”

“Castora? That is quite an––” 

"–– You can say unusual, my Lord. I cannot take offense since I have ruined your cravat.” At least it didn’t spill on his pants. 

He looked at her again. “Are you sure we have not met before?”

“Perhaps in London?” Castora lied. “London is full of faces and names, it’s hard to keep them all straight. Especially during the Season.”

Just as he was about to say something again, Vivianne rounded the corner. “Miss Castora, there you are ---” Whatever words were on her lips died when she saw the Marquess. It was quite a spectacular (and quite unsettling thing) to see Vivianne Sloane rendered speechless. 

She looked at the Marquess. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Is it too late to melt into the floor? Castora wondered, thinking about how to best extricate herself from the situation. 

Suddenly the lemonade-stained cravat seemed like the least of everyone’s problems. “Lady Vivianne,” the Marquess greeted. 

“Lord Montrose,” she said, similarly stiff. Neither pair seemed to notice Castora. They only had eyes for one another. God, now would be a lovely time to answer my call for death. 

She took a step backwards in the hopes of sneaking out and leaving them to...whatever was going to happen, but unfortunately, Fate had other plans for them as a person – namely, Duke Capulet – had rounded the corner in search of his wife-to-be. 

Duke Capulet was tall and distinguished with greyed hair; age suited him. He walked like someone who never doubted his importance and was unused to being denied. Castora had a difficult time thinking of him as anyone’s husband, or father, or guardian. 

“Montrose,” he said in greeting, falling back to Vivianne’s side. The man appeared jovial and pleasant, but there was an air of darkness about him – and he appeared to be in quite a fowl mood.

“Capulet,” the Marquess replied. Castora searched Vivianne’s eyes for a single clue as to what was happening. The future Duchess gave no indication that anything odd was going on. 

“What on earth happened to you, Montrose?” the Duke asked, gesturing to his clothes. 

“I was not watching where I was going and collided into the young lady whilst she carried some...water?”

“Lemonade,” Castora quietly corrected.  “The Marquess is too kind. This is my fault.”

“Regardless of whose fault it is, I hope you shall excuse me to get this matter sorted with.”

“Of course. Shall I see you at the exhibition, Montrose?” 

The Marquess nodded, made his courtesies, and left. 

The Duke’s attention fell to her, “And who are you?”

Vivianne answered for her, “Miss Castora of Uppercross, dear. She is in the Hyde Park Amazons with me.” The Marquess of Montrose seemed surprised at the revelation that Vivianne was in an archery club.

“Right, of course. You and Lady Vivianne have been hard at work these past few weeks, I have gathered.” He looked at her. “You are Aguilar’s girl, are you not?”

“His niece,” Castora said quickly, pretending not to know his meaning. “He passed away several years ago.”

The Duke did not stop. “Your father was an interesting character, more than what one would expect from one of Montague’s whelps. I think he tried to swindle me during a game of vingt-et-un.”

“My family is very lucky to consider the Montague’s our friends, my Lord,” she replied diplomatically, keenly aware that she could not afford to offend one of the most powerful men in the country.

“For your sake, Miss Castora, I pray the apple falls far from the tree. My dear, see that you never play cards with her,” he said with a snake oil smile. Castora supposed it was a charming smile, if one could ignore the malice hiding in his words. Still, she laughed at his joke.

And I pray the same for your daughter, you wretched man.

“If you will pardon me, my Lord, I think I am going to replace my lemonade.”

“Let me accompany you, Miss Castora,” Vivianne said. “We have much to discuss before the exhibition.”

They returned to the main hall, arm in arm. Castora squeezed Vivianne’s hand, and the woman squeezed back in silent apology. What reason is there to marry this man? Surely a duchy is not worth it? 

“I apologize for the Duke. He is not himself after travelling.”

There was something odd about resorting to pleasantries with Vivianne – they had so often bypassed them in their conversations in Hyde Park. A cold sensation settled into Castora’s bones.

“No apologies necessary, Lady Vivianne….how do you know the Marquess of Montrose?”

“Hmm?”

“It looked to be like you two knew each other.” 

“A lifetime ago. I did not think he would come.” Castora quietly wondered if Vivianne had been making the same prayers she had made on the journey over.

--

Castora was lined up with the other ladies of the Hyde Park Amazons...in the very back of the group, where no one could see her miss the target. Vivianne was not there. 

“Mrs. Silviana, have you seen Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana startled at Castora’s voice. “Oh, you are here.” 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” She remarked before asking again, “Where is Lady Vivianne?”

Silviana’s eyes narrowed. “She has a headache and she is unable to join us. I am quite surprised, Miss Castora, that you do not have one as well.” 

Damn her, Castora cursed, Damn her for leaving me to fend for myself. Damn her for breaking her promise. 

“Are you alright, Miss Castora?” Silviana asked. 

No. I feel rather foolish, you useless twit, she thought bitterly. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Right, dear. And – do remember to aim, please?” She nodded and glared at Silviana’s retreating figure. Aim. She could do that. 

--

At last came time for the Exhibition. Gentlemen and ladies of the ton and other appropriate social circles gathered around the Hyde Park Amazons at a respectable distance, mostly on the sidelines by the tree. For this exhibit, the ladies were to fire five arrows and hit their targets. The more advanced archers would perform in a play about Artemis and her huntresses later in the day.

Five. You only have to get through five. 

On the first arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. Predictably, she missed – not as poorly as usually, however. On the second arrow, she thought of Vivianne and aimed. She missed again.

On the third, Castora vowed to clear her mind. Do not aim for anything but the target. When the last thought melted away, Castora closed her eyes and fired the arrow. The audience gasped. 

Did I hit a bullseye? She opened her eyes to find that no, she had not hit the target. Her arrow was nowhere near the target. In fact, she could not see it all. Why is everyone staring at me?

The Hyde Park Amazon next to her, sensing Castora’s confusion, helpfully pointed at an apple tree towards the edge of their circle. Pinned to the tree by Castora’s arrow was a gentleman’s hat. One of the lower hanging apples helpfully fell to the ground. 

And not just any gentleman’s hat. No, it was Duke Capulet’s hat. The man was positively glowering at her. 

“Oops.” She swore quietly under her breath using a word she learned from Marcelo that no lady was supposed to know. I almost killed a duke. I almost killed a duke. Fuck, I almost killed a duke.

But she did not feel so bad for Cosimo Capulet after all. It wasn’t like she had stabbed him. It was only a hat, after all. It could be worse, Castora thought to herself. I could have swindled him during a game of vingt-et-un. 

Suffice to say, while the play continued without incident later in the evening, the ladies of the first exhibit did not fire their fourth and fifth arrows. 

--

After profusely apologizing to the Duke several times over, each time more insincere than the last, Castora excused herself from the luncheon with, appropriately, a headache. There

There was a knock at her door. Castora cautiously opened it to find Vivianne, standing in front of her right as rain. “Did you or did you not try to kill the Duke?” 

Castora ignored the question. “How is your headache, Lady Vivianne? I do hope you will be able to attend the ball.”

“Castora – did you try to kill the Duke?”

“No, of course not! Not intentionally at least! The only thing I ended up killing was his hat, and a trip to a good haberdashery could fix it right up!” She insisted.

Vivianne closed the door to Castora’s guest chamber behind her. “You deeply offended him, Castora,” she said seriously. 

“I was aiming for the target. I missed. That is not out of the ordinary for me, Lady Vivianne. Nor is it for you, and if you had shown up, you may have done worse!” 

“Perhaps, but as it stands, you are the one who accidentally attacked a duke. You also accidentally hit his future son-in-law in the face with a pall-mall ball several months ago – an incident of which the Duke is very much aware of. You can see why this...why this is problematic.” 

“It was an accident. I have offered to pay to replace the hat, an offer which the Duke said he is considering.”

“Castora, the Duke has strongly suggested to me that I find another hobby outside of the Amazons.”

Her face fell. But you’re my friend, the girl wanted to protest.  “He is not your husband, yet. He cannot make you do anything...unless you wish to leave.” 

“In some matters of life, what you want does not matter.” 

“Surely it does in this one?” 

Vivianne smiled bitterly, “Dear Castora, I forget how young you are sometimes.” 

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. Castora did not know why, but she had the sudden desire to cry for the first time since her mother’s death. 

--

There is absolutely no way this evening can get worse, Castora thought to herself as she prepared to enter the ballroom for the evening festivities. No chance in hell. 

Still, halfway to the ballroom she turned on her heel and thought best not to risk it. On the way back to her room, Castora decided that she did not want to sit in her room all evening and decided to visit the Liston Hall library. 

Scouring through the library, Castora settled on The Mysteries of Udolpho, a novel she had greedily consumed several years ago because Ramona suggested it. She had not liked it much, as Castora was not one for Gothic romances, but she was in no mood to explore. Take me away, Mrs. Radcliffe, to a world far less complicated than ours.

Settled by her desk, she was halfway through the second chapter when she heard two voices, one belonging to a man and the other to a woman, deep in the throes of an argument. The man dragged the woman into the library.

Castora froze – it was Lady Vivianne and Lord Everett. They did not see her from her position, and so they kept on spitting venom Castora did not comprehend at one another. Wishing to avoid another awkward encounter with the both of them, she simply sunk behind the desk before they could see her and waited for them to leave. 

About ten minutes later, they were still arguing and Castora still had no idea what in the hell was going on because she was trying not to eavesdrop, but sometimes she could not help it. 

But what she did hear was the Marquess of Montrose, voice laced with pain, asking Vivianne why she was marrying him. It did seem to be the question of the day. 

“Someone knows about Cyrus.” There was an eerie silence across the hall; Castora resisted the urge to emerge from her hiding place to ask Who is Cyrus? “They are trying to exhort me for money, but no one would dare come for me, or Cyrus, if I am Lady Capulet.” 

“How much? Who is blackmailing you?” Reasonable questions.  

“It matters not, Everett.” I fail to see how that is true.

“Vivianne, how can you say that?” Castora quietly noted the use of their Christian names, and quietly prayed to God for the upteenth time to day, that they would finish their argument somewhere else. 

“Because what is done is done. I cannot break this engagement.” Fair enough.

“You did not seem to have much of an issue with that before.” Ah, okay. There is that mystery solved.

“Don’t you dare. This is not remotely the same situation. If I do not marry Cosimo, then I will be ruined. Cyrus will be ruined. By association with me, Juliana will be ruined. I cannot have that.” A love arrangement, Castora realized. 

“I loved you,” the Marquess said. To Castora’s ears, it did not sound like his affections were in the past tense. Vivianne did not respond to Everett with words, but with actions. 

Oh no. Oh no. Dear God. From her hiding position under the desk, Castora saw the Marquess’s – clean – cravat flying off. Their….noises grew closer, and she heard someone place the other on the desk, knocking the copy of Udolpho off the table, but too far out of reach from Castora. 

How generous, Castora thought dryly, realizing that there would be no escape for her now. 

Castora covered her ears and cursing God, she laid back, and tried to think of England.

--

Much to Castora’s surprise, Silviana welcomed her back the following Thursday to the Hyde Park Amazons, remarking something along the lines of “At least we know you can hit something now, Mis Castora.” 

To everyone’s greater surprise, and Mrs. Silviana’s palpable disappointment, Vivianne showed up for practice. “I hope you are feeling better, Lady Vivianne. You can go and practice with Miss Castora in the back,” the instructor commanded. 

“I know the place,” the future Duchess replied, unable to keep the hint of bitterness out of her voice, before  walking over to her and Castora’s usual spot. 

Castora could not look her in the eye. She refused to do so, for if she did, she would admit to all she saw and heard. Around 15 minutes went by of excruciating silence, before Lady Vivianne chose to break it. 

“How are you, Miss Castora?” 

“I am well.” I want to die. “How are you, Lady Vivianne? How is Lord Capulet’s hat?” 

“We are both fine,” she responded wryly. “Once the Duke calmed down, he did not object to me continuing on with the Hyde Park Amazon’s...you can look at me, Miss Castora, I will not bite your head off.”

Do not say anything, she commanded herself. Do not –– “Lady Vivianne, I was in the library during the Liston House ball.”

Vivianne, who was preparing to fire an arrow, loosened it without bothering to see where it landed. The blood drained from her face. “I do not know your meaning, Miss Castora.” 

“I wish I did not know my own meaning either.”

She lowered her voice, “How much did you hear?”

Too bloody much. “All of it, unfortunately. I did not intend to. I truly, truly did not intend to. I decided against going to the ball, and was trying to read when you and the Marquess entered. I thought it best to hide until you two were finished ––” Everything seemed like a poor choice of words, but Castora persisted. “–– And I did not intend to hear….so much.” 

Vivianne was silent for a long time. The girl in front of her was so distressed that she could not help but believe her, and then, “The Mysteries of Udolpho, really, Miss Castora?”

“I am not proud of it either. Listen, Lady Vivianne, I want to assure you that I...I will say nothing of...of, well, anything, to nobody. I do not know, or care, who Cyrus is. Or that you were once engaged to the Marquess, or that you two appear to still love each other very much.” 

“I appreciate your discretion, Miss Castora, but I must correct you on the last point. Whatever we had was in the past.”

“From where I stood, what was past seemed present.” 

“I would prefer if you did not discuss myself and the Marquess anymore.” 

“As you wish, Lady Vivianne –– however, there is one point, I do have an inquiry on. Who is blackmailing you and is there any way I can help?”

“No, dear girl, there is not.” 

The pair were quiet for a long moment. “I think you would be a better Marchioness than a Duchess. Marchioness Vivianne sounds better than Duchess Vivianne, does it not?”

“That is your opinion.”

“And what is yours?”

“Miss Castora, I thought we agreed not to speak about the Marquess anymore.”

“Yes, but in all honesty, I like him more than the Duke and I think you do, too. He is titled, wealthy, and is capable of weathering scandals. The Craven family is powerful. No one would dare come for a Marchioness of Montrose, either. If Duke Capulet was ever unwise enough to gamble with my father, I do not know how wise he will be in the future. And Juliana Capulet is set to be married in a month to a powerful, wealthy man. She could weather her father’s broken engagement if done with grace.”

“There are more forces at play here than you understand, Castora.” 

“Yes, but I understand enough to know that you do not deserve the misery that is to come with a life chained to Lord Capulet.” Yes, but after everything I was forced to witness in that library, this the least you could do for me. 

“And you are convinced the Marquess is a good man from the five minutes you saw of him?” 

“He is always kind to those lower than himself.” 

Vivianne laughed, “You are a romantic, after all.”

“No, I simply believe that the only reasons to marry are for great, true, unshakeable love, or comfort and protection. The Marquess appears ready to provide you with both,” Castora said.

“I did not realize you cared so much.”

I saw my mother collapse in on herself from misery; I will not see it happen again. “I--I like my friends to be happy, Lady Vivianne.” 

“Happiness requires miracles. You and I both know too well to believe in them.”

Castora could not argue with Vivianne on that point.

Mrs. Silviana screamed and ran up to the region her two least favorite students were exiled to. “Oh my God, you did it! Which one of you did this?” 

The pair followed her gaze to the target where the last arrow Lady Vivianne fired had landed in the center of the target. A bullseye. 

For a moment, Vivianne Sloane and Castora Aguilar both believed in miracles. 

[diveronarpg]

IN FAIR VERONA, OUR TALE BEGINS WITH JULIANA CAPULET, WHO IS TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OLD. SHE IS OFTEN CALLED JULIET BY THE CAPULETS AND WORKS AS THEIR BOSS. SHE USES SHE/HER PRONOUNS.

Our heroine’s story, at one time, may have been based upon something essential, the question that plagues both the living and the dead: what is worse than living without love? Juliana Capulet, heiress to a throne fit for the gods, had finally found her answer. Worse than living without love — living without strength. Her father had not built their legacies through love, or adoration, accompanied by the stroke of a gentle hand to one’s cheek. The Capulet legacy had been built through sheer power of will, bringing to heel those who had once refused to obey. Once, she had BATHED in the light of Cosimo Capulet’s love, and before her ugly death, her mother’s, her little sister’s. All she had ever known was love, and the war ripping the city entirely in two had taken that from her without remorse. Like daylily flowers, Juliana was determined to bloom into something great, something strong, something that would lead Verona back to a new age of peace, whether love warmed her to her core or not. She would not wither away like her mother or sister, pallid and sickly. She would not fall to dust like her father. She would rise to the call that she had turned her cheek from her entire life, and pray that the GODS themselves would forgive her for answering their question without their aid. No more GHOSTS. No more ONLOOKING NARRATORS. Juliana’s power would be hers.

She would embody her mother’s memory most of all. She would become the woman who could throw Aphrodite into a fury and put Hera in a jealous rage. With the guidance of her Underboss and her newfound Advisor, her two faithful devotees, she would keep vigil over Verona and end this war once and for all. Before, she’d been helpless to stop it. Put up on a pedestal, hair brushed away from her face, bound to a feeling of WEAKNESS. She was determined to never feel it again, even with the memory of it clinging to her like the silken threads of a crafty spiderweb. She knew, now, that this was the work of her father, determined to keep her as close to him and at arm’s length at the same time. He would’ve had her look at their future as something gilded, golden, just out of reach. He would’ve had her see his NARCISSUS-LIKE obsession as a boon instead of a curse. He showered Juliana with gifts, both exotic and quaint, in hopes that she would sit in her ruby-crusted cage and keep her head low, her mouth shut. He had deemed the birdcage necessary, and never noticed when his daughter refused to sing him any more tunes. Others revelled in his success, his savvy, even with RAFAELLA CAPULET whisked away to pick up the pieces all on her own. Even with his flippant disregard for VIVIANNE SLOANE and TIBERIUS CAPULET, both denied their true wishes without so much as a second glance. They shouted his name with joy as he ruined his soldiers, his Captains, and his Emissaries, and all their prospects. They wept for him even as he struck the match that would burn the great House of Capulet down. No more.

With all this sitting atop her shoulders, filling her hands, Juliana made her choice. Rather than stay by his side faithfully, adhering to his rules like a SAINT, she broke away from her father, and with the aid of Vivianne, finally stepped down from the tower of Babylon that he had built for her with his own two hands. They’d brought her into the business in increments, at first, and had not seen how far and how quickly she had progressed since poor Alvise Vernon’s death nigh over a year ago. BLOOD, now bedecking her finery, would be another accessory to be worn, as did other tools of the trade — knives, guns, bullets, blades. She would not allow her father to hide from the consequences of his own sins any longer. She would do as he had once done, and embody the SYMBOL of the violent elite. No longer would she be just a girl. She’d be more than that. How quickly this angel could bring ruination to those who stood in the way of the Capulets — her father being the first among them. How quickly this angel could bring down the spear of the Gods and wipe the blood from her cheek in a smear. Maybe this was the way it was always meant to be. Maybe this is what she’d always been meant to become. Someone had to take the throne, sooner or later. Her father’s actions and quickly dwindling sanity have proven more than ever the time for her ascension had come. 

Juliana laid her sacrifices before him, hands shaking and eyes upturned – hoping against hope for a miracle. She had once thought that she could slip into her father’s life and pry him away from the business that had enraptured him for as long as she could remember. Maybe he would step away, admit defeat with his head bowed, and return to her. Return to her and the ghosts of her mother, her sister, gaps in their family that were too big to fill. She had underestimated, at one time, the strength of the thrall that it had him under, even as her own blood succumbed to the call that her ancestors before her had answered to. It had become clear, now, that LOVE would not do Juliana Capulet any good. It hadn’t served her, or Rafaella, or her mother, her cousin, her sister, her father. Love had failed her, ruined her, left scorched earth in its wake. Love had failed her people. Her father had pressed the knife to cut Valentina Gallo’s throat into her hands, and she’d done it without hesitation. Before, love would have made her weep with the pain of it. Now — JULIET would not fail anyone, especially not her legacy.

RAFAELLA CAPULET & TIBERIUS CAPULET: Cousins. The three of them at one time might have been compared to planets, their gravitational pull. Infinitely different but relentlessly routine in the way they were drawn to one another. Now, with Rafaella gone and seemingly doomed to never return, shattered into a thousand little pieces neither Rafaella or Tiberius can help her to pick up, things are… different. Things feel off-kilter, unbalanced. The tension that sat between all three of them has now come to rest entirely on Juliana and Tiberius, a fraying wire that could shoot sparks at any time. Before, she’d never doubted Tiberius, or his loyalty to her, and she can’t say even now that she actually does. But the weight of the Capulet title has become her burden and her burden alone, an unwelcome cross. With the shifting power dynamics and no Rafaella to complete their balancing act, she worries it may be Tiberius that places the crown of thorns atop her brow.

VIVIANNE SLOANE: Pseudo-Mother. “You can never be her,” she had hissed as she slammed the door to her room shut, but Vivianne, ever-patient with Juliana, had taken her time. She’d pried the door open with her own two hands, and it’s a wonder that she’d never quite made the connection before. She’d snapped and seethed and raged in her youth, entrenched in the ocean of her own sorrow, and through sheer will, Vivianne had soothed her. Dulled her pain. Held her head and stroked her hair when all Juliana could do was cry for the sheer loss of love she’d once possessed. Taught her how to rule when her own father -- her own supposed teacher -- fell short. It had been Vivianne to bring her into the way of things. She knows that, and she owes her a great debt for it. But she sees the way Vivianne’s eyes drift, now, settle in the middle distance, after dethroning her father. Unspoken agreement of guidance or comfort aside, mother-figure or not, things have changed. They are not the way they were before. The dynamic of the Capulets has shifted, and so, too, it seems, have they.

ROMAN MONTAGUE: Enemy. She should hate him. By all means, by every predisposed legacy of their birthright, she should want to rip him limb from limb. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t have the capacity to hate someone without good reason -- it’s not in her nature. Juliana understands, now more than ever, that he wishes the Capulets ill will and nothing more. That should be enough, but she was never equipped with Tiberius’ natural brutality or Rafaella’s fury. Now, with the crown sitting atop her head, sword and scepter in each hand, she wonders further still if he struggles with bearing the title of his father. If he will ever truly rise to the occasion of his bloodline as she had hers and continue this war or crumble to pieces before getting the chance. Maybe she pities him. It would be a better word than hate. Her path was always illuminated -- she’d simply sped the process up, a little bit, with the aid of those she now knows to be hers. Roman, on the other hand, must fend himself among the Montagues, men and women more likely to cannibalize themselves before putting another Montague on the throne. She wishes she could hate him. If only it were that easy.

PRIAM TARAVELLA: Betrothed. She looks at him and can only think of them in the context of Zeus and Hera. Ending up here, with engagement rings and bright futures to look forward to, well. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? Cosimo Capulet had chosen Priam for his daughter. They’d grown up together. They’d seen each other shattered, built each other back up again. This is a love that is supposed to make sense, and to Juliana, it does, in many ways. She loves him. Could love him more, if the weight of the Capulet legacy were not so heavy, if she felt she could share the burden with him. What if she can’t? She’d made the difficult choice in dethroning her father. She’s put the Capulets first in every regard, in every way, by ascending and taking the throne. He’s a good man. Certainly not a bad one. Knows just how deeply entrenched he is, now that she moves the pieces on the chess board and has to strategize at every turn. What if there are choices to be... made with Priam, too?

Juliana is portrayed by ASHLEY MOORE and was written by JULIE. She is currently OPEN TO CURRENT MEMBERS.

[orpheus-vault-blog]

✧

priam taravella –

I would kill you. ✧ I would physically hurt you. ✧ I would attack you unprovoked. ✧ I would manipulate you. ✧ I dislike you. ✧ You annoy me. ✧ You scare me. ✧ You intimidate me. ✧ I hope I intimidate you. ✧ I pity you. ✧ You disgust me. ✧ I hate you. ✧ I’m indifferent toward you. ✧ I’d like to get to know you better. ✧ I’d like to spend more time with you. ✧ I’d like to be friends with you. ✧  I’m unsure what to think of you. ✧ I’m unsure how I feel about you. ✧ You are my friend. ✧ You are my best friend. ✧ You are my mentor. ✧ I look up to you. ✧ I respect you. ✧ You are my hero. ✧ You inspire me. ✧ You are my enemy. ✧ You make me happy. ✧ I want to protect you. ✧ I would fight by your side. ✧ I consider you an equal. ✧ I think you are beneath me. ✧ I think you are above me. ✧ I would lie for you. ✧ I would lie to you. ✧ I would sleep with you. ✧ I would sleep by your side. ✧ I would hug you. ✧ I would kiss you. ✧ You are family to me. ✧ I would die for you. ✧ I would kill for you. ✧ I would trust you with my life. ✧ I would trust you with my most precious belonging. ✧ I would trust you with a secret. ✧ I would trust you with my biggest / darkest secret. ✧ I love you (platonically). ✧ I love you (romantically).

[priam-taravella]

Date: June 16th Location: The Twelfth Night, Vivianne’s office. Time: Afternoon Status: Closed for @lavolumnia​ 

“I hear Padua is really nice this time of year,” Priam quips, as he enters the capobastone’s office. 

The Emissary has quite a lot of thoughts regarding everything that went down the past few days. He’s shared his opinions with Tiberius and Juliana, and he did not hold back. Being friends with the Capulets for so long grants him the luxury of speaking his mind freely, especially with someone as short-fused as Tybalt. 

Vivianne is different. He has earned her respect, it certainly wasn’t given via over two-decade-long friendship. When she calls for him, Priam always answers, without a fail. After all, Viviane Sloane is one person above all who he trusts to be a capable leader, regardless who holds what title. 

Whilst rest of the mob is drunk on the ecstasy of recent events, Priam remains stark sober. Cosimo was slipping, it’s clear as day to Taravella, but the way everything has been handled, he doesn’t share the excitement of his best friends. It took a lot of convincing to secure the Gomorra alliance, Priam fears, with sudden changes, all his efforts might be futile. Internal fights rarely inspire confidence, but at least the coup hadn’t transpired until the alliance became official. Will be harder for Garrone to back out now, Priam hopes. 

Inside the office, Priam stands near the open window, a cigarette in hand. “May I? I fear I might need this, if we’re going to get through this conversation.”

[priamtaravella-blog]

WWII AU: Priam Taravella

History

Grew up wealthy in Italy and was adored by his family. Mother stayed at home to take care of him and the house, his father was a politician.

By the time the war started, his parents were for the alliance with Germany, his father spreading propaganda often, expecting his only son, his golden child, to do the same. Priam refused, tried to explain to them why this was wrong, and how they could still be a formidable force for the Allies. They wouldn’t listen.

He was kicked out and disowned with no place to go until his grandparents offered to temporarily take him in. They wanted no part in this war they were too old for, and didn’t want to hide anyone who secretly sided with the Allied forces. Much time wasn’t spent there, but it was enough for Priam to find a way to put his costly education to better use. It was enough time for him to rise again.

Often worked with officers to make strategic strikes, and other times, was sent to deliver messages too important to relay over radio or phone.

Enjoys playing piano when they get a chance, something to remember a time before all hell broke loose. Also enjoys reading and photography, so he never forgets what happened.

Connections

Clark - Illicit affair. Priam was drawn to the older man’s mind, but beneath the attraction is a wariness he’s not quick to ignore. Intends to pay close attention to him to make sure he doesn’t get a knife to the back.

I need more honestly heyo

[ofhoratio]

@priamtaravella 1/3

priam taravella               -- JACK of HEARTS

            ‘ in all CHAOS there is CALCULATION ’