Realistic or Modern 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐘𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀 : ̗̀ in character

[idiot]

Doctor, can you fix it up with a stitch? I’m craving structure in this mix. I fear I’m leaking out. Someone tipped me over by my spout. While

dakota adamski

The metaphorical hands of death wringed out Dakota's lungs; every inch of precious air being squeezed and discarded like a reamed lemon.

Breathing became mere rasps. I can't—I can't do this!

Hands fumbled into the cardigan for the familiar cylindrical tube but to no avail. Fuck. You left it? Oh God.

Burning tears ran down Dakota's reddening, angular face.

"Breathe, Dakota." A low voice from in front of the stall's door was calming in this sea of panic. Dakota knew the voice from last night. Vincenzo. He focused on it.

Come on. Breathe.

Dakota attempted to engage in effortful breathing as chewed nails dug into palms. Dakota knew Vincenzo was speaking but the words were muffled.

The wheezing soon enough became shallow breathing and after a few minutes a steady rhythm followed. His head lolled between his shoulders, the overwhelming feeling of exhaustion taking its place. He remained in that position for a little longer, savouring the sweet nectar of oxygen in his lungs.

The stall creaked open with embarrassment, brown eyes avoiding his guardian angel in that moment. The imposing Italian man was fitted in a rather simplistic black ensemble. Dakota had come to know Vincenzo as an uncle of sorts, having been folded into the family ten years ago. He often bought presents or souvenirs for Dakota on his mysterious work travels. He knew like most that Matezh associated with, that Vincenzo was more than the warm and playful person he had grown to know. Yet, Dakota preferred to live in ignorance, enjoying the — albeit brief — moments they shared when he came to visit Saint Heights.

"Thanks, Vincenzo..." Dakota spoke meekly, hoping water on his face would wash off the embarrassment. "I honestly don't know what came over me."

A lie but a necessary one. Did Vincenzo receive the same letter that was crumpled in his cardigan's deep pockets? He felt he could trust Vincenzo but at the same time he couldn't ignore the mysterious fog that followed him.

Physically shaking off the paranoia that had sickened him earlier, Dakota tested his reflection's demeanour which begged to go home and rest. Only a few more hours, okay?

Nodding in agreement with his reflection, Dakota spotted another figure in the mirror. He appeared out of nowhere it seemed or maybe Dakota had missed the bathroom door opening during his panic. A similar lanky build to Dakota, the figure was against the sink, a blazer and scrunched up paper towels in busy hand. Rummaging through his Adamski family encyclopedia, he recalled the man's identity. Harris Avancini...something? He had considered speaking to him at times, namely at these events; the paint and charcoal that often stained his fingers allured Dakota. A fellow artist you could say. Then there was the way he carried himself; one that was not dissimilar to his own.

Dakota offered a small smile to Harris and scattered to Vincenzo's side. The two exited the bathroom to be met with the sound of a bell and an announcement.

“Let’s talk and walk. If we’re lucky, we’ll be sitting next to each other like old times, yes?” Vincenzo spoke and frankly Dakota couldn't ask for anything more. Right now a familiar face was what he needed. The presence of Vincenzo had a calming, almost numbing effect.

"I forgot to ask you last night, are you planning on staying after this or do you, you know, have to go?" Dakota felt like a child once more, as though tugging on his father's coat, begging him to stay at home a little longer. Yet, he did wish Vincenzo would stay for a more extended visit than hopping on a plane the very next day.

Their short walk ended in front of a table that had both their names on the placards. Dakota peered to the other names and noticed one that stood out. Marnie Edwards. It was as though her placard shined brighter than the rest, which seemed to be a reflection of the light that surrounded her very being. He had only seen her around but she was a sight to say the least and her smile was something that brought Dakota warmth. In a tragically beautiful way it reminded him of his mother's smile.

mood | calming down

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location |table 6, keypark hall.

tag | interactions: vincenzo ( koala ) & harris ( LeilaRF ). mentions: marine.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[blue-jay]

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the fool

azalea.

mood

prepared

outfit

something blooming

location

keypark hall

interactions

yona, victor, brief mentions of marnie, hero, and hugo

tags

koala miyabi

Azalea watched as Alyona swirled her drink and took a sip. When a small smile broke across the woman’s face, it was mirrored on Azalea’s. Smiles from her old friend had been in low supply lately, so she savored them when she could get them.

“Oh, these? Headache. The light makes it worse.”

“Ah. Like a migraine?” Azalea’s head tilted slightly. “I’ve heard those hurt like hell.” She’d never had one herself, but she remembered that her mother used to. Martha would switch off every light in the house and then crumble in a dining room chair when she had them. Daphne would stand around in the hallway, watching her writhe from the shadows.

“Did you walk here?”

Azalea’s smile became a little rueful; she was well aware that Alyona already knew the answer. She could imagine those hazel eyes moving around behind the shades.

“You could have texted or called me.”

Azalea took one of the offered napkins and begin patting at the areas where her umbrella hadn’t quite protected her. She angled herself toward Alyona and away from the rest of the room to hassle with her dress and hair until she felt more put-together. She might’ve been a little embarrassed if it was anyone else, but Yona had seen her in much more dire states before.

“If you have to walk far again, and it’s raining, let me know next time.”

Azalea felt… warm suddenly but didn’t quite understand why. She made an expression of mock defiance before melting back into a grin. “Okayyy, I will.” She looked around for a recycling bin and, after not being able to spot one, reluctantly tossed the used napkins into a nearby trash can. Turning back to Alyona, she said, “I do love a good walk in the rain sometimes, though. It’s great for thinking.” A quick downward look. “Less great for my shoes.”

She pinpointed the source of the sudden warmth: Alyona’s tone. For a second, she'd sounded like she did all those years ago when they were in the Lorenzos. Back when she seemed to be the only friendly face on Earth to Azalea. The warm feeling grew hotter until it hurt a little. Azalea thought: Things are so different now, aren’t they? The notion was reinforced when she noticed Alyona’s slight jump at being served her drink.

Azalea saw Vic and Marnie enter the room out of the corner of her eye and turned to send a quick wave and smile their way. Turning in the other direction, she spotted Hero emerging from a side hallway where, if she leaned a little back, she could see Hugo standing. Her eyes snapped back to Hero and narrowed. Was he drunk? A little curiosity mixed with a little concern brewed in her chest. If it showed on her face, only Alyona would’ve noticed.

Azalea started to say to the other woman: “I hope that—.”

But she was cut off by the ring of a bell and an announcement from a somewhat nervous-looking waiter: “Hm! Ahem. We would like to announce to the attendees of today’s memorial service that lunch is beginning. If you would all kindly file into the dining hall at once, and take your assigned seats as noted by the placards in front of each chair.”

With a raised eyebrow and a wry smile, Azalea said, “Woo, lunch time! I just know how excited everyone is for this part.” A slight chuckle, and then she looked more serious. “I’m gonna go find my seat now. Catch up later, okay?”

She walked over to the tables and began perusing the name cards. She found hers and then instinctively checked the other three at the table. Casimir Sayed-Adamski. An Adamski name that rang a few bells. She made a note to be tactful when speaking to him. Carmensita Da Costa Rocha. Azalea only rolled her eyes. And… Victor Rivera. Her hyacinth boy. Even just reading the name left a sweet taste in her mouth. She scooched his name card a little closer to hers.

After briefly examining the bouquet in the center of the table, she took her seat and looked in Victor’s direction with a smile, indicating his seat with a tilt of her head.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[neon reverie]

artificer

location

keypark hall

mood

i am rambling again, aren't i

outfit

let a woman keep her flowers.

mentions

vic miyabi
azalea blue-jay
hero demonology
vincenzo koala
dakota idiot

marnie edwards

marnie enters the memorial, her vision brimming of familiar faces. she quickly catches azalea’s precious presence and shoots her friend a bright smile, before giving vic a nudge in the ribs as to encourage him to go to the one who currently holds his affections. some people might think it odd or weird how all their relations intertwine; can one’s partner turned ex truly become a best friend’s lover that easily? what about the ripples it leaves behind? the smooth fabrics it can wrinkle and stain? pasts being tangled together can be as binding as it can be dividing, and the tighter the strings, the bigger the whiplash once they break.

rumours tell what others think about it all, but marnie pays them no mind; they don't know anything. because the truth is, in this life, it is almost impossible not to bleed into each other’s lives; there exist many separate wounds, all spilling rivers of thoughts and feelings, all bound to form one crimson pool. it is not perfect, and certainly messy — but not every stain is bad, and marnie believes in the budding of something beautiful from something broken. happiness tends to be an unfortunate rarity in a reality like theirs, she isn’t the one to take it away from those who find it in someone, especially not those who reside in her heart as much as they hold homes in each other’s.

she loves vic, always will— but it’s not the same. how can it be, when those two gazes collide and the world seems to cease time for a moment? azalea always looks at him like he’s the one sacred flower in a garden of temporary and withering things. and he? he stares at her like she’s the closest thing to heaven he will ever be, heart reaching out like a fallen angel yearning for a touch of divinity once again. they love love each other, even more and deeper than marnie could love them.

speaking of love.

hers arrives in quiet footsteps and with a breath of alcohol she has no trouble detecting. eyes lit up at the sight while her heart sings tunes so contradicting it dishevels her a little; excitement bursts into bright sparks, because it’s been a while since the two met up, and maybe it’s because he avoided her, afraid what the aftermath would look like, and maybe she avoided him, needing a bit more time to stitch her heart back together and pretend it wasn’t done by the trembling hand of heartbreak, but god — has she missed that freckled smile, those wild curls and soft earthen eyes.

it makes their last interaction all that much more painful.

the confession rolled off her tongue so easily that day, heart brimming of love and eyes set on signs that weren’t there. she doesn’t regret it, knows that these feelings would have been revealed one day, but marnie can’t deny these blues, the aching harmony woven by strings of unrequited love. it’s a little unfair — a little cruel — she thinks, wanting to kiss the stardust on those tired eyes and embrace the shadows of charred hearts but being barred from doing so. still, she can’t stay away; somehow, the road always leads back to him, everywhere else feeling too hollow, too far away from home. therefore, marnie ignores the glass echoes of heart fragments shattering upon seeing a man she can love but not have. he has decided indeed, and so she accepts, that friends is all they will be.

[ and marnie has decided to utterly love him still, even if it can only be between shadow and soul. ]

“what? and deprive my dear friends from a small but sturdy pillar they can rest on? i can’t do that!” she replies with a wink. her gaze then travels back to vic, the reason behind their delayed arrival resting on her tongue but being held back. hero might be one who deserves only truths, but vic is one who deserves secrecy. it isn’t her story to tell, and so, in the end, a white lie is spun.

“well let’s see; there was vic, me, a strawberry milkshake, and some air to trip over. so uhmm, a fashion incident might have happened that needed some solving first before coming here.” any other words primed to follow slip into silence as an albeit nervous announcement rips through all conversation in the hall. was it lunch time already? woohoo, great!! marnie had forgotten to eat breakfast this morning so there was definitely plenty of room for some delicious food.

“aahh, let’s go and eat! we might be sitting together too,” she grinned, linking her arms through those of her two friends and dragging them into the dining area. eyes scour the tables for the placards with names; it turns out, that the table odds are not in their favour. at least vic had azalea by him during the lunch, something marnie was relieved and happy about. hero, against her own selfish wishes, she has to leave behind at another table, but not without whispering some reassurance into his ear.

“looks like we will have to catch up later, but do give me a hoot if you need a marnie rescue or distraction, okay?” she squeezes his arm, sending him one last smile, before walking towards her table. it’s one she shares with only two others, their figures are already seated. one, with as many rumours as bodies buried stalking his figure; not much is known about vincenzo, something that intrigues and disquiets marnie all the same. dakota, she knows a bit better, his anxious yet kind presence always lingering closer to the avancini than one might expect or wish for, depending on the family. they might regard her more as an adversary than ally, but being seated alongside only adamskis is not a worry to her; peace, however frail it might be, is still peace. and a lunch is still a lunch ! one she can’t do without chatting her table partners up.

“hello! oh, it’s just the three of us? well that’s a bit unfair,” she sits down, hand grabbing the placard with her name on it. she turns it, watches how the elegant cursive shines under the light for a moment, and smiles, before steering her gaze back to the others “you reckon if we place a fake placard, they might give us extra food?” her gaze, relaxed and bright, shifts between the two, before resting on dakota.

“i like your hair by the way! that colour is lovely; it makes me want to dye my own pink. not to copy-cat you or anything, though i do love your style; it looks super cool ! i would totally wear it if i was your age. ahh, but that's not to say that i consider myself old or you very young, or that your style is only for a specific age– ”

coded by natasha.

 

[cavitea]

baroque adamski

❝ tell me, do you believe in loving me? ❞

mood

anxious, over stimulated

outfit

x.

location

Keypark Hall

interactions

hugo boo. , alyona koala , mentions others

You will outlast them.

The words played themselves delicately in an ego-swelled mind, a waltz across his frontal lobe that gave way to the solid grip at the toy in his pocket. Baroque was always able to count on his meetings with Hugo to fan the flame of his personality. Fire licked up the sides of his legs, an unoccupied finger rising to his mouth as he bit at the skin. Curse this.

Time had stretched too far between their last meeting and today, the minutes in the bathroom too few for someone as deprived as he was. The punch he had been sipping on did little to pull away from the biting at soul the meeting had given him. A gnawing ache grew with the smallest inhales, bubbling over with the inevitable exhale. Feet moved automatically, a stride across the floor even as an argument broken by the one he whispered to at night rang in his ears. Peering eyes only briefly saw the drunken form being dragged so gracefully away by familiar arms before a bell caused him to wince, a gentle cupping of his ear as he set the empty glass on an occupied tray.

•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧.˚ *•̩̩͙ ✩. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. •̩̩͙*˚⁺‧. ˚ *•̩̩͙ ✩.

​

Past the commotion of his family he had pulled himself, the stumbling from earlier carefully plotted out as heels became more of a minefield than a fashion statement. Surely food could provide some relief, an ache in his stomach from the recent rebellion against food as protest to the constrictions put on his freedom. Something had to be done. It just wasn't the most intelligent thing he had been capable of, the darkness floating under his eyes in violet hues a sign of the malnutrition as hand picked up the carefully placed sign that spelled his name. A raise of his head showed the earliness in his movements, a step sideways checking the other names seated as his table before a sharp draw from his lungs nearly toppled him.

Oh, so there is some sort of God.

Fingers moved quickly, a simple change of placards that seated him next to an object of affection that was quickly becoming a target of torment. A chair was pulled back, the grating sound on the floor making the youngest Adamski flinch. The drugs he had taken earlier were flowing strongly through his body by that point, a warm slur to already muddled thoughts that he welcomed as umber eyes orbs snaked a look towards the entrance hall, towards him.

An impatient man already he was relieved when the one he craved stepped into view, a stalking predator he could see only as prey. Musings fell over the serious expression, the rage withheld from breaking up that interaction no doubt. Or maybe it's me? All the same his attention drew itself away, a fake attention given to the décor of the table before his trap was triggered and the man stepped into proximity. Fingers danced, a flourish he reserved for being obnoxious as Baroque motioned towards the carefully placed placard, a seat nestled so wonderfully beside his own.

"Hugo, is it? I'm sure I heard somebody call you that, unless I'm horribly mistaken." One step, two step. He closed the gap with surprising coordination as fingers pressed into cheeks and a standard French greeting was pressed into skin. Apples and cinnamon, an application of gloss that just barely transferred to skin before umber stared into brown and he smiled. "Baroque Adamski, I'm sure it's a pleasure for you."

There was a devil in his eyes, a fish on a string that he dangled before the other as feet stepped back and he dragged himself back to his seat, another gesture towards the one next to his. "For better or for worse it appears we've been seated beside one another." Carefully he selected his motions, legs stepping as he moved to perch on the edge of the chair, those eyes only barely leaving the stature of the other man before that wolfish smile crossed his face again. It was like viewing the cogs of an evil man spin, a leaning forward onto his knees as lips were licked and fingers curled against chin.

"I'll try not to bite unless you beg for it."

Words could have been quieter but he saw no purpose, a blinking innocence at the older figure before him. The triangle of exposed flesh was still there, a tempting portion he briefly wondered the meaning behind before a hand waved through the air, congratulations dripping from whiskey and honey as he felt inclined to push further. "Don't worry, I won't cause such a stir that you'll need to intervene as you just did. Although, with the way you look I wouldn't mind being accosted in an empty hallway."

It was impossible to be satiated by just words, the fire in his attitude barely withheld by the shred of decorum that reigned him back. Flirting was normal for Baroque, a view of him that often saw fellow Adamskis turn up their nose as he flaunted both body and mind to anyone that would give him the time of day. Of course, with Hugo it was different; it was real. The ardor in his eyes was less of a fantasy and more a collection of memories playing in his head as a wink slyly graced the attention of the Avancini. It was attention barely held however, head turning towards another occupant of the table as the remaining amount of crowd began to flow into the dining area.

The smile on his face dropped an almost unperceivable degree of genuineness as he rose and approached the shaded female with a similar, albeit less lingering greeting.

"Alyona, dearest! It has been too long since your face has blessed my eyes, ma chérie." Inflections in his utterances spoke of a forgotten friendship and the warmth that accompanied it. Only someone close to the youngest would see the gloss that passed over his features, a veil of glamour as he helped the disinterested woman to her seat. Gentleman in only public he pulled her chair backwards before slipping away with the clicking of heels to his own seat. Hugo hadn't been forgotten but a tension seized Baroque by the throat again, that icy phantom grip threatening to squeeze with the wrong word.

A breath of moment and his thumb was back in the range of his teeth, the subconscious biting a personal whiplash from the flirtation he had eagerly leaned into just a few minutes before. Yes, comforting it was to have someone like Hugo nearby but with all crowded situations he envisioned those myriad of eyes on him, a need for imperfect perfection.

"Wonderful event, celebration of life as always."

Words that went to no one in particular as eyes flicked to the final unoccupied placard of the table, an embossed name read with painstaking difficulty. Part of the pain could be blamed on the drugs that knocked on his mind, desperate for control. They pulled his head up, eyes towards the ceiling as a firm bite at his finger prompted the drawing back and shove into his pocket, an unknown gift providing a taste of relief. This isn't the time to lose it again.

Seated next to the second most powerful Avancini and he was there, the failure of the Adamski bloodline, biting his fingers and falling victim to substances. How Baroque of me.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[miyabi]

KIKO N.C.

THE WORLD

Countless hours of threadbare sleep; a cold, dingey jail cell that echoes with every pass of a footstep, every breath, every minute sound—cavernous space that felt more like Hell than reality. Her throat, barren, screeching for a drop of water, scratches and burns: the aftermath of a booze-smelled night out paired with the unfortunate fistfight over a duck-shaped cookie jar at the thrift store. The sunlight fell through a small, barred window. On most days her only source of light was a computer screen; completely consumed in darkness, not a single ounce of sunlight—had there been any—leaking beyond any unnoticed cracks between her black-out curtains. This change, however, was less than appreciated. A singular memory such as this prompted the gratitude outstretched to the Avancini basement as boring as it was, it proved exceedingly comfortable than the current situation. An exchange of soft linen for hard metal and a thin pad as a consequence of moments devoured by pure impulse.

Kiko feels bile well up to her throat, a quick scramble to the metal toilet—the burning sensation of last night’s alcohol causes her to heave a bit more; strings of saliva with slight tints of amber, the signs of whiskey and a mixture of another mystery drink. Righteous indignation prompted from realization; she may have admitted to her actions, but in no way did she believe that she deserved to sit in this cell, rotting, vomiting, dreading the rest of the day.

And as her head pulls upward, the fishbowled, slightly blurred reflection of hers shares the mirror image of more consequence. Dried blood in her nostrils, slight drips into her fur coat, the rest smeared across soft cheeks. The stinging nose bridge resounds an awful pain throughout the rest of her face, the possibility of a fractured nose, yet as she presses a hand against the bone, it refuses to move.

“I see you’re awake, Chiangmai,” a voice, familiar, the only tell of an ally. “What I tell you about getting into more trouble?”

She sits in momentary silence, ponders the thoughts before answering quickly: “That I should start getting paid for it?” Wrong answer? The man's face, Leo, scrunches into exasperation; thick beard folding with his mouth, pursed lips as he inches closer to the cell, Kiko mirroring the movements until they are face to face. Inches away, dark eyes staring into dark eyes—his spoke of stories, never unfolded, hers spoke of freedom, starving for another taste of it. "Keep looking at me like that and I might consider wanting to stay a lil' longer," Kiko snarls between tightened teeth, hands wrapped around paint-chipped bars. A bite into the air, Leo takes a step back.

He threatens a turn and she reaches beyond the barrier, groaning in defeat, "you're right, I'm wrong. That what'cha wanna hear?" Leo stifles a sigh, withholds an answer, and Kiko inserts herself again, "one more phone call and I'll be outta your hair. You want that, don'tcha?"

***​

Interminable ringing, a phone call granted with heavy surveillance, though it wasn't hers; only a woman's from the cell across from her, grey-haired and teary-eyed.

“The bitch had it coming; you’re gonna look at me and tell me that I’m WRONG? I saw that stupid fucking Duck first.”

Light flickers and fades; once, twice, with flashes of a soft light dampened by fog; incorporeal shapes shifted around in the darks of the corners. A familiar stench washes away the worry for even just a moment, the feeling in her throat was heavy again; squeezing itself to keep down whatever was in her stomach, which wasn't much; last night's sushi, a few gummy bears, and whatever was left of the alcohol accumulated in her stomach. Scattered mental snapshots from the night prior.

The smell seemed much stronger than it was. Hell, it wasn’t really there.

There was no indication of where the smell came from; neither the hint towards an unclean vent nor the unwashed bodies of cell neighbors, but Kiko knew she smelled it while nobody else did. And whatever fucked up hallucination this was, she wasn’t falling for it again. That’s when she realized it: fire, soot, and burning flesh.

It was all too vivid; too real; possibly the indication of her own confined madness, it seems. Her family, Louisa, Andrej, and their poor child met his unfortunate end in one of the most devastating ways. The biggest problem with them both? There wasn’t a single puzzle piece that fit. No traces, no evidence, no idea who could’ve started them. She didn’t buy it—the thought of it being their own doing. Kiko didn’t think anybody did, but she didn’t dare vocalize the different routes her brain went grasping for an answer that, inevitably, wouldn’t appear.

She gagged, wretched, covered her mouth with sticky palms, body leaning itself against the cold bars—dried blood flaking off of her fur coat. “I’m feeling pretty sick—don’t think you want,” stomach contents rise back into her throat, taking most of her strength to keep it down, “I don’t think you want me blasting chunks all over this cell.”

There was a collective sigh, paired with other inmates shouting in exasperation—Kiko couldn’t keep her mouth shut, not with the oncoming wave of anxiety that seemed to pace throughout her body. God. Her bruised-covered hand grips the metal bars again, body hunched over—and just like that, as if prayers were answered and the gates of heaven (or was it hell?) opened, there was the sound of clanking metal.

Just on time.

Kiko looked up, sweat dripping down her brow; a subtle shake in her stature, but it wasn’t obvious under the thick coat. Her eyes, although watering, were luckily covered by black sunglasses that pointed at the edges.

“You got lucky Chiangmai, a friend’s coming to get you.”

The evidence that she, indeed made a phone call earlier, despite the lack of detailed remembrance (the consequence of grainy memory and the unfortunate hangover). An onslaught of memories had only come by jumbled puzzle pieces with missing parts in between, the only recollection being the few times she’d called Jasper by his name, then the following of “Jazz Hands”, the offer to put her dog, and him saying something about how he’d leave her behind if she wasn’t outside when he got there.

“See you next time, Leo,” an air of smugness despite the psychological terror, Kiko feels the handcuffs wrap around thin wrists; cold metal an uncomfortable feeling against bare flesh.

“Don’t come back, I’m telling you, kid.”

***​

Kiko smells freedom here.

Through the crowded streets crawl cars, the patter of feet against pavement, incessant chatter that hit the senses all at once—engulfed in the all-too-familiar scent of the city. Once hearing the sounds of the season, one could lose a sense of time; how gradually moments shift without much recognition and someplace under the sun, most aren’t aware of tragedy—or, rather, most turn away at the thought of life moving onward other than their own.

She spots his car and wordlessly slips in, a few crumbs from last night's meal—whatever it had been—cozily finding their place on Jasper's car seats. "Heeeey big guy. 'Ya got any mints? Can't go around smelling like shit."

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INTERACTION

Jasper

LOCATION

in front of jail, on the way to memorial, probably late

TAGS

Wandering Owl

scroll

"Am I doing any of this life right?"

 

[xayah.]

scroll

the magician ✧･ﾟ:

evangeline

mood

wishing this was a private, not public affair

outfit

sad day, not ugly day

location

Keypark Hall

interactions

carmen, mr. kim, hannibal, marzi

tags

mxlly @.moonchild. arthur morgan. ravensunset

Bitter.

Nauseatingly so. That was expected of these things, a given even, but it should have been more subtle than this. The bitterness was usually nothing more than an undercurrent, lingering in the back of your mind rather than front and center in such an overwhelming manner. It felt like the decoration was to blame. Sleek, refined, and clearly radiating affluence, maybe Evangeline had unknowingly expected more, if not better, as a result—more than fake condolences, better than a tense atmosphere.

She's not sure whether she's talking about the wine or the memorial at this point.

Unable to take one more sip, or one more look around the hall, the deep red pool of wine in her cup became her only solace. A thin, slender hand twirled the wine glass back and forth, tilting it lightly each and every which way and watching her reflection shift with each change. A beauty one direction, an elongated mess the next. Then, she'd be too condensed—features all squished together in a space no bigger than her pinkie—before half, or completely, vanishing at the wrong angle. One glass, many faces. A bit like her really—with all her years of being undercover—the only difference being that she does not spill.

She does not break.

A call of her name is all it takes to snap Evangeline out of her stupid little fascination with a disgusting glass of wine. She slowly looks upwards, taking care not to act surprised or stunned—being caught lost in your thoughts is a bit embarrassing whether she's undercover or not—and finds, both unexpectedly and disappointingly, a somewhat familiar face drawing nearer with every step. What did she expect? For the voice to have been Marzi or Matezh or Mr. Kim or Hannibal or Baroque or even Casimir? For it to have been anyone but an Avancini—no, not really an Avancini per se.

If the Avancini could be considered a family, Carmen was something more akin to a cousin, if not once-removed. One who has an awful lot of money that belongs to her and her alone, and that money gets her into places and peoples' hearts. Just not Evangeline's. It's hard to compare to a childhood being raised by blood money. A lot of it.

But she has to play the part of a beguiled fool, for now at least, and so, Evangeline steps back a little upon Carmen's arrival as if to give the woman her rightfully deserved space in front of the spy—sorry, mere foot soldier. In the meanwhile, the wine glass in her hand returns to its proper position, just a little lower than chest level. The foot soldier wants a clear look—this time not at herself but at the person who chose to spend today's event in her presence.

"What's the bet that everything goes to shit within the next... thirty minutes?"

Statements like these were why peace seemed like a faraway dream, an impossibility even, and had she not been in a room of wandering eyes, Evangeline would've rolled her eyes with extra effort. Weren't days like these supposed to be all about encouraging peace, this event specifically? But this is the Carmen the Avancini had come to know and dread, and now Evangeline is going to entertain these little intrusive thoughts of hers. Well... she was.

The sound of spit in a mostly still room had drawn eyes, including hers and no doubt Carmen's as well. And there, in the thick of it, was Matezh. Ever the unbothered and menacing leader in public—if only they knew of his penchant for coddling some of his children behind closed doors—Evangeline was subtly surprised to find him on the receiving end for once. She was even more surprised to discover his aggressor: a somewhat inebriated Hero—now living, soon to be dead if he kept this up. Whether by the Adamski's hand or the Avancini's, she wasn't quite sure. Perhaps they'd coordinate the deed as a show of peace. That would be quite the sight.

But an inebriated man is a truthful one, and Evangeline couldn't help but strain herself to hear his ramblings. What secrets would spill from his loose lips? What demons haunted a man so much as to challenge the head of Saint's Height's most powerful family? Bits and pieces floated in and out of comprehension.

"ruin... ...the real you."

Marzi's entrance into the affair only made her hone in on the confrontation.

"...more of a man... ...who I am? I'm your..."

And then Hugo slid in. Right at the crucial moment. He dragged the miserable soul away from the center of attention like the good little Avancini lapdog he is, and perhaps what would be the only interesting moment today ended right then and there—not in an explosion like she expected but a sad flicker, soon to be forgotten by most of the attendees. Her face twitched in annoyance, something she disgused with the raising of her glass to her lips as if she was attempting to hide a small laugh at the whole affair before looking back at Carmen.

"I'm not quite sure if that counts as everything but..."

A chuckle came from her lips, still hiding behind a glass of wine. It was something forced, not that anyone could tell, but if they could, she wouldn't be very good at her job, would she? Giving the scene of the outburst one last quick glance—something to investigate later for sure—she playfully put a finger to her cheek, making the movement as long and drawn out as possible. Deep in thought it'd seem, when really she spent only a few seconds on an appropriate response which in this case was a mere guess. Something that was close enough to Carmen's original answer to subtly agree with her but far enough that Evangeline wouldn't seem like a poor sport.

Then, the sound of a bell rang over the room. Saved. By a clearly distressed caterer and his tiny bellhop bell. With a slight tremble in his tone, he announced the beginning of lunch, and Evangeline gestured for Carmen to lead the way. She'd follow just a few steps behind as the sound of heels and steel-toed shoes filled the hall towards one singular direction. And when Evangeline found herself right behind Carmen near the entrance of the dining hall, she found her opportunity to entertain the earlier question.

"I'll see you in a bit? Maybe in an hour and a half if everything goes to shit on my schedule and not yours?"

There was something almost friendly in her words, as if she really did want to see Carmen after this whole memorial was over, but it would be up to her to find Evangeline and not the other way around. With that, she waved her partner off and headed off to find her seat. And what a coincidence it is to find yourself in the assigned company of three people you thought of earlier today.

Perhaps on any other occasion, Evangeline would've been pleased. These three were the ones she could tolerate most in the Adamski family, after all. But for a whole lunch where she needs to feign allegiances, the thought is pure torture. And as she approached the table, a sense of calm comes over the spy for the first time today—an emotion she tries hard not to let peak through at the moment in front of so many eyes.

"Hello. It seems like this is my seat."

The words come out bitter. Bitter at how bad she is at faking it in front of them, at how miserable of a coincidence this is, and at how public a rare moment like this is.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[ravensunset]

scroll

the hierophant

Marzanna
Adamski.

mood

stressed, keeping it together

outfit

Marzanna's outfit consists of black pants, a buttoned up formal black shirt, and black boots on small heels. She accessorized with two thin gold necklaces and golden strand earrings.

location

Keypark Hall

interactions

Hero, Hugo, Evangeline

tags

demonology , boo. xayah.

The man standing across from Matezh looked up, noticing Marzanna’s presence. She kept her chin up, muscles still, although she could hear her heart loud inside her chest. Her words hadn’t, as she’d hoped, made him back down, but it was no matter. She had to keep calm, keep firm, don’t move a muscle, don’t back down, her father was right there watching.

He shifted, just barely, and they come face to face. His pupils were dilated, and she had to shift her attention from keeping her feet firmly planted and pose steady to stop her nose from wrinkling up at the less than pleasant scent of alcohol wading off onto her.

“D-Do you even know who I am?” An Avancini soldier with no sense of decorum, no respect. A drunk. One of Marzanna’s least favorite types of people to deal with in her line of business. No name matched the face, she couldn’t even recall seeing him at any prior meetings. Yet, as his dark eyes met her crystal blue ones, there was something else, too. Was it in the shape of his eyes? The slant of his nose? Marzanna was looking at something deathly familiar through miles of warped glass.

All at once, the man spoke again, Marzanna raised her hand to signal an approaching guard to remove him from the premises as he’d refused to leave himself, and Hugo Young entered the scene, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. He gave an apology, to which Marzanna only nodded. The Avancini could deal with the pet they’d unfortunately let off his leash, and Hugo’s gaze showed well enough that he wasn’t much happier than she was at the scene. Hugo Young, the other family’s second in command, was someone she knew of well enough, and his fists were firm as he pulled the collar of the man away. She would be upset, too, if she’d been the one to allow her family to embarrass themselves like this.

Marzanna let out her breath. At least it was a mild embarrassment for them, not more. The Adamski guard was dismissed with a hand signal, and Marzanna allowed herself to turn away as the pair was pulled around a corner. She swept her gaze over the crowd; they’d garnered some attention, a blatant stare here and a poorly hidden look there, whispers shared, it’s fine, your job is getting looked at, get used to it, but the function remained undisturbed.

Did he say brother? The half formed word rattled inside Marzanna, trying to take shape. She refused it. It wasn’t possible, but even for someone stumbling in with only alcohol in their bloodstream, it was hardly a thought that made sense. If he wanted a scene, attention, there were better ways. He’d looked at her as if she was her, Marzanna, not just whoever happened to be an Adamski authority. She waited a moment, two, until enough of a breath had passed through the room, and turned towards her father.

“Do you have any idea what he was on about?”

Her tone was low, the sternness melted off of it, and she did her best to keep it light, as though it was a mere curiosity and nothing more. She was certain that if anyone would be able to see through that, it would be him.

Her father’s eyes were ice cold as he looked at her. She was used to it, but still, it sent a shiver running right through her. His response dismissed her question, echoing her first assumption, that the Avancini must have been drunk and rambling. His disappointment at the question was clear, always disappointed, what had even possessed her to ask it? Before either of them could quite discuss, a bell rang out through the hall.

Lunch was announced by a server, a young and clearly overwhelmed man. Did they really hire someone who couldn’t even announce a lunch properly? Marzanna, momentarily, was torn between a sense of disdain at the position, and an almost envious wonder at what it would be like to have a job where you could show nerves without the very act risking your life.

She brushed off the thought, and her father promptly left to head to his seat. A wave of doubt ran through her body, ice flowing through her, if he was angry at how she’d handled the situation, if she should have done something differently, missed something in the spoken words. Her hands closed into fists.

Marzanna took a breath, and willed herself forward into the lunchroom.

A crowd of black formalwear filtered in along her, the smell of hot food mingling in with the tension flowing off of the bodies, forming a thick cloud in the air. When she found her seat, Evangeline had just sat down across from it. An Adamski table. How perfectly coincidental, and she was relieved to have Hannibal there as well, one of the very few family members who didn’t increase her stress level in one way or another. Still, having Evangeline there would not be easy.

The woman was, in many ways, not less than a sister to her. They shared lunch together often, have since they were only children, easy conversation and a sense of familiarity always between them. This was not like that. Half the crowd knew Evangeline was on their side, and the other half, thought she was theirs. The job meant neither woman could show they knew each other any more than just by name.

Marzanna nodded at Evangeline’s words, sliding into her seat. At least with her years of practice, it was almost easier to keep her face perfectly still than to show emotion of any kind.

“A pleasure.”

Her words were kept short, polite. It was unlikely others were listening to the exact exchanges of their conversation, but there was no such thing as too safe. She refused to hold eye contact with Evangeline, instead scanning the room for the remainder of their table to join.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[koala]

alyona

mood.

get me out

outfit.

x

location.

Keypark Hall

tags.

Azalea blue-jay ; Casimir miyabi ; Baroque cavitea ; Hugo boo.

“Ah. Like a migraine? I’ve heard those hurt like hell.”

“They’re a pain.” Alyona sighed as her eyes casually scanned the room. People aside, there were various forms of life scattered about, decorating corners, tables, windows and walls. Their floral essence had gone unnoticed when she first arrived—the urgency to find a place to loiter alone being a bigger priority. Having a moment to finally think clearly, or as clearly as a bit of gin allowed, she could finally take in all the color. All the flowers.

And Alyona hated flowers. Once she had cherished them, but things were different now. With only fleeting beauty, they browned and shriveled much faster than the time it took to bloom. They were small buds of life that were easily overlooked and trampled on. Giving flowers to someone ill was reminding them they too would soon die. Giving flowers to people was telling them they wouldn’t be pretty forever. Giving flowers to people was a sentence for something that always ended… badly. She never understood Azalea’s obsession with them in the beginning, but as they rekindled and time went on, she’d gained some type of grasp on the metaphorical garden supposedly within everyone.

Azalea was an oasis of softness and eternal life, filled with flowers that could only be found in ancient literature and folklore—the kind Alyona could actually believe in. She was the type of woman Alyona wished she could be. Someone who, regardless of every hardship and moment of suffering, could offer genuine smiles and comfort to the person who sat opposite of their scale. However, everyone had a parallel to them, whether good or bad. A peek through the looking glass would reveal Alyona, a garden of nightmares and sorrows.

While Azalea was a place of hope and new beginnings, Alyona was a place of broken promises and forgotten dreams. Every inch was surrounded by intricate, ugly vines, crossing and weaving over each other in an attempt to patch up open wounds. They were covered in thorns, charred by raging fire in some areas, and covered in poisonous lies in others. Her heart was the kind of place people avoided, too afraid of the challenge tearing through the fray would present.

”Okayyy, I will. I do love a good walk in the rain sometimes, though. It’s great for thinking. Less great for my shoes.”

At least they could agree on walking in the rain. If her boots didn’t have three inch heels and her mother’s hospital wasn’t situated on the opposite side of the city, Alyona may have done the same. She needed a good crying session, one that a sad movie with Hugo in the middle of the night couldn’t explain. Maybe tonight would be the night for one if the sky’s tears persisted long enough.

As if on cue, the man of her thoughts emerged. From where, she wasn’t sure. He was a shadow she couldn’t track, literally and figuratively.

Hugo was a mysterious man who knew exactly when and what to share. Their nights together had cracked open unexpected gates in both their walled hearts. She’d eventually found herself sharing some things only a therapist should ever hear, and she wasn’t sure what to make of the knowledge except that it scared the hell out of her.

Alyona watched with feigned laziness as Hugo dragged Hero away, someone she had made note to avoid during her first weeks as an Avancini. She never took the time to get to know him, like many of those in the crime family. It was better for her to maintain a distance from as many of them as she could. Some were just… harder to avoid than others, though.

Her attention returned to Azalea, eyes falling to the woman’s semi-parted lips as she started saying something else. The sentence was cut short by a nervous announcer, who had impeccable timing given the heavy tension grabbing everyone by the throat. Alyona had to give them points for not buckling at the knees almost immediately after.

“Woo, lunch time! I just know how excited everyone is for this part. I’m gonna go find my seat now. Catch up later, okay?”

“See you.” Alyona smiled, hiding the actual hint of disappointment she felt when Azalea sauntered off. It was then she realized how small she was in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Her head turned slowly from side to side as she scanned for others she knew. Anyone. Someone. Him.

Casimir, with all his glorious height, walked the opposite direction of her and towards the table Azalea sat. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears. A moment of silence was shared between them as time seemed to slow, barely a nod of recognition or acknowledgement. There was only the slight brush of hands as they passed by, leaving only scorching heat to travel up her arm and lick her face. A face that she hoped was still covered with enough makeup that no color bled through.

The clock began ticking again. People were moving at a normal pace. The distance between her and the Adamski male grew cold and the adrenaline flowing in her veins faded into nothingness. It was a meaningless gesture to brush her hand against his, but it was the message within it that she hoped he got.

I see you.

Because in a pit of vipers, all she could hope for was that two of its outliers could concede to each other if all Hell broke loose.

“Alyona, dearest! It has been too long since your face has blessed my eyes, ma chérie.”

Alyona blinked up at the tall figure, head tilting to catch a glimpse of his full face. Annoyance tickled her brain at this man making her strain her neck, but the bitterness simmered when she saw it was none other than Baroque. She allowed herself to be seated to appease his princely, or maybe it was princessly, nature before speaking.

“You say that like you don’t FaceTime me when you need help deciding what pair of lingerie you want to sleep in.” Baroque and her were playing a dangerous game then. Two people of opposite families sharing their familiarity with one another, especially in front of someone who was only second in the Avancini family himself.

Alyona picked at her perfectly polished nails to ease the nerves that bared their claws in warning. Her eyes flickered to Hugo, gauging his reaction to their conversation but mostly curious as to how he’d try to muzzle her in public.

“How’s babysitting, Hugo? You look like you need a drink.” She paused, a somewhat over dramatic gasp and perfect smile leaving her nude-colored lips. An opportunity to exit an unwanted conversation and push Hugo into the spotlight was hard to resist. “Oh, sorry. Have you two met? Baroque. Hugo. Hugo. Baroque.”

The fire from her brief encounter with Casimir had been reduced to dying embers, taking all the energy she had left for the day with it. She relaxed a bit more in her chair as she mentally exited the conversation unfolding before her, arms and legs withering internally while her stomach screamed silently for food. Tired eyes glanced at the empty chair beside her, a name card with no one to claim it yet. Morena wasn’t a name she knew off the top of her head, and she wondered how thick of a mask she’d need to wear in front of them.

She inwardly cursed Hugo for making her come, upper lip almost daring to curl up but knowing better than to express her unchecked emotions.

“Wonderful event, celebration of life as always.”

Alyone barely processed what Baroque said; they were a jumble of words in the fog of her mind. She mumbled unconsciously in response, lips barely moving as she took a sip from her glass. “If life is what you want to call it.”

”help.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Wandering Owl]

jasper mistri

• aaaaaa
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  Mood
  Anticipation. Curiosity. More on-edge than he's willing to admit.
  
  Location
  Keypark Hall dining room
  
  
  
  interactions

  
  

  Mentions
  Kiko, Azure, Harris
  
  Interactions
  miyabi .
  
  
  
  
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It wasn’t light when Jasper woke.

On a good day, there might have been light, a scrap of early sunlight pushing its way over the horizon, the last remnants of the summer’s long days hanging on to the edge of autumn. Today, as Jasper's alarm rang, it rang in a dark room, against the relentless drumming of rain.

Today was not a good day.

He woke reluctantly, blinking away the remnants of a dream that was already fading from his memory. It had been a late night. There were more late nights than not nowadays. Even in this time of relative peace, his job didn’t seem to get any easier. His own fault, maybe, for pushing on when others stalled, but he’d never been good at sitting when there were things to be done.

He was lucky, at least, that his morning routine was etched into his bones long ago. He could do this sleepwalking, nevermind half-asleep. Get up, grab some coffee, feed the cat, check the mail-

Jasper stopped, one hand still on the junk mail he’d been moving to one side. For a second, all that registered was that something was off with the envelope sitting in front of him, and then his brain clicked into motion, shedding all traces of weariness for a quick-fire stream of thoughts. No postmark. His name, in neat letters across the front. Older paper, a little battered. Had it been hand-delivered? He turned it over, careful as a loaded gun. A seal. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a real one. The low light glinted off the letter opener as he slid it carefully under the wax, contemplating steam and deciding not to risk the delicate design. The paper ripped just a little. An inevitability. He eased the letter out, setting the envelope gently down on the table, and though he took in the words themselves almost immediately, his eyes lingered on the paper, as that stream of thoughts became an unintelligible whirlpool.

His first thought, rising unbidden out of the miasma, was cynical. Clearly they didn’t actually care about giving information, or else they would have included names. Details. Even threats usually came attached to some kind of instruction. Something usable, rather than this ominous ambiguity.

The logical part of his brain suspected that it was fear-mongering. Nothing more. Someone trying to stir up trouble and suspicion between the families. Someone with a flair for the dramatic. (As if that narrowed it down.) It wasn't a coincidence that this arrived on the day that there was due to be a significant number of both families in the same room. He knew how a little rumor, a shred of mistrust, could snowball out of control. The real danger wasn’t whoever sent this letter. It was the powder keg of the two families that sat just waiting for a spark. People saw what they expected to see, for better or worse.

He was, of course, a hypocrite. Regardless of how appealing the idea of it all being a sham was, how easily it’d be solved by just watching and waiting and not giving them a reaction, Jasper couldn’t quite dam the undercurrent of worries. He didn’t exactly make his full name and address public knowledge, so the fact that someone had got hold of it without his knowledge was… concerning, to say the least. He’d have to check where that information was available, do a thorough check for any potential leaks. Keep a closer eye on those he knew, Avancini and Adamski both. And what if there was some truth to the words on the letter, something going on that he’d have no other warning for-

“Enough.”

The thought was forceful enough to breach his lips. Jasper slammed his hands on the table as he stood. He had better things to do. There was work to finish, a memorial to prepare for. Enough to fill his day and more, without wasting time sitting here overthinking a goddamn hoax.

Normally, he’d be able to get something done in the time he had, but today he just found himself drifting back to the service that loomed like a black hole in the center of his day. It wasn’t - shouldn't have been - any different from usual. Show up, hang around for the obligatory, stay back and mingle and see what threads of intrigue he could catch onto. Nothing that required hours of thought.
His brain disagreed. After the third time he caught himself grabbing his phone to google some minor detail of the whole incident, he decided to just lean in. He would have gone for a walk to clear his head, but the heavens had decided to strike that option squarely off his list.

So he did what he was best at, and prepared.

He checked the story, filling in the holes in the news reports with what he knows the truth to be. He wasn’t exactly expecting a pop quiz, but no doubt there’d be platitudes aplenty, and messing those up was never a good look. He ran through the list of guests he knew, and the ones he suspected. It’d been a while since he’d seen this many important members of both families collected in such a small space. He could only hope the weight of the memorial, the reminder of the consequences of shattered peace, that hung over all of them, would dampen any sparks that happen to fly. And he went through that backbone in his line of work, his wardrobe. The clothes he picked out were black, simple and elegant, not too far from his usual outfits. Did it say something, that his style tended so closely towards funeral attire? A moment’s contemplation. It didn’t say anything bad, at least. A memorial was about taking care to show respect, while setting aside your own vanity. Not distracting attention from those who need the focus. It was a brief he was very familiar with. Though, as that list of family members ran through his head again, not one he expected to be fully followed.

As if in answer to that thought, his phone rang, a snatch of classical music long since dissociated from its original context. Jasper’s fingers closed around it without having to look, and he flipped it over to see the screen. Kiko. Her words flooded out of the phone at him, He simply let her talk until she’d exhausted her train of thought; though “Jazz Hands” induced a wince so strong it was almost audible.

He’d made up his mind to accept even before her attempt to bribe him. He’d have to run late for her - wouldn’t be the first time, would it - and he mourned the time he’d lose at such a rare event. But Kiko was a powerful ally to keep, and he’d never liked turning up to this sort of thing alone. Let her take it as sentimentality, if she liked. He knew it was simple tactics. "If you're not there when I come past, I will be driving away. I’m kind of on a schedule today, you know." Jasper hung up, and double-checked the route on his phone before he slipped it into his pocket.

The route to the jail was becoming unfortunately familiar. Jasper glanced over at Kiko as she slipped in, already resigning himself to cleaning out whatever she managed to shed into his seats this time. He’d had words with her before about it, before he’d learnt that she’d only take that as encouragement.

“Never stopped you before.” Jasper didn’t take his eyes off the road. He let the silence linger for a couple of seconds, before relenting. “There’s mints in the glove compartment. At least you can freshen up that much.” At that his eyes did flick over to her, fully taking in her appearance for the first time. Looks like she’s had a rough time of it. Jail is a bitch. That sort of compassion passed between them only unspoken at times like these. Instead he cuts back, pragmatic as always, “May I suggest losing the coat? This is a memorial, after all.” The rest of her outfit wasn’t exactly memorial attire either, but it was black. That had to count for something, around a group as unorthodox as this.

As the two of them entered, it seemed others were already leaving. Catching glimpses of tables and placards through the open door, Jasper followed suit. His placard sat at an empty table, Kiko’s one adjacent. “Looks like we get to stay together.” Appreciation and resignation mixed in his tone. He took a quick circuit of the table. May as well see who he’s going to be small-talking with. Azure Dahl and Harris Felicette. Azure’s name was familiar, he’d worked with her before. Not a friend, necessarily, but someone he had a decent amount of respect for. It took him a few seconds longer to place Harris. The word traitor was the first connection to click into place, overheard falling from so many lips. It was quickly diluted by his own sentiments. Loyalties in this game lasted only for as long as they were practical. There was no shame in making whatever arrangements benefited you. All it meant was that they were, for now, at opposite sides of this chessboard. And with the balance of the table was shifted firmly in favor of the Avancinis, Jasper was looking forward to seeing how this meal played out.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[mxlly]

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Much to the younger’s chagrin, she had spoken nothing more than a sentence when Evangeline’s attention was pulled from under her. A flash of irritation had struck, her dark eyes now framed with the picture of contempt. A manicured brow sat arched as she studied her company’s face, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. It was only a moment, not even a dismissal -- but Carmen caught it, dissecting that nanosecond she had gone unanswered and whittling it down to a point she could stab herself with. But it was self-destructive, over-thinking nonsense; Evangeline wasn’t disregarding her, she had simply detected something exciting Carmen had yet to notice.

She followed Evangeline’s gaze, catching the moment the Avancini’s second, Hugo, extracted an indignant-looking Hero from what appeared to be a downhill conversation. Carmen relaxed, shifting her weight and angling herself to get a proper look. They had box seats to the first almost scrap of this ill-fated affair. Amusement tugged on her lips, the corners of her mouth growing to a smile; the left corner a tad higher than the right. Carmen wasn't the slightest bit concerned about masking her delight with feigned disinterest -- she knew her reputation: a blood-sucking leech when it came to other people's messes.

"I'm not quite sure if that counts as everything but..."

Carmen laughed softly, running her tongue along her teeth as she reveled in the taste of the afternoon to come, “I mean that’s a bit of a slow start, but it’s definitely something." She slid her coat off, holding it out and signaling for a staff member to come to collect it with a nod. She thanked them with the smallest of smiles, barely lending them a moment before returning her energy to Evangeline. She got comfortable, rolling up her sleeves and propping herself up against some pillar. With her frame idle and shoulders loose, she wasn't the picture of poise; one debutante ball at the age of sixteen was enough to ensure she shot off in the opposite direction: 'you're representing the family and you must act accordingly,' her mother would warn in harsh whispers -- but Carmen knew it didn't matter what she did, all people ever saw was green.

"Though I do hope that popsicle stick isn't in too much trouble," she added flatly, moving with the crowd as they migrated to the dining hall, "don't tell him I said that though." A half-hearted request. Hero must've known that deep down, quite deep down, there was a tiny spot in Carmen's heart that he occupied, a spot complete with a miniature actor's chair labeled 'Annoying Bastard,' -- but it was there nonetheless.

"I'll see you in a bit? Maybe in an hour and a half if everything goes to shit on my schedule and not yours?"

She glanced back over her shoulder at Evangeline, observing the other woman’s soft features as she entertained the comment she had made earlier. “Yeah,” there was a flicker of something genuine in Carmen's eyes, a warmth to her tone that was relatively new when she regarded Evangeline; striking even herself as unusual. She knew she liked her, but they weren't close by any means...but perhaps she could foresee herself considering her a friend of sorts...in the future, "I'll see you later." She waved her off, but her gaze lingered as she pondered the conversation for a moment, studying the casual interaction as though it were some complex math problem. She drew a sharp, quiet breath; maybe the trust-fund child was not as loathsome as she had assumed.

--

Dear God, if you're listening please give me Marnie. She prayed silently as she circled the tables, holding her breath amongst the sea of apprehension. She found the idea of mixing the Adamski's and Avancini's laughable -- lunch did not weigh enough to perpetuate peace, and some small talk over a slider wouldn't stop these years-old grudges ending with someone bleeding out on the marble floor. Though this wasn't about lunch, this was about Andrej, Louisa, and their child. The thought dried out her throat, a feverish wave of both warm and cold flushing her cheeks. Carmen's turtleneck suddenly felt scratchy. She pulled at her collar, performing another once-over in the room to hopefully spot one of the only people she could be honest with -- and she did, she was just tables away from where Carmen clocked her own name. Of course.

Carmen stopped, hands in her pockets as she regarded the only person who was already seated at her table. The tide of panic receded. "Az," she spoke the name with a false sense of amity -- perhaps the other woman found this as amusing as she did. Carmen strolled to the other side of the table, her fingers tracing the back of the chairs as her mind flipped through a Rolodex of possible greetings. She also took in the other placards: Victor Rivera...good, an Avancini who she didn't think had a problem with her...and Casimir Sayed-Adamski...1 vs. 3? that hardly seemed fair. But anyway, it wasn't her problem. Carmen pulled out her chair, head tilted as she offered a smile to Azalea; sincere, shockingly. She knew Azalea didn't like her, and at least with that thought playing on her mind at lunch, she could forget about everything else. "Did you request that we get the same table? You're the sweetest."

Carmensita

strength

Mentions: Hugo, Hero, Marnie, Victor, Casimir. Interactions: Evangeline, Azalea.

boo. demonology neon reverie miyabi xayah. blue-jay

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[boo.]

hugo.

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  dining hall, table 3

  
  

  
  

  
  

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  baroque; alyona

  
  

  
  

  
  

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  cavitea koala

  
  

  
  

  
  

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• home (filler tab)

sam burton

i can go with you

Hugo had always known that Hero being here was a mistake. Not here at the memorial—here with Avanici. What Emilio had seen in him, he couldn't comprehend. There was tangible danger that surrounded him, a rabid dog on a leash but rabid nonetheless. The only leverage that Hugo held over him was the fact that he knew exactly who he was, but what he really needed was to know why he was here at all. Bullshit with looking for a new family—Hero was here to get something. Hugo was certain that that something did not have Avanici interests in mind.

His lips were sealed thin, his walls reset, as Hero stomped away to terrorize someone else. In a sense he was relieved, but in another, he knew it was a mistake not to go after him and drag him out by his collar, this time all the way to the door. Hugo had already made a scene of himself; he wasn't above making another, if only to get this man out of his sight. Dark eyes steeled as the memorial shifted gears, a halfhearted announcement trickling through a halfhearted crowd, and Hugo was given yet another hat to wear, another part to play. He had to recollect himself, become the pillar of support that he was known to be, and suffer through this luncheon as if there was no other place he'd rather be.

Quite certain that nothing else would be able to shake him after what he'd already experienced in the past twenty minutes, Hugo stalked to the dining hall and began to scan the tables for his placard. Table 1 held Victor's place, as well as Carmen's and Azalea's. Casimir Sayed—ah, another scorned. He reminded himself to pull aside Victor at some point and relay his concerns (again) about Hero (for what seemed like the millionth time). Table 2—all Adamski, except for poor Evangeline. Table 3—

Oh.

Oh no.

His lips very nearly formed his lover's name but he bit them back, rolling his teeth over his bottom lip and swallowing his heart as it leapt into his mouth. This was a joke. Baroque was playing a prank on him. A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad prank. Was God laughing at them? He certainly was.

Baroque ventured his name with a coquettish grin and stepped so close that for a split second Hugo thought he was going to kiss him. And he did—just not in the way he was expecting. Already Hugo's countenance had begun to crack, horror slipping through like grass between slabs of pavement. He realized he'd brought up a hand between them, pressing against Baroque's chest, ready to push him away. It quickly dropped to his side.

We're doing to die. This is it. He's going to get us killed.

"Enchanted,"

breathed Hugo, dark eyes unblinking as he seated himself stiffly at the same time as Baroque. They'd done some stupid shit before, but this was setting a new record. And for Baroque to be like this? So frustratingly forward, outright flirting, slipping in suggestive comments?

Hugo realized, with despair, that it was just like him.

"It seems we have—do you believe in fate?"

Hugo was beginning to believe that perhaps Baroque had stolen his placard from some other table and switched it with someone else's.

"I've already heard much about you."

"I'll try not to bite unless you beg for it."

Hugo, who had at that moment decided to sip at his water in an effort to calm himself, choked. His hand flew to his lips, and as he set the glass carefully back down, he stared at Baroque. This was it. This was the man that had captured his heart, the man who had caught him watching and sent over a bottle of wine that cost more than his entire dinner. The man Hugo had tried to convince himself he hated when he replayed his flirts over in his head at the dead of night and still caught himself blushing at. He was blushing now; Baroque had a power over him that Hugo had never been able to comprehend. A few words and he was sent reeling.

"They were right when they said your greatest attribute was confidence."

Stop it, Baroque. Stop. Right now. I can't do this. His hand drifted down, somewhat self-conscious now, to the carefully exposed patch of skin beneath his collarbone. What he'd once considered a little gift for his lover while getting dressed before the memorial was now becoming his undoing. Baroque's eyes lingered and burned, until Hugo was quite sure he could feel the ghost of his hands peeling the fabric back.

"That was a momentary misunderstanding. I'm looking forward to a quiet, undisturbed service."

Alyona proved to be his saving grace, if only for a few moments, for her approach drew Baroque's hot gaze, and finally Hugo felt like he could breathe. He should have stood up to greet her, but he was suddenly feeling rather faint, and the last thing he wanted was to swoon like some tender, flustered fool. The scene that would make, but worse, the teasing he'd get from Baroque for the rest of his life. He settled for a grateful nod of his head and a thin smile.

A smile that faded at the sudden, unexpected familiarity between Baroque and Alyona.

“You say that like you don’t FaceTime me when you need help deciding what pair of lingerie you want to sleep in.”

Hugo swallowed hard.

"Hm? You're right about the drink,"

he managed to blurt out before Alyona administered belated introductions. How did they know each other? What was that about lingerie? Pull yourself together, Hugo. Stop it. Don't think about that. This is a funeral service. Any other time and he might have sent Alyona a look to shut her up, but quite honestly, Baroque was enough to deal with. He didn't have the brain power to be able to deal with two pains-in-the-asses.

As if on cue, a waiter passed by, offering bottles of wine. Quietly appointing himself spokesman for table three, simply because he wasn't sure he could trust these two to do or say anything that made sense, he chose the bottle of red, not because he preferred it, but because he knew Baroque did. It was instinct, and he realized that only after the other two had exchanged wry comments.

They sound like they're at a funeral.

Hah.

"No need to sound so morose, Alyona."

The usual familiarity with which he addressed the younger woman was dropped, simply because he couldn't allow Baroque any further avenues with which to prod him. Now that she was here, would Baroque quit his advances? The dread in the pit of his stomach said no.

"If there's any chance to salvage what Andrej and Louisa built, it'll be found here."

If that was really the case, the odds were against them.

"After all, today's excitement has already come and gone."

He meant his episode with Hero. It seemed that everyone had seen that little fiasco and the one-sided shouting match that had preceded it. Hugo filled his own glass with wine and offered to fill Alyona's as well; then he turned to Baroque.

"Mr. Adamski—I'm sure you can appreciate the weight of today's memorial. Both our families have suffered the same loss—love so carefully forged in the midst of adversity."

Beneath the table, Hugo's foot tapped lightly against Baroque's.

"Wine?"

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[koala]

vincenzo

mood.

tired

outfit.

x

location.

Keypark Hall

tags.

Harris, Dakota idiot , Marnie neon reverie

As he and Dakota left the restroom, Vincenzo’s gaze fell onto the tall, lanky figure that still haunted the area. The male tilted his head slightly, strands of hair falling over eyes that seemed to become darker than what they already were. He wasn’t around when the young man, whose heart pumped rival blood through his veins, joined the Adamskis; there hadn’t been any occasions for them to cross paths until now either—his brief visits to the city didn’t grant time for introductions. Most of the knowledge he carried of Harris Avancini came from others within the family. Meek, quiet, aloof, and an artist with a story yet to be told.

Later. He would learn more about Harris later. For now his attention was Dakota’s and any other Adamski that didn’t have a track record of being a traitor.

”I forgot to ask you last night, are you planning on staying after this or do you, you know, have to go?”

Vincenzo took his hand away from the base of Dakota’s back and ran it through his hair, pushing back the strays that had escaped earlier. There was a tightness in his chest that always occurred whenever this topic was brought up. He took a moment to think of an appropriate response, finding the inquiry more troubling than he should have after years of hearing the same question—not just from Dakota but from others too.

His hand soon found the younger’s back again, nudging Dakota away from a passerby that would’ve bumped into him otherwise, before he finally spoke, accent thick and tone undeniably soft.

“A while.” A corner of his lips slowly curled upwards as he gave Dakota’s back a gentle poke. A change in topic was needed before the Adamski began thinking too much over his vague reply. “Why? Have you missed me, little one?”

He didn’t want to go into detail about how long he was staying—mostly because he didn’t know the true answer himself. Most visits lasted about a week; this one may last two, three, a month, or maybe longer. All he knew was that he and Matezh had come to an agreement that his services were needed at home, since seeking answers of the mysterious deaths elsewhere had coughed up nothing useful.

”I would not be against you traveling with me now that you are older, Dakota. Say the word and I will make accommodations.” The Italian male continued, tone cool as they walked. His lips curved slightly—a genuine expression that only those within his circle got to see.

While the past had prevented Vincenzo from taking the children away from their white castle for more than a few hours at a time, the Adamskis were no longer children. It may cause a challenge to convince Matezh to allow them to travel with him under the guise of working, but it was doable.

A calm smile was still on his lips as his eyes began scanning the room, calculating what type of move he’d make if things went badly. Every once in a while he’d nod at a familiar or friendly face, noting their seats, how many Avancinis surrounded them and whose name cards had missing personnel. His hand tensed behind Dakota’s back as a protective wave washed over him. The sidearm in its left holster suddenly felt like it was weighing him down. Were they outnumbered? Maybe he miscounted.

It felt like a year had passed when the pair finally reached their table. Vincenzo took the initiative to pull Dakota’s seat out for him, eyes on the feminine place card even while his hands were busy with whatever. Edwards. It was familiar enough but he couldn’t quite match the name to a face until a sunny blonde strolled forwards.

If Vincenzo were Hell, perhaps Miss Marnie Edwards was Heaven. Her smile was as light as her hair, and she seemed to have a glow that made her look incredibly out of place in a sea of hungry vultures. She looked far too innocent to be involved with either families—a thought he’d harbored ever since he saw her at the funeral. Lights like her seemed like they last forever, but they all died out eventually when suffocated by the wicked for too long.

She doesn’t belong here.

“Hello, Signorina. We’ll be in your care.” Offering a half bow and wolfish grin that contradicted the swirling thoughts in his head, Vincenzo made to pull out Marnie’s chair as he did with Dakota’s. A low chuckle left his lips as he seated himself between the two—a safety precaution he told himself. “I do not plan on eating, so you are welcome to my plate.”

Vincenzo watched with slight interest as Marnie spoke to Dakota. She was like a little bird with a story to tell the world. He could help the quiet, breathy laugh that’d occasionally escape, though he couldn’t tell if it was amusement or the permanent itch in his head that demanded recognition.

His throat tightened a bit and his hand reached for the can of cigars kept hidden in his inner suit jacket. An unwanted desire crawled up from his stomach and squeezed at his lungs, sharp nails digging into the vulnerable tissue. Tongue dry and mind screaming at him to stop but to also keep going, he popped open the can and pulled out a brown roll. Then he paused, remembering where he was, who he was with, and he tucked the monster back into its home even as his fingers shook unnoticeably in distress.

He wanted to growl, but even he had enough respect for the dead to not smoke during their memorial. Especially one that was indoors.

“Scusi. I forget my manners sometimes.” Vincenzo leaned back as stretched a long arm across the top rail of Dakota’s chair, his hand casually reaching up for an affectionate head rub before slinking back down. He inclined his head towards Marnie, studying her a bit before the grin from earlier returned. “English accent, is it? Beautiful country. Too cold for my tastes during winter, but beautiful none the less.”

”ciao.”

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[celadon.]

"karen"

#avancini

#page of wands

♡coded by uxie♡

LOCATION: Keypark Hall
INTERACTIONS: Jasper ( Wandering Owl )
MENTIONS: Kiko

The hall, with its lacquered surfaces, glitters like the bottom of a swimming pool. Servers with trays skate around. Groups spin and break apart and merge back into one another. There are people here who Azure knows the name of but not the face, or if they ever met, or where that could have been. Adamski, Avancini. Siblings, parents of children, long-time associates, relationships not guaranteed a simple description… and then her, a flea by her own estimation, trying to confirm eye contact with a passing waiter so as to order a glass of wine.

And though she knows that there necessarily would be for her, and though she tells herself to just ignore it, there’s something naggingly wrong about the memorial to Azure. It’s not the rising heat in the hall, summoned by the inevitable friction; you’d be unreasonable not to expect that. There’s something else. An unplaceable itch. She smiles broadly, half a size too big for what the occasion is. She’s smart enough to notice it but not enough to properly speculate as to what it is, what might be at fault, or who might be responsible. Nor does she really want to try.

* * *

Across from her, a woman listens in to a phone conversation and then meets her friend’s eyes, cupping the speaking end in her palm:

“Karen says not to expect her.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. Tell her she’ll be missed.”

They’re both wearing real fur coats, tufted and wild as if from a century ago. At this, Azure snorts into her yellow Muscat and then takes off the other way, edging past staff, sidling sideways through what new corridors open up. Trying to get past a server with two hands full she bumps into a man with quite broad shoulders, and whatever he’s drinking nearly tips over the edge of his glass.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

“Oh, that’s alright. Mistakes happen.”

“Oh, hey-” Azure touches his shoulder in that detached way people unknown to each other do when death is around. “Did you hear?”

“...Hear what?”

“Karen’s not coming. She said not to expect her.”

“...Okay.”

“So unfortunate.”

“...I’m sorry, have we met? I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Azure narrows her eyes at him just enough to look honestly curious, and then blinks as if surprised. “...Oh my gosh! I’m… ha! I’m so embarrassed. It’s been a confusing day. So sorry to bother you.”

She steps away and settles in an alcove beside the arm of a staircase. There, a map of the world unfurls itself. It’s a lavish house with curtains askew. Bolted doors of rooms never entered. No one really looks happy per se but many seem to be content with the knowledge that they matter, that they’re right to live as though what they do and don’t do might someday paint a basilica ceiling. Azure hopes that she might get close to that contentment today. Maybe she’ll get to pet it with the back of her hand.

* * *

There's a spread closer to the front doors with the Nagorski family’s portraits arranged in triptych - the whole family in the centre image with Andrej and Louisa on either side. Azure can't avert her eyes from Louisa's portrait. There’s a weariness and a gathered strength in the woman’s gaze that lands like a criticism in Azure’s stomach. An ache runs through her now, but it’s as if it were adopted or borrowed somehow - she won’t claim it as hers. Here, at this memorial service, she doesn’t claim anything.

What if I really knew you? What if we had known each other?

Never a good start, but the very thought has given her some massive vertigo, so:

We could have been best friends. Maybe we could have been on the same sports team and done everything together and everyone would have seen us as a pair. When my parents went away I could have gone to live with you and had a spot at the dinner table and been kind of like your sister. We wouldn’t have agreed all the time but I would have held you when you puked.

I would have been so proud of you all the time, and I would have defended you from anybody, even if you were wrong. And when you died I would have fainted and people would have had to catch me. They would have had to love me super hard so I wouldn’t have died for my suffering. But we both know you were too rich for me, so. Ha. Real life much!

All this imagined from a photograph. All this from what she thinks she sees in a pair of eyes, in the neckline of a blouse.

There’s a whine and a skitter of feet being issued from across the hall, now, but Azure doesn’t turn to look - she knows she wouldn’t be able to see it for all the heads in half-motion. She keeps her sight trained on Louisa.

* * *

Sometime later Azure is in a huddle with people she doesn’t recognise, the wine in her wine glass not what she originally ordered, the Prada label on her $500 coat making comparisons for her. This is where Azure prefers to rest - where she’s there and visible, by all appearances, but really is not. It’s the plinth in the sun where her cold blood can best circulate to her limbs.

Then an announcing waiter wrestles out a shout for lunch from deep within, and suddenly there are those things that she doesn’t like: questions. Should she stay and just loom in the lamp-glow, hovering around while people eat? Should she leave and then be seen leaving a memorial service by everyone she could possibly work for, destroying her reputation before it could even be built? Think, think, think. Think faster. What move are you going to make now, Azure?

…

Will she?

She will.

With a slow and as funerary a pace as one can have, she darts between tables with squinted eyes looking for a name. There’s a Casimir and a Hugo and a Baroque, how baroque, and a Victor, a Marnie, a Hannibal. She’s about to give up and walk back out into the rain but then, in fine letters:

Karen Adamski

That woman. So ridden with grief, so overcome, that she could not find the will to appear at this memorial today. Naturally, it’d be a waste of an empty seat for it to stay empty. When everyone around her is distracted Azure sneaks the name card out of sight and stows it face-down under a leg of the chair as she takes the seat for herself.

Not really clever, not really a deception worth being proud of after all, but she saw a place for her and decided to take it. That should count, right? So, without taking a breath to consider whether that counts for the wrong thing, she lets herself bask in it a little bit. Any minute now something will fall onto the plate before her and she will rake the fruits, having eluded any confrontation.

After a few minutes a waiter starts for her and Azure has her next wine order ready in the pinch of her front teeth.

“Yes, can I get a-”

“Miss Dahl, this isn’t your seat.”

Azure sees a ghost. Her whole body pimples up. She had to be half-expecting this to even make the move to begin with, though, so she’s able to play it down, keep herself still. But how does this waiter know her name?

With a wrinkled grin: “...I’m sorry?”

“This isn’t your seat, Miss Dahl. Your seat’s over there.”

That does something. Azure’s eyes target where the waiter is pointing and at the end of her stare is another table, another tablecloth, another chair - another name card.

Azure Dahl

What the fuck?

But no, no, Azure is so convivial and generously sorry, so appreciative that such an error has been now set right, so innocent of anything beyond the exploitation of a happy accident. She tosses her hair, musses it a bit, bares her straight teeth. She’s beautiful. Ravishing. She can get away with it. She floats away and over and into the right chair. On the inside she is a bee’s nest.

There might be something familiar about the other woman, and then again there might not be (does she care?), but she knows Jasper and she’s sure she’s given that away by now. She exchanges a look with him and then shakes her head as if to clear it of cobwebs. Then she picks up her own name card quite deliberately. She talks to Jasper with eyes lowered as if studying a compact mirror, her voice as charming as ever:

“I get so tripped up at these things. All the… choreography.”

She didn’t know the people who died until today, didn’t even think she’d be here, be anywhere or anyone, and yet there’s a name card just for her. A letter too, which she had completely forgotten about until now. A dark seed threatens to bloom inside her now but she kills it before it can, choosing only to worry about her own appetite.

 

[miyabi]

VICTOR R.

THE EMPRESS

If anything, the outfit wasn’t boring—only appropriate; while Victor appreciated the brightly colored, evidently out-there sentiment woven between threads, he felt that it was no outfit for a memorial. There would have been more attention, the ones unwanted, where eyes often shut out cannot be ignored in this lifetime. "I think this is better than looking like a peacock, M."

He’d entered with Marnie, made their formalities; there was appreciation in Marnie’s respect for his notable unfortunate brush with luck. This solidified their friendship more than it already had, Marnie’s quickness to save himself from further judgment had she relinquished the truth. There was something magnetic about the brightness, the fire within she’d boasted without trying too hard—how the smile she had lit up the room with little effort, a kind soul whom he had loved once. Still does in the platonic sense—all residuum of romantic feeling quickly fleeted by mutual agreement. The man let her do most of the talking, only a few ‘Hi’s’ and nods of acknowledgment in between; a hostile hero, though with little explanation, too catches a silent stare paired with another nod.

A nudge in the rib; that is all it took to shake him from spacing out again.

Vic spots Azalea in his nervous gaze, a slow comfort inching over the crevices of his body; it is relief he feels, how the heart has suddenly soothed him from the battle of trembling hands and sorrowful eyes. And there are many ways to describe their love: how she is willing to love while his heart remains encompassed in concrete, small divots and apetures chipped by the smile below loving eyes; how she has become the varied sensations hes felt again, the beating of a heart, the rush of a mind—with Azalea, his emotions, though remaining indecipherable, had become more comfortable. She has carried all of his peculiarities and so has he; Vic is far from admitting that perhaps he’d fallen too hard, however his actions vocalize this in ways where he has studied the habits, the expressions, how she too has been an artist who suffered just the same.

The commencement of lunch presented itself in their wake, placards placed on clothed tables—numbered, organized, though through the collection of names shares that the spots had neither been deliberately chosen, nor thoughtfully put together. A randomized sequence of which was another tell that the universe, at least, had brought Azalea back to him once again. They hadn’t been separated for long, no; yet, he could not bear keeping away any longer. A sudden, ever-growing desire to remain in her presence and feel the addictive calm of which she instilled within his very being. Azalea, of all people, had become his roots; his source of grounding and life, and for once, he hadn’t felt like the world was at a standstill.

He approaches behind her, almost sheepishly (though not a stark contrast, it is a trait that he often hadn’t exhibited aside from her presence). “Mi Corazon, sorry I was late—something happened and I,” Vic pauses, spots the name cards scooted close together, another embodiment of their bond. And in one of the few moments he had done so, he smiles—one of a toothy grin, deep dimples, edges of his mouth near reaching his ears. “At least I’m here with you now,” sweet words spoken with genuine interest, he finally sits, softly placing a hand on hers, “the flowers look great. You did great.” If there was anything he could do endlessly, infinitely, it was to praise her and to never get sick of it. She, all of her, with flaws he could barely spot, is far past brilliant.

They weren’t the only ones at the table, however, something he failed to realize until he’d fallen too deep. Tired eyes finally fall to the rest of the names, Carmen and Casimir, both ringing a bell—both on terms he couldn’t quite place on his chart of relationships, but to remain cordial for the sake of the event was more than a necessity. “Oh, hi. Sorry, how are you two feeling about… today?” Awkwardness overflows him again, the man quickly pursing his lips afterward before leaning back in his chair. It was better than saying nothing, but he could not help but give himself a proverbial smack on the face for barely acknowledging the two, an unintentional thing he’d hoped hadn’t been received poorly. "I meant—it's nice to see you two, I know we haven't spoken much."

scroll

INTERACTION

azalea, carmen, cas, brief one with marnie (very brief)

LOCATION

in front of therapy facility

TAGS

blue-jay mxlly

scroll

"Caminante, no hay puentes, se hace puentes al andar."

 

[arthur morgan.]

Hannibal DIMITRESCU

• aaaaaa
• aaaa

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  incoming message!

  
  
  

  
  

  Mood calm, slightly annoyed
  
  Location Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.
  
  
  
  tag

  
  

  koala idiot xayah. neon reverie
  
  
  
  outfit

  
  
  
  

iving the life of fast money, lines of ground of pearls, leather bound fast cars, and lavish parties only skims the surface of what really happens within the life crime— the romanatization of such a life style is what is taking the lives of so many, those that think they are made for the high life of what dirty money can bring them. what they realize before its to late is what truly happens behind closed doors— the screams of those begging for their lives, blood soaked dollar bills, shallow graves, and broken bones. those that aren't cut out for it get too deep and what's left of them? Hannibal has seen many people come and go within this line of work, sometimes it crushes the little pieces of heart he has left or it simply makes him roll his eyes, at this point in his life he can't feel sorry for every chump that comes in— those that can make it are left traumatized and the ones that can't either are found hanging from the ceiling or shot dead.

Hannibal learned the hard way of this fact, like many people, he had something important to him ripped out of his heart; his ribcage was cracked open with a hammer and the bleeding heart extracted with a pair of WORD. that once beating heart was crushed in the hands of those that wanted to hurt him the most, but it only turned him into a beast. he was now alone, no one to answer too, no one that would be hurt by his actions— no one to hold him back from what he truly could do.

he could finally hurt them.

what was a simple misunderstand became the worst day of his life

a beast let off its chain, a thirst for blood and

and he did just that, those that wronged him no longer walk this earth

since they don't have any legs anymore

or hands

or dicks.

from that day no ones dared to fuck him again, a gruesome killer in pretty suits and well groomed hair. that had been the only time he ever killed someone with his bare hands, their steaming blood covering his shaking hands, his ears ringing from the sound of his gun unloading a clip. a night filled with unheard screams, their pleading voices was music to his ears that night— for once he couldn't hear the sound of his own dread and sadness. it was a brief relief from what would be his constant doom, a few hours to let his aching heart rest.

but after the screams were silent and the pounding of his heart subsided, Hannibal was then left alone with his thoughts once more. an existence so quiet and lonely that it made him want to die himself, the burning rage he had going through his veins only brought back the feeling he once thought would be gone forever-- as if killing these men hadn't brought him peace... a temporary relief to the forever despair he would soon carry with him for the rest of his life.

after the slaying of his perpetrators, the broadcasting of the two gangsters found butchered and drained in an abandoned warehouse-- a secret smirk plastered on his face has he read the news paper in his office. the once young lawyer had managed to get away

what a time that was.

and now he's here.

———————————
hannibal remembered the day Louisa and Andrej had tied the knot, he had attended from afar— i mean, the man’s job was to pay for their share of the wedding. making sure everything was accounted for, to make sure that the wedding was a joyful day— even if it wasn’t for some. the holy matrimony has been a sign of the two families tied to one another, a binding of blood and contract, a halt on the bloodshed from either side. Hannibal saw more bloodshed between these two families then he cared to admit, but seeing everyone being able to put their… differences aside and intermingle for this wedding was a surprise all on its own. Though what's a wedding with a few hiccups along the way? As long as the bride was happy, that's all that mattered, right? The death of the two lovebirds was a hard pill to swallow, say what you will about either person, one could not dispute their undying love for one another. The announcement of their death did not fall to deaf ears, chaos erupted within both families and rightfully so– but who did it?

The peace that being held together between the two families must have been holding on by a thread, something was scurrying behind closed doors that no one was seeing. It was a strange feeling, no knowing what would happen next. Hannibal always knew the next move and yet, he was in the dark. A sickening feeling that made his skin sticky with molasses, his stomach turning in knots that made him angry– yet he stuffed it deep within himself, this wasn't the time to pester this feeling.

Taking in a drag of his cigarette, hannibal let out a short sigh as he looked down at the letter in his hand. What did it mean, why was it sent to him, and who sent it? These were all questions that were left unanswered and again, it made him angry. Rolling his eyes at the letter, he felt the feeling of a cold nose against the back of his hand, soon followed by a slobbery lick. Lifting the piece of paper, he looked down at Petunia to see her sitting right in front of his feet. The sun that peaked through the clouds hit against her shiny collar, only making her dark brown eyes shine. While this dog would easily kill hannibal, she was the love of his life– he’d kill for this dog. A small smile grew on his face as he folded up the letter and stuck it inside his suits pocket, letting the same hand fall upon the top of her head and give her a soft pet.

“Ready to go inside?” he asked the dog, acting as if she would answer him. However, within a second, she let out a low bark and stood up on all fours. The stub of her tail wagging slowly, hannibal simply smiled again before taking one last puff of his smoke before throwing it down on the ground and stomping it out. Taking a hold of her black leash, they made their entrance into the event building.

One thing was for certain, they spared no expense for this event. Though it couldn't be helped, the mourning of the loss of three young lives was no easy task but the act of mourning in such a public place… it was hard for him to swallow. He was certain these events put some sourness in certain peoples' mouths– the families can’t afford to make such big events for everyone that dies within the two families, some people fall within the cracks– lesser important people, but sadly it is the way the cookie crumbles. as Hannibal made his way to the entrance of the event, in the corner of his eye he could see someone waving in his direction, trying to get his attention. an annoyed groan came from deep within his chest, knowing he should just ignore them, but letting his head turn to look at a lanky man with a clipboard. The gel that he had caked within his hair shined in the light, an ear piece dangled within his ear as he spoke into it assertively before bringing his attention to Hannibal. "Sir you can't bring in an animal to the event" he said as he pointed his pen to Petunia, which only made Petunia bare her teeth and let out a horrid snarl, causing the man to hold his clipboard for dear life while taking a step back "Especially ones like that!" he said with a voice crack, which made Hannibal laugh slightly. "Listen buddy, im the last person you want to start ordering around, understand me? plus, she wouldn't hurt a fly" he said as petunia bared her teeth more, drool falling from her bared muzzle. "Though I don't know about god father rip offs with clipboards, so why don't you just... don't fucking bother me okay?" he said before turning to petunia and motioning for the both of them to make their way, in which caused her to stop snarling and obediently walk alongside Hannibal.

As the pair made their way to find those designated seats, hannibal couldn't help but scan the room to find some familiar faces. Some he knew, some he’s heard of and others were nothing to him– though it didn’t take long for him to land his eyes on a certain someone, a young woman who cherished very much. The time he’s able to see her, those are the moments that he keeps close to his tattered heart and seeing her here made him crack a smile, however that smile would soon be washed away when a cloud of cigar smoke hit him right in the face. Gritting his teeth ever so slightly, hannibal stopped walking to turn his attention to the table to his left. Dark eyes scanned the table– a young woman he didn’t know, vincenzo, and dakota, another adamski child he cared for very deeply. he had taken Dakota under his wing within the business side of the family and he had proved to Hannibal time and time again that he will do good things for this family... or do better things outside the family; he aint one to tie down any of the children, letting them sore their wings to wherever they wish to go. anyway, watching Dakota grow into the man he is today always makes his heart warm. he makes him proud almost everyday and would never hesitate to tell him so, Hannibal cherishes Dakota and he knew taking him under his wing would not only be good for him but would help shape him into someone who could possibly fill his shoes-- but he has some big shoes to fill if he ever wants to get to that point.

The ability he held to hold his tongue was one to marvel at, the sight of vincenzo often made hannibal's skin crawl and not in a good way. He didn’t understand why, perhaps it was the way he tries to butter his way into the children's lives so often, as if he hasn’t been gone for so many years– some of the kids seeing him as a stranger and others as an uncle, he just couldn’t stand it. While he was good at his job, hannibal tried his best to have a civil relationship with the man– even if some days he wanted to pop him in the mouth, but we digress. “Long time no see, Little Italy” he said softly, sticking his hands into his suit pockets and letting his weight fall upon his heels. Letting his gaze fall upon Dakota for a split moment, he gave the boy a warm smile before putting his attention back upon Vince and the unnamed women next to him.

“Hopefully my… charming friend is–” hannibal was cut off by the sound of Petunia letting out a soft snarl, her pink stained teeth slightly showing as she stood between the unnamed women and Vince. His hounds have an intense hate for men (her collar literally has a “I HATE MEN” logo on it), not including the adamski children, especially when women are alone with them. While she is ready to ripe his hand off, she dares not without a command from hannibal and he wouldn’t allow her. Not here anyway. “Petunia, sit.” was all it took for her to put her teeth away and calmly walk away from the two of em and go back towards Dakota, letting her head fall upon his lap while giving her sad eyes. A simple pout, showing how her dad was mean to her and hoping to get pity points from Dakota, which more than likely was working.

“I apologize for that, I don't know what her deal is today.” he said calmly as he let his hand go through his nicely combed hair. “Anyway, like i was saying, keep vince in line for me– he’s a self proclaimed ladies man so, kick him in the balls if ya need too” he said half jokingly, giving Vince a smug smirk before making his leave, while telling Dakota goodbye as well. It was for the best, he would have said something not nice or even better, let petunia bite him.

Wouldn’t wanna ruin a nice event right?

Soon enough he was at his seat, the nicely written note with his name on it made it clear– yet his last name was clearly miswritten. A scowl came about his face, but it went away as he placed the notecard under his plate and let his gaze fall upon the women next to him. He couldn’t help but let a sweet smile come upon his face as he leaned into his chair slightly, taking a quick glance to see petunia go underneath the table and lay at his feet, though she would soon slowly inch her way closely to Evangeline. “What an.. Interesting event this is huh?” he said quietly, catching the eyes of a waiter before quickly taking the bottle of champagne he had in his hands. The waiter was about to protest the bottle snatching before Petunia stuck her head out from under the table before baring her teeth at the man, making him jump in fear and run away. Hannibal softly chuckled to himself before pouring himself a glass of champagne, soon gesturing to Evangeline “Would you care for some?” he asked, giving her a little wink. “Im not gonna be able to get through this event sober, I don’t know about you” he said as he drank his first glass “but then again, when am I ever sober?” he said with a shrug before pouring another glass.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[blue-jay]

scroll

the fool

azalea.

mood

warm -> focused

outfit

something blooming

location

keypark hall

interactions

marnie, carmen, vic, cas, mention of evangeline

tags

neon reverie mxlly miyabi xayah.

Azalea watched, her expression soft and sweet, as Victor approached with Marnie and Hero. Her eyes lingered on the blonde, noticing her floral dress. She smiled, delighted that someone else had had the idea to wear flowers to this event and even more delighted that it was the bright-eyed Marnie. She quite liked the Artificer; she was like a second sun, and, as a plant mom, Az always appreciated a healthy amount of sunshine. She knew that Marnie and Vic had been involved in the past, but that was the past. Plus, the blonde had eyes for Hero now. Marnie never made it weird, and Az trusted her tulip girl.

“Az.” And then, as if on cue, arrived the voice of someone she did not trust: Carmen. She turned and watched with narrowed eyes as the dark-haired woman made her way to her seat. "Did you request that we get the same table? You're the sweetest."

“Oh, you’re mistaken. I’m not that sweet. Our seats being together seems to be simply… a twist of fate.” Azalea smiled at Carmen, but the impression was poisonous. She had a laundry list of reasons not to like Carmen: spoiled, irresponsible, snarky. In the language of flowers, cowslip meant mischief, misadventure, mis-every-fucking-thing. It was a bad habit—cultivating a thorough, internal justification for simply not liking someone, especially when she could miss the actual reason entirely—but she didn’t care.

Looking past Carmen for a second, Azalea spotted Evangeline sitting down at a table full of Adamskis and cringed. She sent a silent wish of luck to the woman, though she didn't doubt Evangeline's ability to navigate conversations with grace. Looking around, it seemed quite a few tables had the 3-to-1 family ratio. “This seating arrangement as a whole seems… Ha. Well, chance is funny like that sometimes, right?”

The silver lining was, of course, Victor's place next to her. Azalea turned back around just as he was walking up and immediately softened. She looked up at him practically with flowers in her eyes. For him, she had a soft spot like no other.

Before Victor, Azalea had been questioning her ability to be loved (or, at least, loved properly) due to her past. From childhood, love had been complicated for young Daphne: profuse yet barbed. Love bloomed around her like a thorny hedge maze, and she was always lost and alone—tearing through spiny bushes and getting nowhere, finding nothing. It had been… utterly confusing. The Lorenzo family came along, and the hedges grew taller. Thicker. More prickly and more poisonous than ever before. She felt love intensely, but it hurt. She had begun to think that maybe it was just what she was fated to do—to bleed for affection.

And then there was Victor. By some gracious turn of fate, she found him in the maze, and almost instantly it became a garden: purple, pink, and white. He was tender. Years ago, a teenage Daphne had stolen a copy of Heliodora and other poems and found herself baffled by “We Two:”

Yet by what miracle…
I ask again,
have we two met within
this maze of dædal paths
in-wound mid grievous stone,
where once I stood alone?​

Years later, she finally understood what H.D. meant. ‘Miracle’ was the only appropriate word.

“Mi Corazon, sorry I was late—something happened and I—.” He grinned, and the smile seemed to garland him. He was patently beautiful, princely without effort. “At least I’m here with you now.” He sat and laid his hand on hers, and the whole world seemed so sweet, so fresh, so new.

Azalea leaned toward him, eyebrow having arched at the mention of ‘something’ happening. “Well, I hope it wasn’t anything too serious.” Images of Gladys’s wrinkled face and that damned Chanel bag she always carried buzzed through her mind like pests. A plausible theory for the ‘something,’ but she let the thought go for now. “Anyhow, I’m just glad to see you!”

“The flowers look great. You did great.” You could’ve colored a rose with the blush that came over Azalea. She wasn’t usually the type to be affected by compliments—true assurance always came from the self—but it was different with Vic. Every word from his mouth was a hyacinth petal on the wind, a drop of nectar.

“Oh, hi. Sorry, how are you two feeling about… today? I meant—it's nice to see you two, I know we haven't spoken much.”

Az could see awkwardness come over Vic, and it acted as a reminder of the presence of other people at their table. Pulling herself from her enchantment, she turned back to Carmen and the newly-arrived man, whom she figured was Casimir. She smiled at him, and the arc of her lips was careful—pruned by the shears of a natural talent in effective first impressions.

After giving the man time to answer Vic’s question first, Azalea made a delicate motion towards herself. “Azalea Washington.” Knowing she might’ve given him information he had already picked up on, she flicked her eyes briefly to the name cards. “Well, we do have these, but I prefer more conventional introductions. It’s a pleasure!”

Azalea knew she wasn’t exactly a hot shot around here, so it was better to get her name out in the air whenever she could. Although, she always ran the risk of someone recognizing it for the wrong reasons—Lorenzo-related reasons. But those could also be the right reasons depending on the person, so it was a risk she gladly took.

The real worry was that someone might recall the name that once preceded 'Azalea.'

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

CASIMIR S.

THE HANGED-MAN

“It’s better than the shit they have here.”

The drinks weren’t strong enough; by realistic standards, they’d be enough to keep people at ease during the tumultuous moments, but by Casimir’s, they were never enough—they still kept him awake, aware, gave him a steady reminder that he was there, both enemies on either side of him. Amber liquid emptied back into his throat, a slithering burn cascading along without much issue; the flask is empty now, no more blanket of drunken comfort to soothe the anger and nerves welling in his body. His existence is there now, a painful reminder of who he has become; someone who, by some twist of a sick fate, has by the slightest cared for some of the family—more notably Marzanna, almost as if she was his own blood. Had he known better, had she not been the daughter of the man responsible for his family’s death, he would’ve fully committed such emotional attachments.

Casimir is conflicted. No stranger to the contemplation of which he has bound to all degrees or formulas of rationality, he teeters between a familial love, a stranger’s hatred. But his thoughts, actions that have come to be, are manipulated by his vengeful hunger. The Adamski's had left parts of him flayed, a psyche full of open wounds.

He’d consequently familiarized himself with some; found his way into an abundance of information and gateways to continue along his path. Destruction, though it aches and burns, yearns to befall both families and engulf them in its flames, requires patience. And so he’d garnered more trust in a few members, became friendly, rubbed elbows, and shared false smiles under the pretense that he’d be their trustworthy ally in return for continued efforts to keep him and his secrets under wraps. Marzanna leaves, Hero made a scene once again, bodies filed in.

The Babylonian’s construction of time remains false, a gaze caught by him, a figure of Alyona. It is only for a moment that be believed that time had been made up of her, but he shakes it away. She was only a factor, a chess piece, another part of the puzzle he’d constructed on his own towards the likely build-up of what could be the imminent downfall of societies. Her hand grazes his, though he fought to refuse the acknowledgment of her presence; the effort falls flatly, deep eyes falling to hers, following her with subtlety as she walks away.

I see you, too.

With a clenched jaw, he returns the flask to his lips—a reflex that never dies, though it has brought him yet another pang of disappointment.

Empty. Empty. Empty. It returns to the inside pocket of his coat, weighing down bunches of fabric.

Before long, lunchtime had soothed the grumbling stomach. Washed over relief until it had dissipated once more; a shared table with the head of the Avancini and two others whom he had not had the pleasure of knowing. No, he did not predict that it would be any pleasure at all—though to study them, their interactions, whichever tensions that could be brewing between, that is the pleasure of it. The table’s cloth is draped delicately, flowers in the center, sweetness and subtlety in the scent.

Carmensita and Azalea, the two parties displayed a friction; intertwined words finished off with a statement, “...a twist of fate.” Such antipathy could be cut with a knife in this circumstance, practically flowing off of her tongue, seeping from her gaze, a friendly face held emotional rigidity towards Carmensita. He takes a mental note, one to be procured for later times, slightly enthralled and entertained by an interaction he had no part of. Though, perhaps he should speak now—tension split the moment Vic had finally come around. Nervous, awkward, albeit still sure of himself—unafraid to share such compassion with a woman he seems to love. Another note.

“Casimir,” a short answer, never one to make much small talk, though if he needed something—he should act upon it a bit more, shouldn’t he? The man straightens the name placard, “you think they serve stronger drinks? For coping purposes.” Transparency often gains the interest or trust of others, even in the smallest degree, though he forces a smile; another skill he’s honed enough to seem natural. “Where are my manners? These flowers are beautiful, I’m assuming you arranged them?” He’d caught onto Victor’s words, ramblings of love as if the two were the only ones in the room. Words wrapped in saccharine sweetness and care fall to Azalea’s lap, eyes then falling to Carmensita with a nod, “aren’t they nice? You can’t deny she has an eye for these things.”

scroll

INTERACTION

Marzanna (brief), Alyona (silent interaction), Azalea, Carmensita, Victor

LOCATION

memorial

TAGS

blue-jay mxlly

scroll

"ترى للوقـت هـزَّه وأنقلابـه .. تهزِّ جبالها لـو هـي رواسـي” -خالد الفيصل."

 

[LeilaRF]

The Hermit

location

Keypark Hall

outfit

X

mentions

Dakota idiot Vincenzo koala Jasper Wandering Owl Kiko miyabi Azure celadon.

Harris Félicette

Harris’s eyes met through the mirror with that of a taller Adamski, Dakota, whose playful pink hair and warm demeanor provided a more than welcome respite during this bleak ceremony. He didn’t know him very well, but he reminded him of springtime, of the petals of flowers blooming and returning from their winter deaths. A breath of fresh air at this moment. He returned his smile warmly, though somewhat awkwardly, before meeting the dark eyes of the older man who accompanied him. Dakota was springtime, Vincenzo Salvatore was a deep winter- cold and calculated. Harris knew him as well, though very vaguely, as was the case with many Adamskis and Avancinis in Harris’ circle. He didn’t have much reason to draw the man’s attention when he was in town; after all, he wasn’t an Adamski by blood. The protective look from this man of sharp angles sent a chill down his spine, prompting him to avert his gaze and return to drying his blazer.

• • • • • • •​

As he exited the bathroom, he was greeted by the ringing of a sonorous dinner bell, one that echoed through the grief-drenched halls with purpose.

“If you would all kindly file into the dining hall at once, and take your assigned seats as noted by the placards in front of each chair.”

He sent a silent, listless prayer to the sky for giving him something to do besides stand in a corner. After scanning the room for a minute or two, his eyes fell upon a card with his name printed neatly, accompanied by three others: Kiko Na Chiangmai, Jasper Mistri, Azure Dahl, all Avancinis. He was overcome with the sudden urge to simply leave the establishment, before realizing that a placard with his name on it in front of an empty seat would be the most glaring and damning evidence of his absence. What does it matter, anyhow? Names are names are names, and his is of no importance here and now, despite all the undue importance given to names, surnames and such in this damnable place, and how much Harris feels like they dictate his life. Pale-faced and removed, he made his way to the table and took his seat, painting a thin smile on his face, attempting to get the better of his already-skewed first impression with the three table-mates of his.

coded by natasha.

 

[mxlly]

• .
• .
• .
• .

• filler
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Conflicted

  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  h

  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  Keypark Hall

  
  
  

“Mi Corazon, sorry I was late—something happened and I...at least I'm here with you now,"

Carmen considered stabbing herself in the eye.

Idly, she spun her fork between her fingers, stopping mid-twirl and staring at its sharp-tipped prongs. One quick movement and she could skewer her iris like a kebab; off to the hospital she'd go, far away from this drivel, but equally as distant from whatever spectacle was bound to occur this afternoon. Too many people with too many problems were all packed in together too tightly...but, Carmen's brow furrowed...almost imperceptibly:

she loved it.

Maybe sticking out this absolutely cursed seating arrangement would be worth it. She regarded Victor with a slight smile as he sat, though in that moment, she did not feel fully present. The cacophony of small talk had faded out to an unremarkable white noise; her dark eyes painted over with a glaze, a temporary absence -- a nanoscopic crack in her bitter shell. A welling of jealousy.

The notion that Carmen could even be jealous was comical. She had everything...and everything she didn't have, she could buy. So she wouldn't listen to that ill feeling, it had no place with her. And when she did feel it creeping in, pushing her bounds, she could only endure it for a moment, and it never sat right; trying to accept she was even allowed to feel envious felt like attempting to jam a USB into a headphone jack...but as Victor's hand reached for Azalea's, even though it was the smallest of gestures...she knew that something was missing.

Ugh.

You're getting too deep.

She shifted in her seat, leaning in towards her company as she wrenched herself away from any true feeling; she propped an elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. Her eyes flashed with intrigue, latching onto this Casimir Sayed-Adamski as soon as he entered her purview; here was something she could sink her teeth into -- metaphorically of course, as striking as he was, he wasn't her type. But for a moment, her attention flickered back over to Victor.

“Oh, hi. Sorry, how are you two feeling about…today? I meant—it's nice to see you two, I know we haven't spoken much."

How awkward.

Carmen brushed her fingers over her lips, it was perhaps an absent-minded gesture, or perhaps a half-hearted attempt to cover up her amused grin. This whole thing was a train wreck, its victims taking the form of tense interactions and unpleasant confrontations. "It's nice to see you too, Vic," she disregarded that last part. It was true she never saw too much of Victor, despite her ever-lingering presence at the Avancini headquarters. Though maybe she could consider reaching out more, just maybe Victor had a wild side Carmen had been missing out on, "I'm feeling..." she paused, contemplating how honest she should be, "I'm feeling like we're all sitting on a giant, fuck-off powder-keg," she gestured holding a keg in her hands, the silver bracelets around her wrists jingling -- she spoke with her hands often, "but," she relaxed back into her chair, an arm slung over the back of it, "I digress. This is a beautiful service and I'm sure everyone here is going to be respectful of the Nagorski's memory."

Sarcasm. That was bullshit.

Carmen took a beat, removing herself from the conversation momentarily as her company exchanged greetings. She then flipped her placard to face the inside of the table, meeting Casimir's eyes and nodding towards the placard as if to say yes, this is my name, and following it up with, "Carmen -- Ms. Rocha if you're nasty," - a jest, and the little curl to her lip made that as clear as day. She hated when things felt too formal, the rigidity of these functions made it all so...blah.

“Where are my manners? These flowers are beautiful, I’m assuming you arranged them?”

Carmen raised a brow as Casimir noted Azalea's skill, then directed his attention toward her.

“Aren’t they nice? You can’t deny she has an eye for these things.”

Well, he wasn't wrong. She surveyed the arrangement before her, allowing for a break in the conversation; it was short enough to sweep under the rug, but long enough to be of note, a hesitance on her part. She would have bitten her tongue, but she found her usual word bank was bare. Casimir had been on the up with the drink talk, but this was the precipice in which he lost her; there's a time and place for shit talk, Carmen. Just be decent. "Yeah, she does," a simple three words she almost choked on, and she signaled a waiter for some wine to help wash them down.

She had told herself she would refrain from drinking that afternoon; a resolution in the hopes she could avoid last night turning into a days-long bender. Though this was her metaphorical crutch, a way to keep free from sobering thoughts, to keep herself moving. "And when it comes to these drinks, I suppose we should work with what we've got," Carmen took the bottle, beginning to fill up her glass rather quickly -- whilst not filled to the brim, it was teetering on the edge of what could be considered a reasonable amount, "does anyone want to join me or will I be drinking this one alone?"

Carmensita

strength

Azalea, Casimir, Victor.

blue-jay miyabi

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

mood :

calmer, guilty, trying to distract himself

location :

keypark hall

outfit :

mentions :

uhhh I kinda forgor…

interactions :

Marnie — neon reverie
Auguste — qunqun

Bechtel

• • • hero

A pillar she was, and Hero leaned against her. Marnie tossed him a wink, and he caught it. He stuffed it away, preserving it like wildflowers, and decided to look at it later, when there was solitude to be had. When his mind didn't run on inhibitions, as opposed to logic. Preservation, he rang the word like a tolling bell, a siren. It was a principle, ancient, yet it continued to be held steadfast. He gave Marnie a small smile, beginning to sober up just slightly.

Hero laughed at the mental image his friend described. "Well, I'm glad you both made it safe and fashionably late." He sloppily grabbed her hands, using the mild amount of grace and tender he still had, and pulled her arms outward to properly admire the dress.

"You look lovely." His voice came out even, but it was pillow-plush, with a proper goose-down top.

In the back of his throat, the emotions of the past minutes caught, as though pondering the swish of her skirt was the ledge or, rather, the dam that let it all fill. It overflowed, but he swallowed it down like cough syrup. It wasn't the simple act of seeing his friend that overdid his tolerance, but rather, the memory of recent past associated with it. She'd confessed, he'd rejected. Eddie liked the simplicity of that explanation, one he held only for himself, but Marnie, in her act of existence, made him remember the truth. It grew with each day, and he'd almost forgotten it. He smiled brighter at Marnie, even if his mind and heart ached. It was a good reminder, he decided.

"If Kota sees you, I'm sure he'll admire the silhouette," Ed explained to her, letting go of her hands only to be quickly guided towards where the lunch would be happening.

When he was set free by the fae-like Marnie, H.E. laughed, heartily, and told her, "We'll see who I'm sitting with. I might need you to come crochet them a sweater in peace offering." He thought of Marzanna, Hugo, and Matezh.

Hopefully no one would think it funny to put all the Adamski, legitimate or not, together.

Thankfully, Hero is about as prophetic as a stone that has laid wayward for millions of years. Knowledgeable, but all that wisdom doesn't serve the tower in defneding itself from the unknown. No, Eddie was placed by fellow Avancini, including Auguste and Jin. Plopping into his seat with grace missing, he immediately took to sipping on his glass of water, downing on cup and filling it with the pitcher that was on the table.

"Cortes," he nodded to Auguste. "How've you been?"

coded by reveriee.

 

[cavitea]

baroque adamski

❝ find an excuse to give me your heart. ❞

mood

frustrated.

outfit

x.

location

Keypark Hall

interactions

hugo boo. , alyona koala

"Love born in the flames of adversity ... how poetic. Perhaps it would be a welcome experience to take on such a route with ... someone." A thought trailed off, half-lidded eyes that moved with the tap of a foot towards the offering before him. His expression was unreadable, a slate of nothing until a twitch on his skin pulled features into a gentle smile, a real smile. It was impossible to allow a consumption by negativity when the sun sat so steadily beside him.

"Wine?"

There was more than wine that he wanted from him, a spare finger pressing to a spot on his right hip before a nod signaled an answer.

"I would love some —" A pause.

From your lips.

"— wine."

He waited for the vermillion liquid to finish filling the glass before fingers wrapped around delicate stem and lifted. Restraining himself was the silent gift he gave as a 'thanks' for the choice of red, a dimly coy look aimed towards the dear wine pourer. Fuck. Eyes took in once again the triangle of flesh bared to the world, a reach in his mind to close it off and lock it away for himself rising with the smallest kiss of pink on his cheekbones.

It was jail to be this close, bars of metal that stopped a resting hand just a few inches short from lacing themselves into knuckled familiarity. Seated in such proximity to Hugo without the feeling of freedom felt like a woolen shirt on a summer eve.

The tapping gesture was returned, suede that lingered curiously against leather as Baroque dared a moment longer to study the face he had come to adore.


Was this comforting to him? Could he, Baroque, be comforting in a place like this?


Teeth tapped along the rim of glass, a color he wished to drown in slipping past worn lips as he pondered the predicament. Flirting felt right but a lack of following through felt almost regretful, a pain that throbbed in the caverns of his gut with each batted eye and every licentious phrase. Hugo was  his but he felt distant here; unobtainable.

Was this the same man that would look at the sunset when Baroque passed and think he had painted the sky? That's a little morbid, even for a memorial.

An achingly known man now felt foreign, even as suede tapped almost nervously against the other now, a heel twisting a mark onto the ground. Hugo was a fortress, the iron wall to a criminal family; a stone he had lovingly worshipped and whispered to many nights before. He was impenetrable and unforgiving, even as red flowers bloomed across the cheekbones of his face.

But oh how Baroque loved those flowers.


He loved —

"Do you find yourself occupied often by your work, Mr. Young?"

If Baroque wasn't surprised by himself speaking he would've felt bile at the formality, a bite on his tongue another brief pause in his speech. There were certain thoughts he would allow himself the comforts of regarding the Avancini right-hand but the most recently attempted was not one of them. "You seem rather adept at controlling situations, an admirable skill in the eyes of someone like myself."

Sweet words, a quieter tone of elderflower and summer nights before his gaze shifted to the other occupant of the table. Alyona. He still didn't know what to think of her. The thimble piece in a Monopoly game, a water he lazily dipped a toe into during coincidental nail sessions and occasional fashion advice.

Would Hugo ask about that later? Would he even show up?

He wanted to ask, no, beg if he had to for the company he had mentioned. A dying man at the threshold of a church, clutching his belongings and staring cataracts towards stained glass in hopes his prayers could be answered. Baroque needed tonight to happen.

Maybe it would feel better if the other asked then, a semblance of care about the life the dove beside him found forced to fill in his absence. A rolling of his shoulders and another sip of wine became a lousy attempts to push back nerves and growing hunger in his stomach.

"And you, Alyona, I feel I so rarely hear about the kinds of work you fall into in your ... family."

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[idiot]

Doctor, can you fix it up with a stitch? I’m craving structure in this mix. I fear I’m leaking out. Someone tipped me over by my spout. While

dakota adamski

"Really? A while?" Dakota's attempt to hide his excitement royally failed; a childlike smile beamed, brown eyes glimmering with the albeit vague answer.

The mention of travelling with Vincenzo burned a hole in Dakota's bleeding heart. Alike everyone else in the family, Dakota had kept his intentions for the end of the year under lock and key. Once his independent business opportunities bared fruit, Dakota would pack up his little belongings and leave this family for once and for all. For this to work he would have to abandon everyone to ensure the family couldn't find him. Think of Seoul.

He knew that would disappoint his father, often debating this at his parent's graves. He would reach the same conclusion every time. It was the only way he could sleep peacefully at night. It had to be the only way. The alternative wouldn't—right? No.

The nightmare was always the same.

The soft glow from the nightlight projected twinkling stars and the moon; slowly but surely circulating around the room to reveal the horrors it hid in the darkness. The discarded bodies were thrown around the child's lavish bedroom, their faces frozen in a perpetual scream. They belonged to his parents and the loyal few that stood by his father. The sky blue walls with his mother's hand painted clouds were muddied by splatters of blood and chunks that the child couldn't comprehend.

In the corner of the room was a figure shrouded in the shadows. The nightlight's glow was not strong enough to reveal their identity. Little hands hiked the covers up to his chin, ignoring the warm, uncomfortable sensation forming in their lap. Two, menacing red orbs appeared on the figure's face and the child felt compelled to look; invisible hands had a stranglehold on his head and fingers forcing his eyes open. The figure didn't move nor did it blink, the eyes staring.

The child would try everything to escape the shadow but iron bars lined the window and the doorknob was wrapped in barbwire. Hiding under the covers or even scrunching their eyes shut wouldn't help. The red orbs would burn through anything as though the child had to bare witness.

The nightmare always ended the same.

In the middle of the room was his father's lifeless corpse, his fingers wrapped around his revolver. The child would have to rip it from his death-grip. Trembling hands would raise the gun towards the shadow. A loud bang would ring in their ears as the shadow crumpled to the ground in a heap; puppet strings cut in that moment.

One shaky foot after the other, the child would step over the bodies and approach the shadow. Yet, it was no longer a shadow. In its stead was an all-too-familiar face. A face that made the child scream before Dakota would wake; sweat drenching both himself and his sheets.

Dakota blinked, eyes adjusting to the mesmerising blonde in front of him. Vincenzo was by his side, armed snaked around the chair's backing. Her lips were moving and her voice slowly tuned into existence for him.

“I like your hair by the way! that colour is lovely; it makes me want to dye my own pink. Not to copy-cat you or anything, though I do love your style; it looks super cool! I would totally wear it if I was your age. Ahh, but that's not to say that I consider myself old or you very young, or that your style is only for a specific age—”

"Oh, uh...thank you, Marnie. Blonde suits you though." Dakota managed to strangle out, still recovering from his too deep thoughts that often plagued him. Overthinking was a skill he wish he could make vacate his brain.

Thankfully he didn't need to flounder much longer as Vincenzo and his charismatic self took the reigns over the conversation. Dakota decided to listen silently as Vincenzo layered on the charm. He forgot how touchy Vincenzo was and if it wasn't for the term, 'Uncle' that was thrown around, Dakota would think he was interested romantically in him.

See, Dakota wasn't completely oblivious to his issues with intimacy and romance. He found that he would often misconstrue kindness and touch as a romantic gesture. Namely because he never received it much after his parent's death. Can we please stop overthinking for once. Please.

Dakota instead peered around at the other tables and spotted Hero. The distraction of his phone was something he often found solace in. Fishing it from his cardigan pocket he thumbed a message to Hero: hey. hru going? i really need to get out of here soon. movies @ mine after? ill even let you choose.

mood | overthinking per usual

scroll

location |table 6, keypark hall.

tag | interactions: vincenzo ( koala ) & marnie ( neon reverie ). also texting hero ( demonology ).

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[ravensunset]

KEYPARK HALL — MELISSA ZHAO.
Melissa Zhao didn’t want to come to the memorial. She’d spent the last few weeks in a much too empty room, writing and discarding and rewriting drafts of the speech she was meant to give. It never sounded right.

Louisa couldn’t be summed up in a short speech. Juni, only a baby still, his death couldn’t be. It didn’t help that on the desk, alongside scribbled out speech attempts, was a year's worth of work, gathered evidence of what had really happened that night.

The thoughts consumed her waking days.

Melissa was scared that if she was asked to step up to the stage, she would be honest. And instead of the polite, grieving words expected, she would show that she wanted to find their murdered and have them die slowly, and failing that, for every last attendee to burn.

The Avancini were careful around her. Treating her like some tiny, fragile thing. The younger sister had never been important in the family, only barely a member, and after Louisa’s death, her responsibilities shifted to even less, almost none entirely. They didn’t want to burden her further. She wanted, often, to tell them work would only help, that she was capable and ready and alive.

Every time, she found herself unable to speak without crying, burrowing herself deeper into the position.

It didn’t help that she wasn’t at all sure it wasn’t one of her own who had lit that match.

Melissa Zhao didn’t want to come to the memorial. She couldn’t be angry, and she didn’t want to cry, not in front of the packs of wolves sat there.

She couldn’t say no. So she found herself in a simple black dress, a paper in a shaky hand, watching a lunch room fill with attendees. They chatted, found their tables. They existed, now, not stuck in time a year ago, before their closest family was ripped from them. She wondered how many of them had known the couple themselves.

After most had filled their seats, a servant gestured her to the front of the room, where a stage had been set up, complete with a microphone and stand for her notes. Melissa’s eyes were dry. Someone in this room—

She couldn’t finish the thought.

A finger tapped on the microphone, and its sound echoed through the room. Melissa steeled herself. Adamski, Avancini mixed in front of her, but still, the lines were far from gone.

“Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming today. For helping honor and share in Louisa, Andrej, and Juni’s memory.” Melissa’s voice, to her own surprise, was firm, steady. It moved on its own, threatening to run ahead of her.
“Louisa was my sister. More than that, she was my closest friend. Louisa was always my largest source of hope. She believed in a better world, and she was able to help bring it to life. Louisa was–”

She couldn’t. She had to. Her voice raised.

“Murdered. You took the one good thing, the one chance this accursed city had at peace and you killed them, their kid wasn’t even a year–”

Her yell mingled with the sudden sound of shattering glass, and then her voice failed her, unable to will sound through her lips. Blood bubbled in her throat as the bullet passed, and there was only pain, clouding everything, and darkness.

Her knees buckled, her body hit the ground, its thuds echoing outwards. Then nothing.



Outside Keypark Hall, a sniper rifle buckled, then stilled in steady hands. The inside of the building exploded, bodies rushing, panicking. The job was not done. A second shot rang out. Then, through an increasingly crowded view, a third. Inside, a bullet lodges itself into Vincenzo Salvatore’s shoulder, and then, just barely skimming by the other guests in its way, another finds home in Auguste Cortes’ chest. Chaos and blood blooming in their unpredictable patterns, the rifle is picked up, and the opposing building’s roof is once again empty.

Details ;;
Time: 1:02 PM

Tags ;;
Auguste Cortes qunqun , Vincenzo Salvatore koala

Victor Rivera miyabi , Carmensita Da Costa Rocha mxlly , Casimir Sayed miyabi , Azalea Washington blue-jay , Hannibal Dimitrescu arthur morgan. , Evangeline Huang xayah. , Mr. Kim @.moonchild., Marzanna Adamski ravensunset , Alyona Kriselyov koala , Hugo Young boo. , Baroque Adamski cavitea , Jin Ahn @.moonchild., Hero Bechtel demonology , Kiko Na Chiangmai miyabi , Jasper Mistri Wandering Owl , Azure Dahl celadon. , Harris Felicette LeilaRF , Dakota Adamski idiot , Marnie Edwards neon reverie , Cyril Rossi @LowkeyLovingLoki

OOC ;;
Auguste and Vincenzo were injured in this event. For both characters, a severity roll from 1-10 was held: Vincenzo rolled a 3, so his wound is not severe, though he still requires medical attention to minimize damage. Auguste rolled a 9. His wound is extremely severe, he is in critical condition and his survival depends on your characters' immediate action.

 

[qunqun]

O Death

Jen Titus

Auguste Cortes

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Silence often spoke louder than words. And Auguste was a master of it - weaponized silence as people watched him and screamed and tried to run away.

A hitman, a murderer. A silent stalker, dark streets. They often tried to run away. Screamed when they saw him. Begged for mercy. He had mercy, of course. He made the kills quick. Perhaps not always entirely painless, but it was a mercy to keep them quick.

And more than that, he never cried over it. Or over many things.

A memory from long ago, a funeral. A black shawl over a woman’s head, covering bleached blond hair, his mother. His father? Laid down in the wooden coffin. Tears sprung to the young boy's eyes as he saw his father. A tight grip on his arm, creating the beginnings of bruises - the tears stopping before they fell. A hiss, an angry whispering of a language Auguste barely spoke.

Shut up. Stop crying. You can only cry when it’s all over.

You can cry when it’s all over.

You can…

Auguste hadn’t cried since he was 5.

He wasn’t sure when the pain would end. He wasn’t sure if it’d ever end.

Could it ever end for someone like him? He didn’t think it could. Perhaps it was just a divine punishment for the pain that he inflicted on other people. A life of suffering and clawing for any scrap of normalcy shadowed by the bodies that he’d left in his wake in a mad rush to survive.

In the meantime, though. Someone was… trying to talk to him.

A couple of strands of curly dark hair came loose from the ponytail. Fell into his eyes. He began winding it through his fingers nervously as he attempted to formulate words.

How’ve you been

How’ve you been. How’ve you- Well. Last night he’d murdered a person and buried their body. He got three hours of sleep, and now he’s suffering through a fancy brunch with people that definitely want him dead in a stuffy suit with the worst of criminal politics circling about and also by the way if he made a wrong move he might instigate a new war between the families-

HOW DO YOU THINK HE’S BEEN DOING YOU FUCKING MORO-

okay.

okay.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

“Ehm… yknow.. Ehm.. b-business as usual.” He mumbled, not quite making eye contact. He’d been told a while back that his eye contact was… unnerving. Probably best to just… not. Wow this tablecloth was very interesting. Could he die? Could he melt into the ground now? These were some very intense questions he was being asked.

“How.. ehm… how have you… yknow… been…” A quiet trail off. He was not equipped to answer this harsh interrogation.

And then… A speech. Right. This was a memorial.

Wow.

Midway through the speech declaring all of them horrible people (which Auguste did not actually object to, he murdered people for a living after all), she was shot through the neck and killed.

Auguste followed her body falling to the ground with his head. Thunk.

Dead.

Huh.

Well that was unexpected.

He was vaguely aware of pandemonium happening around him.

His body tensed.

Pain.

That was a new warmth he felt.

He watched his hand reach his chest, and come away with the red of blood.

Oh.

Huh.

Well, what do you know.

The coughing started soon after, the choking feeling of not being able to breathe as he stood up.

He had to keep standing. He had to go back to fighting.

There was always someone to fight.

There was always something to attack.

Even if he was dying. He needed to get it done. He needed to get it done. Relief would only come when he finished his goal.

What was his goal?

Who was he fighting?

Eyes landed on the Adamskis. And then on the Avancinis.

Enemies.

All of them.

He was surrounded.

He took two steps forwards before his legs gave out and he felt his head touch the ground. His body completely giving up listening even though every instinct in him was screaming to get back up, because the pain would just come back even worse if he didn't get up. He had to get up. He had to keep fighting...

... why though?

Perhaps... perhaps they should win, just this once.

He was so tired. It couldn't hurt to roll over and let them win.

Was he supposed to be in pain?

There was… wet.

On his face.

Tears?

Blood.

Probably blood.

He didn’t cry.

A tear freed itself from his eyes, ran a track through the blood, into his hair.

Choking.

Choking.

Spinning.

Black.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[boo.]

hugo.

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oscar lang

fall into u

There was nothing Hugo could say to his silently suffering lover; he knew the man well enough to see the conflict, the agony of separation, not by distance but by circumstance, tearing him limb from limb. Was he himself unaffected? Hugo like to think that he’d steeled himself against such emotional—

No, he wasn’t. The anxious tapping against his foot grew in rapidity and he was inclined to return it, to let Baroque know that he wasn’t unfeeling, that he really did hate all of this, that it even would have been better if they hadn’t seen each other at all. But the same old chain tightened around his neck; just as what always happened, Hugo found himself unable to express what he truly felt, and not just because Alyona was sitting right there, privy to every word they exchanged. Even if they’d been alone, Hugo wasn’t sure the secrets of his heart would have the courage to make themselves known. There was something that kept him from plunging over into the abyss of trust that Baroque seemed to inhabit without him, waiting, hand always extended, patient.

Sometimes Hugo hated how Baroque was so sure in him.

Mr. Young. When was the last time he’d heard that from those lips? Had he ever? It had always been Hugo.

My Hugo. Mon coeur. Minou. Star of my world.

His fingers tightened around the neck of his glass like he was trying to choke it out. Maybe it would shatter and then he’d have to excuse himself, and he could just leave.

“Occupational requirement, m—”

My dear. It almost slipped out.

“—more often than not.”

His eyes shifted toward Alyona, watching for any spark of movement, anything that might confirm his anxious mind’s worry that she was reading their minds and the invisible tension between them. She was smart, far too clever for her own good, the kind of person that Hugo couldn’t read as clearly as he would have liked. And the fact that she knew Baroque to some extent—why hadn’t Baroque ever told him about her? He knew how sensitive Hugo was about loose ends. There was an unscratchable itch in Hugo’s brain.

The tap of a microphone forced him and everyone else in the hall to stave off their conversation and turn polite heads to the sister of the murdered wife. Melissa Zhao—Hugo knew the face but not the person, but right off the bat he could tell that she was strung as thin as the wire of a tightrope walker. She would deliver the usual tears and tissues and then the afternoon would continue, more sober than it had been and possibly better for it. This crowd needed a morose reminder of what they were here to remember, even if none of them wanted to be here in the first place, even if Melissa’s scripted emotional agony couldn’t pierce their hearts. As for Hugo, her voice washed right through him, Louisa replaced with Jakob, a memorial only in his own mind. But Baroque had remembered, hadn’t he? The offer from earlier, the proposal of an inclined ear and a shoulder to cling to, a night, or even only a few hours, enough to stave off the pain until next year.

It wasn’t smart to take the offer but Hugo couldn’t exactly—

Louisa’s voice suddenly spiked, shrieking with the rage that had been simmering just beneath the conservative black dress and carefully-applied eyeliner. Hugo’s eyes went wide, heart hammering loud enough to crack concrete, finding himself strangely empathetic to the way she screamed at them, the release of her inner agony somewhat cathartic. Who was she speaking to? Did it even matter? An unknown killer roamed among them and even Hugo and all his secrets couldn’t find the answer for her, or for himself.

Perhaps this was what—

Glass shattered. Melissa crumpled like a flag that lost the wind.

Hugo barreled into Baroque, constricting him with strong arms and fingers that bit into him with fear. They toppled to the floor amid screams and more splintered glass; Hugo’s wine tipped over, staining the side of his shirt. Two more shots and Hugo’s body twitched at both, trying to cover Baroque’s taller, thinner frame with his shorter, more broad-shouldered one. Melissa’s voice echoed in his ears, the only thing he could hear above the chaos that swirled around them.

You took the one good thing.

“Talk to me—say something,”

he cried, pushing himself up enough to see Baroque’s face, desperate to hear his voice even if it was only a word. His glasses had fallen off; where they were he didn’t know. Didn’t care. Where had the other bullets gone? Who had their targets been? Hugo’s vocation was pulling him away but he needed to hear Baroque’s voice first—a selfish need, he conceded. He could only pray that Alyona was looking to herself first, and even if she saw, he’d think of something.

Hugo’s hand slipped into his pocket and then scrambled to find Baroque’s, pressing a long, hard object in the palm of the other’s hand—a black tactical knife, blade tucked into the handle. It was all he could spare.

“I have to go. You have to get out of here.”

♡coded by uxie♡