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diveronarpg · 4 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with DAPHNE ALLARD, who is THIRTY-ONE years old. She is often called DIANA by the CAPULETS and works as a EMISSARY. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

TW: FAT SHAMING, BULLYING

Trying to encapsulate Daphne Allard is like trying to catch lightning in a bottle, the moonlight on your eyelashes, or the ray of the sun upon your tongue. She is simply that enigmatic, so much so that there are truly those who believe her to be something otherworldly, something magical. How could they not believe it, when it seemed that SERAPHIM bowed at her feet while cherubs adorned her cheeks with sweet, rosy pink kisses? It’s not so difficult to believe since it seemed near impossible to deny anything to the apple-cheeked child that would roam up and down the grand halls of her parent’s estate. Frequently, she would pad down to the kitchen late at night to beg the patissier to grant her one or two small macarons while the glittering guests mingled in her parents’ ballroom and they were helpless to her whims, sighing begrudgingly as she plucked the treat from their palm and went merrily on her way. What they didn’t see was how she snuck out and passed her treat to the dirty, awaiting hands of those less fortunate than her, or how she stole away the blankets from her bed and placed it on the shoulders of the children who shivered on the dirty, cobbled streets day after day. All anyone would ever see is the princess whose ears were adorned with bright, glimmering diamonds -- whose bright, shining smile and glittering eyes seemed better suited to the vapid day-to-day responsibilities of a DEBUTANTE. Lock her in an ivory castle and do away with the key, for she was a child far too precious to see the vileness and hardships of life.

But the Allards could not protect her forever, try as they did to shield their precious porcelain doll. Didn’t they know that children could be just as cruel as their parents? Foolishly, they had thought that sending her out of Verona to live abroad in France would spare her from the atrocities of man, but girls could be far more wicked when left to their own devices. They knew where she came from, how the city from which she proudly came was full of roaches and demons. They wondered if her spirit would be just as difficult to kill. Day after day they would ridicule her, isolate her, HOUND her like the harpies that they were -- words sharp as knives, tongues lashing like whips. Gifts that her parents gave her, they would ruin, forcing her to hide it away, like a dragon hoarding gold. Though she spoke French impeccably, they mocked her for the way that her tongue curled around the words, how she gestured emphatically, and for every morsel that she ate. Little did they know the VENGEANCES that she took upon them, how she would steal away the money from their wallets, the odd earring and the errant ring. The fools didn’t even know what they were missing -- for a couple of hours they would huff and puff before their parents would send them something far more expensive as a salve for their wounded hearts. But Daphne would console herself for her trespasses against them by knowing that the money she had made by pawning their jewels off would allow a widow and child to keep their shoddy apartment, or that the beggars in the city square would have something in their stomachs for that night.

It became a habit of hers, the heady warmth of bettering another’s life became the most potent drug she knew. She bettered her skills, crafting them so that slipping priceless watches from the wrist of an arrogant suitor was as easy and thoughtless as brushing a comb through her hair. By the time she returned to Verona, she was determined to never relinquish that high -- though she loved her city, she did not balk from the truth: the city needed a SAVIOR. And the only way to do so was to ruthlessly weed out those that threatened to choke it; she knew that she could only do so by purging it from within. Her parents had a long-standing relationship with the Capulets, but had insisted that Daphne -- their sweet, apple-cheeked child -- could never be useful to them. What was more useful, though, than MONEY? Money could more or less buy you anything, and a place in the Capulet ranks was to be no exception. She had prepared for her ties to them to choke her, to smother out what there was of her light. But the deeper she delved into the world of the mafia, the more she thrived. It was an intoxicating thing, the power that came with ranking among the deified of the city, rivaled only by the rush of knowing that someone owed their life to you.

Being a heroine or peddling something quite like it -- she had somehow allowed both to become her POISON. And the people of the city were none the wiser. They knew her as the socialite, as the doted-on girl who was set to inherit a fortune. Their bright star, their shining light who was perhaps the one beautiful thing unmarred and untainted by the blood that ran through the streets. In a way they were right, Daphne was shining and beautiful as ever, but so was the sun and it burned just as brightly as she. It warmed and healed, it scorched and purged. She looks in the mirror each night, lips bare and eyes wide, knowing that she too has the ability to save the city or the power to rule it as she desired. They loved her, they were devoted to her, and she loved them too. Each night she feels her throat tighten with the knowledge of the power that sits at the tip of her fingers, and though she LOATHES to admit it, she has created a drug of her own making, one that gets more potent each passing day. Before she looks away from the mirror, turns away from that Aphrodite-like creature, she can’t help the brief, barely-acknowledged wish that her parents had kept her locked away in that ivory tower. Perhaps, then, the city might be saved from those vices of hers that threatened to ruin them all.

BEAU RENARD: Husband-To-Be. He is presented like Apollo -- a golden boy, a warm shining sun amidst the glittering stars of Verona. However, it would be more accurate to liken him to Hades, ruler of the dead, isolated and far too keen to wear a bone-made crown upon his head. She knows what her duty is, and she is more than happy to fulfill it. After all, marriage is nothing more than a contractual agreement between two adults and it would benefit them both. Although, it seemed like the scales were tipped a little more in his favor; he was blessed enough to be wed to the darling of Verona, after all. Still, though, there is hope that whatever frigid wall he has placed between them comes tumbling down some way or another. She looks at her parents and sees a romance more pivotal than that between the moon and the sea, so no one can blame her for the wish in her heart to have something -- someone -- to call her own, and for that person in turn to say the same and mean it.

RENZO CAROZZA: Achilles Heel. She isn’t a foolish girl conned by pretty faces and honey-sweet words, but there is something about Renzo that strikes a chord in her already bleeding heart. Perhaps it is because of the abyss that reflects in his eyes that she longs to cast out, longs to fill with something greater than that gaping maw of emptiness. He treats her as he does every other person -- with kisses upon her cheek, words that could coax the devil into whispering a prayer, touches that could lull a raging dragon into a slumber. But there are these still moments where they catch one another’s gaze and it feels as though he holds a knife pointed at her heart, as though he is witnessing the sun dawn for the first time. Then he glances away and the world breathes once more. She cannot understand why nor does she dare too, but it is there all the same and nothing she does can get him to relinquish this hold that he has over her. Daphne cannot blame him -- she can’t bring herself to either.

TAMURA CHIKO: Leverage. There are small amusements and joys that she allows herself to indulge in, and creating the mirage that is Chiko’s wealth is one of them. When she had instigated this little ploy with him, it had initially been because she thought them a better person than they were, someone who would truly make something of themselves. But, as with all things in Verona, they proved to be just as dastardly as the rest of its inhabitants -- and she became all the wiser for it. The charade that they continued to pander to seemed to place them deeper and deeper into her debt, but she was far too amused by how everyone seemed to eat it up, both Montagues and Capulets alike. Their enigmatic persona was nothing more than a thinly veiled self-made man, and yet Verona seemed to whisper about them as if they were a god. She wondered, though, if they knew how she intended to use their secret. But, for now, she was all too content to watch them and let them believe that they were a puppet without strings.

PANDORA PHAN: Wildcard. She had not intended to save them -- she had thought that they were another soul, caught in the crossfire that was the war between the Montagues and the Capulets. A young soldier was too keen to wave their gun about and Daphne had saved Pandora’s father just in time, rushing them to the hospital, ensuring that he would live and breathe another day. Then Pandora had stumbled into the room, seen her father’s forlorn form and that is what Daphne knew what she had done. Moreover, she realized the debt that was owed to her, one that would undoubtedly earn her power in the Capulets that none could hope to have. It had become an oddly satisfying thing, being in the same room as the great Pandora Phan and knowing the great power that she could hold over her head.

Daphne is portrayed by TARA LYNN and was written by ROSEY. She is currently TAKEN by DIANA.

#lsrpg #literate rp #bio rp #crime rp #shakespeare rp #daphne allard #cap #w #t #tw

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snoppy · 3 years

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we're just two slow dancers, last ones out

two men dancing by robert mapplethorpe / lindsey donnell and sanford placide photographed by daphne lee / two men dancing, harlem, 1920s / study for ‘slow dance’ - kerry james marshall, 1992 / women dance along at les scandaleuses, a lesbian bar in the marais district, paris, france. william albert allard / dominique sanda e stefania sandrelli in “il conformista”, diretto da bernardo bertolucci, 1970 / “couple at a dance, 1960 (detail)”, ph. diane arbus / anne magill / ferruccio ferroni

#mine #dance into the dawn

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ofcastora · 3 years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can see that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mrs. Silviana will have your head.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The fall was inevitable.

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

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

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

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

Vivianne stepped forward, easily reaching the arrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And somehow you rarely hit your target.”

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

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

“Nonsense – this is mine.”

“Yours? How?”

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

“–– The Duke of Beaufort?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My mother is dead,” Castora replied flatly.

“Mine is too.”

“I suppose that makes us both orphans.”

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

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

“Why, marriage, of course.”

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

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

“Is it a love match, then?”

“What constitutes a love match in your opinion?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who she could not find.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Castora? That is quite an––”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Marquess nodded, made his courtesies, and left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five. You only have to get through five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Surely it does in this one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How are you, Miss Castora?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, dear girl, there is not.”

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

“That is your opinion.”

“And what is yours?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I did not realize you cared so much.”

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

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

Castora could not argue with Vivianne on that point.

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

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

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

#&. asks | answers & memes & drabbles & more oh my #diverona regency au #this was supposed to be up on valentine's day ooops #&. vivianne | a reflection in a fun house mirror #&. vivianne | in another life we would fight side by side #so many bridgerton and austen easter eggs because i can't think of names oops

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daphneallard · 4 years

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date: february 14, 2018 time: early evening place: villa availability: @lavolumnia

The whiskey burns in her throat and she wrinkles her nose. Daphne doesn’t like whiskey – she prefers champagne or a good cabernet sauvignon, but supposed a party is a good a time as any to try it. No time like the present, she thinks, glancing at the diamond ring adorning her finger. It’s a beautiful ring. It suits her. It’s perfectly perfect. It’s fine.

Despite her personal antipathy towards the ring, it was a hit with the crowd of revelers. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. Congratulations. You two are the perfect couple. You’re so lucky to have him. She smiled widely. She thanked with the right mix of pride and humility. She showed off the ring, but didn’t brag about it. Daphne Allard was the perfect blushing bride-to-be. An Oscar-worthy performance, given her secret apathy.

You wanted this, she reminds herself. You wanted a husband and marrying the man who runs L’Arena will be good for the Capulets. It’ll be good for Verona. It was a suitable arrangement, and certainly he was the best option. She chose him, for what it’s worth. But it wasn’t love, and it would most likely never be love. But maybe that was the whiskey talking.

She elegantly sidesteps a flock of married women attempting to give her marriage advice, wedding dress advice, diet advice (blegh) –– all bullshit Daphne would have the length of her engagement to figure out – and finds perhaps the one person who wouldn’t grate her about roses and diamond rings tonight.

“Bonsoir, Vivianne,” she greets. “How’s the night air treating you?”

#conversation #c: vivianne #e: past is prologue (flashback threads)#d: february 14 2018 #l: villa #hope this works!

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rafaellacapulet · 4 years

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date: flashback – september 21st, 2016

location: milan fashion week

time: 10:00 AM

status: for @daphneallard

It was difficult not to notice her -- in a room of shining stars, of constellations that glittered so brightly, it was Daphne Allard who drew one’s eye. Demanding it as effortlessly as the moon does in the night sky, bidding you to look away from all else and adore her, and her alone. Beautiful socialites circled around the room, orbiting Daphne as though she truly did command the universe with her gravitational pull, chattering and giggling about her while Rafaella looked on, entertaining idle conversations with potential clients. Maybe Rafaella was a little entranced too, because she truly could not be bothered to give the client more than the occasional sparkling titter of intrigue and hum of amusement every so often.

That was not a problem, though, these particular clients required a longer play and she needed them to feel like there were other options -- which there always were. No matter how many rejections she got, there was always another way around, another target, another means of making the Capulets that much more powerful. And, while revenue was important, political ties were as well; there was no problem reminding them that there were others more powerful, more connected than some wealthy socialites.

The lights began to dim, signaling that all should take their seats -- and Rafaella grabbed the bottle of water before kindly excusing herself, slipping her card into their outstretched hand. Taking her place beside Daphne, she sipped her water, brows climbing as she took note of how often people glanced their way. Photographers, designers, socialites, celebrities. All the while, she coolly looked back. “You’d think that they would find something -- or someone more interesting to look at. But I can’t blame them, you look quite dazzling today.”

#tell me helen of troy what kingdoms i have to fight to keep you? | daphne #in the mirror look and see the ghost of a girl | flashbacks #LETS GO DIANA IM READY FOR RAF TO EAT OUT OF THE PALM OF DAPHNES HAND

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ao3feed-snape · 3 years

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Blanc

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/3wSOw5w

by IronicIdealist

You don't even want kids yourself, imagine trying to teach them like that where your hands are tied and you cannot connect with too many at once.

Words: 2, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: F/M, Gen

Characters: Willow Blanc (OC), Wynne Family (OCs), Cleo Allard (OC), Albus Dumbledore, Dumbledore Family (Harry Potter), Rolanda Hooch, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Filius Flitwick, Gilderoy Lockhart, Pomona Sprout, Sybill Trelawney, Remus Lupin, Aurora Sinistra, Rubeus Hagrid, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Horace Slughorn, Poppy Pomfrey, Argus Filch, Sirius Black, Nymphadora Tonks, Mundungus Fletcher, Weasley Family (Harry Potter), James Potter (mentioned), Lily Evans (mentioned), Bill Weasley, Fleur Delacour, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Terry Boot, Mandy Brocklehurst, Lavender Brown, Millicent Bulstrode, Michael Corner, Vincent Crabbe, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Seamus Finnigan, Anthony Goldstein, Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Neville Longbottom, Ernest Macmillan, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Padma Patil, Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, Dean Thomas, Lisa Turpin, Blaise Zabini, Malfoy Family (Harry Potter), Luna Lovegood, Dobby (Harry Potter), House-Elves (Harry Potter), Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Peter Pettigrew, Bartemius Crouch Jr., Thorfinn Rowle, Selwyn (Harry Potter), Jugson (Harry Potter), Goyle Sr. (Harry Potter), Gibbon (Harry Potter), Fenrir Greyback, Crabbe Sr. (Harry Potter), Corban Yaxley, Avery Sr. (Harry Potter), Augustus Rookwood, Antonin Dolohov, Amycus Carrow, Alecto Carrow, Dolores Umbridge, Irma Pince

Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Canon Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travelling Harry Potter, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Paternal Instinct, Maternal Instinct, Protectiveness, Filled With Unspeakable Rage, She Calls Voldemort A Bitch, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, There Is Sex Probably, OC was a Beauxbatons Student (Harry Potter), Beauxbatons (Harry Potter), Durmstrang, Triwizard Tournament, Trauma, Muggleborn, Quantum Mechanics, Magic and Science, Astrology, Divination, Time-Turners, Good Severus Snape, Severus Snape Lives, Let The Students Say Fuck, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), Second War with Voldemort, Voldemort's A Nihilist Who Hates The Wizarding World, Tom Riddle is Voldemort, Sane Voldemort (Harry Potter)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3wSOw5w

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #Severus Snape #Snape #Professor Snape #SS

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ao3feed-jily · 3 years

Text

Blanc

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3wSOw5w

by IronicIdealist

You don't even want kids yourself, imagine trying to teach them like that where your hands are tied and you cannot connect with too many at once.

Words: 2, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: F/M, Gen

Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Severus Snape/Original Female Character(s)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3wSOw5w

#ao3feed #fanfic #Harry Potter #Jily #James Potter #Lily Evans #Lily Potter #Lily Evans Potter

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ilovetheater-nl · 5 years

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40-45 een musical vol spektakel

Op 7 oktober 2018 werd de spektakel-musical 40-45 losgelaten op het publiek. Een concept van Gert Verhulst met muziek van Will Tura en Steve Willaert. Allard Blom schreef de liedteksten en, samen met Frank Van Laecke, het script. De regie is van de hand van Frank Van Laecke.

Na een welverdiende rust draait 40-45 weer op volle toeren. Er zijn enkele cast wissels, waaronder Daphne Wellens als…

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#40-45 de musical

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diveronarpg · 4 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with LEONA GWAN, who is TWENTY-TWO years old. They are often called LADY MACDUFF by the MONTAGUES and works as their MEITITRICE. They use THEY/THEM pronouns.

TW: death, grief, drug mentions

They win Alvise’s trust with a single sentence. Who are you? he asks, and it’s the same question Leona has tried to force down the world’s mouth until it stomachs it, stomachs them. It was not always this way. Once, Leona knew how to sit among roses instead of RIPPING them from their roots, out of the earth and into their hands so they might draw strength from their thorns instead. Their mother taught them how to spread their fingers wide to catch the light; and how VAINLY Leona tried. With their heart in their pocket and eyes lifted to the heavens, Leona waited for the sunlight to pour into their palms and fill the gaping hole they felt in their chest. For years, Leona WAITED, never knowing what it was their soul desired. Once, their hunger was a quiet and patient thing. It knew how to wait for something to believe in: purpose, pleasure, pain, anything. When it came, it came in an ERUPTION of flames; in an unrighteous deliverance that plucked all the naïveté from their child-like heart and sunk its teeth into Leona’s faith, all with one fateful strike.

When their mother died, Leona turned to their father to save them both, but he buried his head in the sand as if he could live in a grave, too. Then the love in their mouth began to taste like ACID, rancid and rotten as Leona swallowed all the burdens their father could not carry. For Leona would wait no longer for the world to give itself to them. They would force the clouds open and TAKE from the universe all that they desired. If they needed to, Leona would devour the moon whole and let it sit in their belly, all to watch the world burn for taking from them, first. Instead, Leona chose to devour THEMSELVES. With all their fury and avarice and no guide to follow, Leona funneled all their energy into climbing every ladder. There was nothing they could not have, and no one they could not be. They earned top marks in their classes and won the hearts of their peers; it was not enough. At last, Leona looked to what was FORBIDDEN, all that was denied to those as beautiful and as accomplished as them.

When they learned of the pills and powders that passed through hands in the dark, Leona felt the aching in their chest begin to quiet. So down the rabbit hole, Leona DOVE. It was never the high they chased; it was the pleasure of understanding how the mind and body could be utterly changed. It was this FASCINATION that drove them to study chemistry and toxicology in university. It was this fascination — and their wicked, renegade tongue — that led them to the Montagues’ doorstep, a soldier’s hand at their neck as she forced Leona to their knees. This one claims our drugs are inferior, the soldier spat so harshly that they could see specks of saliva on the ground. Alvise bent to meet their gaze, appraising the wild DEFIANCE that Leona kept tightly coiled. Under the light of violence, it blossomed; with an ugly sheen, it declared itself in their eyes as Alvise studied them. Who am I? Leona repeated through gritted teeth, I am a study of how to RUIN a person. In a matter of days, Leona was an initiate. They knew nothing, and were absolved of everything for reasons no Montague understood but Leona.

In the SHADOWS, where even Damiano could not see and even Roman dared not enter, Alvise showered Leona with his wisdom and favor. A vow was made in secret: create something from NOTHING, and they would become a new breed of Montague. He would craft a position entirely for them, with no price to pay in blood or blade — if only they could concoct a POISON that could not be traced and would never be found. With an unholy vision in their eyes and a delight as black as Alvise’s greed, Leona bound their fate to his. When Alvise died, he took their dreams and ambitions with him and left Leona behind. But they had not forgotten the words he said to them in secret, and they knew — they knew that once bacio del mietitore was complete, the Montagues would welcome Leona through the gates of the gods. They have worked long into the night for this very moment of triumph: watching the same eyes that scorned them melt to AWE at the terror they created alone. They thought this would be enough to satiate them — but even now, a chill permeates to their core and the kiss of their own decay lingers on their lips. Such is the price for creating a cursed thing; such is the curse of making yourself a monster’s master. For the only way to learn destruction is to become DESTROYED. This, Leona knows, as intimately as they know the taste of their own creation.

MANUELE GWAN: Father. If only there is a way to burn away the blood they share with him. Their father lost the chance to save Leona all those years ago, when he gave his grief permission to devour them both. Were they to blame for abandoning him because they would not be submerged with him? Was Leona expected to forget that he stopped being a father to them long ago? They owe him nothing, and they will give him nothing. Whatever tie between them has been severed and torn apart without mercy — but here he is, an initiate with a sudden desire to become a father. Why did you follow me? they ask, as if the sound of snarling and gnashing teeth can drown the truth they hunger to know: Why didn’t you love me before it was too late?

ODESSA VERNON: Rival. It’s not her fault. As harmless and pure as Leona is lethal, Odessa would not catch their eye if not for her father. The way Alvise spoke of his children never sat right with Leona. What is there to love about two useless and stupid brats? Of the two, Odessa sparks Leona’s envy most — perhaps because Alvise once dreamt of tying their destinies together. She is the perfect light to your darkness, he once said to them, too proud to notice Leona’s furious silence. Leona’s brilliance is their own; they don’t need a stuck-up, spoiled princess to bruise their ego. Even if her beauty haunts Leona; even if Leona thinks of her smile as they taste their own venom.

ULRIK BRAUN: Chosen. If the Montagues were not to assign a monster of their own kind in their circle, Leona would have carved a throne for him with their bare hands. They would let their nails go jagged and their fingers bleed if it meant Ulrik — the only Montague to gaze upon their ambition with respect — will stay by their side. He is the father they choose, with a strangeness that complements their charm. Your hunger matches mine, he once noted with curiosity. I am the only person like you in the world, he said to them quietly. With their whole heart, excessive and self-gratifying in nature, Leona knows it to be true.

DAPHNE ALLARD: Fascination. Capulet loyalties aside, Daphne is a thief... and Leona quite likes thieves. Shortly after seeing Daphne’s gift for stealing hearts as well as wallets, they marched to Daphne with an accusation to test her smarts, followed by a grin of approval when Daphne’s response met their liking. She holds their attention as hostage without mercy; there is no part of Leona that is not utterly delighted by her. This is Leona’s match, their mirrored reflection. For the only poison Leona knows is bitter and biting; Daphne’s is sickly sweet, with a rotten apple core and the scent of artificial strawberry. Perhaps Daphne intends to kill them, or spoon the secrets out of their mouth like a mother to a babe. No matter. If this is a game, then Leona is five steps ahead; they know just how much bacio del mietitore will rot someone slowly.

Leona is portrayed by MOON GA YOUNG and was written by MINNIE. They are currently TAKEN by JENNA.

#lsrpg #mob rp #bio rp #active rp #crime rp #T #TNB #MONT #leona gwan

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capcil6-blog · 6 years

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Head Start employees receive service awards during the 2017 CAPCIL Christmas Party and Head Start Winter Training! We are fortunate and grateful to have several employees who have dedicated many years of service to CAPCIL’s Head Start department! Their dedication and commitment has helped prepare many young children to start school successfully! Thank you to each of them for their commitment and loyalty!

Pictured Back row left to right: Amanda Van Winkle – 5 Years Kelli Allard – 15 Years Stephanie Swearingen – 5 Years Bonnie Rutherford – 5 Years Marcia Hieronymus – 10 years Daphne Garmon – 10 Years Cathy McIntosh – 20 Years Front row left to right: Carline Ehrett – 10 Years Valerie Brooks – 5 Years Karen Schrodt – 20 Years Katie Taylor – 5 Years

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daphneallard · 4 years

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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE ALLARD FAMILY

SOME OF DAPHNE’S RELATIVES:

Philippe Allard ➟ Father Hélène Allard ➟ Mother Anna Allard ➟ Paternal Grandmother Raphael Allard ➟ Paternal Grandfather Isabelle & Célia Cardinale – Maternal Aunts

SNAPSHOTS:

TOP LEFT: Philippe Allard with his first wife, Marianne TOP RIGHT: Anna Allard picking flowers CENTER: A young Philippe with his father, Raphael BOTTOM LEFT: Hélène Allard at a gala BOTTOM RIGHT: Philippe driving Anna to the store

PHILIPPE ALLARD fc: daniel day-lewis

Chairman of the Allard Company, a multinational hospitality corporation based in Verona, Italy. With 100+ locations around the world, the Allard’s have been nicknamed “the Hilton’s of Europe,” but the family has rejected that label, saying that the Hilton’s should be “the Allard’s of America” instead.

Although a well-liked and respected individual, Philippe is a cunning businessman and is not to be underestimated when it comes to negotiations. Although the Allard’s have been associated with the Capulet’s for decades, it wasn’t until Philippe took over the family business in 1982 that they begun having a more serious partnership. It’s always been unclear who needs who more in the business arrangement. Despite his vested interest in the Capulet organization, Philippe is loyal to the Allard family.

He married long-time girlfriend Marianne Moreau, a French actress, in 1977, but Marianne passed away in 1984. Although he swore he would never love again, two years later, he met Hèléne Cardinale, a glamorous French-Italian architect, his mother, Anna, hired her to do repairs on the villa.

Philippe has been happily married to Hélène since 1987, and they have one daughter, Daphne. Although he doesn’t want to slow down, he’s had bouts of ill health the past several years, forcing him to slow down.

HÉLÈNE ALLARD NEE CARDINALE fc: jennifer ehle

A retired architect, Hélène now sits on the boards of various environmental and arts organizations in Italy. When her husband is ill, she takes on a more involved role in the company.

Born in Milan to an esteemed theatre director and an opera singer, her childhood was glamorous, if not entirely stable to her parent’s frequent fights, even more frequent affairs, and reckless financial decisions. They were involved in the upper echelons of society, but were not part of the old money world.

Hélène and her two sisters, Isabelle and Célia, were mostly raised by their devout Catholic grandmother in the south of France. Isabelle entered a convent, while Célia married a much older man for his money. After both her husband and grandmother’s death, Célia bought her grandmother’s house and frequently hosts grand parties there.

Héléne returned to Italy to study architecture, making a successful career for herself. Her life changed forever when she was hired to renovate the Allard family villa by Anna Allard, the famed Allard family matriarch. There, she met her future husband, Philippe; within the next few years, the pair were married and had a daughter, Daphne.

Despite initial struggled to acclimate to high society, Hélène eventually adjusted. Although still a kind, generous woman who cares about others, she’s capable of navigating the waters of Verona’s elite with frightening efficiency.

#diveronatalk #&. muse | i will answer to knife #&. graphics | look i made a thing #tw death mention #her parent's bio's under the cut

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daphneallard · 4 years

Text

–– maledetta primavera

Grief is ruinous. Philip Petre is not ready for what he must tell her, and Daphne Allard is not ready to hear what he has to say.

TW: death, grieving, suicide mention, drowning mention, murder mention

MENTIONED: Philip Petre (NPC), @deadagainmaevepetre (among others but mostly Maeve)

Daphne feels like she can’t breath when Philip tells her the news. Maeve. Dead. Maeve. Dead. Maeve is dead. Maeve is dead. She can’t wrap her head around those words strung together in that order. It just doesn’t make any sense. Maeve can’t be dead. Maeve is young, and vibrant, and kind, and loves sundresses, and loves flowers, and is everything that’s alive.

Her mind is going a million miles an hour, attempting to figure out exactly what’s happening. No, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, signor, she wants to say, but Daphne takes one look at the man who is clearly tattered with grief and can’t bring herself to, lest Philip Petre starts crying in her foyer.

She brings him into her kitchen and places him in his chair. Her hand trembles on top of his, and they both pretend not to notice. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Daphne asks, her voice surprisingly clear. He nods. He comes first right now, she thinks, not knowing how best to take care of this grieving man. They didn’t know each other particularly well, outside of a friendly coffee once every few months to talk about Maeve.

It had quieted some of his anxieties (was anxieties the right word? Fear? Rage? Disappointment? All of the above?) that Daphne Allard had been his daughter’s sponsor into the Capulet’s. Beautiful Daphne Allard. Kind Daphne Allard. Influential Daphne Allard. She could take care of Maeve. Well, that wasn’t the case now was it? Daphne looked like someone who could take care of Maeve. She was all smoke and no fire, and more all her poison-laced smile and honey-laden words, Maeve is dead.

Maeve is dead. It just doesn’t feel right. It’s impossible. It’s unnatural.

Daphne thinks back to the boy who asked her to help escape the Capulet’s, and how she’d betrayed him. A bullet to the head – not by her hand, of course, but with her consent. She’d paid for the funeral and looked his parents in the eyes as she paid her respects. Why is the universe so cold? I take their son, so you take my girl? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a loss for a loss...where is the justice in that?

She takes a shaky breath, putting his cup in front of him. Philip doesn’t touch it. “What is going on, Philip? What happened?”

Daphne braces herself for all manners of story –– fell into the Adige and drowned, killed in a random mugging, killed by the Capulet’s for desertion, shot by a Montague soldier who saw a little Capulet all by her lonesome and decided this would be the best way to curry favor, slaughtered by the Montague’s as revenge for what the Capulet’s did to that spy. What was her name again? Ah, Valentina Gallo. She pictures their initiates stabbing her, one by one. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a desecration for a desecration.

When he relays Maeve’s manner of death to Daphne, her heart shatters. “Oh,” she says softly, a few tears trailing down her face. She’s unable to mask the tidal wave of emotions – surprise, horror, grief, denial – on her face. “Oh.” Daphne thinks back to her most recent interactions with Maeve –– why would she call her to look for that dress if she was going to....if she was going to –– no, she can’t even think of it right now. The girl had been emotional, had clearly been hurt and confused and stunned by recent events, but ––– no, no, no. No. No. No. It doesn’t make any sense.

Why didn’t I realize? Why didn’t I catch it? Why didn’t I do more? Why couldn’t I have saved her? Daphne thinks, unable to hide from the shame. That was her strength, her ability to compartmentalize all of her emotions. Her control. Her mask. Her ability to be whatever anyone needed to be. She could be Verona’s princess. And she, Verona’s would-be savior, couldn’t even save her.

They are both crying now, father and not-quite mother. What a horrible scene, Daphne thinks. Maeve would hate to see us like this. She wipes away her tear, and takes Philip’s hand, and promises him that needn’t worry about anything. She will take care of the funeral arrangements – he must not pay a single penny. I am strong enough for this, Daphne wills herself. And if I am not, I must be.

His shoulder’s slump in relief, and Daphne’s mind goes to everyone else. Everett. Oh, poor Everett. First Lillian, and now Maeve. Her heart breaks for him. Juliana. Vivianne. Catherine. Bunny. And what of Orion in Amsterdam?

And Cosimo. On a more cynical level, this simply isn’t good for the Capulet name. Join the Capulet’s, we’ll make you want to kill yourselves isn’t the most inspiring slogan to new recruits.

“Did she talk to you about this?” Philip asks, and it takes a second for Daphne to register what he’s referring to. Did Maeve ever talk to your about what kind of funeral she wanted?

Daphne shakes her head. “No, but I think I can....I think I know....I knew her well enough to know what she might have wanted.”

How wrong this is, a parent burying their own child.

How wretched it is to think of Maeve Petre in the past tense.

#self para #npc: philip petre #death tw #death mention tw #suicide mention tw #suicide tw #drowning mention tw #murder tw #grief tw #dark themes tw

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ofcastora · 4 years

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ONCE UPON A DIVERONA… (26/∞)

introducing daphne allard as queen guinevere (arthuriana)

@daphneallard

#daphneallard #diveronatalk #&. my graphics | look i made a thing #yes i am making myself a graphic and putting it on here for consistency

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daphneallard · 4 years

Text

of good samaritans & pawns

@diveronarpg submitted:

DIANA has managed to establish a Robin Hood-esque reputation for herself among the Capulets and make it look graceful, even when confronted with more difficult decisions. It just so happens that a week ago, a Capulet soldier reached out to DAPHNE looking for financial aid on her part, begging for help in getting out of the city and away from the mob that they’ve both dedicated their livelihoods to. This sort of thing does not occur often, and could give her a significant advantage or a severe shortfall. What does DAPHNE do?

MENTIONED: @lavolumnia, @reginadalys, @dukemassetti, @stlapin, @la-bella-falco

TW: death, violence, grief, dark themes

There are approximately 590,452 things Daphne Allard doesn’t know about Luca Caprio, but here are five in particular.

1. His sister’s name is Marta; they’ve barely spoken in three years. Not because of anything serious, but Marta lives in Berlin and the two have just never found the time to put in the effort.

2. When he was seven, he wanted to take over his grandfather’s bakery. It burned down when he was 14. The arsonist’s were never caught, but everyone whispered that his nonno had offended a Montague of some power and status.

3. Luca went to university in Milan.

4. He professed not to care about astrology, but he knew he was a Cancer Sun, a Leo Rising, and a Scorpio Moon because a date made him check. After he showed her his co--star account, she went to the bathroom and never came back.

5. He deserved better.

Actually, she knew that last one. Counting that, Daphne knew precisely ten things about Luca Caprio.

1. LUCA IS A CAPULET.

A soldato, more specifically. Daphne was hosting a small get-together for the initiates and soldiers. A sort of networking opportunity, if you will. A chance to feel like family. That was how this city worked – blood ties and bloodied ties, invisible strings wrapped around every citizen’s throat. It was a reminder that everyone in this city is connected with a vice grip.

They were only able to do what they did because people felt like they were getting something in return – a mirage of a family, if you will. But Daphne wasn’t truly cynical – it was good for them to spend some time together outside of work. Make each other feel less alone.

She didn’t remember Luca very well. He hadn’t been quiet because she’d gone and put a friendly arm around the wallflowers and made them feel welcome, and she would’ve remembered him. He hadn’t been particularly loud, because she would’ve remembered him. He ran in the middle, and he seemed happy enough.

Daphne remembered he wasn’t an initiate though. “I’m a soldier,” he’d told her when she asked, not in the least offended that she didn’t remember him. “I ‘graduated’ after the Castelvecchio blew up.”

Before they count continue their conversation, Elisabetta – a lanky, freckled initiate, barely 19 – gathered up the courage to speak to her. “Signora Allard, can I speak to you in private?” The muscles in her shoulder tensed up, like she was expecting to be slapped. Daphne had told Luca she’d catch up with him later – she wanted to know everyone, and said it in a way that convinced everyone, even Daphne herself, that it was true, and to come to her if he needed anything – and pulled Elisabetta into a spare room.

In which she’d promptly burst into tears. She needed help – an orphan with no family and no fortune, a cruel landlord who let her apartment become infested with cockroaches and threatened to evict her, and could Daphne help her? Of course, darling. That’s what I’m here to do.

Daphne hired someone to break the landlord’s legs and gave Elisabetta the downpayment for a newer, nicer apartment, and a day job as a barista at a cafe her father invested in. Just something to help you get settled, until you decide what you want to do for your day job. No, no need to pay me back. This is a gift, Elisabetta. When you decide what you want to do, let me know and I can put you in touch with people.

2. LUCA BELIEVED IN GOD

The boy was Catholic. He believed in the rituals. He was spiritual, too. Luca managed to find the balance that many spent their lives in fruitless pursuit of. His eyes lit up when he talked about it – something about how he saw himself as a prodigal son – and sure, Daphne thought it was a little naive, but perhaps that was her own envy.

She could never feel at peace with the Heavens – and not just because of the blood and poison and atrocities hidden underneath a kind smile and an impeccable reputation. Whatever was in the skies, whatever or whoever governed the universe didn’t care for mortals who tried to fashion themselves as folly.

Her heart sang when he’d shyly brought up that he heard what she did for Elisabetta, who mentioned to him that she’d done something similar for a Vittorio, for Massimo, for Charlotte, for Honoria, and so-on and so-forth. “You’re like a Good Samaritan,” Luca said. Daphne liked that.

Good Samaritans don’t want their pound of flesh, though.

She became concerned about Luca, though. Believers were difficult, and in all honesty, Catholic guilt was going to catch up with him sooner or later.

The worries started after they’d gutted that spiare in the Cathedral. Her name was Valentina Gallo, and she mattered to someone, but the only memory Daphne had was of her bleeding out in the hallowed halls. It’s quite cruel, for the only memory you have of a person to be the light dimming from their eyes.

Luca had been late to a few meetings, and his captain had complained to Daphne – not anything specific, only in passing. Daphne had assured them that she’d take care of it. She’d check in with Luca. He seems like a good soldier. He seems like a good man.

3. LUCA CAME TO HER

She didn’t need to find him. He’d knocked on the door to her office and asked if she had time for a word. Daphne didn’t, but she smiled anyways and invited him inside, offering him his choice of water, coffee, or tea. Good seeds get overrun by weeds if they’re not taken care of.

“Do you remember Elisabetta?” Luca asked.

Daphne nodded. Of course she did. She could never forget the face of a person who owed her their happiness. “Of course. She’s just started an apprenticeship at All That Glitters.”

He wrung his hands. “Good, good. That’s good.”

She poured him a glass of water and placed it in front of him. “Drink, I insist. You look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I might be.”

But he drank the water and didn’t vomit all over her carpet.

“I’m glad you came to see me, today. I’ve heard some colleagues express concern about you. It’s been....a long few months for all of us.” She brushed her hair out of her face, “Can I do something to help? Even if you just need to talk, I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

4. LUCA DIDN’T LIKE BEING A CAPULET

But only because he told her.

“I don’t like being a Capulet.” That was the most confident she’d ever heard it. Not a doubt in his mind. She could see it in his eyes that he meant.

“Oh,” was all she could say. What else could she do? After a moment, Daphne got her wits about her and knitted her fingers together. “Is there something in particular that you don’t like?”

“All of it. Well, not all of it. I -- it’s complicated, you know?” Daphne nodded, because she did. “But when I joined, I thought I would be doing something good for the city.”

To that, she was quick to respond. “You are.”

“How?”

“The Capulet’s are involved with a number of charitable organizations – we’ve helped more than a few local businesses get on their feet and stay on their feet through hard times. I personally work with several local women’s shelters. If you want to do more work in that field, than you’ve certainly come to the right person. Here, let me --”

He’d cut her off, “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters when we do things like what we did in the Cathedral.” Daphne fixed with a stony look and Luca stopped talking mid-sentence. “Sorry, Signora Allard. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

She softens, because Daphne isn’t cruel and that’s what he needed to see – that this work doesn’t make as monsters. “It’s alright, Luca. Really. I’m here to listen.” She takes a deep breathe. “You’ve made a vow to the Capulet’s, Luca, and the particular vow you’ve made....it’s not an easy one to break. I understand that you’re scared and frustrated and, well, horrified by what you’ve seen. We all should be. It’s normal, you know, for newer members to get cold feet.” She twists her engagement ring around her finger. “Like a bride before the wedding.”

“It’s more than jitters,” he says, desperate to make her understand. “I’m telling you that I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t.” She puts her hand over his, and gives it a squeeze.

“I understand.” She said it with her whole heart.

“Can you help me then?”

5. WHEN LUCA MADE UP HIS MIND, IT WAS MADE

Daphne didn’t give an answer to his last question. Instead, she’d asked what exactly he was asking of her. How much have you thought about this, boy? How badly do you want this?

“There’s someone I know in Rome who can help me get the papers to start a new life.”

“Where are you thinking of going?”

“Athens, Berlin, or Marseilles – you went to school there, didn’t you?”

“Those are all rather different. I went to school in Paris, but I spent quite a lot of time in Marseilles. It’s beautiful. You would like it.”

“After that, I would need help getting housing and a job. I’d also need my identity scrubbed – I, uh, I don’t know what I should do there. Faking my death is an option, but that seems a bit much.”

“And you would what me to contribute financially?”

Luca nods vigorously. “Yes – about €60,000.” Daphne doesn’t blink at the sum; that’s mere change to the Allard fortune and to all of her personal investments.

“That’s a pretty penny,” Daphne says. She’s not talking about the money. She’s talking about the task. “Luca, this conversation – I’m more than happy to let this stay between us and do everything in my power to help you feel comfortable with your position in the Capulet’s, but if this is serious and it comes out that I knew someone was consider desertion....”

“This can’t be the worst thing someone’s done in Verona. Orsino, Reagan, Cosimo, Volumnia, Iago, Othello, Lady Macbeth – This can’t be the worst thing anyone’s been asked.” Oh, you darling, sweet, stupid boy. “You’ve helped others who needed...a higher price tag, though. I --- I wouldn’t ask unless I was serious. And I’ve thought about, signora. This is what I need to do. I need to leave this city, even if I have to bury Luca Caprio to do it.”

“I see how much this means to you, but --” His eyes widen like a deer stuck in headlights. His arm twitches, and he almost reaches for his gun, but steadies himself. “Don’t worry, I’m going to help you, Luca. Of course I am. It’ll just take some time for me to get the funds in order and distribute them to you secretly and safely.”

6. LUCA’S SMILE WAS BLESSED BY THE HEAVENS

Don’t worry. I’m going to help you, Luca. The boy audibly exhales and slumps in the chair, almost trembling. It’s then that she notices how deep the bags under his eyes are. Some bodies aren’t meant to bare the weight of the world – or their decisions – on their shoulders, Daphne thinks sadly.

Then, he starts laughing and smiling and crying – but it’s all happy tears and relief. His smile makes Daphne wish she was as good of a person as he thought her to be. “A Good Samaritan,” he mumbles, still trying to process everything. “You’re a rare breed in Verona.”

Daphne thinks of the Capulet ranks – how many twisted and lied and killed for no reason other than their own personal gain, or their own ego’s. She thinks of everyone in Verona who looks at life like a chess game – rook takes bishop, protect the queen, pawn to queen, sacrificial pieces. Those who shuffle the board so that it suits whatever their interests are. Daphne’s one of them, and she knows it, even if she’ll never admit it. I wish I was a rare breed, Luca.

7. LUCA DECIDED ON BERLIN

Three days later, Luca’s captain lets her know that he’s been on time and that he seems like the soldier is back on track. “What changed?” Daphne had asked. “I don’t know,” the captain admits. “He said he talked to you, so I guess whatever you said helped.”

Later that evening, Luca returns and asks her how long it will take her to get everything together. “A few more days, at least. Have you decided where you’re going to go?”

“Berlin.” He says it with such conviction, and Daphne is scared to ask what made him decide to go there, lest it make her miss the boy too much. “How long will it take to get everything ready for me to go to Berlin?”

“Two days. I have a good friend there, actually. She’s good. Very discreet. And she owes me a favor. I can give you her address? That way you know someone in the city, at least.”

“That’d be perfect.”

“What’s the name of your Rome contact? The one who can help you get new documents?”

“Alessandro Marino...do you know him?”

Daphne nods, “By reputation, primarily. As far as people in his field go, Alessandro is one of the more...ethical ones. You’re in good hands with him.”

8. LUCA CAPRIO WAS GOING TO CHANGE HIS NAME TO LUKAS SCHMIDT

"How quickly can Alessandro get you the new papers?”

“I’ve already paid him half.” Off Daphne’s quizzical expression, he adds, “It cost all my savings. After I told him I was good for the rest and that you were helping me --” Idiot, Daphne thinks. “-- he’s agreed to messenger me the documents by the end of tomorrow.”

“Are you still going to be called Luca?”

“No, something similar though. That’s what’s best, right? In the movies, they always give someone a fake name that’s close with their real name so they don’t get confused.”

“Daphne, Diana. Bernadette, Bianca. Vivianne, Volumnia. Same practices goes for the aliases here. It makes sense. What’s the name?”

He hesitates. “Schmidt. Lukas Schmidt.”

“Pleased to meet you, Signor Lukas....did you tell anyone else?”

“Of course not. I’m not an idiot.”

9. LUCA BELIEVED IN DAPHNE ALLARD

She didn’t need him to tell her. She could see it in the way that he looked at her adoringly, like she was a guardian angel. A Good Samaritan, he’d called her. A Good Samaritan, he thought her to be. A Good Samaritan. A good person.

There was something good in Luca that didn’t exist in Daphne. Something normal about him. He lived by a different set of rules that she couldn’t even begin to fathom, and she knew that. Luca was a good boy. She doesn’t know why she keeps calling him a boy when he’s 25 years old.

He is good. Not wise, but good. And good people always pay their debts. With this, he would owe her everything – his freedom, his happiness, his life. This kind of power, this kind of debt was the most powerful. Daphne could get him to do anything in the future.

This was why she became a Capulet. To help people.

It was quite a pity, though, that by the nature of this arrangement, the only thing Daphne couldn’t ask him to do was stay.

10. LUCA DIDN’T SEE IT COMING.

The second he asked her to help him leave, Daphne knew she would sign his death warrant. After he told her that he told Alessandro that she was helping him, Daphne knew she would need to oversee a larger clean-up operation. It wasn’t worth the risk. No matter how well she did the money, someone would find it. Her name and reputation wouldn’t protect her. And Daphne was many things, but she was not a fool.

It appeared that Luca was true to his word in that he told no one else about his decision to leave. That was the conclusion Daphne came to after using the Capulet pipeline to find a hacker who gave her access to his phone, computer, and all CCTV footage. No text messages, no phone calls, no late night meetings in his apartment or anywhere else in the city. Of course, as a precaution, she’d gotten someone – someone loyal – to trail him just to make sure.

Daphne Allard was no Good Samaritan. She was a Capulet.

Luca couldn’t have known that. Daphne didn’t want anyone to know of the rot inside of her. This decay was her problem, and no one else’s, and both she and the city had bigger problems than this. No one needed to know.

Daphne had informed his captain and the appropriate higher up’s of the upcoming defection. No one needed to remind her that the cost of treason was death. She remembered the Gallo girl’s fate. No, I’ll take care of the details, she offered. He came to me, so I will deal with it.

He comes to see her before he departs. She tells him she’s wired the money to his new account. She hasn’t. She kisses him on the cheek, before sending him on his way. Luca Caprio doesn’t make it two miles out of the city before a masked assailant shoots him in the back of the head.

It was a quick, clean death, Daphne tells herself, as she pays the hitman handsomely for the cleanup of Luca Caprio, Alessandro Marino, and the messenger who made the mistake of delivering the documents.

This is mercy, she thinks. This way he and his family get to keep his dignity and the Capulet’s are spared the embarrassment.

She helps pay for his funeral, but doesn’t attend. Daphne doesn’t know this, but when the priest informs Luca’s parents that everything has been taken care of, his mother wept and thanked the Lord. There’s still Good Samaritans in Verona, she had said through her tears. There’s still good.

“If they ask, can I reveal their benefactor?” The priest had asked her when she stopped by to drop off the payment.

“No, not this time, father.” She doesn’t see the benefit of having this family owe her. Maybe later, if it proves useful, she will reveal herself. But Daphne doesn’t see the advantage. Your son is dead and I paid for the funeral. The debt is paid. You owe me nothing.

There’s a sixth thing Daphne knows about Luca: He died thinking well of her. It gives her comfort. It shouldn’t. But it does.

Verona makes a different sort of monster out of everyone. This was the monster it had made of Daphne Allard.

#&. muse | i will answer to knife #self para #tw death #tw dark themes #tw violence #i...have zero idea if i did this right #but ? uh #this happened?#tw grief

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