#crime rp

Date: April 18^th

^{Time: 9:34 PM}

Location: Hotel Emelia Basement

    The soft rapping of nails against the spine of a book. The loud tick of a hand as it made its way around the clock.

    A basement is often assumed to be a rather ominous place to recline, people often associating the lower depths with being that much closer to the flames of hell. But not the witches of Verona. They enjoyed their basement, the way that it was adorned with fine art, shelves of books, and fine linens. There were few who knew it existed, even fewer who had heard the rumors about it. The witches’ torture chambers, the witches’ place of poisons. It was supposed to be a cavern of cobwebs and bones – a place where the dead sought to lounge in all their decomposing glory. But in reality, it was plush, a sanctuary of everything fine – an allowance of themselves to live lavishly when it had been denied to them for so long. But their past was not upon any of the three witches’ mind tonight, no. They were focused upon the future and all the carnage that it promised to bring. Once they found the proper way to deliver it, for presentation was, after all, everything.

   One look around the gilded room and the marble statues that hung about the corners and entrances like mournful angels was enough for even the simplest of people to know that. But what would have taken a little more forethought, a little more observation, were the tell-tale signs of tension that rippled through the room, starting from one sibling, then affecting the next, and the next. It began with Mallory, their eyes drifting about the room so listlessly – until they would settle upon a fleck of dust, a frayed thread in the rug, their foot tapping erratically as they head turned this way and that. Hea’s fingers would follow, tapping an uneven beat as they stepped around the room like a cat that had just seen a bird in the window, stalking something that they knew they could not reach. Then Cinead would hop from one chair to the other, grabbing a book, only to put it away – not unlike a crow, picking at one trinket, then another.  

   The clock chimed the half hour, but it was not until four minutes after that the witches saw fit to break the silence that was weighing down upon them all.

   Hea cleared their throat, sitting primly upon the arm of the chair that Mallory saw fit to occupy. Their hand gently settled on their siblings, stopping the restless motion of Mallory’s fingers pulling at the hem of their shirt. “I think, my loves,” they hummed, stopping the disquieted twitches of Cinead. “It is time to discuss what we do about this insubordination and disrespect that have been culminating up to this point.” Their fingers raised in the air, ticking off the list of chores that they needed to settle. Chores. There was once a time in their life where they never had to worry about such things at all. Now their chores were things of pillaging and plundering, heads upon pikes and blood painting the floor. 

   “Yes, yes,” Mallory piped up, their voice high and clear as the crystal flute that held their bubbling champagne. It tended to be many of Verona’s choice of indulgence – so too was it the riches’. As well as the local wine of the finest Italian vineyards. “Culminating like a storm with no quiet, no quiet at all. But all storms have lightning that strikes – and I think it is time we do the same.” To which Hea gave an affirming hum, their eyes watching Cinead’s figure as it drew closer to their siblings. If one were to walk in, they would realize how the witches earned their names, what with the way that they stood close together, murmuring in their little circle, as if they were discussing the ingredients of a poison, of a brew.

   But brews were not half as potent as the wrathful witches of Verona.

   For, their wrath was one of action, not one meant for subtlety or the potency that comes with time. Cinead stood, with their hands behind their back, as they contemplated the call for action from their siblings. For, it was something that was, more or less, their forte. It was their God-given talent, to exact ruination upon all those who thought that they may ascend the position which they had been blessed with. People were such greedy, fickle creatures and, like the angels of old, retribution was needed.

   “I think we have, ironically enough, been gluttons for temperance as of late,” Cinead commented thoughtfully, their shoulders hunched, their brows pinched. The crow of Verona, the crowned of Verona. They had earned their title and earned it well. “We have let them spit upon us, slap our cheek, and piss on our graves.” So to speak, the question of their immortality still had yet to be answered. “At one time in our lives we would have had their heads upon pikes and their funeral services would have been as empty as their lives are now. I think it is necessary for us to demonstrate why we are the overseers of Veronan affairs instead of these Russian foreigners who see fit to take tradition and make a mockery of it.”

   Hea’s brows rose at the heat of their sibling’s words, Mallory’s ever-present twitches and tremblings stilled as their eyes dilated, focusing upon Cinead. “What then do you suggest, my love?” Mallory asked, their head canting to the side. “Shall we smite them all, like angels of Death? Fire and brimstone and blood and bones?” How could it be that such ghastly images could drew such a smile from the witch? All questions and no answers, but sometimes that was all one could expect from Mallory Chandra.

   Slowly, Hea pressed their lips together, a smile growing upon their face like a dahlia in full bloom. They pulled their phone from their pocket, a soft hum of consideration the only sound in the air for a couple of moments – as well as the sound of their fingernails tapping away at the phone screen.

   “Hea, dear?” Cinead queried after a couple minutes, their foot tapping against the floor impatiently. “Care to fill Mallory and I in?” The only answer Hea deigned to give was a raised finger – bidding them to wait, then wait a bit more. Mallory’s eyes flew from one place to the other as they waited, their fingers dancing upon this surface and that. After a couple more minutes, they placed their phone upon the table; the words lighting up the screen. A slow smile graced Cinead’s lips, Mallory’s own grin quickly following.

  “I believe,” Hea began, “that thus far, our near acquaintances have been deprived of their warm welcome. Do they not deserve to see the wonderful fares that we have to offer? But, being guests, they must be afforded the best views, of course. Lofty places, suited to their lofty dreams.”

   They continued, “The Spades are Icarus – and we are the sun. We are meant to bid them to fly ever-higher, only to burn their dreams away.”

  “So considerate, Hea, always so considerate.” Mallory crooned, their crooked fingers folded, as if in prayer. “It has been so long since we have brought them out, favorite and cherished decorations of mine. I am sure that the Capulets and Montagues will be more than happy to accommodate our guests and show them the seating arrangements we have in mind. I know Cinead already has the arrangements set out – as well as the wares that they’d want to look over.”

   Cinead gave a rare grin, a single nod offered to confirm their sibling’s assumption. “Of course, Mallory. Of course. I am sure our new American associates would be more than happy to procure the finest ware to impress our guests.” They raised their glass, downing it in a single gulp as their siblings mirrored their actions. “What shall I ask them for, then? Artillery? Fine art? Poisons? Bodies to do our bidding? They offer so much and we have indulged in them so little. It would undoubtedly buoy our relationship with them, as well as create invaluable talk about our…abilities to procure certain products.” And with that, the date was set, the plan was in motion, and a grand reckoning was on its way.

    They were sitting around a table by the warehouse, placing bets as a new player took her seat, the light from her cigarette brighter than her hopes of leaving the table with cash in her pocket. Brighter than that still was the light from her phone as it vibrated the table, rattling the poker chips as it did. She glanced at the screen of her phone once, somewhat – a scowl on her face as she did, because breaking her concentration at a vital time like this. But her partner next to her had found his eyes drawn to the light and, more importantly, to the name. He blinked once, then twice. He shook her arm, to which she grunted noncommittally at, roughly brushing him off. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed the phone and shoved it in her face. 

   “Merda,” he hissed. “Look, look for fuck’s sake. It’s from Them.” 

    Cards stopped shuffling, cigarettes dropped from lips, and even the birds of the night quieted at the sound. 

   The woman opened the text, lips pressing together as she read through the message. When she finished, she set it down, hands clasping together as she pressed her lips to her knuckles thoughtfully. Slowly, she stood up from the table, everyone holding their breath in anticipation for what she would say next. Montagues were rarely quiet – their rowdiness being their trademark – so, this silence was a mark of their respect as well as their excitement. When she finally opened her lips, there was a sharp intake of breath. Be silent, for the trumpet of the gods was finding its tune. 

   A smile is on her face, one as wicked as the words that were about to spill from her lips. 

   “We are going to kidnap the Spades.”

OVERVIEW: Here is the breakdown of who is kidnapping who. To every SPADE there are two to three Montagues or Capulets or Neutrals who are planning to capture them. They are required to work together at the request of the WITCHES. 

BRIELLE

• Delilah Vogel
• Nikolai Borisov
  

ALVA

• Castora Aguilar 
• Ramona Aguilar
• Regina Daly
  

LILLIAN

• Alexander Rallis
• Priam Taravella
• Cyrus Sloane

CALINA

• Odessa Vernon
• Tiberius Capulet
• Lucrecia Falco

FARON

• Roman Montague
• Vivianne Sloane
  
• Valentina Gallo

GRACE

• Catherine Daly
• Pavel Lam 
• Hector Sawiris

ORION

• Bellamy Santo Domingo
  
• Juliana Capulet
  

You are required to have these interactions completed by the IN GAME DATE of APRIL 28TH and the REAL-TIME DATE of JULY 15TH. Players may plot with one another as to how the kidnappings will happen. But at the end of each kidnapping the SPADE will be blindfolded and taken to the Hotel Emelia. Please tag the event interactions as event:reckoning and feel free to talk about the other players as to what their plans on. Feel free to get as creative as you want. Kidnap a Spade in their bed or in broad daylight. VeronIans are so used to gunfire and bullets happening at all times of day, that kidnappings will likely come as no surprise. 

Date: April 3rd

Time: 8:00PM

Location: Twelfth Night Galleries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• ALEXANDER
  
• JULIANA
  
• VIVIANNE
  
• TIBERIUS
  
• VALENTINA
  
• CINEAD
  
• PAVEL
  
• REGINA
  
• HUGO
  
• NIKOLAI
  
• RAMONA
  
• BELLAMY
  
• COSIMO (critical condition)

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

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

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

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

DATE: April 3rd

TIME: 5:00 PM

LOCATION: Twelfth Night Museum

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

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

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

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

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

“Her flagrancy made us look weak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, printed below, almost as if it was an afterthought:

“The theme is Aching.”

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

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

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

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

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

Applause. The curtains part. The night begins.

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

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

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

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

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

OUR STORY BEGINS…

               WITH A WAR-WORN GROUP OF REBELS

                               A CITY ON THE BRINK OF DECLARING ITSELF FREE

                                         AND THE WEEK THAT CHANGED IT ALL.

DATE: April 24, 1945

TIME: 6 30 PM to MIDNIGHT

WHERE: The city of Verona, Italy

CURRENT STATE OF WAR:  Allies encircle the last German armies near Bologna

History would remember the city of Verona as one of the most bombed places in Italy. 

What it wouldforget are the people who fought for the Allies, who fought against the fascists and the Nazis that dared to impose an immoral reign. What it would forget were the lives that were lost in the fight, of the good people who defended their beliefs – staring into the barrels of guns and tanks that were pointed their way. What it would forget how Italy was at war with the world and at war with itself. 

History would remember the city of Verona.

Verona would remember the people of the city. 

They defended what buildings were left of their city like wolves defending their dens. There was not a single building that remain untouched. The wounds of the war were apparent in collapsed roofs and fallen walls, in empty spaces and spaces filled with piles of rocks that had once been buildings. In the center of the city remained the one stronghold that all were able to take refuge and gather. It had once been a hotel, a sanctuary that no gun would be able to enter. But such rules are rarely respected in times of war. 

But it was still a sanctuary to all those who respected the rules – for blood had been spilled upon its doorstep because they defended it so ardently. Though bullets were lodged in its walls, no German or fascist gun had ever passed through its doorway. For this and for the victory the Allies had won in Verona’s sister city, Bologna, they thought it fit to celebrate.

That was why, on the night of April 24th, the rebels of Italy danced to the American music playing on their one radio and dined on the stolen fascist food. 

And they drank for all those who would be forgotten. 

ASSIGNMENT: All characters are part of the rebel forces. They have survived the war and fought for Verona – or, at the very least, fought to survive in Verona. WRITE your character’s World War II biography (they may be as long or as short as you want, and can be in para or bullet form). Be as creative as you want! Give them a new story! Shape them into something new! Or think about how your character might have reacted and changed being involved in the war at that time. Feel free to CREATE new connections with new characters that you’ve always wanted to explore, which is plausible as all characters will be fighting on the same side. 

RESOURCES:Italian resistance movement in WWII, Slang Guide,Verona In WWII (skip to 20th Century), Fashion,MUSIC 

SUMMARY: The war is nearing its end and the taste of victory is in the air for Italy. They mourn amidst their celebration, but they need to celebrate because the end is near. Everyone is gathered in the ballroom of their headquarters, the Hotel Vittoria (which will later be called Hotel Emelia) to celebrate. Much of the third floor has fallen in because of the force of the bombs, but the second and first floor are usable. 

Stay tuned for plot drops and TAG YOUR AU THREADS as “DIVERONAAU”

Date: March 3rd

Time: Midnight

Location: The Dark Lady

Triggers: Violence, blood, gun violence, death

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

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

Oh,miei bambini, if only you knew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

• In the few moments of Faron’s introduction RAFAELLA CAPULET had fallen to the ground dead. Her drink had been poisoned and no one had known but MAEVE PETRE. The Capulet soldier had been about to cry out a warning, but before she could TRINITY CRUYSSEN had slit her throat. The police chief had not wanted her boss’ introduction to Verona to be warned by a squawking little duck.
  
• COSIMO CAPULET held Rafaella’s corpse and had tried to drag her away. To leave one of their own would be disrespectful as well as embarrassing to the Capulet name. He ordered PRIAM TARAVELLA and TIBERIUS CAPULET to drag her body away. Once they are relieved of her body by some shocked soldiers they return to the fray.
  
• While this is occurring JULIANA CAPULET goes to try and get Maeve’s body to be taken away as well. However, standing over it is BORIS KOVROV. He’s cleaning up Trinity’s dirty work, but doesn’t mind scaring the little Capulet child either. When TIBERIUS comes back, he sees Boris bullying his cousin and the two exchange blows.
  
• ROMAN MONTAGUE notes that this is not his quarrel and grabs MARCELO ROSSO so they can grab as many Montagues as they can and organize a retreat. However, MIKAEL FALCO notes that the two are about to flee and doesn’t see why only the Capulets should suffer. He tries to stop them from leaving with the aid of EVERETT CRAVEN.
  
• HECTOR SAWIRIS, seeing ROMAN and MARCELO fighting against the CAPULETS, drags ROMAN away at MARCELO’S request, then sends his boss away. The Montagues do not need their only king to fall.
  
• LUCRECIA FALCO goes to retrieve Maeve’s body, but is stopped by GRACE DALY who is wearing a vindictive smile. Grace calls for her sister, REGINA DALY, to come to her side and the two gang up on Lucrecia.
  
• Blood is now being spilled by BORIS and TIBERIUS, so ALVA GWON and DELILAH VOGEL try to tear them apart. The two end up being hurt in the process, but are successful in stopping the fight from ending in a fatality.
  
• However, MATTHIAS WARREN misreads the situation and thinks that ALVA is the one who hurt DELILAH. Matthias begins to exact his vengeance and is stopped by BRIELLE KING. She sends both MATTHIAS and DELILAH off, then begins to help ALVA.
  
• ALEXANDER RALLIS has been searching for Roman and Marcelo, but to no avail. Instead, he finds himself face-to-face with PAVEL LAM and thinks him a foe, since the hired gun has been happily watching everything unfold. ALEXANDER attacks PAVEL and the two go at it, the assassin more than eager for some chaos of his own.
  
• This whole time VIVIANNE SLOANE has been searching for her son, CYRUS SLOANE, in the crowd. However, she is stopped by CLARK GODREJ, who takes the opportunity to stab her in the midst of the chaos.
  
• CLARK then joins GIYA GODREJ. HALCYON SANTOS had been watching the whole time, but was unable to help her dearest friend. She takes a gun and aims it at CLARK, but is shoved at the last minute and hits GIYA instead.
  
• CYRUS SLOANE hears the gunshot and turns to see his mother has been stabbed. He shoves through the crowd, but is stopped by LAWRENCE VERNON, who is more than willing to see the other underboss die. CYRUS and LAWRENCE begin to fight. However, BUNNY DU PONT sees her friend being attacked and, in desperation, grabs a knife and stabs Lawrence in the side before running away with CYRUS.
  
• The chaos begins to reach a high-point and ODESSA VERNON still has not found her brother. She begins to grow frantic in her search and runs into HUGO KIM who helps her. The two stumble into ORPHEUS AHULANI, who, surprisingly, steps aside to allow them to go on their way.
  
• However, ORION MASSETTI spots ORPHEUS’ moment of weakness and goes to let the other know of the leverage he now has. PANDORA RHEE steps in with her gun in hand, her heart set on eliminating the threats before they become one. She raises her gun to shoot ORION, when ORPHEUS grabs her and the two begin to fight.
  
• ORION slips away only to run into HIRAN GODREJ. ORION and HIRAN begin to fight – and just when ORION is about to be beaten, he lets it slip that he saw GIYA’S corpse. HECTOR SAWIRIS finds HIRAN and ORION at this moment, then helps HIRAN knock ORION out.
  
• CATHERINE DALY finds her sisters fighting against LUCRECIA and tries to help the outnumbered woman, while trying to calm her sisters. But to no avail. CATHERINE and LUCRECIA incapacitate GRACE and REGINA, then drag Maeve’s body away from the fight.
  
• VALENTINA GALLO was perhaps the most unfortunate of them all. She stumbled into LILLIAN WEN and, in a rush of adrenaline, began to fight the woman. The two begin to go at it, but LILLIAN was much less willing to fight than the other.
  
• Upon seeing this CALINA SOKOLOVA steps in, stopping the fight before LILLIAN suffered too many bruises. She holds a knife to VALENTINA’S back and drags her to FARON VASILIEV. He grabs a gun and shoots it off once before pointing it back to Valentina’s head. SANTINO runs to join them, stopping before getting too close and begs on his hands and knees for his sister’s life to be spared. HUGO joins the soldier and entreats Faron to stop the bloodshed before it drowns the city.
  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long live the king…long live the kings…

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

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

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

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.

          It is a simple truth that anyone born will die.

The City of Los Angeles and the surrounding neighbourhoods drowned in heat, passion and a desperation for extravagance. Three families took advantage of the landscape and organized enterprises of debauchery.

          Solano. Ross. Navarro.

Each have their values and their vices, but despite their power, fortune and stubbornness, they cannot escape death. It is the living who are forced to operate in the wake of the reality of mortality. The choices made will shape their lives and the world around them, hoping to find an escape.

The Art of Dying is a multi-muse crime roleplay, meant to be a place for character and plot development. Please be advised that this rp will deal with mature and potentially triggering themes.