"She doesn't understand it." He can't tell if it's more insulting than saying she can't appreciate it, but it's the root of which she hasn't returned as often as her husband. Soledad's song is daunting, to listen intently is to give into the desperation of solitude and to sit uncomfortably in admiration.
Some, he's sure of it, can make a bargain and detach themselves. Eden had never been able to give only so much of him to her hymns. While he likes being able to hear her close enough to see her own passion string the words together, the thought that she would benefit from a stage all her own still comes to mind.
"People come here, I believe, to lose themselves even if it's just a for a moment," He points out. The shadow of the building and it's confinement entices a specific need that's not lost on him. "Your songs don't do that. It's far from an escape. I have to face myself when I listen, and not everyone can face a revelation like that. I wish they could, though. It might do some people some good."
“i'm used to it, mr. yorke. a lot of people don't understand...” she speaks as if she's weaving something, carefully cutting, piecing, and measuring each word until she can offer either a rich tapestry or web, but here and now, she leaves the last stitch undone. does he dare to pull the loose thread? “still, i believe that there are worse things in life than being misunderstood. perhaps this answers your question.”
you'll always want to get closer — she almost says — but you can't. you'll spend the rest of your life trying to recreate this feeling only to realize that you can't find it elsewhere. you'll forget this moment. this hour. even the shape of my face. but the song will always linger, play on repeat.
“you flatter me. be careful though, next thing you'll do is idolize me.” she laughs at the thought, lets it disperse and slice through the dourness. whatever hides between them, lies between them, must remain untranslatable. “tell me then, what do you feel when you listen? who do you think i'm singing to or about?”
crucial muse development questions. send a number in my inbox to find out more about my character as a person ( because often, the most important things about character development have nothing to do with their shoe size or netflix queue ).
what would completely break your character?
what was the best thing in your character’s life?
what was the worst thing in your character’s life?
what seemingly insignificant memories stuck with your character?
does your character work so they can support their hobbies or use their hobbies as a way of filling up the time they aren’t working?
what is your character reluctant to tell people?
how does your character feel about sex?
how many friends does your character have?
how many friends does your character want?
what would your character make a scene in public about?
for what would your character give their life?
what are your character’s major flaws?
what does your character pretend or try to care about?
how does the image your character tries to project differ from the image they actually project?
godfather house of blues in brooklyn, new york ⭑ * 18:00 hours ⸺ @avecaisar, for soledad.
tempo and rhythm was important to a man in his occupation, you'll find. everything in the natural world, even silence, had a rhythm that beat irregularly when something was wrong. red eye operatives were taught to match it. instead of making no sound at all, they followed the ebb and flow of the natural tone of the location of their kill. it caused a silence less unnerving than the normal one.
music was something wit hadn't thought recreationally about for years. the distant scratching of a memory, frozen over and thawed. but music existed, he reminded himself, and it was loved.
the patrons of godfather house of blues were oblivious of the wolf among them, but they were safe in their chairs. wittaya wasn't hunting tonight. he wasn't working at all. the consistent pain in his side told him he had to rest now if he didn't want to risk adding injury to injury, and the sweet smell of whiskey and desolation lured him here.
a sway of dark hair drew his eyes, and he tipped his head politely. "you were great up there, ma'am." a pause, surveying. " i apologize, i did arrive a little late, missed your name?"
misery loves company — misery, meet company. rest your sadness on an elbow, exchange it like a promise. she descends to join the wolf, somewhere between an abyss and glistening eden, on her holy terrain. only she knows where all the knives are truly hidden.
prudence, one half of cleverness, ripens and turns into curiosity instead, something pliable and sweet as her thoughts snag themselves onto flattery — she doesn't dare to question just how genuine it is.
“don't worry. i'll be a lot worse next time.” she laughs with ease; it feels like running a hand over scarlet velvet. “now i wouldn't exactly call myself a ma'am, but perhaps this is a sign that i ought to pay a visit to one of many plastic surgery clinics.” two deft fingers pinch the skin of her cheek in order to test this theory — it's taut like an arrow still. catch, hold, release.
“as for my name, well, names are such precious things, like golden rings adorned with dazzling crystals or wishes made under the same fading star.” she must make a choice before she cants her head, between the articulation and inhale. does it even matter now? he could borrow it from the mouth of any zealous patron. “but i'm soledad,” her right hand, suspended in the vitiated air, she offers to him. “and you are...?”
OPEN TO: @avecaisar for soledad oliveira
LOCATION: godfather house of blues
House of Blues had come up as a means to appease his wife, some project to expand their routine as though any of it meant anything at all. More often than not, it felt as though their endeavors were a scheme to fall in love with something else and pretend it was each other. Their hearts lied in someone else's vulnerability whether it was on a canvas or a stage— or someone else's song.
Eden hadn't come again with her after a few nights because it wasn't joy that one particular singer invoked, and his wife had lost interest in untouched talent. Her song was worse than a siren, not quite enticing the way most people were when she shared her siren. For the first time, Eden had never felt so alone in a room full of people— but she never left him even when the room disappeared.
He almost didn't notice was it was, still reveling in the very last chorus that played over and over again. Was it endearing, or concerning? Painful, or numbing? He was caught in its entirety before realizing the seat next to him had been taken by more than his own shadow.
"With a song like that, why are you singing it in a place like this?" He mused aloud, voice swinging low as he tried to piece himself back together.
she withdraws from the spotlight like she always does, night after night, by stretching the skin around her mouth and casting one, prolonged glance at the crowd of half-inebriated men and women, each a stranger inside her home. they're a sea, bodies of water crashing into each other, forever changing, never constant, and she— she's a shore, an uncharted atoll, something with a voice perched on a jagged rock. every woman is an island, a sovereign of her own solitude.
long legs steer her in the direction of a vaguely familiar face, but just before reaching eden's table, she grasps a glass of dry martini, perfectly chilled, with more gin than vermouth, just to clear her throat.
“where else would i sing?” she dismisses his cri de cœur with a roll of her shoulders as if she's taking off a coat, leaning only an inch closer. he could never understand it, that much she knows.
“mr. yorke i can say i'm quite pleased to see that you're back. but where is your wife?” her own question compels soledad to recoil, forcing the smile upon her mouth to dissolve like sea foam. it's a slow, nearly delicate action; a woman must always be strategic in her approach. “are you alone this evening?”
[ 𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 . . . LOCATION: SOMEWHERE IN A DARK ALLEY . . . ]
@avecaisar
In the gritty back alley, where the only light flickered from a distant streetlamp, Henry's figure materialized like a specter. His silhouette was framed by tendrils of smoke swirling from the cigarette pinched between his fingers, casting an eerie glow on his sharp features. As he approached his ex-lover, the air thickened with tension, the unspoken history between them crackling in the silence. Henry's demeanor remained cool and detached, a facade honed through years of deception. He had woven a tapestry of lies, using her vulnerability to infiltrate the old mafia house's inner sanctum, leaving her a casualty of his ruthless ambition. In that moment, amidst the whispers of the alley, Henry stood as a living embodiment of manipulation and betrayal, his presence casting a chilling shadow over their reunion. " You called ? "
“you came. somehow that's worse.” there are far too many theories and apocryphal concepts that people tell themselves in hopes of justifying their own interpersonal downfalls and omissions of decent judgment, stories about wrong timing but the right person, and the wrong person but the nearly impeccable timing. this time, the story houses the promise that it'll end the way it's supposed to. this time, soledad has a gun. “i was hoping to tie up some loose ends.” that's what he is, a surgical stitch she has yet to remove, a distilled nightmare given form, a fog that coats the windows of her mind. “come. we can take a walk down by the river. just like we used to. ” two hands find themselves exposed to the flickering light that whispers something in morse code, revealing empty, clean palms. “it was always my favourite thing.”
GRANT ME THE COURAGE OF THE MARTYR / GRANT ME THE SAVAGE FAITH OF THE SORCERER / GRANT MY HANDS THE POWER TO MOLD / GRANT MY SOUL THE SWORD’S TEMPER
◟ : soledad e oliveira almeida , some say you’re a thirty year old lost soul among the neon lights. known for being both alluring and strong-willed, one can’t help but think of be my angel by mazzy star when you walk by. are you still an underboss for the old mafia house / associate for the hanging man / singer at the godfather house of blues, even with your reputation as the swan heart? i think we’ll be seeing more of you and heart like the autumn moon , a woman of unquiet and despair, whom night and river bring, a girl made of myths. although we can’t help but think of JULIET CAPULET ( ROMEO AND JULIET ), MARY STUART ( HISTORICAL FIGURE ), SCHEHERAZADE ( ARABIAN NIGHTS ) whenever we see you down these rainy streets.
𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 .
FULL NAME. soledad mariam e oliveira almeida . NICKNAMES . sol , called maria by some . OCCUPATION . singer at the godfather house of blues . AGE . thirty . PLACE OF BIRTH . new york city, new york . GENDER . cis woman . LANGUAGES . english, portuguese, italian and spanish . ETHNICITY . brazillian portuguese. RELIGION . roman catholic. DATE OF BIRTH . 13.09.2010 . ZODIAC . virgo .
𝐏𝐇𝐘𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 .
HEIGHT . 178 cm . EYE COLOUR . brown . HAIR COLOUR . light brown. styled in various ways depending on the occasion. SCARS . tba DISTINGUISHING FEATURES . her eyes, more specifically, just how expressive they can be. SCENT . mixture of vetiver and bergamot CLOTHING STYLE . tba
𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 .
CHARACTER PARALLELS . mary stuart ( historical figure ), juliet capulet ( romeo and juliet ), scheherzade ( arabian nights ), laura palmer ( twin peaks ), persephone ( greek mythology ), sleeping beauty ( fairy tale ) . MORAL ALIGNMENT . lawful neutral . PERSONALITY TYPE . isfp. EMOTIONAL STABILITY . in need of dire improvement . ELEMENT . water .
𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 .
FATHER . adalberto e oliveira almeida ( former underboss for the old mafia house ), alive . MOTHER . unknown . SIBLINGS . none. PETS . despite their rarity ( she most likely bought it ) , soledad has a pet bird. a magpie that she trained to talk.
HISTORY.
what is a daughter if not just an extension of her father? adalberto almeida, a lifelong friend and confidant to the italian founders, had wrought himself a throne high up in the old mafia house during the forming of the second millennium. what he could not buy with money, he bought with blood, devoting each artery and sinew in his body to the altar of their avarice and superbia. if only all stories could end where they're supposed to, before they reach the part where the wolf bares its canines and a tender finger finds the needle of a spindle.
[ enter soledad, made of his left clavicle and her mother's soft tissue, a foil character in adalberto's life ]. what you seek is an origin story. held like a vow, swaddled in scarlet satin, only to be betrayed like a promise. her mother leaves her first, before her first word, before her first memory, lending herself to myths.
she grows up in a place where every corner is permeated by shadows of the italian underworld — and it holds her by the throat, with fingers so close to the jugular vein. to them she is family, and to her they're the closest thing to titains upon earth; in this eternal night, under the guise of darkness, only the best remain. the best and the beasts, so which one is she?
when they give her a knife and a pistol, she does what she must, not what she thinks is right. this pain is her birthright. even when a crocodile cries, it still devours. a mouth blessed with rhyme, poetry, and song cannot change who she truly is, but for one thousand and one night you are bound to listen.
[ carve me from another part of your body father, so that next time i'll be stronger. ]
HEADCANONS. the text below includes brief mentions of suicide and death.
there are several theories in regard to soledad's mother, but they're all disputable at best. that has, on the contrary, never prevented the rest of the old mafia house from speculating. some claim that she ran away, others that she killed herself, and then there are those who believe she was murdered. the truth has yet to be revealed. he father never spoke of her and refused to bring another woman home. thus the more prominent ladies of the mafia house became her pseudomothers.
given that she basically sees them as her family, it goes without saying that soledad's loyalty to the mafia is unwavering. it's all she's ever known. perhaps in another life, she'll be given a softer epilogue.
she rose up the ranks gradually and has over the years displayed endless bouts of loyalty. she's of her father's wit and mind — is an excellent tactician and is best skilled at reconnaissance. even as one of the underbosses for the old mafia house, it's important to note that outside of the mafia, most people do not know who she is, or rather they don't know the identity of their underboss. she's spent the great majority of her life right under people's noses, and when conducting business, she goes by the name oli.
now onto the hanging man thing. soooo it's a little espionage mission, with soledad in the lead part. she thought that the best way to gain the upper hand was to befriend the enemy and enter their households, for no gadget or surveillance system could quite compare to flesh that remembers more than it should. as it was her idea, she volunteered to take the risk and report back. the main attempt is to destroy them from within. she became their associate only a few months ago, so this is a rather new thing.
that mafia thing aside, soledad almeida is best known as one of the main singers at the godfather house of blues. she's been performing there for years, ever since she was a teenage girl, but only officially took on the mantle of a singer years later. she has been performing for, give or take, 6 years. it's been said that her voice is the saddest thing know to man.
she never underwent any procedures or attempted to have her vocal cords augmented. singing to her is the closest thing to being truthful with the world.
is not her father's daughter </3 and is a woman prone to sudden outbursts of sadness. she has her mother's heart. soledad aka the sad girl on the block. will cry for no reason. she can never quite escape the loneliness she inherited. spends quite a lot of time in solitude.
PLOTS.
i. an old friend of her father, who by proximity, knew soledad when she was a child. perhaps they remember her well or find something strikingly familiar in her features. this could be someone who knows who she truly is, where her loyalties lie, and be either a friend or a foe, given the double life that she's leading.
ii. dear past / only here to haunt. her dearest childhood/teenage friend, it could've been even like some sort of first love, but it all ended about 10 years ago when they just vanished from her life. this person could also be aware of her true loyalties, so why not make this even more complicated for her? the vibes are: in the next life i'll always love you, in this one i lost you.
iii. regular patrons at the godfather house of blues or simply fans of her singing. she makes sure to always save them a seat when she's performing. don't forget to bring a box of tissues.
iv. the favourite. exclusive to old mafia house. it's pretty self-explanatory but soledad sees the potential in this person and wants them to rise even further. to contradict this, there could also be the beheated, someone who simply cannot win over her trust and she constantly has an eye on them.
v. 'one day your kid comes home singing a song that only us two is gonna know is about you.' either a friendship or relationship that ended on strikingly bad terms. they can and never will go back to what they were, but the songs that she sings are too specific to be about anyone else save for them.
vi. somewhere across the line, where the roses never wither, a new friendship blooms. honestly it could be anything, but the main gist is that they get along exceptionally well even though they shouldn't. they aren't aware of each other's affiliations and would in reality be forced to destroy one another, but they can at least pretend for a little while. just a little inspired by romeo and juliet.
always open to anything and everything, i just can't possibly list every single idea. <33
