SOUR CHERRY

CASTORA AGUILAR CELIA --------- twenty three. soldier i will not be another flower, picked for my beauty and left to die. i will be wild, difficult to find, and impossible to forget.

[cxstoras-blog]

oculumprooculo·:

Pearly whites momentarily flashed as they fail to contain a grin. They had been anticipating the moment of judgement just as much, that much as abundantly clear, yet their means of preparation for the big event happened to be so entirely different it bordered on satire. Granted, a clear mind sounded adequate, reasonable, perhaps even like a requirement if one was to make the most of whatever was to be in store for them — but what value could sobriety hold to someone whose mind was never clear in the first place, ruled by their temper, their urges, their insatiable wrath and all the means they knew to express it?

As opposed to losing it, they had gained control through being comfortably numb, a snowstorm battling to soothe the heat of the raging flames beneath the stonecold surface and, for now, keeping the upper hand. 

“I wasn’t aware they even served water here,” Marcelo sneered, a brief motion placing their order on their behalf, a rather alcoholic one at that. Slender fingers reached for another liquid promise of peace of mind, their gaze involuntarily drifting to the damning numbers that take up a significant portion of Castora’s phone screen before darting back to the bottom of the glass. 

“You know, some of us are just trying to keep themselves from breaking that insufferable ‘no blood, no jousts, no fun’ rule.” A dismissive shrug, hazel eyes fixing on her. “Some artificial contentment has always done a better job at anger management than any other form of therapy that doesn’t involve using your fists.”

  -    Lacquered nails tap against the side of the glass tumbler, partially surprised that it isn’t made of plastic, her eyebrows raising with forced surprise. Castora knows that there are those among them who do not care what happens, so long as it’s not their neck on the line. Despite the severity of the evening, which is currently being masked by manufactured euphoria, there are those who will awake in the morning with a pounding head and little interest in the night’s proceedings. Their investment into the cause ends with their salary and that is that. Those are the ones who take advantage of the free bar. 

She recognises Marcelo almost immediately, the tone of his voice and the mannerisms of his body, it’s familiar. Every since she joined the Montagues, Castora has been watching those around her, all the little traits and tells which they have. 

“ They do if you ask, ”  she responds sarcastically with a roll of her eyes, swallowing a generous glug of water. It may not be what most people want, but in her opinion it is what they should be having. Although, if something is amiss,  it is better for her enemies to not have all of their senses. “ I will suggest keeping jousting to a minimum this evening, Marcelo. ”  Castora has never been one for small talk, but standing in awkward silence is far worse, so she continues on.  

“ Have you tried the rival products? ”

[cxstoras-blog]

orpheusahulani‌:

What if I like being alone?

“You’re in the wrong place for that,” he countered, lifting the hand that clasped his whisky glass and waving it at the assembled masses to prove his point. “Plenty of places to hide if you’re not feeling sociable.” The last word was voiced slowly, deliberately, as though by extending the syllables he could imbue it with all the irony he was capable of, draw attention to the ludicrousness of this situation, the way they had all been thrown together by the Witches and left to mingle, cowed by the false pretence of civility that they felt bound to by their unforgiving hosts.

It seemed improbable, this, the fact that enemies could stand side by side and talk of idle nothingness, a testament not to the mannered self-control possessed by each and every member of both mobs but rather their willingness to conform, to take up the charade and play the parts caricatured for them without a word of protest. Orpheus had never been one for niceties, for small talk, and so he shook his head, told her, “Try again,“ and washed his words down with a gulp of whiskey, relishing the way the amber liquor scalded the back of his throat as it went down.

“Wise?” A laugh left his lips as he repeated the word, the sound harsh, disdainful, eyes narrowing to mocking, judgemental points. This truly was bedlam, this war, this war that made soldiers out of children and had them worrying about such boring and portentous things as wisdom. Orpheus had been old before his time, too, but he had always been wild, loose, savage, had built his reputation on the unforgiving cyclone, the forest fire, that was his presence. He placed no stock in wisdom, he never had, found its confines too constricting, too suffocating, preferred to live his life like the untameable east wind, to rattle through people’s shutters and their ribcages and leave them cold.

“Probably not.” A wicked gleam came into his eyes, then, and he leaned forwards almost conspiratorially, tone dropping a few notes as though in invitation. “That’s the fun of it.“

  -     “ I’m not one for hiding either, ” she responds with a nonchalant attitude, shoulders lifting in a light shrug. There is a confusion similar to the feeling of deja vu, which comes from vaguely recognising the voice and build of a person, but not being able to place them because their primary features are concealed. But she is cautious enough to expect that they are not friends, although that doesn’t say much.

She watches the way the rose gold dust shifts, as though it has been grafted by the gods or harvested from the moon’s surface. It hasn’t. It’s simply a clever money making scheme in which people thrive on sex and scandal. People are gluttonous for all the things they shouldn’t have, but want desperately. Castora shouldn’t want any form of affection, it’s a poison to her, and yet she still takes a dose        she hopes it is never lethal. But she knows the anecdote is the complete emotional shut off which comes the next morning.

Everyone has their sins.

“ That is what people say before they get in trouble, ” she retorts, before snatching the capsule of powder out of his hand.  “ But I like a challenge. ”  It differs to the molten gold appearance of Ambrosia, but both look beautiful in a deadly kind of a way. Alice may fall down the rabbit hole, but she’ll still be there when judgement calls. 

[orpheusahulani-blog]

Send “slurred words” to hear my muse describe yours whilst ridiculously drunk.

[cxstoras-blog]

date: 27 August ‘18 time: 01:57 a.m. location: ballroom OPEN

   -    Soft pads press against her temples in a futile attempt to stop the world from mirroring, with every solitary figure, there is a shadow which is easily mistaken for another person standing close by. Everything is too bright, alive, sickening. It’s all a silly game, a trick of the mind, but she can not force her own to focus. It’s as though she has entered a children’s television program, where bold colours clash with others and everything seems to scream at her. How anybody finds that soothing is beyond her. Everyone around her seems to enter a mellow excitement, where they dance across the lines of contentment and pure joy. Castora feels neither. Control is not something which she calmly relinquishes, even if her grasp is slippery this evening. She is thankful that the effects of the evening are starting to lessen.

“ I really hope this is just water, ” she groans, snatching a glass of clear liquid from the barman. If banging her head against the table would shake away the remnants of false euphoria, she would do it, but alas she will only end up with a sore head. Her earlier frustrations about wearing a mask seem inconsequential now, since she is grateful that none of her fellow soldiers will easily notice that she is not her usual self. Although, they would have recognised her bite earlier, when she scolded a man for telling her that she was the pinnacle of womanly perfection. They should be so lucky. 

 “ Everyone ought to pull themselves together. The reason why we are all here will soon be upon us, ” Castora announces, pulling out her phone to check the time. This is definitely not something which she wants to miss and she doubts the other person standing at the bar wants to either. 

“ I think there are a few lost causes though. ”

[cxstoras-blog]

orpheusahulani‌:

a bank where the wild thyme blows;;

date: 27th august time: 00:28 a.m. location: northern grove OPEN

There was something hanging low and oppressive in the air that night, a certain kind of arcane magic that seeped into skin like a balsam and coated the insides of your mouth, your eyelids, with pixie dust. It was as though all the guests at this outlandish spectacle were suspended in time, in space, limbs made heavy and sluggish by the smell of pine needles in the air and the sweet, sickly passage of alcohol and other things across their tongues.

And it was into this heady mixture that Orpheus strode, features set ablaze by a wicked, wicked grin that seeped from the corners of his mouth onto his face, into his hair, his hands, so that the entirety of him gleamed as brightly as the golden mask that crowned his unruly locks, shone with the evil that seemed to pour forth from every pore beneath his skin. He cut a fearsome figure as he forged a trail through the crowd, the heavy, gilded threads of the cape set about his shoulders billowing behind him like a cloud of smoke and dust.

Little mind was paid to the bodies around them other than the slow, lazy sweep of forest-green eyes, resting just long enough on each of the assembled folks that wove around him to betray mild curiosity, and not long enough to afford them any real attention, like a cat inspecting a flock of birds as if trying to decide if any of them was worth the effort of pouncing.

A waiter brushed past his elbow, then, the tray resting atop his hand laden with treasured beyond any mortal’s wildest imaginings. Swift, light fingers plucked two rose-gold capsules from the pile of gifts on display, and the golden ribcage that clothed his chest rose and fell as a laugh bubbled in his chest, soft as rainfall and echoing like thunder. Of course Theodora’s concoction would be on offer here, of course it would be faerie’s blood that slowly undid the strings that kept Verona’s flimsy veneer of respectability tied down.

He caught someone’s gaze across the crowd, then, noticed them watching, and lifted his lips just enough to flash fangs at them.

“Care to join me?” he purred, voice thick and smooth like honey, holding out one of the capsules on a flat, rough palm.

“It’s no fun to lose control alone.” 

             It was as though they were all starring in some strange, archaic theatre production in which it was hard to decipher if it was a comedy or a tragedy. It had all of the essential cast members from the anti-hero to the supporting cast, but it was a story that they hadn’t been told the ending to, as though they were getting the script page by page. The addition of the ambrosia and faerie’s blood was as though the tale was a Hollywood remake, given that extra gloss to make it seem all the more appealing. But if they would’ve asked her opinion, Castora would have said that she hated remakes.  

Fabric brushed past her athletic legs as she navigated the mass of heaving bodies. She wondered how many Montagues had lost themselves to the euphoria which came from their drug induced state, if they casually spoke with their enemies without any thought or concern. Logic was not at the forefront of her mind, for everything did appear to jolt to life before her eyes. Vivid colours, contagious laughter, pure bliss. 

Castora could never lose herself to a moment easily, since she never wanted to lose touch with the control which she constantly grasped. She wanted to be strong, invincible, but nobody was perfect, even if they tried to be. It would usually take a lot more for her to feel as relaxed as she did in that moment, but it was also riddled with anxiety. As though the two feelings were at war with one another, but the ambrosia smoothed it over like it was nothing. 

Her golden eyes were more wild than normal, it was as though her gaze was pure honey. She could see that there were couples locked in heated moments, a sight that made her grimace. Castora was no stranger to passion, but devotion was something else. She turned away until her sight fell on a solitary figure holding out a palm. She ought to be more cautious, since she had just been internally scolding the unknown actions of her fellow comrades. 

                                        ❝ What if I like being alone? ❞ 

Her brow raised at the stranger, arms folding over her chest. Despite the stubbornness of her words, there was a silken lilt to them.  ❝ I've already had Ambrosia. It’s probably not wise for me to mix. ❞

[laurasbailey]

[cxstoras-blog]

violentgallows‌:

date: august 27th when: 12:59 am where: inside, somewhere unspecific availability: open

         Dripping in gold, Valentina had dressed with every intention of looking the part that had been taken from her when she’d been too small, too young, too damn naive to know how to fight back and take hold what belonged to her and her brother. Her entire outfit felt more like a costume than a jumpsuit, knowing that even as the hood hid much of her features that she’d left half of her face bare so that her gaze would stare out and dare anyone to approach without the ability to mistake her identity.

Let them see her. Let them hear her roar. She’d spent too many years hiding in the shadows, born there long after her birth as she struck up enough deals and took down a few many cons that left her and brother alive far longer than anyone would have anticipated. Least of all him. The bitterness was still a slight taste in the back of her throat, knowing their position was courtesy of his heart but one that had proven to be the stroke of luck that they both needed as she felt her upper lip curl at the sight before her.

Decadence and mystique curled around every part of the party, a sight truly meant to behold as she tipped the edge of the gold plated cup against her lips before she took another sip. It would soon line the bottom of her hood in a hidden pocket that she’d sewed in it with a few other secret compartments. ( they could take the girl from the street, but there was no taking the street from the girl ) Never one to walk into a situation as caustic as this, the touch of tension running high enough that it was only muddled when she eyed those who drank unceremoniously and took to having a good time.

Her own cup had been — tilted in her grip as she eyed the curious liquid — unsuspecting in nature until she’d felt her body start to relax without her permission along with a light burning brighter behind her eyes as she took in the sights and sounds with a childlike wonder that was often lost on her features. Ambrosia. “Well, if it wasn’t a party before — it’s sure to be one now,” she murmured with a sharp twist of her lips as she met the eyes of someone. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

            There was a romantic feel to the evening, with ladies in sparkling gowns looking as though they were attending a debutante ball. Her soft-hearted mother would have adored the sight, fawning over the sight of a sculpted man in a suit. Castora was not so enchanted by it. Like many things it held secrets, naturally reminiscent of an all-consuming love. They lied like her father lied, an endless cycle of betrayal and bitterness. She expected the worst and hoped for the best. 

             When she had pulled the fabric over her body, she had almost laughed at the sight. Was she meant to look like an ice princess or maybe a virginal bride? It was ironic to her since she held so very little respect for the latter, they were delusional and hopeless. Deep down a small part of her knew that had things been different, she would have been that blushing girl with nothing but an all-consuming love to keep her afloat. But, instead, she had simply learned how to swim away. 

            Castora had no intention of losing her wits, but the orchestrator of the evening had other plans. The delicious liquid which she tasted had not quenched her thirst, but instead made her feel a humm of something else.  ❝ Obviously, ❞  she muttered to herself with a roll of her eyes, hoping to catch a familiar face in a sea of masks. But she did not need to see Valentina’s face, to recognise her voice. She inched herself closer, reminding herself that she didn’t need to march around in her heels. 

                                         ❝ I think that things are about to become very interesting, ❞ she sung, motioning around the room. The effects had already started to skew not only her view, but the actions of others. This was the kind of drug consumed to make you feel whole, it was a foolish game played by ring-master controlling a circus show.  ❝ If anyone drunkenly tells me that they love me, they’ll end up in the pond. ❞

[cxstoras-blog]

justtotallystab‌:

who: open date: august 27 time: any time before 3am tbh location: ballroom

Boris was, perhaps, the only one in the sea of masked Montagues and Capulets that was excited by what the end of the night would bring. He’d seen enough travesties done from either side, that to watch the families be put on Trial for a death among their masses only made him excited for the clock to strike three. And while he waited in quiet anticipation, he watched the rest of the revelers slowly fall under the influence of their own drugs, or alcohol laced with extra additives.

His own flask was simply filled with lemonade and he took another furtive slip from his position at the corner of the ballroom, contemplating whether he should pull out one of the fruits he’d squirreled away in his pockets for the evening. It might look strange to outsiders, his obsession with bringing his own food, or drink, to outside occasions, excused away with allergies, and preferences, but only he was aware of the true reason. For when a person had managed to kill another through the meticulous application of rat poison in someone’s drink–it was difficult not to imagine the same thing being done to you.

A glance to the side revealed that he was no longer as alone as he’d thought he was, and a faint smirk curled on his lips beneath his mask. He wasn’t quite ready to be recognized so sent them a sharp nod and then offered them a carefully worded, “Enjoying yourself?” Making sure to keep the faint hint of Russian out of his voice that still clung to him, despite years of living among so many different languages. “Take it easy, or you might not make it to the end of the night.”

            Bodies filtered in through wide door-frames, all clad in finery which had been delivered earlier that day. Naturally, receiving an strange package had given her pause for concern, as she had carefully peeled back layers of tissue paper to find white fabric. It was disorientating to stand among others you mark as strangers simply for their concealed features, yet you could meet them on the street unmasked  —a friend or foe. The lines were so very clear for her and she loathed the thought of rubbing shoulders with a Capulet. 

                                          Eyes skirted over the lavish display of food which had been put out, although she had little cravings with the midnight hour. Her intention had been to keep her cards close to her chest as she attended the event, not wishing to actively converse too much with others. Castora was never going to be a social butterfly, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to hide in a corner either. So when she heard another voice, she didn’t immediately shun them.  ❝ I’ve been to worse places than this,” she answered, pursing her lips. She loved the decoration, but loathed the anonymity. 

                                          ❝ That isn’t mine, ❞ Castora reasoned, motioning towards the tall glass of liquid which she situated just in front of her. “Someone carelessly forgot it, as though they’re looking for trouble.”

[cxstoras-blog]

ACT I. SCENE I. White garments adorned with crystals, for strength and ice. The light flow of fabric shows a softness often overlooked, which is partnered by a light veil. Ironic. 

[dearmasdaily]

Flaunt Film | Ana de Armas

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CASTORA AGUILAR, who is TWENTY-THREE years old. She is often called CELIA by the MONTAGUES and works as their SOLDIER.

She has seen what love can do to a person, and she wants no part in it. Raised by a mother who became Atlas for a girl who inherited her golden eyes and her father’s love of leaving, Castora saw what the weight of the world did to her—the way it made her delicate hands shake and her dainty shoulders hunch, and she watched her mother damn near waste away for her sake, for the daughter she was made to raise alone. Later, they’d say the Aguilar girl had never known love—that ignorance had led her to be so CYNICAL, so distrusting, but such a notion couldn’t be farther from the truth. She was loved so deeply that she was practically sustained on it, but for a woman like her, mere survival was never enough—and by default, neither was love. It was something one could only stand to give away, and give it away her mother did—to a man who’d never cared and to a daughter who could never replace him. Other young girls aspired to be doctors, lawyers, and scientists, but Castora Aguilar aspired to be nothing like the woman who’d raised her. And God, did she succeed. She hardened her heart against the malady that had plagued the woman who gave her life and grew stronger for it—selfish, cynical, and even a bit bitter, but STRONG. Love makes people do terrible things—for others, to others, and to themselves, and she refused to do what her mother did, to set herself on fire to keep another warm. But for all that she swore off love as a distraction—little more than dead weight to hold her back—she wasn’t the ice queen one might’ve had her seem. Quick-tempered and sharp-tongued even as she entered her teenage years, she was no stranger to passion, but more importantly, she was no stranger to LOVE—real and all-encompassing. Like her mother, she loved hard, but unlike her mother, she was wise enough not to lose herself in someone apt to leave with the changing of the seasons; she lost a piece of herself in her cousin, in the childhood friend she said goodbye to as they aged. But those pieces were few, and she was still WHOLE enough to be selfish—self-preserving. So selfish, in fact, that she broke her mother’s heart to keep her own beating. She knew she was her mother’s world—her sun, just as radiant and every bit as bright; she knew that her leaving would rob her mother of a piece of her heart that she could never replace, and she left anyway, out of selfishness, out of courage, out of FEAR. It had been her father’s commitment to the dark side of Verona—and to his own interests—that had made the thought of staying and raising her such a burden, and it was her own desire to prove that she could make her own way without him that drove her to her uncle’s doorstep, against her mother’s wishes and against her better judgment. She’d been warned of the risks, of the CRUELTY, but Castora had merely laughed, golden eyes glittering, and asked if that was the worst of it. She’d joined the ranks as a soldier less than two weeks later, and she hasn’t stopped climbing since. She will never be like her mother, a woman who crumbled when the man she gave everything to decided that everything wasn’t enough. She’s learned never to wait for another’s rescue, and that alone has helped her to ascend the ranks faster than most her age. She’s on the cusp of becoming a captain—so close she can almost taste the title on her lips—and she won’t let anyone or anything get in her way and live, let alone love. She knows she’ll never be entirely rid of it—that it runs through her veins, burning like gasoline—but she’ll be damned if she hands someone the match. She will never let her foolish heart put her success in jeopardy. She will never be like her mother; no, like smoke, she’ll RISE.

RAMONA AGUILAR & VALENTINA GALLO: Cousin & Best Friend. There are few people in this world that she would die for, and admittedly even fewer that she trusts enough to be her own rendition of weak with, but Ramona and Valentina are a different breed—the closest thing to sisters she’s ever had. She hardly remembers a time when Ramona wasn’t part of her life, and she prays she’ll never have to know a time when she no longer is. She met Valentina a few weeks after joining the Montagues, and despite trying to keep her distance, has come to regard her in much the same way. This, she knows, is the cost of love: the fear of losing it. She’s never been more willing to pay the price.

PANDORA PHAN: Mentor. There’s something to be said about a commander who can look at an ambitious soldier and see potential—rather than a threat—and for that, the older woman has earned Castora’s frugal respect. Rather than putting the Aguilar woman in her place, she’s offered her a leg up, and though she’s a little too proud to take it for fear of not earning her rank herself, she’s found she revels in knowing she’s worthy of having the option. Pandora is a woman to be feared, and she’s confident they’d make a fine team, for so is she.

PRIAM TARAVELLA: Enemy. Every time he opens his mouth, she imagines a thousand different ways to make sure he never opens it again. She’s had the misfortune of running into the emissary far more often than she’d like, and each time has been more infuriating than the last. It’s not that she’s a stranger to exchanging barbs, sensitive and apt to get her feelings hurt over a well-timed insult; if it were that simple, she wouldn’t loathe him so much as she’d loathe confrontation with him. It’s his smartass mouth and the condescending tilt of his head that makes him so intolerable—the assumption that she’s beneath him and the smirk on his face that gives it all away. She’ll wipe it off one day; she doesn’t take well to being underestimated by anyone, least of all a Capulet.

BELLAMY SANTO-DOMINGO: Frustration. He was not built to be a soldier nor does he seem to possess the potential to grow into one. Not with his soft-spoken words or misplaced good intentions, and it frustrates Castora. Mainly because that is how she envisions she would be had she been blessed with a committed father and an unbroken family. Witnessing him embracing innocence as he does, as though it were a blessing rather than a death sentence for his heart, irks Castora and compels her to instill her cynical ideologies into the young man in hopes that it will give him a chance. A chance to retain the strength he so wholeheartedly gives away; to raise himself into an apostle rather than fodder for the beasts that prowl this hopeless world. That’s all she wishes to accomplish; to give Bellamy the chance she herself had so vigorously grasped. Because without it, she’s certain he’ll be among the first to fall.

Castora is portrayed by ANA DE ARMAS and was written by BREE. She is currently OPEN.