Cyrus Sloane

[cyrussloane]

lavolumnia​:

‘If this was Cape Town, all of this would be mine. This would be my office, you’d be below me in rank.’  Vivianne looks at her son as he says those words, so still, one would hear a pin-drop in the pristine office.

And then she laughs.

It’s not the laugh he might remember of her; warm, melodiously reserved amusement that makes her eyes sparkle and brings out the dimple in her cheek.

It’s a cold, dead thing; an echo in an empty tower.

“I never knew you had such a flair for comedy, Cyrus. Careful that you do not become the butt of your own joke.” Because it is a joke. That her son arrives fresh-faced from the Little Leagues of South Africa and speaks to her thus; a woman who’d worked for the mob longer than he’d been alive on this earth. “I will not have you made the laughing-stock in Verona because of your arrogance.” She warns him; all traces of humour disappearing instantly from her porcelain features. This isn’t Cape Town, she thinks again, they don’t bow to Boy-Kings here.

“I don’t bend deadlines for anyone. If you can’t play by the rules, don’t join the game — Or is that not how things are done in South Africa?” She asks rhetorically, sarcasm pouring from her tongue. It’s a not a question that warrants an answer. “If a report is expected of you on Friday evening, you submit it on Friday evening. Not Friday night. Not Saturday morning. If you cannot take time away from your wine and your…” She’s about to say ‘women’ but she doubts very much that her twenty year old son knows what those are. “E le tue ragazze,” And your girls, she settles on the word, “ — Then maybe you’re in the wrong career.”

The truth is this: Right now, Vivianne doesn’t give a damn about the Sicilian report. But it’s a front to hold onto as Capobastone, when it’s so much easier than playing the role of estranged mother. Mother to an unfamiliar son, asking questions she doesn’t want to answer. And yet Cyrus persists. She wonders if that’s her own stubborn streak she sees in him; if she’s managed to pass on her flaws despite sending him away from her, in part, to prevent that same transmission. 

“I didn’t force the information about your assailant out of you.” Vivianne objects, bristling. Even though it’s exactly what she did in that hospital room when she was made first aware of her son’s injuries. “Dimmi,” She turns the question on its head and aims it back at him, “why do you care that Grace Daly is sporting an injury like yours? There are many cripples in this city, Cyrus, if you’ve developed a sudden interest in charity, I can direct you towards the ones currently taking donations.”

Vivianne’s laugh cuts right through mark and bone, tearing off his clothes until he’s left standing in front of her naked, completely vulnerable to her harsh remarks and humiliation.

He feels like he’s four years old again, an innocent, naive child knowing nothing about what truly goes on in the world. And he hates it. Hates her for making him feel this way. For still having so much power over him despite abandoning him in the streets like an unwanted puppy.

And yet, even when his eyes grow cold as ice, the previously spark of amusement diminished by her cutting words like a candle that has been put out, the smirk on his lips doesn’t waver. If anything, it grows potentially stronger as if fueled by the knowledge of how it’ll get under her skin, as if it’s the only defense mechanism still left to his disposal. Which it might as well be.

“You might be surprised by my many talents, mamma.” If you’d let me stay, you’d know about them. He doesn’t need to say it out loud for it to still fill the room like carbon dioxide, slowly but surely suffocating all air. Head cocked slightly to the right, “You will not have me made the laughing-stock of Verona?”, his words sharp enough to cut through paper gently flowing down a stream, “and since when do you have a say in what I do or don’t do? What happens to me?” Since when do you care?

Involuntarily, his breath quickens, muscles tense. Every act of casualty requires immense self-control and strength of will. The more she talks, the harder it gets. 

He pushes through nonetheless. If only because he can’t, because he won’t grant her the satisfaction of seeing his unimpressed facade crack and shatter. Of seeing herself having any power over him. She simply doesn’t deserve it and as long as it’s up to him, he’ll continue to withhold it, even if sheer spite is the only power that it’ll fuel his strength to continue.

Teeth gritting together, he presses a “non accadrà più” out, the smile on his lips only barely hanging on the frayed threads. He hates to give in like that, to cower before her, but at the end of the day, she’s still his capobastone and he has to answer to her. 

After all, unlike anything she assumes about him, he does know how this business works.

Then they fall back into more comfortable territory, the one that is more likely to get under her skin and breathing becomes a little lighter, carrying himself upright in a proud manner a little easier. 

Instead of commenting on her objection, Cyrus only cocks up one eyebrow, this small change in facial expression saying all he needs to say on that topic. The memory of her cornering him in his hospital room, the gun wound only just sewn together after the bullet had been removed, still so fresh in his mind that it takes too much of his strength to keep himself from bursting out into laughter to want to contradict her out loud. She won’t admit it anyway, he knows that.

Fingers brush carelessly through golden curls, as he tilts his head to the right, not even bothering to try to prevent the amused smirk from sneaking onto his lips.

“Oh, I don’t care for cripples in general, they’re none of my concerns”, he says, words followed by a dismissive wave of his left hand, “what does interest me, however, is the coincidence of my assailant spotting almost the same wound only a few days later.” For a moment, he pauses, as he slowly allows his gaze to wander upwards her body and her face until his eyes look directly at hers. “One might call it karma or Divine vengeance, but I can’t help but suspect something more worldly to be responsible here. You wouldn’t know anything about this, mamma, would you?” The dryness in his voice could equal that of the Sahara. “It just strikes me as an odd coincidence for you to be only person to be so insistent of finding out the attacker’s name, only for her to get stabbed in the same spot shortly after. But then again, that would require you to actually give a damn about anybody but yourself”, a wolfish smile sneaks onto his lips, “and we both know your cold and dead heart wouldn’t allow this, now would it?”

[cyrussloane]

date: april 14, 2019 time: late evening location: the dark lady  status: closed to @tcapulets

Il tigre di Verona.

Cyrus hears him before he sees him, the boisterous voice alone enough to cause a migraine. It’s almost like his sheer presence fills the whole room, taking away any space that might be left for air. Being in the same room as him is like being choked slowly, oxygen slowly leaving your lungs as his ego and presence weighs down on you. 

He pushes forward nonetheless. Maybe he’s more of a masochist than he originally thought when he seeks out one of his greatest annoyances out of his own free will.

“My, my, look who we have here, the mighty Tiberius Capulet”, lips curled into an innocent smile, he takes the free seat next to him uninvited and unprompted, hoping it’ll churn him. Small needle pricks can get under your skin just as easily as the big ones, can they not? He waves at the barkeeper casually to get their attention. “Una birra moretti per me, per favore” he orders before turning back around to Tiberius, eyes wandering over him and seizing him without any false pretenses or subtlety, immediately latching onto the cut in his arm like drawn to it by a magnetic force. 

“Why, looks like maybe the mighty Tiberius isn’t so mighty anymore, huh? Is your strength weakening, tigre?”

[cyrussloane]

maeve-petre​:

october 25, 2018 at cyrus’ residence. closed to @cyrussloane​

When word of the prodigal son’s return reaches her, Maeve is too flooded with joy to consider what is left unsaid. In her hands, the news is a flower that has yet to blossom and welcome the light. She doesn’t stop to wonder if perhaps it remains closed because it is hiding from her, that there is poison in its center that Maeve is not ready to survive. She remembers not the years of silence and distance between them; no, she pins her dreams and her hopes on a picture of the two of them as children, running through Verona in search of an adventure that will quiet the troubles of home.

She shows up at their door uninvited, and does not imagine that she is also unwelcome. How can she be? Once, Cyrus was her very best friend in the world. Once, the two believed that the world could not harm them, if only they had each other. Such things don’t disappear, such things don’t fall forgotten. As surely as love has imbedded herself and carved his name unto her heart, Cyrus must remember her.

Even her knock is lit with anticipation, an excitement that rushes far beyond her and trips over itself. Each lighthearted tap against the door betrays her unbridled enthusiasm, which rushes forward in a burst of light and laughter. When it opens, Maeve holds up a potted Orchidaceae that nearly covers the beaming smile on her lips. “Welcome back, stranger,” she says, voice flowing with warmth. “I brought a housewarming gift!”

Cyrus doesn’t know who he expected to stand in front of his door when he ushered to open it at the constant knocking, but it certainly wasn’t her. 

Though years have passed since they last saw each other, he has no trouble recognizing her right away. And how could he not when Maeve Petre was such a huge part of his childhood? Used to be his best friend, the one he could always confide in, the one he trusted more than anybody else (the sole exception being his mother, oh how drastically things could change).

That is until she abandoned him just like the rest of Verona had.

So one can probably understand why he is not overcome with joy, why he doesn’t leap forward to pull her into his arms, a wide smile on his lips whose warmth would rival the later autumn sun.  

Instead, the mere hint of a smile on his lips (if one can even call it that) is as cold as the air on an early winter morning. “How do you know where I live?”, he answers with a counter-question, his blue eyes lacking any warmth meet hers directly, the potted plant in her hands completely ignored. “And what are you doing here?” As stupid as the latter question might sound, to him it’s anything but that. After all, nobody ever really does a seemingly nice thing without ulterior motives. If his time in Cape Town had taught him only one thing, it’d be this one.

[cyrussloane]

evcravens​:

He’s managed, this far, to avoid Cyrus Sloane.

It was easier when the boy first arrived from South Africa last spring, when Everett was still a capodecina left to his own devices. There was no reason to see him save for the occasional meeting, and even then, it was only ever in a cursory context, safely within the bounds of professional courtesy.

However, since Everett’s promotion to emissary in November, staying out of the boy’s way has grown to be an increasingly difficult task. On more than once instance has Everett casually left Capulet headquarters earlier than necessary to avoid being the only one left in the emissary office with Cyrus. But his silent, subtle absence is motivated not by his aversion to the ghosts of his past. Ultimately, it’s motivated the wishes of the boy’s mother.

That Cyrus became off-limits to Everett the moment he broke the engagement with Vivianne has been an unspoken boundary he’s honored despite his personal attachments, knowing full well the paramount importance of family. But as the boy’s voice snaps Everett’s attention in the silence of Twelfth Night’s makeshift emissary office, it’s nigh impossible to deny the agonizing softness that hooks his chest. Everett doesn’t think he’s had the chance to get a good look at Cyrus since he came to Verona… or perhaps, he just hasn’t let himself. He pauses, green eyes gleaming.

Cyrus is no longer a child.

It’s a jarring reality Everett realizes he had no desire to ever face, the beginnings of a strong jaw emerging from baby fat and skinny shoulders attempting to form themselves into something more solid, more broad. He’s still in the autumn of his adolescence — if Everett remembers correctly, Cyrus is now twenty, a few years of growing and filling out left before he matures into an adult — but the knowledge that he’s on the brink of manhood reminds him all too painfully of what he could have had. Seeing Cyrus unravels all the tightly-stoppered dreams Everett began to smother the moment he threw his gun into the Adige at the age of twenty-six.

Working at C&R’s London office, living an honest life away from the mafia, the quiet contentment of domesticity, coming home to help Cyrus on his schoolwork and greet Vivianne with a kiss on the cheek —

He crushes the thought, cuts it short before he can choke on the bitter taste in his throat. The truth is this: for all that Everett considers Catia to be his daughter, for all that Everett cares for Maeve… there’s only one boy he’s ever considered to be his son.

Everett can’t bring himself to call him Coriolanus, some old Roman general from Plutarch’s writings, when he can still remember letting the boy ride around Essalunga in a grocery trolley. Instead, he focuses on the question that’s been posed to him, assuming a civil, polite tone that cuts his tongue like glass shards. Perhaps this, not Vivianne, is why he’s avoided Cyrus so long.

“It feels a little foreign, but I suspect it’s because we’re here instead of il Duomo,” he replies carefully, eyes scanning over the makeshift office they’ve made from a storage room at the back of the museum. Everett thinks it might be a Tintoretto peeking out from under a soft linen canvas in the corner, but he can’t be sure, and he’s not sacrilegious enough to peek at it and satiate his curiosity. “The job, at least, suits me better than that of a capodecina.”

His eyes flicker briefly over Cyrus’s frame, unable to detect any signs of pain in his stance. “It’s good to see you made it out of the Tribunal safely. No injuries, I take it?” No injuries since the leg injury he’d had in March, though Everett won’t admit that he remembers the exact week Cyrus finally got off of his crutches.

Maybe Cyrus doesn’t even have any right calling Everett Craven a foreign presence in the emissary office considering how he only claimed his desk a few days before his change of position. His seat was barely warm when Everett joined their ranks.

And still, the improvised, makeshift office doesn’t feel foreign to him at all. Maybe it’s because Verona still treats him as a foreigner, as if he doesn’t fully belong. Maybe he’s had to make do under worse circumstances.

(Or maybe he simply isn’t as old as the former capodecina and still more adaptable to change.)

He doesn’t say any of that, though, instead offering only a polite smile in response. A smile that is harder to conjure up than it is usually. Usually, charm comes as easy to him as breathing, like it’s his second nature. Around Everett Craven, however, it’s a straining endeavor, one that demanded a deliberate decision instead of happening instinctively.

“I’m surprised you noticed”, the words slip through his lips before he can bite his tongue and wish for time to turn back a few seconds. So much for the self-control, he prides himself on, the discipline he’d have claimed makes him mature beyond his years. Right now he might as well be a sulky, teenage boy, in the midst of puberty and controlled by hormones and emotions, not pure rationality. 

He hates it. And he hates Everett for making him feel this way, for reducing him to a lower, worse version of himself.

Lips pressed together, he takes a deep breath, fingers running through already ruffled hair in a desperate attempt to regain control and then manages to put an unreadable smile onto his lips. “I did,”, he continues calmly as if this little emotional outburst didn’t just happen, ”I guess the same can be said for you as well?”, from the corner of his eyes, Cyrus allows his gaze to wander over Everett’s, quickly seizing him for any obvious injuries. He can’t see any, but who knows where they might be hidden. 

[cyrussloane]

date: october 23, 2018 time: late evening location: palazzo canossa status: closed to @stlapin

He still isn’t used to being surrounded by the constantly loud and lively chatter of Italian.

It’s the sound of his childhood, his mother tongue (together with French), but in the last years, he’s spoken so little Italian, was surrounded by constant English and Afrikaans (which he still has an only quite basic and rough grasp on), that the words feel somewhat off on his tongue, that it simply sounds strange to him. 

And yet, it feels also more like home than anything else ever had.

Fingers running through his already slightly disheveled hair, giving him even more of a fresh out of bed look that he knows girls swoon over, he listens distractedly to a brunette going on and on about her latest puppy rescue mission (admirable but incredibly boring), deeply tangled up in the complicated knots of his own confusing thoughts.

Then a  group of girls walks into his sight, giggling and talking, and Cyrus probably wouldn’t have paid them any closer. If it wasn’t for a halo of golden hair standing out of the crowd, demanding to be seen. She pulls him towards her like a siren from ancient Greek mythology, refusing her silent song simply isn’t an option.

He brushes a butterfly kiss against his former conversation partner’s cheek as a goodbye (she’s forgotten just as quickly), before strutting towards the group of girls, lips curled into a cocky smirked filled to the brim with boyish charm. 

And then he recognizes the girl. For she’s anything but a stranger to him.

“My my, Signorina DuPont, che sorpresa”, he says, words as bold as they can be as he smirks down at her, ocean blue eyes sparkling with excitement and cheek. He leans forward brushing a soft kiss against each cheek, completely ignoring the other girls. “Missed me?”

Though it’s been a while since their last conversation, even longer than when they last saw each other, there’s not a single hint of doubt in his mind, that she’ll have as little trouble recognizing him as it was the case the other way around. 

[quotemadness]

I fear you close by; I love you far away.

Friedrich Nietzsche

@cyrussloane

(via lavolumnia)

[cyrussloane]

date: july 23, 2007 time: late evening location: streets of verona  status: closed to @maeve-petre

Mama is going to kill me, Cyrus can’t help but think as the clock strikes ten He should have been home at least an hour ago and he knows it. It’s a school day tomorrow, he’s no business being out so late, especially not in a town as filled to the brim with dangers as his mama likes to point out when she feels like she needs to remind him not to do anything stupid (it’s much easier to behave smartly when Maeve isn’t around to put stupid ideas into his head, that’s for sure). 

He knows that he shouldn’t. And he doesn’t want to, he wants to be good for her, somebody she can rely on so that there’s one thing less on her mind she needs to worry about. E Dio sa, she already has so much else on her plate. 

Yet, when Maeve called earlier to ask if he wanted to meet her later because she wanted to show him a new spot she discovered, how could he possibly have said no? So he sneaked out. Sometimes it really is an advantage to have your mother work late every now and then. 

And when he sees her leaning against the brick stone wall of the corner that has become their usual meeting point, he can’t really bring himself to be mad at her for making bend and break the rules a little. 

“Sei impossibile, lo sai vero?”, he calls instead of a proper greeting, the little grin on his lips, taking the edge of his words, and with lanky steps, he quickly bridges the residing distance between them and pulls her in a hug. A few years ago, she was taller than him, his grow spurt sitting in pretty late. Now he looms over her easily, his body still getting used to the sudden change in height. “Now what’s that you needed to show me so urgently?”

mentioned: @lavolumnia​

[cyrussloane]

date: january 11 2019 time: eary night location: twelth night museum status: closed to @heloisem

A string quintet plays in the background (maybe Franz Schubert’s String Quintet in C Major? He can’t say for certain, but it sort of sounds like it, though he’s far from an expert when classical music even though he’s had piano lessons for four years as a teenager and aced most compositions thrown his way), low hanging crystal chandeliers bathe the room in warm light like everything was dipped in gold, an air of divinity and fortune surrounding them all. 

Head slightly tilted to the right, Cyrus twirls the flute filled to the brim a 1996 Dom Perignon in his left hand, gaze roaming across the crowd searching for something or rather somebody to catch his attention. Oh, he doesn’t lack people who wish he’d turn his attention to them. Just standing here, he can feel the various pairs of eyes on him, sweet smiles flashed in his direction, girls twirling strands of perfectly done hair around their freshly manicured fingers in the hope of him turning their way. It might sound cocky and arrogant (is arrogance an appropriate description though if it’s nothing but the truth?), but he knows if he deigned to pay any of them any more attention than he already was, he wouldn’t go home alone tonight. 

And that was precisely the issue. Where’s the fun in doing something, something that’s supposed to be thrilling, to keep you on your toes, if you already know the outcome before you’ve even started an attempt?

A bored sigh stifled by another sip of champagne, he’s just about to decide that it might be time to get some fresh air, smoke a cigarette, and then regroup when she catches his eye. Dark curls framing a face with features so delicately beautiful that she might as well be one of those porcelain dolls people pay thousands for, her subtle smile still bright enough to lighten the whole room. Even better, it seems like she hasn’t tried drawing his attention to herself - a girl like this wouldn’t have ever gone unnoticed, not even in a crowd of girls, one more stunning than the other.

Instinctively his sensual lips turn into a more sincere smile. Seems like the night suddenly got interesting. 

Head held high, he walks over to her, every single step exuding confidence and belonging. He might be relatively new in town still, but it’s still his town, his birthplace, his home, his. 

“Buena serata, signorina”, he says once he’s reached her, holding out the second champagne flute he’s picked up from one of the many trays being carried around by waiters on his way to her, words accompanied by a smile so charming and warm it could melt ice, “I couldn’t help but notice that your glass is empty. What kind of gentleman would I be to not offer you a refill?” If Cyrus is completely honest, it’s simply good luck that her glass was indeed empty, there’s no way he could have seen it from the other end of the room. 

Then again, isn’t success always based on good fortune meeting opportunity and the right timing?

“Cyrus Sloane”, he says, “with whom do I have the pleasure?”  

[cyrussloane]

lavolumnia​:

Where hers and Cosimo’s subjects are concerned, and with very few exceptions, the Underboss is known to insist upon protocol. The minute structure is thrown to the wind and too many liberties are taken, an organization begins to collapse on itself. One small rule broken here, one expectation subverted there, and soon enough, the infamous and enduring Capulets will be little better than an anarchic band of thieves.

So when someone knocks at her office door without waiting to be announced by her secretary outside, without waiting even, to be given express entry — Vivianne’s irritation is instantly sparked; a dormant dragon, cracking one eye open. She’s already frowning as the door gives way, a sharp reprimand sitting on her tongue. Held long enough, only, to ensure it isn’t the Capo himself who’s coming to speak with her.

But rather than Cosimo, it’s her son who strides in; with all the youthful bravado of someone who thinks he belongs here — someone who doesn’t belong here. Her irritation grows as he greets her, despite the familiar ache in her chest that she ignores at the sight of him; something like an old wound that’s never quite healed correctly. “There are procedures to follow when seeking an audience with me in my place of work. This is not Cape Town.” She reprimands him sternly, without response to his pleasant greeting. This isn’t their home, that Cyrus should walk in and out as he pleases… Specifically, this will never be Cyrus’ home. No matter how he wills it.

“A little bird told me that Goneril suddenly seems to have been stabbed in the leg in the same spot she shot me.” 

Vivianne stiffens in her chair, blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She should’ve known it’d come to this; that somehow, Cyrus would find out about her desperate, maternal need to exact vengeance for the injuries he’d sustained at Mona Chen’s gala. That he might mock her for her reckless outburst, even. That he might call her out on her icy veneer of calculated indifference towards him all these last few months that he’s returned to Verona. “Little birds should tell you more useful things, Cyrus.” She remarks in a clipped, cool tone.

“ — Like how to better close deals with our Sicillian contacts.“ It’s a quick deflection. His mother suspects it’ll pique his pride, and yet she hopes it’ll inspire him to drop the topic of Grace accordingly. The latter is not a profitable line of conversation, and she doesn’t wish to engage it with him. Goneril got her warning, vengeance was executed with practiced efficiency, and so the matter, as far as Vivianne is concerned, is finished. “You’ve been in Verona how many months now? I was expecting an update yesterday evening. I don’t care about interesting coincidences, I care about ensuring my emissaries get their job done as I expect. Where is the report?” 

“No, it’s not”, Cyrus agrees, the muscles around his mouth tensing just slightly at the reminder of how unwanted he is here, but the smile doesn’t waver, “if this was Cape Town, all of this would be mine. This would be my office, you’d be below me in rank.”

She needs to be reminded that he isn’t just some naive boy who decided to play mafia. He’s been in her position, no, he’s been in a place she’s yet to succeed to. Sure, Cape Town was a soft puppy compared to the feral demon Verona is, he’s playing with Cerberus here. But he once held a leash in his hand nonetheless, she needn’t treat him like he’s just an innocent child.

He isn’t any longer, she made sure of that.

“Are you’re not going to bend the rules a little for your beloved” son?” Acid intense enough to unglue the muscle right of your bone drops from the last words, his smile now baring teeth.

Uninvited and unprompted he takes the seat in front of her desk and crosses his leg, his whole posture exuding confidence and comfortableness. If she wants him to be uncomfortable, to take him down a beg, she’ll have to try harder.

“Oh, unlike you, I find that a very useful thing to know”, he contradicts, head slightly tilted to the right as he allows his gaze to wander over her face, every nuance, every wrinkle that has changed over the past eight years. She looks much older now (he guesses, they both do), but it isn’t the age that comes with wrinkles, grey hairs and age marks. 

It’s the one that comes with heartbreak, loss, difficult choices, and losing your moral compass bit by bit as you try to do what’s best. 

There’s a fragility about her that wasn’t there when he left (or rather when she abandoned him). Maybe it’s simply the fact that he’s grown much taller in the last years, that he’s now towering over her slightly as opposed to barely reaching her shoulders with the top of his head before. Maybe it’s the baby fat that has given way to muscles. Maybe it’s the tough, sometimes downright cruel decisions he’s made projecting onto her.

And still, he cannot help wonder how life treated her in the past eight years, if the grief over pushing him away aged her prematurely, if she’s regretted abandoning him.

Np. he pushes the thought away as quickly as it came up, plastering a little grin onto rose-petal lips instead. “Non ti preoccupare, mama, ne sono occupato io”, he says a carefree wave of his right hand following the words, “the deal is done. I took care of it yesterday. I just didn’t have the time to finish the report just yet.” Lips curl from grin into a cocky smirk. “I’m sure you understand that I needed to celebrate first, sí? I even kept it in topic with Sicilian wine and a Sicilian girl so I really don’t think it’s a big deal.” Maybe he should be professionally through and through, let his success speak for himself and maybe, just maybe he’ll get to hear a single word of praise.

But why go for something dull and boring as praise when he can get under her skin instead? Feel the satisfaction of calculating, heartless Vivianne Sloane feeling something for her unwanted son? Besides, it’s not like he can be in serious trouble right now anyway. Closing that deal weighed out the minor shortcoming of not having the report in on time.

“If you want to distract me by hurting my pride, you’ll have up your game, mama, or you’ll keep losing.” Dark blue eyes look at innocently through golden lashes and once again the comparison with an angel doesn’t seem too far off. Only that this angel has now dipped his wings in the blood and terror of his enemies.

“Considering how you like to stress you’re in charge, dimmi, how does it come that your favorite traitor suddenly finds herself with a stabbing wound in the leg only days after you force the information of my assailant out of me? Che meravigliosa coincidenza, vero?”

[cyrussloane]

date: april 16, 2019 time: early afternoon location: emissary office status: closed to @evcravens

Golden hair ruffled from the late spring wind, Cyrus takes the last steps up the stairs with a juvenile bounce in his step, relishing the fact that moving his left didn't send a scream of agonizing pain through his body any longer. Nowadays only a pink scar remained of the friendly goodbye Grace Daly gave him during Mona Chen's gala a month ago. 

At least he managed to bury his knife in her neck before that. Had she not gotten any help from her fellow Montague, who knows how differently this night could have ended. Maybe he could have single-handedly gotten rid of Grace turncoat Daly. Wouldn't that have been something?

Maybe his mother would have been proud of him then. 

With a merely noticeable shake of his head, he shakes those thoughts off as well. Dwelling on what could have been under different circumstances wouldn't get him any further. Nor would it lighten his day to consciously relive the humiliation of the night. While his rational mind knows there's no real humiliation in being incapacitated by an older, much more experienced fighter and their ally, his pride couldn't agree less.

Upon entering the emissary office, his gaze immediately falls onto a familiar gaze. It's utterly ridiculous and Cyrus knows it, but it's still one of the last people he'd have expected to see right now. After all, he miraculously managed to stay out of his way so far, didn't he? 

“Ciao, Edgar”, Cyrus says, deliberately deciding against a more polite, refined greeting and opting for their mob aliases instead. Leaning against the door frame, he takes a moment to thoroughly muster the guy who once might have become his stepfather.  Who broke his mother's ice-cold heart and set a chain of events in motion leading to his exile.

Maybe it's not only for Everett Craven's own good that they hadn't really had a chance to socialize yet.

Head slightly cocked to the right, he puts on a charmingly amused smile, calmly taking a sip from his coffee-to-go (cappuccino with four espresso shots) without taking his eyes off him. 

"Is life as an emissary suiting you or does this office still feel like a foreign place?"

mentioned @lavolumnia

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

““Do you think you weren’t loved enough?” “Somewhere between ‘not enough’ and ‘not at all’. I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it - to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once. But they never gave that to me. Never, not once.“”

— Haruki Murakami, from Norwegian Wood (Vintage International, 2000)

[cyrussloane]

date: march 30th, 2019 time: late morning location: vivianne’s office status: closed to @lavolumnia

The gun wound in his leg might have healed. The tough blow his pride suffered when his mother capobastone stormed into his hospital room demanding to be told who the assailant had been as if he was still a little boy, too stupid, too naive, too helpless to take care of himself, however, still hurt like an open wound, still raw at the edges.

Cyrus still wonders if Vivianne would have stormed like a hurricane set loose into the room if any other member of their famiglia lied in there. 

Probably not. But then again, she doesn't seem to pay any other member as little regard as she does when it comes to him, doesn't seem to think of anybody else as incapable and unworthy of their status.

So one could imagine his surprise when he found out that Grace Daly suddenly showed up one day with an injury matching his. As divine intervention fell flat as a possible explanation, there was only one that came remotely close to making sense. And yet, making sense is a rather broad concept, isn't it? Just because the puzzle pieces click together as if they were made to be together, that doesn't necessarily require them to show a coherent picture.

Sometimes the puzzle turns out to be a mosaic, after all, beautiful in its own right.

After a brief knock is the only nod he pays to politeness as Cyrus enters without waiting for an answer. She's in there, he knows it, and she will take the time to see him, he won't accept anything less.

Besides, it's the least of what she owes him.

Every single step radiating confidence, he struts into the office, head held high, lips curled into the omnipresent charming smile on his sensual lips. 

"Buongiorno, mama", as amicable as the words may sound, covered in sweet honey, there's a beelike sting in his tone glossed over by just a hint of amusement. He doesn't bother asking if she's busy. Quite frankly, he couldn't care less about the response, so why waste both their breaths asking?

"A little bird told me that Goneril suddenly seems to have been stabbed in the leg in the same spot she shot me.” Eyes look down onto his mother, searching her face quizically for any howsoever small indications of the answer she most likely won't give him out loud. 

“Isn’t that an interesting coincidence?” 

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with CYRUS SLOANE, who is TWENTY years old. He is often called CORIOLANUS by the CAPULETS and works as their EMISSARY. He uses HE/HIM pronouns.

His story does not begin, as most traditional stories do, with his birth. No, his tale was written long before his birth – his tale was tied to that of another, was tied to a woman, to a name. The Sloane name. What name in Verona was not tied to it either by the spilling of its blood or the knowledge of the infamy that it bore? He was the culmination of its hardships, heartache, and the cruelty that it bore. It was a special, intoxicating concoction that only Verona knew how to manufacture, how to mold. So, essentially, he was the child of Verona, not a child of the woman that he deigned to call mother. Even after she abandoned him, he still called her mother. If he rescinded that title from her, then he rescinded his name for, at the tender age of ten, it was the only thing that he had. He had other things of course – the knowledge that the coldness of the stars watched over him as he beat the face of another street urchin ruthlessly and savagely. He had the comfort of the clothes upon his back and the softness of cardboard boxes to lay upon when his very bones grew weary and his body demanded sleep in place of the abuse that he put it through. Cyrus Sloane, heir to the Sloane name and all the riches that came with it, had many things in his life, despite all that Fate and Lady Fortune took away, and retribution was one of them.

However, the softness of his childish face, blue and purple painted across the pink of his round cheeks, gave nothing away. Like Eros, he unwittingly invoked the infatuation and adoration of others – those who did not see the blood on his hands or the way he took vengeance upon those who tried to steal away the only things that he had. They saw only the blue of his eyes and the winning curve of his grin. Like a cherub, they cooed as they looked upon him, like a heavensent creature from God. Perhaps he was heaven’s gift to the couple that took him in after finding him bleeding in their back alley. It certainly seemed like it with the way that they spoiled young Cyrus, offering him everything under the stars and denying him but the opportunity for suffering to enter into his life. They brought him into their life and whisked him away from the hellish city that he had been raised in, introducing him to the life of luxury that could be found in South Africa. But one could not live such a decadent life without having a little rot set in – and with the beginnings of darkness already set upon his soul, it was not surprising that like should seek like out and the demons should reach out to drag him under their black wings.

The mob of South Africa gave him the tools to teach the world to lay itself at his feet with a honey-lacquered tongue and rose-pink lips that demanded nothing less than adoration, adoration, adoration. Like his parents, the whole of Cape Town was able to deny him nothing and to him, the whole city was nothing but the dirt under his feet upon which he could build the ruin of those who had dared deny him when he was nothing but a child. Cyrus had borne the Sloane name as a child and now he bore it it as a man, a man thirsting for retribution so that he might teach them the power of his hand – should his tongue be poised for vengeance then may the streets run slick with Verona’s blood, and should he grant it absolution then all may know the benevolence of the sole heir to the Sloane name. The request for such an opportunity remained quiet on his tongue, a secret that he kept close to his heart until the moment came – and it did. The dealings with the Capulets, with his mother, had grown sour with the war that waged in the place that he had been born and molded. Who else would they send to smooth such inconveniences over than the man who had the whole of South Africa beneath his feet?

Whether it be God or the Devil who deigned to smile and bestow such a blessing of an opportunity upon him, Cyrus did not know nor did he care for he paid respect to none other than his own will. A boy who became a god through will alone did not pay homage to those who did nothing for him – but he did exact retribution on all those who had dared believed him an weak, unworthy thing. Verona has weathered many things, from their deified kings who trample the city beneath their feet, to the woes that painted the streets red and made their graveyards full. But Verona has met its match in Cyrus Sloane, and mercy to the man that dares to recognize him as anything other than the oncoming king.

VIVIANNE SLOANE: Mother. Ah, yes, mother dearest as he so fondly called her in his thoughts when bitterness had beset his dreams. He used to wonder, for the first few years, why she abandoned him. The thoughts were various and taxing – one despairing thought leading to the next and so on, and so forth until tears wet his cheeks. But then came the moments where his thoughts stopped being so treacherous and abusive, when they stopped accusing him of being the one to have committed the wrong. They grew as he grew, granting him a new and more righteous perspective. He had committed no wrong, but Vivianne, his mother, had something within her. No woman could ever justify abandoning a small child whose hands were too tender and whose eyes were too filled with tears to see straight. But now he will reap his justice – some way or another he will make everything she holds dear abandon her.

BERNADETTE DU PONT: Partner in crime. He sees her for what she is and calls her for what she’s worth – his match in every sense of the word. What with their darling eyes and their cherubic faces, the two are likely to get away with anything and everything so long as they paint those darling smiles upon their lips and flutter their darling lashes. No doubt, there are other women in Verona just as winning as she, but none are quite so tenacious or fickle as Bernadette Du Pont. They all preen and coo like lack-luster doves whenever he steps upon the scene, but Brigette? She prances around like a majestic peacock, head tossed up as if she did not dare to deign him until she sees fit or he plies her with macarons. Everything can become so drearily taxing when concocting dastardly schemes of vengeance – so some levity and careless, woe-begone mischief is needed in his life. Who better to grant him reprieve than the delightful darling of destruction?

CASSIAN BHATT: Mentor. The whole point of procuring a mentor is so that one day you might surpass them – and Cyrus has time and time again. His agenda with Cassian, he hopes, will prove no different. It was no surprise that Cassian took him under his wing, for Cyrus knew that he had nothing but potential for a career in politics. But what did surprise him was how easily he succumbed to Cyrus’ innocent spell of charming words and student-like manners. It was as if Cassian half-expected to be gifted an apple by his favorite protegee, expected his student to be as taken with him as he was with Cyrus. Little did he know that beneath the eyes that blinked so wide and blue there were schemes that the Devil himself would find damnable. Upon the hands that caressed a wistful lover’s cheeks were muscles that ached for vengeance upon all those he considered beneath him. But no, Cassian Moretti, the cleverest and most tactful man in Verona saw nothing but a pupil.

PAOLA DAMASCO: Target. He has studied her for awhile – how could he not when her story is so similar to his? A child lost and abandoned. Even when he left Verona, he managed to hear whispers of her, keep tabs on the child of Verona that sought to make this place her home whether they accepted her or not. From afar, he’s been the demon in the shadows, dismantling her every attempt to rise among the ranks and join the gods and goddesses of the city, the untouchable, the elite. He wondered how it must make her so angry and rageful that even he, a boy cast out because of an unloving mother, was able to step back into the city and they welcomed him like one of their own. And yet she, who has bled and sweated and cutfor the city is still unable to call it home. How long will it be before the marble she has cut herself from cracks under the weight of his glory?

Cyrus is portrayed by LORENZO ZURZULO and was written by ROSEY. He is currently TAKEN by CHARLIE.

[cyrussloane]

tag dump.

[archiveddvrpg]

Congratulations, CHARLIE! You’ve been accepted for the role of CORIOLANUS. Admin Jen: There are no words to describe how floored I was by the stellar portrayal you’ve presented to us, Charlie. With two very strong applications, we were given quite a difficult decision, but ultimately you showed us not only Coriolanus, but Cyrus, flaws and all. There is so much depth and nuance to Cyrus that it makes him not quite an easy character to grasp, but as I read your app, I could see all of it, small details and broad concepts alike, plucked and arranged in front of me in an alluring, mischievous array. You captured every aspect of Cyrus that is distinct and unique to him and him alone, from the various paths that his journey in Verona could take, to the tragic, painfully human starting point that paved the way for it, to his mannerisms and devious charm. He’s going to be an absolute menace on the dash and I can’t wait to see it! Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

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