b e n e d e t t o

| EDGAR; Everett Craven | " ...but do you feel like a young god? ...we'll be flying through the streets with the people underneath ...and they're running, running, running. "

[everettcravens-blog]

sonoilbastardo‌:

Easton felt so ecstatic, he thought he could die. The scorching flames and the thick, dark smoke had somehow jarred him awake from his drunken stupor, had muted the effects of il sangue, and had helped him see clearer than he’s ever had that entire night. And what he saw unfolding before his eyes was simply majestic. Pure chaos. It was a sight to behold, and Easton revelled in it. And being who he was, he wouldn’t have had any problem fighting anyone. Even his fellow Capulets. Even his own brother. Well – especially his own brother. God knows how long he’s been waiting for his knuckles to make contact with his annoying, righteous face, how long he’s been wishing to knock him off his high horse. And most of all, how long he’s been dying to tear at his elder brother’s skin to see if his punctured veins would spill the golden ichor their father so revered. Everett could do no wrong. Ever. Everett is everything their father could have asked for. Because he’s born to the right mother. And Easton is an embarrassment, because he wasn’t. A mistake. A bastard. But what of it? So he is a bastard. His father has never called him such, but he has made it clear in every waking moment that Easton spent inhaling the same air as the man. And so he is a bastard. Now let’s see how Gabriel and Everett Craven deal with the things a bastard does. The euphoria from earlier events still haven’t worn off, and Easton still had so much energy left. The surge of adrenaline that stealing away Celeste Duval had brought him had come and gone, but the joy of having her in his clutches hasn’t. Glee apparent in his face, he smoked what was must be his fourth stick of cigarette since arriving at the cathedral. Easton paced and paced, restless. The sound of his phone ringing after long stretches of silence made him blink three times, consecutively. He took out his phone that he has been ignoring for a while now, only to be met by the letters of his name. Who knew four letters from the English alphabet could make him grit his teeth so? Easton rolled his eyes but answered, because he knew Everett would be persistent. Better to deal with him now, straight away. “HQ,” he answered, and had to mentally scold himself for still trying to, after all these years, emulate Everett, in that he was keeping in his emotions – the annoyance, the vague hatred, and his strange brand of happiness: all emotions that waged a war inside his flesh. A moment of silence, where Easton was steeling himself to ask his brother how he is. Because no matter how ingenuine he perceived Everett’s care over him was, he was still one of the very few people who appears to give a shit about what Easton does. Maybe it’s because he’s just afraid Easton would embarrass him and their father, and the Craven name, but still. “Where are you?” He settled for this question. ‘How are you?’ would have sounded too nice. “I brought something home from the party, by the way,” and Easton couldn’t suppress the smile that would no doubt color his tone happy. ‘Well no, I stole something.” Someone. But Everett would know that soon, anyway. “You should come and take a look, caro fratello,” sarcasm dripped from his tongue, lip curling. “I’m in the priest quarters.” He had to suppress his laughter at the thought of Everett having to deal with their father again, and trying to assure the old man that whatever Easton had done now, he would handle. God, his brother is a true saint. And Easton could only wonder when the ivory of his brother’s benevolent skin would finally crack, and when he would finally break.

  “On my way.” He was already moving like an estranged pied piper through the streets. No one dared follow him — he led only himself on a march to whatever casualty await him in the cathedral. The particular evening had changed, but it was a familiar story all the same. His legs were accustomed to carrying him toward his brother’s mess. They no longer tensed in anticipation, knowing there would be strife ahead. They simply performed their duty. Point A, meet Point B. He was firm and preemptively scolding, “Restare fermo.”

  It was the absence of chagrin from Easton’s tone that had alarm bells tolling in his head. The exhilaration in his voice was unsettling, as if Everett had just seen a mortician smile or heard a mime ordering un caffè. It indicated a success for Easton — which often meant a loss for himself. A precarious test of his patience and sanity. He could run a thousand scenarios in his mind, wading through potential fates, but they rarely compared to the real thing. After all these years, his mind could not mimic the process of his brother’s, even if only to prepare himself.

  He was met just before reaching his destination. Standing there, facing Easton, it was almost as if they played their roles too well. He could sense the vibrations that had coursed through his brother when they spoke on the phone — but now, seeing him, Everett felt his own anticipation amplified. Through his exhaustion, it was like being doused with cold water. There was no rest around the wicked.

  The division between them was clear, but he saw the possibility. In another lifetime, he approaches his brother, they feel open comfort from the aliveness of the other. You’re safe, he would breathe out with such relief. And finally, the two brothers would embrace with the satisfying knowledge that they would be able to do it again. He wanted that moment, all of the moments born of the same connection, more than he would ever admit. And perhaps he would do such a thing in this lifetime — if he didn’t know intrinsically that his touch would only be met with vehement resistance.

  And so the story continued. As it always did.

  “What are you doing?” He scrutinized his brother’s position blocking the doorway. It felt like a cosmic joke, that he would nearly escape fire just to go running right into another — metaphorical, but a fire nonetheless. The realities of the never ending evening stirred something within and he felt his insides suddenly flare with unbridled frustration. “People got hurt,” I got hurt, “and you thought it was the right time to go shopping? What could possibly seem more important to you than people’s lives?”

  “lo giuro—“ A sharp pain in his arm reminded him to contain. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before straightening, eyes meeting his personal foil. “Just show me.”

[everettcravens-blog]

i. date: 27 August 2018 ii. time: 5:57 AM iii. location: Beginning on a street far enough from the Northern Grove to feel distant, moving to the cathedral. iv. status: Closed, @sonoilbastardo

   The early morning light suddenly seemed to leave one wanting. Don’t look directly into the sun, the books of science and medicine had derived. But, unbeknownst to their sheltered minds, the sun was merely a drowsy warrior. It now seemed distant and disinterested as it absent-mindedly rose over the streets of Verona. However, it was not the sun, but the blaze that had audaciously ravaged the world of the night, scaring away the shadows amidst its relentless anarchy. It no longer hurt to stare at the sun’s heart because his tired pupils had become accustomed to carrying the glowing inferno. To staring into furious and pitiless flames that would consume him in an instant if he dared blink.

   He looked like the clown of a victim — an exaggeration of unkempt exhaustion, the weights of gravity demanding proud shoulders to sink closer to the humble ground. Lacking the proper amount of limbs to clutch all of the holes and gashes and burns, there was only subduing the most demanding of complaints. What had once been the dressings of formality and saturnalia were now ripped and stained with the signs of turmoil, fabric functioning as bandages rather than adornment.

   There was a moment — when he was young — in which he opened his eyes to the ceiling of his room and the world and genuinely forgot where he was… who he was… what and who he belonged to. His dreams had blindfolded him from reality for just the briefest instant. Instead of dreams, this day of burning had utilized waking nightmares to blind him. Now that he had been released from the nightmare, his moment of simple existence both came and went. Priorities — they rushed back.

        Had he seen Easton emerge from the scorching flames? 

            Before the sky of rubble rained its blinding tears?

   For a moment, the panic tightened his lungs as if he were still submerged in the smoking chaos, refusing the charcoal air trying to invade him. To reach inside his body and place a hungry hand around his heart. He squashed the feeling as quickly as it had come.

        Cravens do not die, he reminded himself, doing well to give his sliced arm a stern look.

   Pulling out his phone with a steady hand, he was mocked by the soot under his nails. He kept himself firm and balanced, a stark contrast to the visage. As it rung, the tension that there would be no answer was clenched deep down in his depths. The line picked up to a moment of suspended breath, of presence.

        “Easton.” No impression of shock, nor relief, “Where are you?”

[katelynsgnarlyblog]

Milk and honey, Rupi Kaur.

[archiveddvrpg]

In fair Verona, our tale begins with EVERETT CRAVEN, who is THIRTY-TWO years old. He is often called EDGAR by the CAPULETS and works as their CAPTAIN.

The world has been his for the taking since the moment he took his first breath. Born the first and only legitimate son to a man too wealthy for his own good and slated to inherit the entirety of his father’s estate, Everett Craven has never had any use for the BITTERNESS that often festers in the hearts of those dealt a lesser hand. A living, breathing representation of everything his father had done right and a stark contrast to the son who seemed to remind him of everything he’d done wrong, he’d never felt the need to be anything but a condescending sort of kind, a POMPOUS sort of humble. He played the part of the golden child well, making his father proud and inadvertently stealing what little love and attention the Craven patriarch had afforded the boy he’d never intended to bring into the world; he excelled in school, minded his manners, and pledged his allegiance to the Capulets days after graduating from his father’s alma mater, much to Gabriel Craven’s chagrin. The good son grew into a good man—on the surface. Beneath layers of practiced poise and groomed excellence, something akin to CONCEIT grew like a tumor.

Men like him beg for NOTHING—not for money, not for attention, and certainly not for forgiveness, though as far as the eldest Craven brother is concerned, he’s never truly needed the latter. Call him haughty, call him prideful, call him arrogant, but sin—true sin, the kind that wreaks havoc on the soul and taints the mind—is a poor man’s endeavor, and Everett Craven is anything but. The belief that wrongdoing and those who engage in it are beneath him is a sin in and of itself, but denial is something he can afford in abundance, and he indulges generously. But for all that he’d been GIFTED with the unique ability to do no wrong, his half-brother wasn’t so lucky. He was a troublesome child, desperate to capture his father’s attention through any means, but his antics often had undesirable consequences, and it was for both of their sakes that Everett became his brother’s KEEPER. It was the least he could do for a boy who shared his father but none of his love—to try to mold him into what fate had failed to make him: a son Gabriel Craven could be proud to claim.

Much to Easton’s dismay, he’s yet to abandon his post, even as they’ve aged. It’s always been his self-inflicted penance—repayment for his blessings and reparation for sins he hardly believes he committed—to look after him, to keep him from tarnishing their father’s reputation more than he already has, and it’s a duty he takes seriously, for the Craven name is an HONOR to bear, and to desecrate it is the highest form of blasphemy. He means well; he always has, but Easton will have none of it, and it’s near impossible to help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. To make matters worse, he’s noticed something shift in his brother as of late, something even the golden son can’t bring himself to disregard, for even a good man knows the way BLOODLUST colors the eyes, and as one of Cosimo Capulet’s most reliable captains, he’s seen enough of it to last a rich man’s lifetime. There’s something dangerous brewing in his brother’s green eyes, and despite his self-assured confidence in the past, he’s having a hard time convincing himself that he and Easton are still fighting the same battle.

But all hesitation aside, Everett Craven didn’t earn his reputation by hesitating to cut down all who stand in his way. Even a good man is not above sleeping with one eye open and a finger on the trigger, despite what those in his company and under his command might believe. His kindness is all too often mistaken for WEAKNESS in this city, for the mark of a tamed man, but the eldest Craven son is anything but. It would be quite a shame if his brother made the same mistake as so many others, for the punishment he’ll receive will be no less sharp than that of a sworn enemy. The games they played as children were trivial, but the games they play now are deadly, and Everett was born a WINNER.

FARON VASILIEV: Blight. It is a cardinal, unspoken rule that mobsters and law enforcement never mix. Law enforcement, to any respectable Italian, is about as efficient and necessary as the stray dogs that roam from one pile of trash to the next. So when a dog comes sniffing around looking for scraps to lick up, the only order of action that should naturally follow is to kick it. But Easton is a benevolent man, and men such as he turn the other cheek. They turn the cheek to listen with their better ear and that is what he shall do. Vasiliev thinks himself a clever man, testing the Capulets’ patience, riling them up when he can. But Easton? He knows better. He will wait for this dog to eat the poisoned scraps. He will wait for Vasiliev to be his own demise.

EASTON CRAVEN: Half-brother. Blood runs thicker than water even when it’s been diluted, and despite the fact that the younger man is the product of an affair that deeply embarrassed his own mother, Everett treats him—and has always treated him—like they shared a womb. The feeling has never been mutual, but the older Craven man learned to stop expecting his brother to thank him for something he’d never wanted years ago, and he’s found peace in the realization that his aversion has far more to do with their father than with him. He’s as loyal to him as he would be to a full brother, but even that degree of devotion has its limits; brother or not, pity or not, the captain won’t let his brother tear him into pieces to feel whole himself—not even close. He’ll cut down anyone who tries to rob him of what he’s earned—what he’s inherited, and his brother is no exception. An eye for an eye.

CATHERINE DALY: Friend. She’s the first among his soldiers to look at his kindness as strength, an observation only a soldier of equal ability could make. She’s one of the select few who don’t question him when he doesn’t jump at the chance to shed blood, and he appreciates her respect far more than he lets on. She’s peculiar, that one—hellbent on doing things the right way but determined to pull her own weight in the mob, Catherine often seems a conflict of interest incarnate, but thus far, she’s handled that conflict remarkably well. Only time will tell whether she’ll bend before she breaks, but one thing is certain: she’s found a friend in her captain, and her captain thinks he might have found a friend in her.

HALCYON SANTOS: Sister-in-arms. “Got your six.” Everett Craven seldom says things he doesn’t mean in some shape or form, and the phrase that’s become their hello and goodbye is no exception. He had her back the first day they’d worked together when they’d waltzed into a trap, and he’s had her back since—literally and metaphorically. She’d earned his respect by the manner in which she’d conducted herself under pressure—a valuable trait to have in this city—and it continues to grow with every passing day. That fateful night brought them together, as close encounters with death tend to do, and now, neither hell nor high water could tear them apart. But even comrades have their secrets, and his complex relationship with his brother isn’t something he intends to discuss—good intentions or not. There are two types of family, and he’s learned that it’s for the best that they be kept separate.

Everett is portrayed by FRANCOIS ARNAUD and was written by BREE. He is currently TAKEN by LUCY.