mausoleum @ofgarnett - Tumblr Blog

( monica barbaro / cis female / she/her ) — CAITLIN SILTSHORE has been living in Port Leiry for HER WHOLE LIFE (BUT RECENTLY RETURNED AFTER A YEAR AWAY). They currently work as a SILTSHORE MAUSOLEUM (OWNER), and are TWENTY-EIGHT years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a WITCH WARLOCK (TENEBRIS) or if they’re connected to GARNETT COVEN. They tend to be quite SELF-DESTRUCTIVE and ICARIAN, but can also be CURIOUS and AMBITIOUS.—

( tw: death, murder )

tl;dr: cait comes from a bloodline of witches who made some mistakes centuries ago and found themselves cursed as a result. the siltshore bloodline gets picked off one by one over the decades, and now here's cait, the last of her name. the curse comes with a haunting - cait grows up having to handle it. she tries to get rid of it in her early twenties and it backfires, badly. she leaves her ex-fiance for dead and goes off the grid for two whole years. she comes back to port leiry when she learns her uncle, leader of the garnett coven, has been murdered died. her uncle leaves her the coven and the mausoleum. it doesn't take cait long to realize that her uncle has been murdered by none other than her ex-fiance. the ex-fiance and cait work together to take her possession and turn it into a patron, making themselves the first warlocks this world has seen. the spell comes at a cost: 15,000 souls. well, 15,001 - cait leaves her ex-fiance for dead for a second time and this time, he stays dead. cait returns to port leiry shortly after to continue running her coven. this only works for so long, faction leaders congregate and agree that there must be consequences for the town cait decimated and the souls she claimed. cait is exiled. it is now, a year later, the exile has lapsed on a technicality. she returns to her home in port leiry.

caitlin is a morally gray / evil leaning warlock who is an innovator at heart. running on sheer ambition, she wants to build her coven into something lasting; wants to create and create and create and encourage others do the same.

about under the cut I penned by rey

#cor.intro #pinned post #updated intro!

coldasxwinter

somewhere outside one of the clubs...

From afar, it might look like two lovers having a moment in an alley. They still smelled of sweat and liquor from the club they'd met in, bodies finding each other's in the throng of movement. Dancing, writhing, and then a few words were exchanged before they were outside. It was cold, but Winter had never minded the cold, and he didn't really care about how the other felt about it.

"Just a little taste," he reassured the other breathlessly, detaching from his neck to whisper in their ear. Winter smiled, fangs bared, and dove back in, not needing to take a breath even if his partner probably could have.

When he'd finished, the other was no longer conscious, held up only by Winter's hand firm on their shoulder. He wiped his mouth with the back of his other hand, leaned down a bit to take a look at the human, and then let go of them. They slumped to the ground, and for a moment it seemed like Winter would just walk away.

At the last second, he hesitated, and then he leaned down to fix the other. It was quick, no more than a second or two, and the human's back was against the wall, head lolled to the side but definitely looking more comfortable than before. They were breathing, Winter knew, and they were bundled up well enough as long as they were found soon. He made sure they weren't in the dark, light enough on them to alert some passerby.

But then he was walking away, leaving the alley, finally noticing the individual who had likely seen a lot of what had just happened. With his hunger satiated, he was calm, confident in a way he usually reserved for at work. Winter smirked at the other, raising a brow. "Problem?"

ofgarnett

Caitlin has spent the better part of her life understanding what blood is for. Blood is her magic, or her magic is blood - depending on the hour of the day, and which side of the altar she is standing on. The warlock despises vampires for the simple nature of them: she finds the consumption of something so potent in exchange for something so meager to crawl the earth far from an equivalent transaction. She believes it doubly tonight, as she watches this hollow little parasite in a leather jacket drain a passerby like a cheap beer.

"Problem?" the vampire is asking. Brow up. A shade of confidence in his tone. The warlock does not answer. Her coat is drawn all the way to her chin so that she looks like the stalk of a streetlamp, gravity shifting like a well around her, eyes fixed on the slouched figure he has left at the brick. She does not sow a single fuck for the vampire; she seethes, instead, for all that blood about to go to waste. She moves then - striding past the offender, hopping some alleyway debris, and kneeling at the side of wastefully arranged human. Two fingers slip up along the cooling jaw - the easy, practiced touch of a warlock who has spent her whole life siphoning life-and-death, life-and-death, life-and-death through the long quiet tunnels of her veins.

"He left a great deal of you," she informs the body, conversationally. What a waste. What a fucking waste. "I think it is important, in moments like this, that we are honest about who finishes what."

She lays her palm flat against the human's sternum, and pulls. A small contemptuous sneer touches the corner of her mouth as she pulls, and pulls, and pulls at the magic. There must have been an ancestor of hers once - one who probably still sits nestled somewhere in her bones - who pulled just like this at a loom: patient, steady, gathering the long bright thread of something that did not, strictly, belong to her, and making something new of it because she could.

As she takes the blood for herself, the magic for herself, Cait wonders if the vampire knows yet that she has just finished his dinner. That is what is happening here. He left it on the plate; she has eaten it for him; and now they are both standing in this alley, one of them simply surviving and the other measurably more powerful for it.

"I've seen rats with better economy," Caitlin finally, condescendingly, speaks. "I do not, as a rule, think highly of rats, and the comparison is frankly, unkind to the rats - who at least finish what they start."

Her sneer gains the smallest gleam of tooth behind it. And why not? She is a warlock, with fresh blood at her fingertips. Whatever he says next, she would like him to say it under the load-bearing understanding that he is, presently, the second most efficient predator in this conversation, and the gap is not what one would call close.

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; winter )

ajastor

[AJ read her message. He did not reply.]

"Alright, love. Don't push it." It's a threat without the violence of capability. And it's a worthless statement, because Caity, as ever, pushes it when a hand vices on his wrist and he feels the tendrils of magic slither beneath his flesh and burrow into the marrow; calcifying his bones, whilst equally raking sharp nails along the lengths of them. This is Caity, without playing conduit. But this magic isn't hers, or is — but fresh; restless, like a newly given heart in a transplant. It feels like there's some potential to reject its host. AJ knows from the first invasion that her success is explosive. He's also done terrible things to those who weave their magic unsolicited under his skin. He thinks about Riv, when he oversteps, blowing his pit out of the abyss with a flash of gold. The waitress he threw off the edge because she dared to touch his heart. Caitlin is pushing. Always.

Something almost inhuman tears out of her, and it has Astor's eyes narrowing on Cait. When he gains full control of his arm again, he has to wonder if he utters an old curse to spite Garnett, if it would even strike with intention, or if it would fall into his cup, sizzling at the base of it. There's more things than murder that AJ cares about, so he practically dismisses her cast-off: "I'm glad you know the distinction."

He knows what part he played in it. Takes satisfaction knowing Cait is what she is now, because he solved her riddle. A thousand years of mess, for AJ to meddle with the broken pieces and trigger a metamorphosis like no other has ever known.

She makes herself at home, gathering flora, and herbs from his units. He filters through his mind-grimoire of spells, recipes, and what protoscience she's been scratching up on, given his display of power a week ago. He's flicking through the pages of memory, suspicion written all over tired features.

"I'm not getting in a bloody Uber, Garnett. What for?" He suspects he knows, because she will want to leer it over his head; this status of stunted magic, on crashing display and bleeding into every drink and pile in the penthouse. "I'm fine, Caity." Despite his predicament, every name rolls of his tongue, laced with bitterness. It's what got him here to begin with. A joke that her shadow couldn't hack.

He's never seen Caitlin drop a drink like a shot, but he smiles — it's hilarious.

She is hilarious. Eyes skirt to the gilded statuettes at the door, pieces of memories of nights well-spent guarding his rented hotel room like Janus, seeing both the past and the future in one sweeping motion. Garnett might suit it, if he didn't find it agitating that he liked her bloody wit. Even her inability to quit. It's as hungry and all-devouring as his. But his hunger is ravenous, and he lacks the resources — the power, to feed it, with slithers of his magic weaving through the gaps in his ribcage; a wounded snake, curling and slithering its way around his core, preying on what Astor might feed it next. Maybe a fragment of Cait, if he tore away the golden tattoo that no longer serves their agreement; a pact completed.

More than one, in fact.

He doesn't acknowledge that his shirt is unbuttoned, that sweat beads in the cracks of his chest, glistening gold scars against the penthouse lights. It's dingy, still. Because he's made a mess of the place. New black shorts that Bvlgari gifted him, despite missing the Rome meeting several weeks ago. Caity's about to drag him out of his wasteland he's wallowing in, and he's never wanted to leave a burn deeper than now across her hands, for the deadpan mockery.

AJ almost moves to make another drink to replace the one she stole, but he refrains. Slipping past her to at least change his shirt. "You want me to trudge through a forest with you, love? I don't do romance like that. But I got a bed we can explore." a beat, because he's joking on this occasion: "Talk to me about Nebraska, I get a kick out of watching for your tells in your allegories." She's got a few, and her eyes are the ones he notices most. Because there's no way he didn't catch her hesitation a week ago about a city to wipe out. It'll weigh on a soul, he imagines. Dominoes knocked over that aren't smart or good enough to match real power. But if she's anything like him; there's always a cost they'll pay to know what could come next.

ofgarnett

“Get in the Uber, Astor — unless you’d like my grand debut as a Warlock to be me trussing you up and hauling you out without ever laying a finger on you.” The threat leaves Caitlin’s mouth on a ribbon of smoke-sweet mockery, and she savors the way the syllables coil in the candle-stale air of his ruined penthouse. Her magic — new, bright, raw as a blister — crackles across her knuckles as she wiggles her fingers, a matador’s flourish daring the bull to charge. “Chin up, Astor. It’s not even an XL. It’s Shared, just for you.” A lie, of course. She ordered a Comfort ride, but she thinks it’s fun to see him sweat.

She watches the words sink into him like needles and catalogues the minute tremor at the corner of his mouth: irritation, maybe admiration, maybe both. Power tastes best when it’s half-bitten, still bleeding.

He fires back the tired innuendo about his bed — “And I don’t do romance like that” she says and she snorts. Romance. As though what either of them craves could fit inside satin sheets and candlelight. For her, romance is forged in friction: two flints striking until one ignites or shatters. For him, it’s the exchange of leverage, a barter of soft flesh for harder secrets. They’re just two apex predators spinning different labels onto the same hunger.

He turns, fingers twitching toward new fabric, and she tracks every hitch of muscle beneath gold-laced scars. If he’s willing to shed his shirt in front of her, he’s either showing off or forgetting himself; either way, she records each seam of damage, every uneven line of healing. Weak spots. Doors she might pry open later. She wonders what he would read in hers — the sigils Tenebris carved across her sternum, the network of self-inflicted glyphs that lace her arms like constellations. Atlas Jay sleeps with anyone and hands them the map of his ruin; Caitlin would rather die than be that naked. She drifts closer, a moon pulled by some dark physics, half-glutted on dread. His skin still shines — feverish, salt-slick — each breath rattling like a bird trapped in a rusted cage of ribs and waning spellwork. There’s an aureate seam arcing from hip to hip beneath the twelfth rib — a half-moon of melted gold soldered to flesh. It catches the low light like a locket’s hinge, daring anyone to open him again. Above and below it, smaller gilt flecks stipple his back and stomach — wear-and-tear wounds he’ll laugh off, deny, tuck beneath swagger—but the metalized skin refuses to forget. She notes each one, pins them in her mind like rare insects.

His palms, already familiar to her, flash those thin, ritual scars — frail lines that once ferried power, now ghostly crossing guards. Over everything coils the tattoo he calls protection: twin black serpents slithering from each shoulder, looping across his chest and meeting at the sternum in lazy eternity. Decorative, almost ordinary, yet their inked bodies frame the bright fault under them, as though the snakes cling to the wound to keep him stitched together.

Untouchable, he would say. But Caitlin sees the truth in every radiant welt. A quicksilver thought: trace one scar, just one, feel whether it quails like a foal or flares like phosphorus. Her hand aches with the wanting, but she lets the want hiss in her palm, bright and poisonous, like foxglove she’s too wise to swallow.

The Tom Collins — or the idea of Tom Collins — rises in her blood, warm as wildfire. He asks about Nebraska, lips curling around the word like it still tastes of ash. She answers the question about Nebraska with half a shrug, letting the memory bloom behind her eyes.

“Imagine peeling back the sky and finding nothing underneath but want. That’s what it felt like in Ashford Bend: I took the town’s rib cage apart, bolt by bolt, and invited the black-star thing inside my chest to step through. One minute the air tasted of diesel and corn silk; the next it tasted like the inside of a struck bell — metal, echo, inevitability. I watched fifteen thousand sleepers sigh their last, and in the same breath I felt the universe sigh open around me. I should have crumpled under the weight of that contradiction. But I didn’t. Do you know the high of that, Atlas? It’s cleaner than any drug: the moment proof and faith collapse into the same heartbeat.”She lets the silence ring. “Made me feel, in that moment, like I was the best witch in the world.”

It isn’t bragging. It’s confession — razor-bare, ungilded. And it’s the truth. Since that night she’s walked with gravity bent a half-degree toward her. It thrills her; it terrifies her. Both sensations live in the same rib, fluttering like twin sparrows.

The rideshare alert pings her phone. Perfect timing. She shows him the screen, a green car icon inching toward the lobby. Her smile is all teeth, no mercy.

“Uber’s here. How are we doing this?”

#what is 'They’re just two apex predators spinning different labels onto the same hunger' if not just literary 'two tops at war'#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; atlas jay )#pre gala

rivenvictors

His mother still lived in him. Like a parasite left to fester in rotting insides. Even when he was done, dead and buried, parts of her would still remain, laced through empty veins and brittle bone.

Her magic, not his, had killed that vampire. It was her magic that had reached into a ribcage and crushed a heart, not pumping blood, no, but still living. A heart that still spoke, still wore the illusion (better than one he'd ever cast) of breath and touch and feeling.

He’d seen them — vampires mimicking life so perfectly that creatures fell in love with them. Kissed their mouths and whispered promises against cold throats. Believed.

That vampire deserved to die the moment cold hands touched the warmth of Tomas, but not by his hand. Someone else's death, even if justified, wasn’t something he wanted lodged in his conscience. It would be her hands that did the killing. Not his.

As if to rid himself of her the witch wrenched his hand back, like Cait’s skin might burn him. "This isn’t me." A lie, that he was desperate to believe. Desperation flared in his eyes, tears blurring his vision, hot and sharp like a hundred swords stabbed through his eyes. No. No— This wasn’t true. It was all words, words, words —useless, brittle things. Wind and nothing more.

Magic recoiled, he turned and then he was walking fast. Faster. Leaving Cait behind like she was the plague. Like her ugliness might catch on him if he lingered.

────────

How far could he go? Was there anywhere far enough where she wouldn’t reach him?Ever since Cait had stepped foot inside his apartment, it was like she’d laced her magic with his mother’s. Like something ancient had stirred. Awoken, as though her spirit, alive again, tucked behind Cait’s ribs — speaking through her mouth, breathing her air, melting magic with hers. And from that alchemy, a new kind of monster was forming.

One that wore Cait’s skin and a dress, long and beautiful. Her hands were wrapped around AJ’s. They walked in together. And Riven didn’t know what to make of it. His friend wasn’t the type to fall for silly games. Power like his didn’t need enhancing. Didn’t need her. What are you doing with her, Astor?

His feet betrayed him and took him forward. Curiosity: a terrible vice that dragged him closer, where pain struck like a knife in the back at the sight. His eyes locked onto her, drilling into the woman.

ofgarnett

Cait feels Riven’s stare long before she sees him. It needles between her shoulder blades, cold and insistent, even while Atlas Jay’s laughter still vibrates against her skin. She peels away from the conversation, slips through the throng, and sets a straight course for the gaze boring a hole in her spine. Mid-stride she flicks her wrist; a champagne flute lifts clean from a passing tray, drifts across the ballroom, and hovers inches from Riven’s chest — held there by nothing but her will. He can claim it, or let it crash and stain his suit like a challenge dropped at his feet. The glass trembles, a glittering ultimatum.

“One day, Riven,” she says, voice low but carrying, “you’ll find the courage to approach me yourself at these sorts of parties instead of just staring at me from across the room. Until then, I’ll do the honors.” She stops close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the questions in his eyes. “Hi.”

Her smile widens, bright and wicked. “So — how’s the grand project of pretending your legacy doesn’t exist? Any cold-sweat nights yet? Wondering if mediocrity might be terminal?” She lets the words settle. “I heard you’re editing books these days. A website swears half of it’s mermaid smut. Interesting hill to abandon your magic on.”

She studies him, searching for flickers of his mother in the angles of his face. Cait doesn’t want to echo dead voices; she wants the truth Riven keeps shoveling into shallow graves fo. If that truth is tangled with the late witch’s shadow, so be it. Her eyes drop to the floating flute, still trembling like a pinned moth. “Take the drink — or let it break. Either way, doesn't matter to me.”

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; riven )#cor.conclave

nadiaholme

Nadia's eyebrows raise as the woman - another leader here in Port Leiry - turns to her. She's done her damned best to attempt to learn as much as possible in the previous weeks about the locals and the ones from afar. It had done nothing to help the feeling of inadequacy fully thrumming through her entire body now. Her magic needed to be dampened for the time being, so she couldn't stretch out the threads of knowing to figure out the specifics of what Caitlin Siltshore means.

The basics, though, are things she's heard from elsewhere. She hopes that's enough to carry a conversation.

"Rune enchantment, from what I've heard, requires a very delicate hand - Maybe it's precision we ain't so hot at?" Her own magic is not precise at all, and it's not a knock on her colleagues either. "I wouldn't mind crashin', to learn more, but I feel like I'd learn just as much speakin' with you."

She holds out her hand to shake. "Nadia Holme, head of Augury."

ofgarnett

She inclines her head. “I can see that. Precision —” The word lingers until Nadia’s title lands. “Still, if anyone’s built for needle-point accuracy, it’s the diviners. Reading futures atom-thin has to steady the hand.” A smile ghosts across her mouth, sly but not unkind. “Caitlin Siltshore, Garnett.” Her handshake is firm, brief, the greeting of someone forever in motion. “I’m newish myself — blew back into town in February.”

She flicks two fingers toward Nadia, echoing the dropped ain’t. “I hear a drawl. Where’s it from?”

Nadia’s timing is impeccable. In a few hours at they’ll stride into a closed room with every leader in Port Leiry — Jameson and Danielle there too — and Cait would rather not walk in half blind. She owes nothing to the out-of-towners yet, but this Warlock twist matters, and the local coven leaders deserve a clear sightline before midnight detonates with a convergence. Better to trade truths now, while the future is still soft enough to carve.

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; nadia )

firstlomidze

Lana's attended many events like this one in her long life, many galas thrown by The Conclave. Has seen all the different factions parading around like they were trying to put on a show enough to be mostly bored with it all by now. But never had attending alone been so bothersome for her. And she couldn't help the way her eyes kept moving around, searching for dark eyes and a challenging attitude.

She hadn't realized who she had stopped next to, but the strong scent of magic reached her nose, different, just as soon as the words caressed her ears, and she turned, a raised eyebrow and amused smile on her lips. Wyrmwood Coven, the tree fanatics if she remembers them correctly. Powerful still, with their craft.

"I do believe you need only ask one of them, though you know how some elders are with their knowledge, best kept between their own." Not that Lana could blame them for that, she was particularly fond of keeping things to herself. "Or perhaps it was merely a reluctance to share with a vampire, they're very... nature inclined."

ofgarnett

“Svelana Lomidze,” Caitlin greets, letting the consonants chime like cut glass between them.

To her, the Lomidze clan feels like a manor sealed against sunlight — old-world, inward-facing, the antithesis of Garnett’s wide-open gates. She can’t ignore the quiet tragedy etched into every vampire: an eternity of breathing without expanding. The thought of being denied perpetual growth — of never widening, never deepening — threatens to split her at the seams.

Yet here, their views converge. “The elders are petrified of what happens when knowledge stops being their private currency,” she says, voice smooth but unyielding. “If you’re afraid of empowerment, you should have built a world where power isn’t so easy to abuse.” Simple arithmetic.

Caitlin tips a smirk open in easy barter. “Nature welcomed is a virtue in Garnett’s books. What’s your read on the Kanoutés and the Pembrokes? Half the room already knows how I feel about the latter.”

#The elders are petrified of what happens when knowledge stops being their private currency #big belief for cait love that i got to write it here #( caitlin ; lana )#cor.conclave #( caitlin ; interactions )

lottieleon

Charlotte is fascinated by the woman who has taken up beside her. Most people would look at her, see the slight movements of her head, and only see a queen observing her kingdom. But Charlotte had learned to watch the eyes, the corners of the mouth. And this woman’s eyes were tearing this room apart like it had done something to wrong her, the corner of her mouth subtly twitching like a displeased, worried Mama.

She watched her gaze flick over a woman with raven black hair, a man with black curls, a woman with hair that gleamed like honey, and a tall boy in a silk suit. Charlotte knew what it was like to be a mother duck. Noted the slight nod in the woman’s head as she counted her flock. But then the woman’s gaze turned her purpose. A change only noted by a darkening in her gaze. She started to devour the foreign faction leader.

Charlotte had read up on the visiting parties before coming to the event. She knew the power of information as it had once been withheld from her grasp. Her temporary neighbour had obviously done the same. Was forming and reforming opinions in her demenour as she took in the newcomers.

Charlotte hadn’t though she was staring until the woman’s gaze quickly sliced into her. She would have stepped back if she wasn’t slightly stunned at being so suddenly perceived.

This woman spoke. Words clear with purpose. Charlotte would love to figure out the kinetic nature of Wyrmwood. Her own magic was often considered kinetic in the movement of water and the ocean. But would this inquisitive observer care to have her along for a debate.

‘I would love to learn more.’ She signed. ‘It would also be interesting to learn if given the nature of the world tree, if certain areas are better suited to their sort of runic magic than others.’

Charlotte’s magic had always been better suited to salt water than fresh water. There never seemed to be any reason behind it, other witches in her coven had similar magical tendencies. It would be interesting to learn if covens that relied on a source were similar.

Charlotte removed her pad. She was not helpless in a conversation with someone who couldn’t sign. But would this woman have her as a conversational partner.

ofgarnett

Caitlin blinks in pleased surprise when Charlotte’s fingers move. The muscle-memory of college evenings as President of Latin club come back to her, having learned ASL for the accessibility of all her members. She rubs a thumb against her knuckle, shakes the rust from her wrists, and signs back—slow, deliberate: I’m out of practice, forgive the lag. A rueful smile curls as she mouths, “Give me grace.”

Then — nerd-mode. It settles on her shoulders like a mantle.

“From what I’ve read,” she signs, punctuating key terms aloud for clarity, “terrain can overpower rune complexity. Old-growth root systems, peat marshes, even abandoned orchards behave like living capacitors. The lignin lattice inside century-old roots stores ambient charge the way a lithium cell hoards ions. Anchor a kinetic glyph there and it fires faster, recharges almost instantly —” she pulls out her phone then, thumbs racing, as her vocabulary outruns her signing — “but you court feedback loops. Nature dislikes debts it can’t reclaim.”

She turns the screen so Charlotte can read:

I want soil samples tbh. Iron-rich or quartz-veined soil can work a natural conductor, especially if groundwater salinity sits above 3%. Barometric swings and coastal humidity jitter rune stability; drizzle on a high-pressure front can spike discharge by twelve percent.

Add ritual history and you get imprint echoes—cumulative resonance from every chant, burn-mark, or blood-drop ever spilled on-site. Wyrmwood claims the World Tree’s echoes boost efficacy five percent. My stuff I've read says closer to two, but their ritual density is… absurd.

Caitlin’s gaze lifts, bright with curiosity. She sketches a small wave-motion in the air—water, ocean—and signs, Salt bias? “Most water witches I’ve read about show stronger coupling in brine than in freshwater. Chloride ions increase plasma conductivity; tides give them cyclic pressure gradients—free kinetic priming.” A playful shrug. “Physics loves a good rhythm.”

She pockets the phone, returns to hands for the part that matters. Caitlin Siltshore, she signs, fingers steady now. Garnett Coven. You?

#nerd mode activate #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; charlotte )#cor.conclave

summersauveterre

There are very few faces here she recognizes, which is alright. That's part of the point, isn't it? And as she finds herself continuing to settle in Port Leiry (though home is just a few hour's drive away), she knows more and more of these people will become familiar, and perhaps even friends.

Summer is enjoying the music performances, though she doesn't exactly partake in any of the dancing that accompanies some of the livelier tunes. Her dress doesn't drag, exactly, but she's certain she'll trip or otherwise get herself tangled in with someone she doesn't intend to thanks to its bountiful, soft lace.

But then there's Cait, confident as she moves about the space like a shark -- ever forward. Aside from the recent street fair, which had a different sort of energy all together, Summer hasn't seen her coven leader in a truly formal social setting. Even with all the fabric and lace and pretense wrapped around every partygoer this evening, Cait seems wholly unrestricted by the social contracts of the evening. In fact, she seems to exist outside of it, for a moment.

"And yet, the single beat of a butterfly's wing can change the entire history of the world, right? Isn't that what they say?" Everything to its season. Nothing lasts forever, but everything renews. Revives. One butterfly might not last, but butterflies are eternal. That is, if they care for the earth as it deserves to be cared for.

"The night is lovely so far, thank you. I have the easy job -- you're the one who has to work tonight," she says, reaching out to take a champagne flute. "I think just because they're all from out of town doesn't make them better than anyone here. Or worse, for that matter -- I look forward to learning from them, I think Wyrmwood most of all. But what about you?"

ofgarnett

A single wingbeat can knock the world half a degree off its orbit — good for that butterfly, Caitlin thinks — but she answers aloud, weightless and sure: “I don’t think I could ever stop at just one beat.”

Now that she’s within arm’s reach, Summer’s magic rolls across her skin like warm surf on a moonlit shore. It smells of cut grass and salt, bright pollen and a hint of bonfire smoke. The current tugs and releases, tidal, synchronized to cicada hum and chlorophyll pulse. High summer presses in from every window, and the season itself seems to pool at Summer’s feet, begging to be poured into something living.

“Speaking of butterflies — this is your quarter of the calendar, isn’t it?” She lifts her champagne in salute. In that dress, Summer should be on the floor, dancing. “We should do more than toast. Channel that swell into roots and petals. Garnett’s greenhouse could use a new wing - let’s coax one from the loam.”

She flicks her hand at the mention of leadership. “Love–hate arrangement. Looks good on paper, kills spontaneity. I end up living vicariously through Mara — she’s allowed to make the messes I’d be scolded for.” A quick spark lights her eyes.

“Wyrmwood’s my pick too. Their Yggdrasil fixation dovetails with Garnett, and I’m a shameless fangirl for their tech. Bet they’re still gnashing teeth that we cracked daylight jewelry first.” She tosses her head back and cackles a little at that. Her laugh is quick and bright. “Mariposa fascinates me, though. All that glamour — what’s it really hiding? I know I’m missing a piece. Catch me later and I’ll give you the full Pembroke rant. Berserker feels like a frat house; Zhongshan’s grifts are almost admirable; Kanoute? Pretty brushstrokes, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

#cor.conclave #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; summer )

witchkore

Kore stands tall, highball glass in hand as they survey the occupants of the room freely. When they meet anyone's eye, Kore takes an extra second to match their gaze before moving on coolly. Plenty are doing the same with them, and they face the challenges head on. A few have tried to pique their interest, and Kore wonders what they are thinking when they see the sparkling jewels on several of the vampires scattered throughout the crowd. Jewels that they had a hand in creating.

It's comical almost, to see all of Port Leiry out in their finest and trying to make a good impression on the visitors to the city. They know that Nadia is here to represent their coven, has caught a glimpse of Viktoria, which means Lana likely is somewhere among the throng of people.

Their lips thin briefly until a voice is cutting through their distracted thoughts, and they turn their head to look upon Caitlin Siltshore. Like everyone else, Kore takes their measure of the younger witch, and there is a humming energy that seems to vibrate just off her skin. There is a difference to her, one that Kore can't quite put their finger on, but Cait is nonetheless a good ally to have in this moment, particularly when there are so many new faces about.

"Could do a bit of quid pro quo," Kore adds amiably with a glint of mischief in their eye. "Knowledge for knowledge." They know what they have to offer, and are curious what Caitlin has under her own domain now.

ofgarnett

Caitlin knows the witch even if they’ve never traded words until now. Digs the glint of mischief in their eye. Matches it with her own. “Well, if it isn’t Kore Matsui — the witch this whole evening is built around.” Daylight jewelry. It's been the talk of the whole gala. She tips an acknowledging smile. “Quid pro quo with Wyrmwood sounds perfect.” She lifts her hands, palms open in an easy gesture of barter that nevertheless feels ceremonial, as though she is laying rare seeds across a marble altar. “Garnet lives to share knowledge, I can brief them on our latest work in botany and entropy — ” Her voice slides from cordial to conspiratorial, “ — but I bet you anything Wyrmwood’s desperate to meet you. Half their coven canonizes you for daylight jewelry; the other half curses your name for cracking the code first. Existing only matters when the response is seismic, don’t you think?”

Caitlin certainly thinks so. A quiet legacy isn’t a legacy at all. Better to make the ground buckle, to force history to rearrange its bones around your footprint, than to leave tiptoe prints the tide can scrub away.

“Tell me — what was it like, that exact instant the idea snapped into place?” Cait has been reverse-engineering daylight pieces herself; whether most vampires deserve the sun is irrelevant. She needs to grasp the gears beneath the miracle. She wonders what drove Kore — simple curiosity, aching love, or something closer to her own pursuit of Warlock-hood: raw, uncut ambition? Either way, she sees them both as the world’s Pandoras. The box exists, so they open it — no matter what spills out. Show them the hinge, and witches like them will test how far it swings, charting every creak of possibility. “And what exactly set you on that path?”

#( caitlin ; kore )#( caitlin ; interactions )#cor.conclave

millieteethewolf

"Yeah!" Millie says, because she knew some of those words.

She nods, looking around, trying to figure out where Jeanette slipped off to. "Hell yeah! Let's fuck 'em up, witch lady!"

She sips on some sort of funky fizzy drink she'd swiped off a passing tray (something done with difficulty given how far she had to reach up) and nods. "Lets figure out how the Wyrmwoods graft kinetic runes without blowing half their shit up."

This was all about mingling right? All these monster big-wigs in town to be like 'hey look at us, we're monster big-wigs'.

"You are a witch yeah? You smell nice, but also like a witch, you know, like, witches smell funky? But not dead funky or dog funky."

She nods, like that was the most normal thing she could have said. "You think they got magic wands? I want a magic wand. Like the guy in the movie with the brooms. Oh shit! That'd make my job so easy."

ofgarnett

Cait tilts her head, replaying the stranger’s rush of enthusiasm and trying to gauge whether it’s bravado, mischief, or plain sincerity. The person’s eyes are clear, her grin unforced — genuine, she decides, bewilderingly so.

“ ‘Fuck them up’ might spark a diplomatic incident,” she says slow, mouth tilting into a wry curve, “but I can’t fault the spirit. Very much my speed.”

Her question about witches still hangs between them. Cait inhales, catching her own signature mix of clove and incense — the smell of spellwork half-finished. “Yes, witch—” she says, choosing her words carefully. “Mid-glow-up. If you will.” The warlock revelation can wait; Mara and Estela deserve to hear first. Even so, there’s a flicker of delight at how easily this stranger coaxes honesty from her. She laughs, low. “For the record, I’ll take ‘not dead dog’ as a compliment. Necromancers get worse.”

Technically necromancer-adjacent now. Something else entirely. Semantics. Caitlin tests the air around Millie, sensing no familiar pull of coven magic. “You, on the other hand, definitely aren’t a witch — interesting.”

Her gaze follows Millie’s toward the Wyrmwood contingent, all runic steel and restless innovation. “About the wand,” Cait muses, slipping back into lecture mode, a tone she takes all too often with Jaya. “If you need a simple amplifier, they can manage that. A fully self-contained focus anyone can use? That’s trickier, but not impossible.” She angles her body, curiosity piqued. “So tell me — what job of yours gets easier with a wand?” She wonders if this person, with all their... energy... should even have a wand.

#lololol incredible work this whole thread #ignore arnold schwarzenegger in the foreground of this gif #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; millie )#cor.conclave

princejaya

Who: @ofgarnett When: Cocktail hour, too early for this bullshit

With a quick try not to get into too much trouble, he left Billie near the refreshments table, crossing the room with grace. This was a chance to mingle and speak with other witches in the city, and he was not going to pass that up. He would stick to his usual strategies, a quick scan of the room for anyone who seemed interesting, check up with familiar faces and—

Well, there goes that plan. It was him. The vampire that he’d been searching for since the hurricane, the man who had taken his blood and, unforgivably, his necklace. His left hand had already moved to clasp his right, twisting one of his rings in a familiar, grounding motion as his thoughts raced.

He had yet to come up with a name for the spell that he began to focus around his fingers, energy crackling under his skin. Usually, he liked to take his time with perfecting spells, coming up with variations and clever names for them, but this one had taken so much energy in balancing the complicated necessity for the caster’s specific emotional state that it had never progressed past its working title of Fuck Your Life Forever. It was a bit wordy for his tastes, as is, but it alluded to the effects well enough. He was never very eloquent with his anger, and that man had taken something precious from him. He tapped the pads of his fingers against his thumb, muttering his incantations as he walked before lifting the thumb to his teeth, drawing blood with a sharp bite and repeating the tapping again, building power with each movement. It was a slow process, the first step of almost a dozen, but he had enough anger and blood to fuel it.

The sight of Cait on another side of the room, catching his eye and raising her glass in greeting, made him stop, pouring a bucket of reality over his rage. This wasn’t his home, this wasn’t an event where he could shove his anger into a spell and have his parents spend more time complimenting his spellwork than chiding him for being so brazen with his magic at a supposed diplomatic event. This wasn’t the kind of spell they’d cover for, anyways.

He was a member of Garnett, now. A member of a coven that he was expected to play by the rules of, and that meant he couldn’t simply curse a man in the middle of a gala over a personal matter. It was with no small effort that he paused his spellwork, letting the energy fizzle away. What a waste.

He turned, heading towards Cait instead, his voice coiled into a tense facade of pleasantness, matching the smile he dragged his face into. “Your dress is stunning, where did you get it? The vampire is here. Black suit, white designs on the front, peacock feather, behind me.”

ofgarnett

Cait clocks Jaya’s finger-crooking hex before the ice in her sazerac has time to sweat. Too early for this brand of bullshit, she thinks, and curses the curse of leadership: someone has to stop over-eager witches from nuking gala floorboards. There was a time she’d have pocketed an eyeball for sport, but rank comes with paperwork — and she is not letting six faction heads reduce her apprentice to ash tonight.

She lifts her glass in a lazy salute — I see you, simmer down — while the dark in her ribs unfurls, sleek as a whip, itching to lash across polished parquet and strangle the budding sigil out of existence. Given half a slip, it would scour Jaya clean off the map and leave a jagged burn in the fabric of reality for the custodial clerics to patch. Leadership, alas, means keeping the darkness on a leash — no matter how satisfying the snap would feel.

Still relishes the thought of the feeling though.

Jaya reels himself in — credit where it’s due — and drifts her way, magic doused but nerves still sparking. Caitlin ignores the obligatory compliment about her dress; couture is camouflage, not conversation. She’s more interested in the real intel, which he coughs up in seconds. Her gaze tracks the direction he indicates and lands on the unmistakable silhouette of Reardon’s leader. Figures.

“Oh, honestly,” she drawls, sazerac swirling between her fingers, absinthe licking at her lip. “Of all the leeches in this circus, you’re fixated on the one that has fangs on a payroll.” She keeps her voice soft, casual, belaying the danger underneath as she calculates. Her eyes have narrowed in the direction of the Reardon head. “Tell me you ran a locator thread first — does he actually have your necklace on him? Or were you planning to hex now, fact-check later?”

No judgment, only surgical curiosity. Then a slow, wicked smile: “And for my own morbid interest — what brand of ruin were you about to unleash?”

Caitlin’s arcane senses flare brighter than she expects — warlock work has clearly turbo-charged her radar— and she can practically taste the flavor of Jaya’s half-formed spell. Nebraska kept her away for a few days (and saddled Jaya with enough homework to floor a lesser witch), but she still remembers the first thing he ever asked of her: magic that runs on the caster alone, no borrowed herbs or moonlight, no quiet theft from the world. She’d recognized the hunger; what is a warlock if not a self-contained engine?

Now she’s back, currents humming under her skin, more than ready to sharpen his edge. But first, priorities. “Please tell me you haven’t spent this entire week lurking after one overpaid neck-biter,” she says, eyebrow arched. “Did you even say hello to the visiting dignitaries, or are we still in stalk-and-seethe mode?” Her eyes jump to his neck to see if there are any pricks to be found there. "Are you here with someone?"

#lol translation are you here with a VAMPIRE #cor.conclave #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; jaya )

ajastor

You're still alive, Garnett. Maybe I'm a little impressed by the tenacity. But you better piss off talking code. Big thing you did.

AJ's phone is somewhere on the kitchen island. Discarded like a lead weight following the messages between himself and the Garnett head. A flashing, vibrating thing that's merely a slew of missed calls and emails he won't answer. Levinon. Astorgold. Executive duties, ignored. Both alchemy and alcohol feature en masse instead.

AJ's slouched against a kitchen side, a half-empty Tom Collins' in his hand, and a glazed pair of dark eyes that stare fruitlessly at the array of magic that he cannot channel as he is meant to. A sputtering, coughing stream of metallurgy, and no matter what language he uses. It laughs.

He lifts a hand, holds it out in front of him, watches his fingers flex in triple vision. A broken channel of magic, visibly beneath the surface of his skin; a weakness he denies — despite the difficult act of reaching for the warmth that usually nestles in his chest. Astor has to laugh, because it's better than a week ago, but not nearly as potent as his day-to-day. Caitlin worked a number on him — No. The entity within her, did. He knows that hadn't been Cait's magic. Something far more abyssal had struck him, and left its mark.

AJ doesn't hear the door open, nor close.

Just a voice that resembles the one in his mind when he closes his eyes.

"Two man party now you're here." Maybe she's one of the hallucinations of a little too much gin, and not enough sleep. He'd talk to the ghosts, even if they don't usually talk back. What else is there to do?. He raises his glass half-heartedly, and lowers the hand that he'd been feeling for his power with, offers her a half-assed: "Cheers, love."

Somehow, this phantom duo had spoken so callously about mass murder a week ago. If Astor hadn't been so trollied, he might have recognised the slither of power echoing off Caitlin like a shadow, crawling along his floor, and wrapping around the mess of his place. He could crack the power, he's convinced. But he needs his own back, first.

"Genocide takes a bit of time, doesn't it, babe?" AJ shoves himself off the counter, and necks the last of his drink. Searches for the ice — almost melted in a bucket by the sink — and refills the glass, like it's a potion he's crafting in his sleep. It's all he's got to fill the void. Astor hates that she reads his energy the same way they pick up a book. Eyes flicker up to meet hers, as he pours another drink. Doesn't bother to offer her one, because she's as boring as they come when fun is involved. Witchcraft? Fine. A bit of old fashioned intoxication? Better luck with a tin can. "Empty, me? No. I've got plenty juice."

If they're talking gin that is.

ofgarnett

Bet it just burned to type that out, Astor. I’m genuinely impressed — you’ve gone putting my brilliance in writing, so no plausible-deniability tap-dance for you this time.

“Not even a two man party — I’m so much more than a man.” It’s her turn to close the distance between them, roll up the sleeves of his shirt and clamp down on his wrist — a parallel to the move he pulled on the rooftop bar, sans the kiss — to get a reading of what’s going under the skin. Her magic ripples through him, and Caitlin is careful—careful—not to drag him into that fathomless abyss inside, that deep dark inky well with no seeming end in sight. One glance is all she needs. Sure enough, Astor’s barely got any gas in the tank. Cait lets out a sound, maybe a little bit of a snarl, as she lets go.

“Genoide’s not the word for it.” She says cooly. The word he’s looking for is massacre. But Cait can’t go down that rabbit hole now, the cost of it all. The weight of progress, of innovation. What’s Astor trying to do here, hold her to the flames? Throw her into, what? A crucible of his holiness? He’s the one who pulled out the god-damned map. He’s just pissed he didn’t get to it first.

The hollow ache in her palm from where she's just touched him rings like a distant bell only she can hear.

There are a few ways to go about this. Options flip through her mind: she could funnel her own life-force into him—no ritual needed—but that borders on too intimate, and Astor would dine out forever on “I’m in you” jokes. Better to feed him something broader, older. She scans the room. No living greenery, just a dying succulent. She’d always suspected he was the type to let a plant shrivel rather than spare it a second’s thought; nothing tonight disproves the theory.

Fine. Bring the forest to him.

She fishes out her phone and starts pawing through his shelves of reagents. The life-spirit of Port Leiry’s trees is about to pour into Astor. With one hand she scrolls for a ride; with the other she plucks herbs—rosemary for vitality, oak bark for strength, yarrow for mending—whatever she can grab.

“Stay upright long enough for the Uber to get here, yeah? We’re taking you to the treeline. I’d throw you on the back of my motorcycle, but I doubt you could cling to a broomstick, let alone ride behind me.”

She knots the herbs into a bundle, tucks it into her jacket, and checks the rideshare timer— four minutes and counting. Outside, a light drizzle starts up against the window, the night smelling of wet asphalt and pine pitch.

He begins pouring another drink, but Caitlin snatches the glass before it reaches his lips and downs it herself — they're ubering — and no way she’s letting alcohol sabotage the life-force she’s about to feed him. Is he really trying to speed up the countdown on his already-low clock?

“Got a death wish you’d like to share with the class, Astor? You've got three minutes before our ride gets here."

#time to put the trees in atlas jay #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; atlas jay )#pre gala

cutthroat-service

Who: Open [No Limit] When/Where: Conclave / 7:00-8:30, Cocktail hour to Dinner Call

Shiv only came to this gala for two reasons.

One, to let all of Port Leiry, including their attackers, know that Kanta Shah is still alive and well. Two, to find a witch. Specifically the witch connected to this spoiled raccoon familiar and then the witch that tended to their comatose body, Thera Wendell. Whatever order in which these events happened did not matter.

If Shiv was lucky, these two witches would be the same person and they could kill two birds with one stone, but they're not holding their breath. "Wendell, Wendell, Wendell..." They mutter to themself. Wherever could she be?

Restless eyes hold a keen focus as they scan every face amongst the crowd, searching for anyone that could vaguely feel familiar. The hunter maneuvers through the venue with purpose, occasionally reaching for fancy hors d'oeuvres as an offering to the equally fancily dressed fiend on their shoulders. "Here. Try this one." The raccoon makes a face. She's surprisingly a very picky eater. Most of the food Shiv gave her has been tossed aside. So much so that it's leaving a snail trail of crumbs and half-eaten finger food behind the hunter.

Unfortunately, just as they are about to approach a promising lead, Shiv's search is abruptly interrupted.

ofgarnett

“Wendell, Wendell, Wendell.”

The name slices through the ballroom’s polite hum, and Cait’s attention swivels like a blade to its source. There—threading the sea of velvet gowns and wolf-smile politicians—stands the trespasser she once chased from Garnett grounds, a raccoon perched on their shoulder like an ill-omened epaulet. Cait should be captivated by the creature’s insolent whiskers, but fury eclipses fascination. Oh yes. She remembers this one. Marigolds crushed under boot-heels, parents half-remembered in moonlit clamor—each memory flares, stoking her instinct to guard her friends now in the same way she guarded her grounds then.

Cait glides closer, dress whispering over marble, eyes fixed on the hunter who mouths her friend’s surname with reckless repetition. Every step radiates quiet threat: When the distance narrows to striking range, she lets her aura unfurl.

“Hey, hunter!” Cait’s voice rings clear, authoritative as a temple bell. Conversations around them falter. “Lost?" Darkness curls at the edges of her smile. " Who are you looking for?” Say her name—I dare you.

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; shiv )#I have been Waiting For This #cor.conclave

who: @ldysdcths

where: the conclave gala

Cait remembers Desdemona, of course - what's the saying? You never forget your first. Desdemona was the maiden sip, and while experience hasn’t earned the vampire a place of honor, exactly - Cait files most undead under tragic still-life— it has carved a groove of fierce curiosity. She’s paged through Tenebris’s journals, read the footnotes about the heart-eating witch who outlived her own legend. Tenebris respects Desdemona, in that particular way he does; that alone makes Cait lean in, ears pricked, pulse steady but watchful. No intentions of offering her neck again—not yet.

Tonight she isn’t here for canapé chatter. She wants marrow-deep dialogue, conversation that rattle the ribs. Ambition recognizes itself across species lines, and Cait adores the shape it takes in others. Bold plans are delightful; catastrophic brilliance is better; idiotic grandeur earns only her ridicule.

She ghosts to Desdemona’s side, campagne flue in hand. The bubbles float; her crooked smile is the key.

“Quick poll,” she says, cleaving straight through pleasantries, because time is a blade and small talk its dull edge. “If Surya actually flips the switch on this ‘eternal night,’ how long before the blood banks run dry? I’m betting six months. You?”

#shes like LET ME RANT LET ME AT THEM #( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; desdemona )#cor.conclave

who: @summersauveterre

where: conclave gala

Cait bleeds Garnett crimson tonight—silk the color of fresh arterial spill, cut to move like a threat through candle-smoke. She used to haunt the back rows, danger padlocked behind her ribs for everyone’s comfort. Now the foreign curse is gone; what’s left is danger she forged for herself, bright as a newly-honed fang. Ambition flexes inside her, pushing at the seams of bone and velvet.

She spots Summer near the live music. They mirror each other in small, accidental ways: Summer’s earrings—violet butterflies—flash against her throat; Cait’s own butterfly is a slim gold pin tucked among dark curls, a quiet promise of metamorphosis. She can feel her unseen wings flexing, eager for flight.

“People forget butterflies live only weeks—metamorphosis just to flirt with oblivion. Seems honest, doesn’t it?”

She can't help but let the musing drift, outloud. Cait doesn’t intend to be that ephemeral, she is building something to last with Garnett. She intercepts a passing waiter, plucks two champagne flutes fizzing like captive stormlight, and crosses the floor.

“How’s the night treating you, Summer? And what's your read on our shiny new visitors—friends, fodder, or something worth dissecting?”

#cor.conclave #( caitlin ; summer )#( caitlin ; interactions )

Garnett Gals, @necrobabexx @estelaruiz

where: The Conclave Gala, Outside Gardens

She needs them to know, even if the timing isn’t great. The three of them stand like some unholy trinity in the narrow garden just beyond the ballroom lights—Caitlin centered between Mara and Estela. Cigarette smoke wafts over from the patio, threading ghost-grey ribbons through trimmed boxwoods.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, Cait draws on the new current that runs straight from Tenebris, and a veil of violet witch-light snaps over their heads like blown glass. Sound compresses, air thickens, the ward vibrating with a deeper resonance than anything she could cast a week ago. Can they feel it? That she’s something new?

“Thank you for watching the coven while I was away,” she says, meeting their eyes one by one. A crooked half-smile tugs at her mouth—equal parts gratitude and apology. “If anything had blown up, I’d have hauled myself back in a body bag. That would’ve really killed the vibe.”

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; mara )#( caitlin ; estela )#cor.conclave

who: open [0/4]

where: the conclave gala

Caitlin Siltshore glides through the gala with that barely leashed storm - energy she calls composure, eyes flashing like struck flint at every unfamiliar sigil and whispered alliance. Having Atlas Jay on her arm is both flex and a headache — he looks like a dream, but the man can’t order a rideshare to save his soul (see: Uber fiasco.) Whatever. Tonight she can forgive logistical sins; the room hums with fresh variables, and Cait is starving for substance.

Atlas Jay slips away toward the bar— leaving Cait to survey the ballroom’s constellation of coven colors. A quick pulse of witch-light from her fingertips tags another Garnett member across the floor: Signal if anything goes wrong. Fucking hate not having our phones on us. She breathes out, lets her shoulders drop. The night stretches ahead, wide-mouthed and glittering with possibility.

Surya Bhansali is holding court nearby—eternal night, vampiric supremacy, blah blah logistics—and Cait won’t waste perfectly good oxygen debating a plan that ignores basic circadian biology. Coven Mariposa’s leader, Lucho Miralles, flits past in an ambrosial blur; intriguing, but then, there—Fia Palmgren of Wyrmwood, rune-script glowing along the cuffs of their clothes.

Cait turns to the stranger beside her, angling her body like a blade poised to strike conversation.

"I’m dying to find out how Wyrmwood grafts kinetic runes without blowing half their pieces apart. Want to crash the conversation with me? Two brains are harder to brush off than one.”

The Garnett creed thrums in her chest: knowledge shared is knowledge multiplied.

#( caitlin ; interactions )#( caitlin ; open )#cor.conclave

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