RaindropsKeepFalling 884 Popular Post Share Posted March 29, 2021 (edited) Spoiler Gino, circa 1785 "Family comes first, sí?" "Don't let 'em know what ye' thinkin'."-Gino He was not a good man. It was only through the hazed phrasings and doublespeak that he covertly tricked the bystanders of his twisted old life. His charm, per se. Only a few unlucky souls could confidently say they knew Gino Falcone. They saw through his counterfeit virtue. Most of them were under the sod. Dead, by his hand or otherwise. Even through all his endeavors, he was exposed to each and everyone. In his rare moments of frankness, he widely opened the door to his sin without usual fear. Perhaps tired, or simply naive to the consequences he fully saw. Lies, cheating, theft, murder, perjury, threats, extortion: you name it, he was guilty or a firsthand witness, and he wasn’t testifying beside the plaintiff. It was his matter, him, yet. What was it that mattered? The riposte was orthodox, by his character, at least. “Depends who you ask.” He’d say. He’d reassure, that as long as the wider apparatus was cracked and broken, he was simply ascending beyond it’s trickery; he was no worse. Nevertheless, he’d long for a connection, an empathy he did not know, to his kin, and to another: a yearning. It was true. In all his lies, the sham that was his livelihood: that was a veracious account. Though, few knew it. He didn’t. He was the blindest of the bunch, simply adamant enough to holler the utmost stridently. Where had it begun? The sand was initially entrenched within his eyes in 1778, summertime in Thyra: the jewel of Seyam. Twenty one summer's lived, a young man without much more experience than moving boxes and preaching God. He was of a quaint upbringing with a father, stepmother and wittier brother. In a sudden whirlwind, dislodging everything the man knew as “home,” every constant, arose a plain war. War meant evacuation. And thus, the sandstorms raged. Wreckage and havoc, leaving the trade-state halfway to hell. The brothers had migrated from the forsaken region with wholly two cents, a set of clothes and a utopian ambition to their name. They’d escaped by the skin of their crooked teeth. So easy to sled down the hill that trailed under, little did they know, the consequences in their terrible, terrible domino effect. Helena, 1779: it was the paradigm immigrant tale, and they would find a better life. She was a bustling city, and her light never seemed to fade. As the sun would set, the city lights substitute it with an equal glow. Confined in her intricate walls, she embodied the promise of wild love and adventure. Intoxicating, without exception, could make somebody or nobody forget. Gino and Vittorio were just two chaps. There was one unequivocal factor of the dreadful apparatus. It was a town of connections, and how many names you knew. You’d never catch her eye, otherwise. Two nights in the rat race to win her heart, staying in a small-fry tavern, and they loved it. Gino slept neither, but he neither found himself tired. He ambled through the alive pavements, coming to know each corner, each street like a native. However, sanguine hope, naive certainty and boyish flirting were not enough. The duo needed Marks. Yet, even that would not satisfy him: with an innermost lust for a mark, a spot on that holy block, an importance. They enlist in the navy, an old family pen pal of Vittorio’s leading it by the name of Oisin O’Rourke. They came to never know him well; he was merely too important, and they (though they would not admit it) were pawns. They made a modest wage, by domestic tasks. After all, there was trifle benefit of the sailors in a war of that horrible fire. Seconds molded into minutes, molded into hours, molded into days, weeks, months: it all elapsed in haste. The inherent fascination the capital exuded never faded. It endured. In ‘81, Gino found himself sojourn in a bland room, in a bland apartment, settled in the viridescent countryside. Vittorio had found a lover, starry eyed, and the brothers had split into their separate lives apart from fleeting scenes at a bar or a time to smoke, hazing the air. In the suburban scenery he’d so ambitiously hoped to escape, he met her. It was love at first sight, and Gino did not believe in cliches. She was beautiful, but not in the Imperial sense of pale faces and rouge with delicate, toy noses and pale eyes. She was the woman a man would come to yearn for, a donna. There was a sparkle in her olive eyes and lure in her laugh. She had antics. She had notions, and she was a keen soul, kindred. She was unafraid; her name was Florenza. They’d sprouted as friends. He was infatuated with her, an angle he couldn’t elucidate, a perplexing puzzle. She was an adventure, sprinting into the moonlight without a care to the uncharted, drunken with mania. He was a man. “Gino,” She’d spoken softly with a distinct idea. He’d turned, inquisitive. “Let’s go!” Her voice lifted up and she lit up at her hypothetical. He paused. Where? He wondered. He could not jump in, lest he knew. “Where?” He asked. “I don’t know!” She replied matter-a-factly. He wasn’t a bore, nor was he a voyager. Nevertheless, they went. They burrowed through the raw snow, against the flurries in summer clothing. The North was bleak and coarse, jarring. The frost pierced his every sensibility, and he flinched with every arduous step through the snow. Regret: the sun had set into a dim overcast, why’d he tag along? That, he did neither know. What time, what hour, what day had he transformed into a reflective sort? Was it a destiny? That too, was a pensive notion. There were countless doubts and questions, all without answer, only circumvention. It was a cool autumn day, lodged in the midst of the month. The tinted buildings were rampant with guileless kin. The brother’s were meandering down the paved roads, leaving a trail of smoke wherever they led on. It was election season; Gino had struck intrigue in the field, captivated. It was unforeseen that day, when they were plucked up by their collars, hastily awaking in an office with their step uncle sitting across. The man had a harsh gaze, coldly stoic in his cunning. He was nimble, but aged, be it years or a certain stress. He was terribly pale, and flourished a blonde, well groomed mustache. The appearance implied his identity being a blooded Imperial, he was not. They knew him as an Adunian, as a distant family. He wasn’t their blood. “Ahh,” the man began, Padraig O’Rourke was the name. In minutes, the dirty deal was settled. They were workers of the O’Rourke company, and once you were in, there was no out. Yet, anything to feed the family, he supposed: anything at all. The two were to be provided more apt adornments, and the meeting concluded. They talked much of the future, but little of what it portended. He was caught up. A dog chasing its tail, never satisfied. He soon withdrew from the Navy. He made handsome earnings from his superiors. The epoch was a renaissance; he was graced with little to worry over. The principal, the morality, of the work was dubious, but he did not think. Nay did he reckon, did he feel, did he judge, did he debate. His eyes were shut, and he unaffectedly was. He’d come to be an apathetic man, in that way. The brother recruits had been familiarized with those among them, and those not. Their organization was loyal to the Josephites, and opposing the wig wearing Nationalists. When Padraig was preoccupied as a politician, they came to be acquainted with a Raev: Dimitri Orlov. He was a steadfast, bearded man with steadfast soliloquies of life’s cost. Gino didn’t care for philosophy. There were others to be known: George Galbraith, an opportunist, an idealist, an eccentric and a politician, a friend. Ostromir Carrion, a soul of noble birth and mannerisms, gothic and pale, with the darkest theses. Santiana O’Rourke, a cousin with an inherent naivete akin to the Falcone’s, a companion. And Giada, a dear Illatian, and the dearest friend birthed as an enemy and cousin to Florenza, loyalties with a low-life cartel, recruited to the flipside by her wit. But as all reveries do, the short era ended with a snap. Unrest advanced against the Josephite muscle, occultist pagans permeated through the ISA, and Florenza grew suspicious of his “union duties.” At all the alleys there was a secret, and with mystery, there was paranoia; and with reticence, there was worry. Fear, it filled him to the brim, he did not spill. It was not him, he’d instilled. The line smudged, of who Gino Falcone was, and who he was not. He was restless, paranoid. With each stride, his palms were tightened in underlying burden. Not his work, but it’s fallout. The danger that glared at him so bitterly: dread. Echoes haunted the evening streets as he paced throughout the alleyways as he had since he’d arrived: a peculiar habit, walking, or following. He proposed little acknowledgement to any architecture, wandering within his own psyche. It was, and always had been,a yearning to clear a clouded mind. Yet, it only imparted further eludings: ironic. He followed, focusing on the sound of a duet’s footsteps in quarter time. The night was of routine in every rationale and facet. It was of a pleasant, cool temperature. The heat was entirely expelled through the words Gino met. Even her living room, he figured, exhibited such a homely portrait, calming, as she screamed. “Tell me the truth!” She’d yelled with such conviction of a sure judge. His love - Florenza had brought light to his tenebrous work. He’d frozen, as an effigy, faltering with zero words to the reminder that he was a single sinful man. He resented the fact that dormantly he knew. Inadvertently, she did too. They yelled, as he retorted tepid lies he had no belief in. Neither did she. He left, zealously removed. That was it, the end, without a proper goodbye. “I said get out!” She’d shrieked. “Ti odio!” was her word. I hate you, it meant. She’d pressed him out of the interior in fervor. Though, before he could voice anything at all, the door was slammed shut. He could not muster a thought. In and out, in and out, with his own breaths. A left, a right, a first, a second. The repetition led him home to a drafty room; exhausted, he could not sleep. Notes were penned to no reply and hollers screeched without echo. Naught, and in ultimatum: it all ceased, delving into a pool devoid of voices, wishes, pleas but darkness. It was a cold day when they met again, magnetized begrudgingly it. It wasn’t the type of day you would expect to see an old soul roaming, only to have fate shove them into your peripheral focus, and life once more. Fate or luck, or plain coincidence: Gino thought not of it. Only rushing into her, begging as a child. “Flor, Flor, Flor, please.” He pleaded. “Eugh! Fine.” They sat, and spoke. He told her of the truth, of his work, and of him. She’d paused, silent. “I think I’m going to have a heart attack.” She uttered, facing his eyes. They were not cold, but tense, scared. Scared at what she may have said next, what she did not ponder aloud. He’d lost control; he’d inadvertently transformed from the player, to the spectator. He twiddled his thumbs. “Gino,” she frankly remarked. “I don’t want to be a mob wife.” “You don't have to be.” He said, detracting his gaze. “I’m sorry.” “I don’t think you are. I think you’re sorry you’re caught.” “Maybe, maybe not.” He pondered. “I’d do it all for you, I would.” Would he? Maybe, maybe not. “I know you would.” She said, judging, frowning, but genuine. “I shouldn’t have spoken with Morgryn.” He said, a sigh escaping him. “It doesn’t change the scene, but I’d hope the words make it prettier.” It was her turn to pause. “It doesn’t, but at least you tried to fix it.” She offered, flashing a bittersweet smile. He returned the favor, shifting in the booth where they sat across. “Ti amo.” He said. I love you. Therein, he knew. There was no doubt, and no lie. She looked away. “Ti amo anch’io.” Vice versa, I love you too. They’d come together by frosted truth in glorious colors of the hopes and wishes of what they sought to see. What was that smile, like the sunrise ensued after a starless night? It was a fire, one that burnt your edges soon enough, sparing only ash from the bygone portrait of a pleasant picnic. 1787. “Do you often look up to the stars, Mr. Falcone?” A sage and a mystic of mysterious origin of yesteryear or tomorrow stood tall, forth. The stars would, in the twinkling of an eye, show their face. That evening glimpsed into nighttime. “What?” The implicit rationale escaped him. Then, too, perhaps, he sought answers. Nay, rather, justification, an excuse for the half-truths. The sage led backward to the depths of a starless night within a dark interior akin to cavern. He led afar, into Gino’s precise consciousness, to another realm. When the duo awoke from the trance and dream, discombobulated, a single remark struck him, and prevailed. “What is your creed?” “Canonism,” he’d imagined. “I’m in business - dirty business. I’m not a lunatic.” His faith, and his service, a naturally conflicting duet. Yet, he knew, deep down; it was his definition. “You allow for your business to decide upon who you are, what a fascinating feat.” They’d long drifted from the vibrant districts, left traversing the dim pavement once more. That experience, that transient stupor, why did it so avidly sit? In younger years, craving escape, a walk miles from who he was, a distraction. Dope had perpetually been a bad business; he was a hypocrite, per usual. “Where do we head?” He suddenly queried to a turned head, in partial presence. “Esbec.” The leader led on. What a distance, he thought - but not aloud. Alas, it was the manner of any pursuit, any business at that. With fortuity and unpredicted exterior force, Gino and Florenza were married. The wedding was a merry day, absent of discord, of dispute or routine bickering. It was broad, surrounded by the families and the work in thoughtlessness. They settled at a pleasant street, as a pleasant family with twin infants, and the lights of a so-called family man’s world: Cosimo Antony, and Lauretta Ivanna. For moments, the world appeared simple. None the wiser were they to the quarrel swathed behind the curtain. They’d fight over his varying deceit, his betrayal, and split, only to fall into connection once, in longing of fantastical woulds and shoulds. Even when he slapped her, and she screamed, and he swivelled offset from the world: cold as ice. In that twisted way, it was love. Time slowed. The Josephites dominated opposition, days were repetitive with equally repetitive feuds that therapy rarely succored. In the flash of a second, yet, Gino had lived such a life for a decade, in 1790. As time sped on lacking an instant to catch its breath, fate itself never wavered, nor did he: stuck in his ways, his “tradition.” Naturally, restlessness expanded, as did that destined dread. He found solace in a platonic adjacency with Giada. She understood, as she was. He knew naught but that vague, wondrous relation as sympathy to oneself, and incidentally another. They shared a mutual respect to the other. A break from the lonesome night, from a roaring fight; the next day, it would begin again, in sunlight anew. Deception, deceit and duplicity, was that all he was? It couldn’t be, it was an impossibility. So profoundly, he’d devastated his humanity. Had it ever been present, at all? Another ponderance unanswered, another thing lost for forsaken greed. He was devout. “This is not who I am.” Silently, he fell into a repetition, as an anthem to oneself in his native tongue. Alas, it was. Albeit, something he dashed from ‘till he could walk no longer. He was a steadfast man, an odd man, a crook and killer to some, a friend to some, a husband, a father, a brother. Yet, when they’d all retired, one appellation remained. In that precise evening, he was a father: distant, at that. He’d sought to be loyal, for connection, for a link that could not be true if he was not. He'd failed. His brother vanished from sight in 1793, leaving a blow to the being, a gaping stoic absence. The first of dominoes to fall, the first of the purge into an isolation. A disappearance was an optimistic designation, as in the last of days alongside Vittorio, he was supposedly dying. Gino had no room to think else from his disappearance as a loss, a death: a disappearance from life. The parting words were half-hearted, a reminiscence upon the before, seeming common with any dying man. A man had hoped to hang upon a crucifix, if it entailed awaking in the Skies above. Torture - for something you could not see, and witless retribution. He’d held the present world in a clasped palm, to cease. And to know, discerning yourself in the flipside, a reflection. He too had partaken in the offenses, the sin. Save, Vittorio seemingly knew such. Knowing not where his confidante had gone, spiritually, nor plainly, he was simply alone. How whimsy that concern was. He’d never meant to be a sentimentalist. The images flickered across his psyche’s forefront, rushing like fish down the river, incidentally sentimental in their cursory essence. They did not lie; they did not bend. His legitimacy, his newspaper: even that journalism. What was it but another falsehood - another fictitious ideal? Life slapped him in the face. In a moment, all seemed without guile. Yet, perhaps that too was a rosy memory - another half truth. Had that foreboding shadow always towered over him? Had he forgotten the face of the sun withstanding in its luminosity? His work, his side of town: it’d always acted as a nocturnal entity, amid the night’s. They traversed throughout the unpaved plains in the hours past five ‘o clock, till his gait grew heavy and his footsteps slowed. The towering city and it’s light was but a silhouette, far away. He grew cold, though spoke of naught; there was not a soul he trusted to listen. There was a deja vu, and a peculiar nostalgia with their endless trail to an uncertain destination. Storming rainy weather poured down upon them, speckling his coat with droplets like memories. It was his life: a chase and yearning to something, perhaps nothing, a child’s game of tag as every businessman, every crook, every politician sought to escape an unequivocal conviction of their very actions, and their very consequences. What did they wish for? An idealist’s heroism? What folly egoism, he thought. Gino had lived his life in a way to be a puppeteer as opposed to the marionette. He did so in excess, in greed for further control unto the strings. Only to learn that the people were not puppets to be tossed or contorted, and reminded. Stringed along, till the thread broke into thin strands and he knew not where to follow. Till there was no road, but a solemn darkness of the privy. He knew of his circus masks, where he’d act as two men: twofaced. He knew of the sin too countless to possibly count. He knew of the worldly wishes that had come to fruition, for what? For a lonely superiority, for a power over the dead man that could not shake his hand? For a corruption that rivalled what he’d arrived to overcome? For seclusion from the kin he'd sworn himself to, therein crashing down? Wonder, want - it was a dangerous thing. It brought hope to the young, and fools from the older. It led a false tale to the could, an attraction, a magnet. It led boats into the sea, and innovation to scrape the skies. It brought the pious to their sermons, and the heretical to a deeper crevice. It brought wanting, in the unknown “more,” of a brighter room. It was a siren, a summoning melody far from the candid: the real importance. The man halted at an edge, wherein the grass transformed into cobblestones, a shoreline of the wilderness to the rural at the riverside where a road led. Sometimes the traveller would pass by, as an immigrant, a salesman, a thief, a revolutionary, a wisher… He was not solus. Before him, there was a man: someone he knew from the earliest day onward, a son. He knew him as a boy, but at twenty five, there was scant boyish about the man that had come to adopt distinctions from his father, his pa. Where was his other family? The priority he’d promised as his first, and so sorely severed? His wife Florenza, driven to death by his inadvertent endeavor. His eldest daughter Lauretta, distant, offset from the world proceeding his wife’s death. Giada, dead by reckless behavior and reckless influence. Augustina, young and misguided with arduous fury at a lot she’d not chosen, and a subpar father, too, too absent. And Gustavo, a man he’d seen less as a son, but kindred in a being that Gino knew well, an immigrant and of ignorance. Where was he now? At a town for what meaning, what longing? He’d no purpose, nothing but old memories and hope for God’s mercy on his ashen soul. “Here,” the voice broke the looming gloom of a long lasting silence. A rural brick build, perhaps a bar or inn, hung as an escape from the incessant pouring. Young men conspired within, of politics and parties and all that he’d witnessed before. The Josephites, the Nationalists, like teams in simple sport, of the goals being fatalities, and votes as their points. It didn’t matter, as another false pretense, another lie. Soon, the open door was closed, and fate seemed to seal an unsent letter of the unsaid. He smiled, in nothing akin to happiness, but a melancholy bittersweetness in what had not. Who was he, truly, if his motive was to hide the very identity of what had brought him beyond struggle within the navy? That was not him - not his, or the whole, he’d convinced. Yet, with each passing day it seemed the opposite was true. A great agony had filled his chest, by figurative impressions, and physically. His breathing had come to knot in his throat, laden with unease and tobacco’s residue. He kneeled, catatonic, fixated to the movement of the figure he’d figured a son. He’d drawn breaths so prolonged without lament. In the end, when all had fallen down, and he’d outlived the festive chaperones, nil prevailed but the regrets he’d sworn untrue. Loss - mortality: it brought realization to a senseless soul. That question echoed throughout each thought, each meditative reminiscence, again. A cosa serviva tutto? What was it all for, then? His horrid pride, powerless to admit - to change, even vowing, in sickness and in health, believing in the assertion. He sought to be righteous to his ménage, but with everything in his recollection, he’d only fought. He’d only pulled in an endless tug of war. He’d only done what he must, in values he’d not like to know he was less than. "La famiglia non combatte la famiglia." He uttered. Family doesn't fight family. Oh, the irony. Envied, are those fortunate to die young -- preceding the isolation and betrayal of age, and the time for mistakes. He was a man of fifty six. To the dignity of a crook, and the bliss of asinity. He’d done what he must. And so, he reeled back in breaths he could not catch, and the shuffling of feet that could not stand. The torment, as if he’d been transfixed; he had. And so, he groaned into the fray of the leaden turning eve, in a profound notion: a faithlessness he’d sworn to walk away from, only to tread right forth into it, beguiled, as he’d never guess it’d be from those one did not envisage… In such an instance, his cunning had abandoned him long before, surrounded, yet so very alone in a shock. In that moment, he could swear that naught was of any importance at all: only the pained, shallowing breaths. Cliche, for one’s life’s recollections to flicker before it would all end… Yet, heavy is the heart of the impoverished spirit, thumping with each stride - each step forth into the darkness and night. ‘Till it may drum no longer and the soul musn’t continue, and the rich man must halt. Tranquil, is the deafening silence one lies amidst, so very still. Naught would dare interrupt the reverie’s eternity, until the morn where he’d have vanished beneath- Ahead, a river dashed, stopping for no soul in it’s bustle. What wonder, a cycle forward forevermore without the hesitation of a memory’s flickering pang within his psyche. And he did not think of the unanswered questions, for it mattered not. Where would that doubtful stream lead him? Irrefutably, elsewhere from petrichor above and the loveliness of the day. It was 1779, a Helena alley scented with smoke and innocence. “So this is Helena, eh?” It was Vittorio, or Victor, perhaps too early for the latter. “Bustling town.” Gino reaffirmed, a young, cocky, strapping man of twenty two. “Nothin’ like the Old Country, I’ll tell you that much.” “Louder, the bells, the vibrancy - intoxicating, si?” He riffed, flourishing a smirk. “Far better than that old place, now: halfway to Hell under tons of sand.” “We got out the nick of time. They trust their people to protect them, their fate in the hands of selfish bastards.” He halted in a pause, contemplative. “Then, they suffocate in a dune.” “And- see? That is how we are different; we thought ahead.” He remarked, gesturing with his hands. “Just think.. Hadn't we left there, we'd be stuck in a sand pit, in a coffin of our own making.” “Makes you sure glad to have been wise to what was happening, like you said.” He remarked, an underlying bother, as an unbothered man. “...Fools.” He concluded. How the Denier or sinner themselves would reject what he’d not yet grown to be. Perhaps it would be all okay, the next day would tell. ‘Till they’d walk alone, wayward, with each following day, through the bell's toll. Spoiler OOC: I want to thank everyone who I interacted with on Gino'a Falcone, mamma mia! It wouldn't be the same, at all, without you guys. In all seriousness, I'm going to forget some of you, so I apologize. You are in my heart. @latteTM, conflict RP was literally a daily thing with you, but it was such an interesting dynamic. <3 you. @Goon, Cosimo is a terrible person, but I love him so much, your RP is like reading a novel. I'm sorry I shamelessly quoted the Sopranos when you played Santiago, and killed you in our first RP interaction ever. Gino's life would literally be... very different without his son. @minty_roses Gino and Giada's relationship was one of my favorite things to RP, and her death was pretty heart wrenching. Can't wait for what the future holds with Ludovica. @BogsBinny We meme a lot that your RP sucked, but it really didn't. Dimitri was a cool dude. I am scared to see your antics, you being unbanned. @EmiliainWonderland Augustina is a terrible person, but I love her. The gay psychopath with daddy issues is quite an aesthetic that I don't think anyone could have expected. So glad to have met you, and know you now. @Bethinwonderlandmy dying wish is be more active on Lauretta!!!!11!! @Coveyfungus is based, but when will he slip on a banana peel and die. you promised me, covey. @AsuttoRemember when you said if Gino's wife dies he could remarry his first cousin? I remember. (you're cool, incest is cool) @audyushWe RPed like twice, but I can't not mention you. At this point, it's redundant to compliment you: you're Audy. Going into the future, let's rp more with Naty and Anton, excited for the future! Last, but absolutely not least, @Hephaestus. This is going to be lengthy, bear with me my cameronposter. It baffles me how this all started out as a meme in LotC because we liked the Mafia games, and all that good ****. Gino started out as a bad imitation of Tom Hagen, and ended up a complex character: that's a feat. Sometimes I wish we had've named them the Scaletta's, as to think of writing that out with a straight face in this long post would be damn hilarious. In all seriousness, had you told me this is what would come of a joke in OOC, I'd say something akin to: "...What?" keep doing your funny stuff, my friend. all of this is inadvertently thanks to you. It's the end of an era, 'till next time folks. Never could've imagined this, but I'm so glad it happened. Edited March 29, 2021 by RaindropsKeepFalling 44 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Goon 1434 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Spoiler AN ODE TO FATHERHOOD FALCONE A legacy began by bullish pursuit, littered with quotidian degeneracy and misguided efforts. Plagued by blind loyalty and insatiable hunger. Whether you felt it first hand or heard it whispered within the flock, the Falcone name began to carry a notorious weight. Through the sins of a father and a father before, all of whom did what they felt they had to for theirs; and what a taint against that name the Imperial Army had sung so often. How does that clichéd saying go? "Like father, like son," right? Though, perhaps that isn't all fair to say, as you cannot compare the weight of sin. You cannot compare the ramifications of a son's choices to the actions of his father. All a child grows to become is an indirect mirror, though even a washroom's mirror does not display the same world as it appears. Stark distinctions, though, "not far from the tree." “HE DID WHAT HE HAD TO... SAME AS HIS FATHER, AND HIS BEFORE THAT.” - ANASTASIA O'ROURKE, CIRCA 1805 FATHERHOOD Despite the mass of tales one could recall, Gino Falcone was not a poor father. For he made sure to instill but a few esteemed virtues to his kin: respect and the demand of, and the unconditional preservation of kinship. Discipline and understanding were commanded of his offspring. And though he was not always accountable to his own word, there were determined beliefs he would never betray-- especially his belief that family is absolute, be it one garnered or one by birthright. Gino poured every ounce of his being to prepare his children for what was to come as they grew-- though as descendant nature is, it was not enough, even for him. To consider Gino Falcone a poor father would only be a testament to the thanklessness that is parenthood. A father his own now, this has become glaringly more apparent to the still young Cosimo Antony. “LA FAMIGLIA NON COMBATTE LA FAMIGLIA.” - GINO FALCONE, CIRCA 1794 FALCONE (REPRISE) Left, now, without a parental figure who was of lineage ascent, perhaps the young Illatian would be fortunate enough to no longer need one; twenty-six years now in the realm of unforgiving mortal existence. For him to have witnessed the world he knew collapse beneath the wheels of his chair, and be able to walk anew amongst esteemed peers, the boy had more than enough in experience to nourish the inherent desire to preserve one’s self and his lineage. Yes, perhaps he finally outgrew the need for guidance from those who came before him. Why, he was the now owner of the Falcone Estate- surely he needed to have all of those answers expected of him? But no, this is only a weak defense to save for heartache; the belief he was above the pursuit of further learning would only perpetuate the same cycles he and his kin would be fell to. That is ignorance, or perhaps arrogance. Though, it would be nice to have deference from a relatable face. “MACCHIE DI SANGUE, I SOLDI NO.” - GIADA D'AMATO, CIRCA 1797 LUDOVICA "I pray the generations to follow will bring themselves closer and closer to God- with each iteration.” A passing thought echoed as Cosimo watched a young child giddily prance about. Almost four years now, so she had not yet been subject to the fruits of the forbidden, and it was apparent in Cosimo’s watchful eye that he would will it to remain so. Though, you cannot shelter the youth, as did Cosimo’s mother try. You can only offer what you have come to know and hope that they respond accordingly, as did Cosimo’s father try. And even then, there is no guarantee of result: a child’s fate left to the world they succumb to. This girl was last born of his sisters, Ludovica Francesca Falcone, Gino’s last notable mark on this world; and it was readily apparent she was his as she palpably mirrored the man in every way- only chiseled to fit a more feminine feature. Even in her early mannerisms did she resemble Gino, a scary thought for Cosimo, though he was arguably no better than his father. Worse, perhaps. “Depends who you ask.” So, he could only hope she turned out the saintess she already was. "Guardi, Cosi! Look!” The little Illatian cried in joy as she hurried toward the man who sat upon a bench, holding high a wettened mina she had fished from the Palace Garden’s fountain. The clambering of her footsteps against the paved grounds brought a reminiscent smile against the man’s face as he was unmoving in her approach, only snorting his amusement. "You can keep it.” She told him, out of breath while forcing the wet coin into the hand that did not hold up his chin. The man turned his head toward that coin, brushing a thumb against it as if to dry it off before glancing upon her once more, uttering in a gentle response, “Grazie, piccola.” The girl gave a vigorous nod of her head and a childish giggle before bolting off once more to retrieve another, an arm’s length deep into the rather motionless waters, and he did nothing but clench gently against that mark. “GOD, SHE'S THE SPITTING IMAGE OF HIM.” - COSIMO FALCONE, CIRCA 1813 Spoiler I f***ing love you, Raine. The RP you provided is like 90% why I've ended up maining Cosimo and I can't wait to continue with Anton. And to think, I almost said no to playing this kid. Lauretta Ivanna Falcone | Gino Falcone | Florenza Falcone | Cosimo Antony Falcone | Augustina Giovanna Falcone Circa 1801 19 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Hephaestus 1317 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Spoiler Mayhaps, not quite here; not quite there. Presiding over nary a dark, nor light. And ever entranced, and certainly, led astray in that regard, claiming and boasting a tenebrous veil, art projection of th' wayward Illatian spirit. And, ever in its slighting; the assuage, to its fervent waning, and the ardour, for which served the prerequisite thus, it were nigh perennial –– smouldering flax, he did not quench, nor either, a bruised reed, he relinquished thereof. Surely, he had upheld, that an unbridled force of the long relieved man, what an epithet he held, in his epoch about the waking world –– the Old Adversary, and… the Herald of Sacrilege; the like. Lo' where had he fastened in his constraints, as had shackles and trammels impeded his degenerate tract, transgression coursed ever of the precincts he assumed to his worldly mind, –– per'aps, lack thereof, to consider his findings –– susurrations but an inhale, and exhale indicted of his waylaid miasma: indeed, had claimed of it, a harrowing tribulation. But, were this miasma of he at lack of scent? No; had it only but seemed aught a just truth, to consider he lingered of other domains –– far… far darker. Umbrage foundered of its tendons, exigent as had it made initiative, thus it unseamed him, the primeval surplus of a man long beyond commission, from th' naves to the chops. Victor walked, surely –– treading of his machinations, the causeway of what had been assumed his Hereafter. Agony: per'aps, that were one variable that death were at naught a liberty for obliging the relief to, as not per the consideration of the melancholic malediction of his spirit, feigning of the creature's ruse in physicality, no accoutrement of flesh, surely. This were no praxis of the creed he boasted of his piety, in wake. No praxis, whence the war rages all throughout its armistice. No praxis, whither the world ceases to be, but ever the cosmos to encumber oneself, as had trudged thou of the elder lunar body, of the Moon itself. And certainly, no praxis whence ailment and pestilence prevails in pitied death, writing of its exegesis', in a new beginning promised the vanquishing hereof. Right reverent and worshipful, Victor sifted of the buffalograss volumes to the bitter air of recoil to his likeness, spirit seeping through and betwixt the vesicles in particle matter of the very world itself. He devised none but the very worst in his mind, as came ember that a divined likeness of knowledge its kindle of the man's subconscious. Thenceforward, had wish washed over he, the ill-begotten Illatian, even in the Hereafter, the wishes for drawing of tongue –– but appendage for the release thus in either a lips, confirmed rebuttal to the devices of the metaphysics that governed his domain, it had seemed, and he could not spare the troubles. And adamant, and quiet, his air became. Not a wavelength; not a chirp. Not a psalm of his wicked disposition were pardoned of the man's lethargy, ever dictating his presence one of abdicating silence. Surely perhaps, that would relieve the abhorrent quality of his spirit; sentenced to its rouse in walking… and walking… and a torment of bone marrow, as had he tired about his throes, besetting of them, a great strain, in recurrent deuteronomy. Pace, after pace –– after pace. But, what of the world he trekked for his conquest? The world, that had come of his waking in the after-death? Per'aps just, at no liberty were he of determining. Ever shifting, but a most definite walking; immutable, and indentured a servant to the tides of the esoteric Stream, weaving a distortion of his close vision. A man with sure eyes, after all, may still be verily blinded. The kindles of the sky hadn't their extinguishing, just quite then, –– coeval a scathing iris' to Aerial reckoning of its surveillance, in long scrutiny oft the hour; the abiding, undying hour. He walked of the bounties surveyed in hearty sight -– for if were this none but yet the demiurge hereupon. Certainly, knowings of the divine Aengul were without their presence –– were Victor, without knowings of this mighty image –– of gnostic piety. For, in the face of the esoteric entity beyond his veil of zeal, if it was that which branded his countenance not a likened fright at the very fleeting image thereof, then one hadn't the least idea whatever were. Time is relative, had he imbibed of his destitute, forlorn mind, that a pleading lament. At least, when he were of his youth, in bygone time, that is. But, in fact, that a truth persisted, as he assumed dole in having tread the grasses of his afterlife, perhaps without quantifiable mirth, to consider the circumstances he had been assumed under. One may choose to believe, as they wilt, but there was no rebuttal of the fact, Victor's sentencing would be not one of haste nor times that a sojourn. Behold, that no: were this no insignificant sabbatical, nor a pilgrimage. Rather a verdict, as the cosmic court adjourned, that he would remain ever of the pain he was subjected that a day. "As saith the proverbs of old…" Then, to his view, came a brilliant light, far and without its definition in the sky; a great fire, for which had smote fifty-thousand, and threescore winds in its wake. He had his weariness, and his knowings, of whomever that a shooting gleam was: "… Do not thou this folly." And his frown grew manifold then. Spoiler We had some good times, alright @RaindropsKeepFalling. I can't help but stifle a laugh, every so often, come to think of it. All of this transpired from a single half-hearted joke I made whilst high. I've come to meet so many good friends, as is a result of going with my instincts on this, and gambling on the character. I will certainly not forget any bit of this whole experience. Thank you. May God treat you well in the next life. 7 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
CherryBoy 151 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Family is everything The bright sun shined through the window signaling the start of a new day. The Palmer youth awoke naturally as he did most days, wiping the crud out of his eyes as he stifled a yawn sitting up in the bed. Most mornings he didn't think of much, perhaps his mother would cross his mind, or the list of things to be done for the day. Or perhaps a girl he seen the day prior, it mattered not. He had a job todo and it would be executed as all others. He comes to a stand pulling his uniform top over himself he found himself thinking of the home he never knew Helena, the place he could never return, and the mother that saved him from a terrible fate. He continued to dress himself looking out the window briefly thoughts still racing as he straightens his uniform and reaches for the beret that laid on the bookshelf. Dusting it off he is taken back to his youth in Providence, but mostly his cousin Cosimo which led him to think of his other mother Giada. He hadn't thought of her much since her passing, not from a lack of trying as much as a lack for being able to deal with it, but he knew her loss cut deeper for his cousin. "Perhaps I should send him a bird later, I still owe him for that drink" He lets out a chuckle placing the beret on his head as he ascended the stairs to his upper floor. What is a man? The youth stifles another yawn as he reaches for the door handle to the realm of the outside world. What could be behind that door? Would today be the last day he opened it? Could the same be asked for those he loves? Again it mattered not to him only the duty he must carry out, all other questions would be answered by his actions. He continued to wrestle with the thoughts of his mother, before the face of Gino appeared in his mind. He didn't understand the connection before it dawned on him, he had seen that man around Giada. Though in his younger years he couldn't connect the dots if he was given a map. "What is a man?" He spoke opening the door with a shake of his head, closing it behind him he pulls out a pack of cigarettes placing one between his lips before sparking a match and igniting the smoke with a brief inhale tossing the match into a pot outside his home. He looks around the streets as he walks toward the market tucking his free hand into his pocket. Spoiler Raine you are super awesome person, all rp interactions with you have been great. Except Anton cause he's a little s***. Gino was a great character both in my rp as Yuelena and D'Artagnan. Keep up the great work :) 6 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
latte 1310 Share Posted March 29, 2021 From the gates of the clouds, Florenza Falcone would watch her husband's death with wide eyes, watching as he did infact not make it to the Seven Skies, but fell in descent towards the realm of Ilbees. "Gino . . Gino." muttered she, a complete understatement to what she had felt, felt at that very moment and throughout her life with him. She felt not an ounce of sorrow, rolling her eyes. "countless counts of infidelity, abuse on his famiglia, all of us! - and ah, il peggior peccato. The worst sin. How'a dare he. . " She'd grumble, metaphorically rolling in her grave. "How dare he!" She'd scream into the skies, yet not quite sure of what she was mad at. "Giada- how could she! She did- with him! Accidenti a lui al Diavolo! Damn him to Hell. Damn her too!" And with that, the Illatian would resume watching her children, all of them sinful as he was- as she was too in some respects. Augustina Giovanna, so very headstrong, as she was. Cosimo Antony, at least she picked out the name, and Lauretta Ivanna, her mini look alike. Yet, at the back of her mind, something would reign. She had killed their baby, and never told him. She was scared and young, and was deeply afraid of what he'd do. She'd let in a large huff of air, chest so very tight. "Damn all of this. I wish i stayed in Illatia." Spoiler best char i've seen in a while. xx raine ily 8 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
EmiliainWonderland 1526 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Augustina sighed upon receiving the news. At first, maybe a passerby could assume Augustina was sad, but all those close to her would likely know she was upset she wasn't the one to take him out. She cleaned the Ivy Dust from some unknown counter, leaning her head back, slumped against a wall. "Good ******* riddance." She then burst into laughter. After all these years, he was finally dead, and she felt somewhat of a weight lift off of her. Perhaps now she could reunite her brother and sister, the only two people on the face of Almaris she could ever tolerate. Not even her own daughter was good enough for her, and Gino would die never knowing what happened to her. That was good enough Augustina, as she knew his legacy would never live on. The words spoken on the day she told her father the news of that unfortunate pregnancy spilled from her lips once more, a wry smirk on her features. "Die *****." Spoiler On another note Raine. I'm excited for Kaia and Agnes' play writing arc! 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Areon 770 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Somewhere, rolling upon the waves of the far world, lost in the heavy fogs and storms of an unforgiving sea an elder Oisin O'Rourke grows a frown, peering into the depths for a moment as if something tragic has occurred. 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
latte 1310 Share Posted March 29, 2021 46 minutes ago, Goon said: And to think, I almost said no to playing this kid. word 2 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
RaindropsKeepFalling 884 Author Share Posted March 29, 2021 hey, P.S. if you don't like classical Italian film score music (which i do) here's the alternative music i almost used! :) 6 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Monomakhos 1837 Share Posted March 29, 2021 The man didn't know Gino well. Infact, he only knew him in his final moments, where he was made privy to the hard truth of betrayal. Family doesn't fight family; those words brought a smile to his lips. What a painful irony. That night, he dedicated a drink to the departed legend, dredging up a dusty old bottle from the recesses of his brother's cellar. Illatian, a fitting tribute. 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
thesmellypocket 1839 Share Posted March 29, 2021 ((I didn't know your char but now I wish I had, wonderful post!!!! A child lights a candle at St. Julia's altar for the departed soul. 3 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Melpomenne 1552 Share Posted March 29, 2021 On 3/29/2021 at 3:12 AM, Goon said: LUDOVICA "I pray the generations to follow will bring themselves closer and closer to God- with each iteration.” A passing thought echoed as Cosimo watched a young child giddily prance about. Almost four years now, so she had not yet been subject to the fruits of the forbidden, and it was apparent in Cosimo’s watchful eye that he would will it to remain so. Though, you cannot shelter the youth, as did Cosimo’s mother try. You can only offer what you have come to know and hope that they respond accordingly, as did Cosimo’s father try. And even then, there is no guarantee of result: a child’s fate left to the world they succumb to. This girl was last born of his sisters, Ludovica Francesca Falcone, Gino’s last notable mark on this world; and it was readily apparent she was his as she palpably mirrored the man in every way- only chiseled to fit a more feminine feature. Even in her early mannerisms did she resemble Gino, a scary thought for Cosimo, though he was arguably no better than his father. Worse, perhaps. “Depends who you ask.” So, he could only hope she turned out the saintess she already was. "Guardi, Cosi! Look!” The little Illatian cried in joy as she hurried toward the man who sat upon a bench, holding high a wettened mina she had fished from the Palace Garden’s fountain. The clambering of her footsteps against the paved grounds brought a reminiscent smile against the man’s face as he was unmoving in her approach, only snorting his amusement. "You can keep it.” She told him, out of breath while forcing the wet coin into the hand that did not hold up his chin. The man turned his head toward that coin, brushing a thumb against it as if to dry it off before glancing upon her once more, uttering in a gentle response, “Grazie, piccola.” The girl gave a vigorous nod of her head and a childish giggle before bolting off once more to retrieve another, an arm’s length deep into the rather motionless waters, and he did nothing but clench gently against that mark. “GOD, SHE'S THE SPITTING IMAGE OF HIM.” - COSIMO FALCONE, CIRCA 1813 Spoiler An arm now submerged elbow deep into the water of the fountain, a young Ludovica glanced back to her guardian. The girl's gaze beckoning for a sign of approval, even a quaint nod would suffice. Cosimo, seemingly understanding her yearning, offered her just that. With a murmured "Yay," she turns back to the water to continue her search. Stumbling over pebbles in a hurried scamper, Ludo returns to her older brother's flank. Her eyes widened and glistening with pride and content, her smile broadening by the second to expose a gap-toothed grin. "Guardi, Cosi! Look! Look it!" Echos the Falcone, rising on her toes to present the man a heavily oxidized mark. Despite it's clear imperfection, it was a jewel akin to the prettiest diamond in the eyes of this young girl. "Dis ones for Poppa!" Cosimo's gratifying smile took no more than a split second to fade into a frown of despondency, displaying a sense of unease. Lowering himself to one knee, and reluctantly, he set his palms atop Ludovica's shoulders. A few moments passed, their anxiously shaken gazes locked with each others. Only the sounds of distant chirping and water slashing to disturb the silence. Finally, Cosimo musters enough strength to speak out four words: "Papà è andato, Ludo." "No," Ludovica rebuttals without a moments pass. The single word she whispers was paired with a stern stomp of her left foot against the stone pathway under the two. "No!" Contacting his lips, Cosimo wraps his arms about Ludo in a tight embrace. With his hand gently pressed against the back of her head, the young one presses her cheek against his shoulder. Ludovica's countenance now boasts an expression riddled with confusion, longing, and utter sadness. "No," she whispers once more. The mark slips out of the girls hand, hitting the stone with a muffled clank. Spoiler I love this so much. Gino and Giada's dynamic was one of my favourite things that ever came out of my time on the server. From them both thriving in their early years to finally kicking the bin, I think this is the most fitting way to end the story. I'm now excited to see what's in story for Anton and Ludovica. love u raine you're ******* gnarly. 7 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
MRCHENN 3663 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Sir George chuckled from the Seven Skies, flicking a cigar into his hand. “Truly is the end of an era, Falcone.” 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Lhindir_ 3436 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Ostromir Carrion paced his halls, with a skull in hand. He babbles things to that inanimate object, and yet within such’s eyes - lights flicker for just fleeting moments. “The work, is not over yet , Gino.” Spoke that Raevir down towards the object , tone ever laced with venom.. and.. Amusement? 6 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
Jameson_h 334 Share Posted March 29, 2021 Ricky sits alone in his study drinking himself into a mess over the course of hours his eldest daughter Jane finds herself occupying her two younger brothers as the noises from her fathers study suddenly explode into noise, the breaking of bottles the sound of a chair impacting with a wall, shouts of curses in foreign language. The sounds of Ricky enraged by the only man who watched out for him, someplace between a brother, father and friend. Enraged that he was gone so soon and enraged by the little he knew of his disappearance, someone should be killed for this. But no one is their to shoulder the blame. Instead he will just drink until he feels better or until he falls unconscious perhaps when he awakes finally things won't be so bad 4 Link to post Share on other sites More sharing options...
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