Goon

If anyone needs to be asking you anything, you need to be asking yourself why Natasha still doesn’t have a husband.

This missive made its way through the proper channels, finally finding Cosimo Falcone who took a disinterested read of such. “This about your little friend’s brother, si, Ludo?” The Illatian rhetorically queried, brows raised before looking at the young kin in front of him, “Knowingly raised a bastard, didn’t like how they raised ‘em, then disowned him for being a bastard.” An unamused chortle as he handed the missive back, coaxing a shake of his head to accompany an unsettled suckle against his teeth, “A circus act, that family.”

Skin 5 Bid: 400 Discord: goon#8136

skin 5 starting bid: 300

News of the slain Count eventually reaches Cosimo Falcone, a brooding silence then to follow. The man he’d known from his childhood, the man who gave his political career any legs- slain by the ISA, of course. A tongue moves to roll against the linings of cheek as the persistent furrow of his brows deepened. A prolonged moment still as he began an idle nod of his head, murmuring then, “I see.”

FALCONE VOTES AYE FALCONE VOTES AYE FALCONE VOTES AYE

Upon receiving the decorated envelope, Cosimo Antony already knew what awaited inside, a groan as he drew forth an aurum letter opener to pry into the sleeve. "Weddings are uninteresting, even if they are your own." An idle comment meant for no one in particular, though as he read over the missive, a dubious smirk began to crack at his features. "But Viktor is to marry a princess.. Bravo, amiche."

SURNAME: FALCONE FIRST NAME: COSIMO ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: CASTLE DOBROV YEAR OF BIRTH: 1788 Are you registered and eligible to vote in the Northern District? YES Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)? NO If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?: N/A ((MC NAME)): Motherchild

FALCONE VOTES AN ABSENTEE OF AYE FALCONE VOTES AN ABSENTEE OF AYE

RP Name: Cosimo Antony Falcone MC Name: Motherchild Voted: Yes

[!] This invite was sent to the members of House D’Amato and House Falcone, and the occasional family friend. L'UNIONE DI FALCONE E CRISTELLI — THE UNION OF CRISTELLI AND FALCONE — "STILL LIFE GRAPES IN A BOWL WINE CHEESE NUTS LUNCH," PAINTING BY JOHN FRANCIS - 1857 THE WEDDING OF COSIMO ANTONY FALCONE E NATALIA MARIE CRISTELLI Ceremoniously, Cosimo Falcone and his lady Natalia Cristelli send this invitation, seeking to make their union official for a small gathering to witness. Officiated by Patriarch Alfred, this union is set to take place at the Providence Cathedral. Those with this invite are allowed to bring whom they please, under their best judgement, of course. Come to witness the two solidify their Holy Union. 17th of The First Seed, 1815

Cosimo Falcone took a moment to skim over the missive, "Magic. In His Holy Empire?" A disbelieving, cynical utterance as the Illatian man shook his head. He let free the missive, letting it hit the ground before scrapping a shoe against it. "God, tell me you have not forsaken us?" He plead rhetorically, clicking against his teeth then.

“Jorden?” Echoed rhetorically the voice of Alicjo Verrana, layered in concern and disbelief upon hearing of her quiet passing. The news had coaxed the old Southeron into a long silence of deliberation, the brows against his forehead quaked briefly, and his lips pursed thin as his tongue idly rolled against them. Finally contributing a sandpaper utterance, he rasped, “I see.” The bearded Southeron picked his head from his aversion, offering then a forced, wry smile and a bob of his head- one that was meant to dismiss the messenger before falling back into his stool, taking a prolonged inhale through flaring nostrils. — • — You see, when the two met, Jorden was dying- and it would not be the last time he saw her on that brink either. The most vivid of his first memories with her was compressing a gash against her neck, long enough to stall the profuse bleeding until she could receive more of an aid than his novice abilities could provide. So, perhaps the news of her passing should not be so much of a surprise to him, but all the same, of course it was. How many surgeries had he sat through? How many punches had he seen her take, how many beasts had he watched corner her, and how many limbs did he watch her lose? Though, none of it ever seemed to slow her for longer than the doctor recommended, good as new with a new metal bit to boast. “Give it enough time, you’ll lose the other one.” A mirthful jest meant for the Brashton as she awoke from her leg’s replacement surgery, accompanied by a gentle pat against her shoulder. Though, the coy smirk against his expressions would soon after dissipate the longer he looked down at her fallen form. “I’m sorry.” He admitted in a hushed tone, once more patting against the woman’s shoulder. “Your sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.” He rationalized with her- with himself, before seeing himself out for a smoke. She was under his orders when it happened, so he couldn’t help to feel responsible for what had happened to her leg, even still, thirty some-odd years later. And even still, thirty some-odd years later, whenever Alicjo stared at a crackling flame for too long, he was brought back to the time he denied Brashton’s requisition of revision to their plan. “We should have listened to each other more.” A thought would tell him in retrospect, coaxing his hands to a clasp in front of him. A bull and a bear, although prone to butt heads, they very seldom did. They understood each other, that Brashton and the Verrana. They understood each other and fought the same fights. And though he did very little to ease her when she would begin to tremble at their shared traumas, it was not from a lack of effort- it was simply that he felt too similar for his own comfort. Jorden's anguish only made him fear his own, the anguish that he tried greatly to bury. A reminder that he was responsible, direct or in. And even though he never shared the thought, he was grateful she never said it. — • — An anxiously shaking leg starting now, Alicjo held his gaze against clasped hands that rested atop his knees- intermittently huffing and puffing quietly as repressed men do amidst mourning. He tried to recall their better times, something to lift the weight of another fallen comrade. The drinks and the jeers, those victories that they shared under the same tatters- a wry smile began a tug, sounding that amused snort he often does. "Damn, it’s so hard to find ones you trust," especially at their shared age. Perhaps her passing wasn’t such a bad thing though, because it meant she no longer was tortured by an ever-decaying form. That she was no longer plagued with traumas to haunt her youth’s decisions. But it meant Alicjo lost one of his greatest comrades. That a lot of people lost one of the most benevolent souls to grace the realms. A reminder then- of the finite nature of it all. Weep in silence, for a warrior cannot cry until their fight is won. — • —

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

A bearded Southeron squints his eyes as he reads at the missive against the tavern's wall, a simple shake of his head as an arrogance littered his musing utterance, "Who does not know how to throw a dart?"

Red Cloaked 260

congrats in the doctorate, doctor chenn. 1) favorite thing about yourself 2) would you ever join another staff team? 3) do you ever consider rping outside of Oren?

Only but a few times did Alicjo have the privilege to go to blows with the fallen Ezyl. And perhaps luckily for him, they had only ever fought against the same side. Strangely, the man recalled fondly of the time an apparition appeared before them, and of course, she was the first to react, drawing forth her falchion and planting in her stance. She awaited that creature to come to her, and when it did, she feared not to remain in such close range of the creature's grasp, toying with the being as she brought her sword up against it – making the line of a crossbow's shot that much more difficult for Alicjo. In those few times they shared a shield, he had gathered all he would need to know about the woman. Hard-headed: though that only meant she did not shy in the face of resistance. Brash: though that only meant she did not cower in the face of adversity. That meant she was a fighter, and be it by circumstance or choice, she was a damn good one. Her short dance with that creature continued, it returning a slap to loosen a chip from the decals of her armor, all as that Southeron aligned his shot carefully. Through his watchful squint, he couldn't help to pay notice to how that woman carried herself, – "Damn." An observant thought sounded through the Southeron's mind, coaxing him to finally release the silver-tinted bolt that shimmered in his thrower's rails. The bolt whizzed, as they do, a near-miss of the woman's head as the feathered end of the arrow barely scrapped against her helm, piercing then through the skull of that wretched creature – disintegrating to a pile of ash and bones. A winded, fighter's breath as she turned to the man who shot the bolt, unshaken by the close call as she mused with a smirk, “A bit closer next time, ti? I've wanted a shaved head for a while.” The Southeron managed a snort of amusement, shaking his head as he propped that bolt's thrower against his shoulder, laying a gauntleted hand against hers as he retorted, “Don't worry, I've still got my eyes.” And as if nothing were amiss, they carried on. She would either die a defender's death or she would live to see a mali's turn. "But why wouldn't she be granted an old mali's death? Surely, nothing could do her in."

The young Cosimo Antony held a proud simper against his countenance as he glanced over the missive from the Emperor. His eyes trailed against each line, murmuring the words quietly to himself, "Iss about tim- COSMO?!" Exclaimed the youth as his eyes fell unto the misspelling of his name, a recoiling head met with furrowing brows. He scrutinously trailed over the line again to ensure he was not misread, sucking once at his teeth as he shook his head. "Oh no, I'm'a gonna have to speak to him myself." Upon this utterance, he set the missive down, drawing forth a sheet of parchment to draft a letter to that Emperor.

"Vote for Cosimo! Vote for Cosimo!" The Illatian man solicited loudly atop of an overturned crate, Josephite medallions in his hand as to offer them to anyone who would take them. Amidst his shouting, a youth tugged against the tail of his coat, coxing him to bend downward for the child to tell him something. "Hm?" He hummed before the youth whispered something to him. "Nobody's runnin' against me? Y'mean I already won? Tha's'a great news!" He exclaimed, jumping from his crate and forcing a medallion into the hand of a woman that was passing by.

RP Name: Cosimo D'Amato-FalconeMC Name: MotherchildVoted: Yes :)

Off the coast and afloat the riverbed that ran adjacent to New Esbec, Alicjo Verrana and his daughter, Verendus Verrana, sat themselves tightly into a small rower's vessel- fishing lines casted affront of them. A quiet and early morning, the sun only just beginning to crown against the visible horizon of the mountain lines. All that was heard was the droning sound of the forest critters and the creaking wood of the swaying boat- those birds who searched for their day's first meal and those cicadas who made sure that it wasn't them. The bearded Southeron man laid his pole to his flank before he reclined himself with eyes shut, legs sprawled and hands to rest atop his shaven head. Verendus, on the other hand, sat with an elbow against her knee, and a balled fist to support her pensive stare against the rippling reservoir. A bonding pastime for the two. Against the back of his lids, a memory played vividly of the time he taught the girl to hook her own worms, and then another memory crept in - the time he taught the Elmpool man the same. "Eck!" The sound of Casper's evident disgust echoed through his mind, coaxing a fish-eating grin onto the fisherman's face, accompanied by a snorted amusement. "What?" The girl called in response to his sudden chortle, turning her head sharply toward the man with a watchful squint. "Nothing." He lulled simply, eyes still shut as he moved a hand to lazily rise for a dismissive swat. The girl didn't seem to appreciate the answer so much, though she didn't press it, turning toward the line that she had sunk in the water. And the two fell into a comfortable silence once more, only broken by the chirping of the early birds. You see, Alicjo hadn't visited Providence much more these days, so perhaps it'd be another decade before he knew any better regarding his old friend and dearest customer. But all the same, those positive reflections would still bring a smile to his face, coaxing that thought to reach out to his friend once more for their ever remote reunion each time. It always feels like there will be a tomorrow, but that was never promised. And to say the two would meet again, well, it would be just as empty.

SURNAME: D'AMATO - FALCONE FIRST NAME: COSIMO ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: CARRION CIRCLE 5 YEAR OF BIRTH: 1788 Are you registered and eligible to vote in the Northern District? YES Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)? NO If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?: N/A ((MC NAME)): MOTHERCHILD