#castora

Visions of Eternity is off to an amazing start! I'm very intruiged by the story so far, and the maps are master pieces.

i found them and i love them, oh my godddd, i'm squaling so much

i want them to be real and have five of them

the truth is singular, as cold and as clean as the blade of a new knife: he does not know pain unless it burns him straight through, carves a hole in his chest that is as visible as it is internal. only then does he allow himself a taste of grief, a glimpse of agony.

It's a nondescript, ugly dive bar — the kind that Paola is familiar with. The scent of cigarette smoke is comforting; she knows it well, has even associated it with home before. The easy laughter of those with nowhere better to be soothes her anxiety. Around her, bottles hiss as they open and glasses clink against the counter as people set down their drinks. Patiently, Paola waits; as she’s waited a thousand times before in Rome for an easy target, as she’s waited a hundred times in Verona for Valentina to step forth from the shadows.

Tonight, she waits for one mark, and one man: Giovanni Esposito. Rumored to have crucial information about il sangue di Faerie and how it’s manufactured, Giovanni holds in his hand the only power Paola respects: information.

When he arrives, it’s with little fanfare. If she had not been keeping her gaze casually fixed unto the entrance, she might have missed him. He seems to recognize her at once. Almost carelessly, Giovanni wanders by. He orders a drink and lingers. Paola keeps her eyes away from behind the bar, towards the crowd. No one has noticed them yet. Yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spots Castora. Relief floods her chest; at least she’s safe, if Giovanni tries anything.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Giovanni asks pleasantly. Like she is a stranger, and not a meeting. Not a potential buyer of secrets and intel.

She does not meet his eye, does not move her gaze to meet his. “You may, signor.”

He orders himself a scotch, and nod at the bartender as Paola orders a vodka martini. He raises his glass and she follows suit, turning her body halfway to face him. “To the future of Verona,” he toasts. But he cares little for his hometown; it’s evident in his eyes, which gleam with greed and the glint of gold.

Is she not the same? Rome means nothing to her, as Verona means nothing to her. It is not a city that makes a home; it is the community, and Paola has found hers in the Montagues. So she hopes, anyway.