Luca di Arcangelo
- Luca di Arcangelo was last seen:
- Mar 1, 2018
Luca di Arcangelo's Quick FactsGender / Pronouns
twenty twoCurrent Location
File Island, Digital WorldOrigin
Florence, ItalyClass (Digivice)
Gilgamesh, Fate Series
Remiel's Quick FactsBase Form
AngemonGender / Pronouns
Luca di Arcangelo's FreeformShe comes to him in the night, in his dreams, ghost-thin like smoke, threadbare; enough for him to feel her warmth. She comes to him, looking like he remembers her to look. Luca just smiles at this welcome fog of memory. In these dreams, he was always a boy or a man, and his mother sat next to him. She was so lovely, as beautiful as he remembered her to be, could still hear her voice and crystalline laughter as she gently encouraged him. Dark strands hung in soft waves to her hips, eyes as clear as summer skies. She smiled at him as she hummed the tune she meant for him to play and steered his small fingers with her own. Through her, Luca learned the great pleasure of pleasing those closest to him. In these dreams, he appeared taller, full-grown - not a child whose feet wouldn't reach the floor from the bench, but he felt as he had when he'd been small. He played the piano most nights in his dreams.
He recalled her, humming about the house, singing to him as she cooked, as she hung the laundry. He played at his mother's worn piano, though sometimes he played at the shiny but hollow Steinway at his father's house. But when he was first learning to play, it was at that old grand piano and his mother would lean over behind him, her hands on his own, and she'd show him where to place his fingers and how to press down the keys. He'd been lost to these dreams more frequently since he'd arrived in Venice, this city that felt like his mother. He'd start awake in his empty apartment, swearing out against his stupid sentimentality as he wandered shakily to the window to get some air. His fingers would feel tired as if he'd been playing all night.
Darkness gathered at the horizon beyond the white, distant fires of the stars that lit up the ragged silhouette of the city. Gathered and licked upward. An exhale of smoke and night air left Luca in a cross-stitch haze as he leaned out the window that framed in a much more constricted view of the Venetian cityscape than he had dedicated to memory before he had left. In his memories, Venice and Florence stretched on forever from the tip of Corsica to the highest reaches of the Valle D'Aosta.
Late summer, 3AM, and the stretch between his apartment in the Dorsoduro district and the sea was a narrow river way, a yacht's six-speed transmission, and enough sun and surf to clear the dream-like ache from his bones. The stairwell still creaked like it always had; the street was dark as Luca wound his way through the shadows of a city at night, slipped down streets tourists avoided, past crumbling stonework storefronts, and hanging baskets of rare blooms and scented herbs. When the street was still and quiet, Luca could hear the faint rush of Venice's fountains. Down the next alley that yawned ahead of him, Luca was unshaken to see that his favorite pizzeria as a boy was still open. Everything was a monument to stasis here, nothing ever changed in old crumbling cities like this, nothing real anyway. The places the tourists frequented were constantly under reconstruction and restored, but at Italy's very heart none of that would ever change.
The scene was truly like nothing else on earth. And there, among the brick streets of Venice and the watery canals, in every fragment of her fallen Temples, and every stone of her deserted palaces and prisons was the Carnevale di Venezia, unlike anything Luca would ever see. It was an opulent spectacle of Italian culture and centuries of history, he swore. He swelled with pride -- this was home. These were his people, his blood, the scenery that enveloped him for the first thirteen years of his life, and now again when he'd finally returned. Nearly a decade had passed, but he still remembered the way it smelled, how the hot summer nights felt on his skin. This was his soil.
Luca looked around him, taking in the sights -- an angel on wires raised above the swaying crowd, the orange glow of the firelight lining the palazzo set its wings ablaze, taking on a lantern-like feel, feathers like a thousand tongues of flame. The crowds undulated with as many locals as colorfully-clothed tourists: men in sinister costumes, with robes the color of red wine and gold-leaf, women in Venetian masks in gauzy dresses that beat against the air in pink, blue, and green waves as drumbeats hummed through the waterways, vibrating through the stone beneath Luca's feet.
Ensconced in the wrappings of quiet, an illusion-thin sea of sounds, an explosion of colors and scents, he closed his eyes behind the midnight gold mask which now curved against his face. A minute passed. Ten more, a week, maybe a month. It seems a lifetime could vanish in the lagoon city of Venezia, in the Veneto region, in Italy. A lifetime of festivals and music, and rapture and if one wasn't careful they could just as likely lose themselves. It's maybe days into this and time bleeds and blurs after a while; Luca loses himself to a moment of quiet in his childhood church. He didn't come here for meditation or comfort, nor did he come out of uttermost certainty because a right-hand does what he must.
Fifteen years, ten years ago he'd been such a firecracker of a child, fuse a single cell layer long, always lit and hissing away. He'd challenged the Ninth of the Mala del Brenta in Veneto for his position, but less sure of himself, a troublemaker he was nothing but a little kid - angry at his family (because there is no family like Family), dismissed by every mafia family whose course he stumbled upon, whose blessings he'd pleaded for. Still, he made sure the rumors spread, rumors of the ammunition stored all over his body, of his skill with a 9x9 mm.
His breath is the only sound that breaks the quiet
Fear gripped his throat like a fist at having
Remiel's FreeformUpon first glance Remiel is the classic Seraph, looking every inch the patron saint: six wings, divine golden staff, trademark holier-than-thou attitude. However, underneath this heavenly veneer is not a being of perfected virtue. Austere and pensive, his spectrum of emotion ranges from amusement to tolerance though his highly somber disposition leaves little room for his face to actually show it.
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- Face Claim:
- Gilgamesh, Fate Series
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