Faction Dearly Beloved, Dearly Departed | THR Great Houses

[Taera 'Calypso']

Location: Atria Estate, Epica
Tags: Lancel Atria | Open

The young Lord Faustus Atria laid in state at the foot of the dais in the estate’s great hall. Silver daylight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, as clouds gathered in the sky overhead. Weather droids had predicted a light drizzle for the day but it would not be enough to deter the invited nobility from paying their respects. Mourning flowers had been artfully arranged around the casket, and a holoprojector hovered nearby, displaying images of the deceased in life.



Baronness Calypso Atria stood off to one side, a respectful distance from the casket but close enough that those paying their respects could also easily pay their condolences. Right where etiquette demanded she stand. Her attire had been meticulously chosen: an understated black dress with a lace bodice and sleeves, incorporating black gemstones and pearls sewn in elegant designs. A black sun hat of the finest black wool tilted over her brow at an angle, a black veil hanging in front of her face. Simple pearl and diamond jewelry complemented the look. Elegant, understated, the picture of a wife in mourning.

Calculated.

Calypso clasped gloved hands in front of her as she received whispers of politely offered condolences from nobles that thought they knew the lordling or were just fulfilling the expectations demanded of them. The black leather felt soft, even from the inside. Quality. Beside her stood Lord Lancel Atria, younger brother of Faustus, her brother-in-law, an arm crooked to escort the elderly and ailing Lady Seraphine Atria. As Calypso received another well-wisher, she had to admit to herself that the family looked good in black.

Dry-eyed and distracted though she was, Calypso was sad. Of the many men she had known in her life, Faustus had been one of the handful of decent ones she’d met. Stupid, yes, wasteful in his lavish lifestyle, certainly. But genuinely kind to his friends and family, and loyal to a fault. One of his last acts had been to attempt to ensure marital bliss for his brother, by arranging a marriage to an offworld princess.

Which showed how little Faustus knew his brother.

She stole a glance to see how well he was holding up. Faustus’ sudden death hit the family hard. The picture of perfect health one day, and an aneurysm according to the coroner the next. She lost her husband and they a son and brother, a man in his prime. Importantly, he had left no heirs either. The legal proceedings wouldn’t start until another few days and they would be slow-going. They would have to muddle through the grieving period and the legal mire together.

Tears streamed freely down Lady Seraphine’s face. Calypso made eye contact with Lancel and gestured subtly with eyes and hands to get his mother a handkerchief.

“I’m so sorry for falling apart like this,” Lady Seraphine said in a shaky whisper. “It’s terribly unseemly. You are bearing it with more grace and strength than I, my dear Calypso.”

Calypso took a moment to lean down and give Lady Seraphine’s free hand a gentle squeeze.

“Only because I must,” she said quietly. “Tears were never a luxury I was afforded but they will come when I no longer need to hold myself upright.”

Her eyes darted to Lancel again as she straightened and readied herself to receive the next guest in the interminable line of visiting nobility. Truly, how long did a noble need to be the center of attention while dead?

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

Earlier - Traveling to Funeral
Wearing: X

The Llamrei cut cleanly through hyperspace, its engines humming with the quiet confidence of a vessel that had carried generations of Cavellos before her. Princess Guinevere sat by the viewport, hands clasped too tightly in her lap, then loosening, then tightening again. She hadn't even realized she was doing it until her fingers began to ache.

A funeral. They were traveling to Epica, to the Atria Estate, to mourn the dead.

The irony was almost cruel enough to make her laugh. Because this was also where her parents had calmly, efficiently informed her that she would meet her future husband. Lord Lancel Atria. Betrothed. Promised. Settled. The words had landed like a verdict passed down long before she'd entered the room.

A funeral seemed fitting, she thought darkly. Something was being laid to rest, after all. If not her body, then whatever small, fragile freedom she'd managed to keep tucked away inside herself.

Her foot bounced. She smoothed her dress. She twisted a ring on her finger, then removed it, then put it back on. Every motion betrayed her nerves, her mind racing far faster than the ship ever could.

"Guinevere."

Her mother's voice cracked like a snapped rein.

"Stop fidgeting," she snapped, sharp and precise. "You are a princess, not a child."

Gwen stilled instantly, hands folding into perfect stillness atop her skirt. Her spine straightened, chin lifted, expression carefully neutral. Years of training slid back into place like armor. Grace. Poise. Obedience.

"Yes, Mother," she said softly.

But inside, her thoughts refused to quiet. Epica loomed ahead, an elegant estate wrapped in mourning blacks and polite condolences, where grief and celebration would blur together in a way that made her skin prickle. She wondered if Lord Atria would look at her and see a bride… or if he would see the same thing she felt herself becoming.

An offering.

The Llamrei surged onward, carrying her toward a funeral that marked the end of someone else's life, and, she feared, the quiet burial of her own.

 

[Cynan Obaith]

Location: Atria Estate, Epica
Outfit: Funeral Suit
Tags: Taera 'Calypso' | Guinevere Cavello

Funerals were never affairs that Cynan found any comfort or believed that they offered any assistance in the grieving process.

Arriving on Epica, Cynan had dressed himself in the funeral regal that he had wore on previous occasions and ensured that he looked presentable to attend the event. Cynan had sent ahead of time a bouquet of flowers and a message to the Baroness on his sympathies for her loss. To lose a partner while so young, it was a tragedy in of itself. Cynan hoped to be a grand old age when he passed before his partner. He did also suspect that he would be the one to pass first as well.

Striding towards the procession, where many of the nobles within the Hight Republic had gathered, Cynan looked around. He lowered his head in sympathy towards the Baroness for her loss and thought about what this could all mean as well. What changes could be happening from this event. There was also a chance for him to rub shoulders with some of the other elites within the High Republic as well, a chance to learn more about what they are getting up to and figuring things out more about where he needed to be guiding the political activism that he had been working with.

Cynan did not attempt to make his way forward to approach the Baroness, he knew it was important to allow things proceed as they should first. Give space to those closest to the deceased. Instead, he kept to the back and listened to those mourning closest to him. Feeling the light drizzle on him as it reminded him of the heavy rainfall that occurred the day of his father's funeral. It had been necessary for coats and umbrellas. Today was different in that regard but he wondered if the weather would worsen as the funeral proceeded.

 

[Lancel Atria]

It was odd to note that which stood out on a day of grief. To find himself preoccupied by the aroma of the floral arrangements was something entirely unexpected. He had not cared such a bouquet for many years, not since Fuastus inadvertently stole his favoured scent as a child, back when having something such as a favourite colour had seemed important.

But that was Faustus. Dear, Faustus in all his oblivious glory. As the heir, he did not realise how easily he stepped into possession of things that others had set their heart upon. So accustomed, had he been, to getting his own way, that there had hardly ever been a stumble in conscience when he got what he wanted, even if at another's loss.

Lancel examined the floral arrangements on the casket thoroughly, but he could not spot a single yellow-orange blossom of the talum vine. It was not surprising, really. The vine was a weed, hated by gardeners all over Epica, and rarely seen on the Estate. It was that sense of the forbidden, the untamed wild creeping into his curated home estate, that had attracted Lancel to the aroma. It was the scent of the illicit.

The soft sobs of his elderly mother brought Lancel back to the reality of the moment. Then he noticed that Calypso was staring at him. He stiffened instinctively. The widow's netting over her face could not hide the sullen determination on her face, and Lancel was momentarily distracted by her intensity. The eternal second snapped and the urging towards consolation was understood. He pulled forth his clean handkerchief and offered it to his mother, who readily and apologetically accepted.

Then. Calypso leaned in front of him. He missed every word she spoke. Instead, assaulted by the overwhelming presence of talum blossom. His face grew pale, and its muscles taut. He looked...haggard.

"Funerals are made for tears, mother," he muttered, a poor choice of words to comfort. And poor timing, the aroma of the blossoms being heightened by the taste of the air. His eyes closed, briefly. And Lancel nodded to another noble well-wisher.

He opened his eyes, and avoided Calypso's momentary gaze. Instead, looking for the rose who his brother had deemed a suitable replacement for the blossom he had longed desired.

Faustus' death was the cruelest theft of all. Lancel would never be able to convey just how much he hated his brother for his parting gift.

Guinevere Cavello Taera 'Calypso' Cynan Obaith
​

 

[Maëlys Amnen]

H O U S E • A M N E N​

Location: Epica
Objective: Mourning flavoured networking
Tags: Vitaly Antantonio Taera 'Calypso' Lancel Atria Guinevere Cavello Cynan Obaith

Wearing

Maëlys had been to Epica only twice before. The first was was to bid in person on a ridiculously priced old magnum of Epica wine, the second was to buy the vineyard it came from. Lovely place, thoroughly elegant and the sort of place one might find themselves moving to to grow into their later years. It was sad that her third visit was for such a sad purpose. It wasnt that she personally knew the deceased but she knew what it was like to lose loved ones and noble funerals had a tendency to be bold affairs and always reminded her of lost Amnens of the past.

"Senator" she said to a gentleman she recognised by reputation. Vitaly Antantonio cut quite the form as the woman clad in black and Aurodenium-r approached him. Her people had done plenty of business with his people so it would be good to actually converse with him, perhaps even gain an ally within the Republic, after all her world as only a stone's throw from the Republic and one of the largest mineral and spice producers in their region of influence.

"Tragic thing, isn't it. Did you know the gentleman?"

 

[Guinevere Cavello]

​

Earlier - Traveling to Funeral
Wearing: X

The Llamrei touched down on Epica without ceremony, its landing quiet and precise. Within moments, the Cavello family was moving toward the great hall where the visitation would be held. A thin mist clung to the ground, beading softly against stone and silk alike. On any other day, Gwen might have worried what it would do to her hair. Today, such trivialities felt distant and unreal.


Her parents walked several paces ahead, arm in arm, offering practiced, mournful smiles to those gathered. They looked every bit the grieving dignitaries, measured, composed, unassailable. Gwen followed with her brother at her side. He offered her his arm, and she took it without hesitation. Together, the two blond siblings trailed their parents, a picture of dynastic beauty and obligation.

"Gwen… you're trembling."

Her brother slowed, concern softening his voice as he looked down at her. She hadn't realized how badly she shook until he said it, her hands, her knees, even her breath betraying her. A thousand thoughts collided in her mind.

What if Lord Atria is cruel?
What if he demands children immediately?
What if he doesn't like her at all, and insults her parents for it?

And if that happened...if she failed at the only role she had been shaped for... what would become of her then?

Her entire future rested in the hands of a man she had never spoken to.

She swallowed hard, fighting the sting behind her eyes, forcing her feet to move even as panic threatened to root her in place.

"Don't let me fall," she whispered fiercely under her breath.

Her brother's grip tightened at once, solid and reassuring. He didn't reply, but he didn't need to. Together, they continued forward in the slow, inevitable procession.


At last, they reached the Baroness and the gathered Atria family. The protocol droid stepped forward, its voice smooth and impartial as it announced her father, King Cavello, and her brother, Prince Cavello. As tradition dictated, it omitted the women entirely. The droid knew its role well.

That did not stop her mother from stepping forward, extending her hand with solemn grace.

"My dear Baroness Atria, Lady Atria, Lord Atria," she said gently, "I am so deeply sorry for your loss."


She did not introduce her children. Perhaps she felt this was not the moment. There would be time for that later, time enough for Gwen to be formally presented, appraised, and discussed. Besides, it was obvious who the princess was.

Gwen wore deeper mourning than the rest of her family. The man who had died was, after all, her future brother-by-law. Her mother had insisted it was appropriate.

The princess lowered her sea-foam eyes first to the Baroness, then. slowly, reluctantly, to the man standing beside her.

Lord Lancel Atria was handsome. That much registered immediately. He looked a few years older than her and she felt her stomach jolt, wondering if that would upset him. His face was admirable but there was no warmth in his expression, no softness to temper the sharp lines of his face. Perhaps it was grief, she told herself. Of course it was grief. Still, the sight of him sent her stomach twisting tighter.

She supposed she should feel relieved that he was attractive. Instead, she felt only dread.

Carefully, Gwen composed her features into polite sorrow, a mask she had been trained to wear since childhood. Her gaze flicked away from Lancel almost at once, afraid that if she lingered too long, her breath might betray her.

She focused on breathing.
On standing.
On not falling apart, here, of all places.

Taera 'Calypso' Lancel Atria | @others in the area