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BASIC INFORMATION [« DISCORD USERNAME » die.masowierin] [« MINECRAFT USERNAME » TheNetherowy] « IN CHARACTER NAME » Antonio Vicenzo « SURNAME » Carnelle « AGE» 25 PROFESSIONAL INFORMATION « OCCUPATION » Cartographer « EXPERIENCE » Was educated for and served as a baron for twenty years. (for context, he received the title at 6) « DESIRED ROLES » Elections Aide, Census Aide, Deputy Director of Elections.

The margravine’s cold, unwavering stare had been locked onto the same spot on the ceiling for just about ten minutes now. Her eyes opened and shut slowly with each blink, train of thought sluggish as she sat leaning back in an armchair in her keep’s library. The book she held a moment ago had tumbled to the ground under her weakening grip and she had not bothered to pick it up. It was apparent - Amelia Reinhold was high out of her mind. The woman’s life since the diagnosis has been nothing short of a constant uphill battle. For a brief period, she went through what could only be described as a miserable breakdown, followed by years of complete loneliness and utter numbness. After finding out her lungs were steadily deteriorating, Amelia turned to increasingly stronger kinds of medicine, both magic and not, in her attempts to quell the mounting pain. Now, coupled with a never-ending string of terrible news, which left her feeling livid, depressed and viciously betrayed, she often preferred this state over the hard, restless work and ambition that plagued her life decades ago. She snapped out of it. Back to reality. Some clarity had returned to her. Her eyes gazed away from the spot they were boring into a moment ago and took in the surroundings; the cosy, albeit dusty room, the soft armchair she was slumped in, the book on the ground. Her mind caught up soon after, reminding Amelia where she was. Who she was. She let out a weak, pathetic sob in response, tears streaming down her cheeks. Leaning forward, burying her face in her hands, she cried. It took the margravine another moment to get a hold of herself, for the tears to cease flowing. Once they did, Amelia attempted to hoist herself up on her feet, gripping the armchair tightly while pulling her body up. A pained, pathetic groan escaped her lips as she found her balance and stepped forward with a weak, slow walk, heading towards the staircase. No use in despairing sober, the woman thought to herself as carefully, step by step, she went down to the ground floor of the keep. She coughed on her way there, multiple times, the palm that she covered her mouth with splattering with rich, dark red blood. Just the trip down the steps took a lot out of her; the margravine had to pause and catch a breath before she finally took a right and reached the Reinholds’ bar. Amelia wasted absolutely no time in crossing over to the other side of the counter and reaching for the nearest bottle of wine. She hadn’t even bothered to grab a glass before uncorking the bottle, taking a swig of as much as she could, almost spilling the alcohol over herself in the process and finally setting her sights on the piano on the other side of the ballroom. Persistently, she marched across the floor to reach the instrument, stopping dead in her tracks halfway through; firstly, because she coughed once again, sending a splash of red onto the floor and secondly, because she noticed the painting of Atticus and Wilford on the wall. Yes, it had been there since they moved. Yes, there was nothing unusual about it. Yes, she stopped to look at it almost every time she passed by. She locked eyes with the former, entering something of an unwinnable staring contest, which ended with her taking another sip of southern red straight from the bottle, brows furrowing as she continued moving. No moment of hesitation passed through Amelia as she took her seat, fingers hovering over the piano keys. She had set the bottle aside on the instrument's lid, the occasional swig leaving it emptier and emptier. With a deep breath in, her hands pressed down, starting to play. The margravine’s piano skills, which she began to hone in her later teenage years, were originally meant to pass the time while manning the bar in Vallagne's Fairweather. As she busied herself with the old continent decaying, subsequent arrival to Azuras and finally her reign, Amelia largely forgot how to play. It was only after receiving her diagnosis that she got back into it, while spending much, much more time at home. The seconds ticked by quickly now that she was playing, tapping away at the piano keys. The music, along with the alcohol, helped calm Amelia down, despite the world getting increasingly hazy around her, the exhaustion, drugs and intoxication hitting her all at once. She could enjoy herself as long as she had an escape in the form of the instrument. A knock on the front door, followed by a voice, stopped her dead in her tracks. – “Lady Amelia?” – someone spoke out from the outside. It was a deep, male, imposing voice with a slight Waldenian accent. The two words shot through the margravine like an arrow to the head, echoing and repeating in her mind, not due to the contents, but the person speaking. She jumped off her seat with a staggering amount of strength, practically sprinting towards the front door, persisting through her illness. She grabbed hold of the doorknob and swung it open. Amelia froze seeing the man who stood on the other side. Light blonde hair, bright green eyes, bushy eyebrows and a large, well-trimmed beard, along with the simple, yet decorated outfit, resembling the minor nobility which he belonged to; there was no mistaking this was him. It was Nikolas, and he had not changed a bit. The very same who went missing so many years earlier, the very same who was her best friend, the very same man she felt she stabbed in the back, denying him his destiny. Amelia stared at him, unmoving. A sly grin, one that she had missed so much, spread across his face in response. – “Care for a drink?” – the Stafyr's head tilted slightly as he asked, both hands behind his back. The margravine tried and failed to stammer anything out; the best she managed was nothing but individual, confused sounds. The tears swelled in her eyes, she felt overwhelmed and sublime, as if staring at the marble statue of a man long gone. Then, she charged forward to embrace Nikolas, almost tackling him to the ground. – “Right, right. Long time no see. Could we get a move on, it is freezing out here.” – the smirk on his face faltered as he stumbled back to regain balance. The man’s arms did not move to hug her back; the gesture was not a habit for either of the aristocrats. Amelia backed away, opening the door wider to invite the Stafyr inside. Entering, Nikolas took a good look around the ground floor, eyebrows flying upwards, nodding to himself. The margravine led him to the bar which he so desired to sit down at, dozens of questions already forming in her mind. – “It is a nice keep you have built. Much better than that manor, anyhow.” – he sounded impressed, though definitely also jealous. – “Uh… yes, thank you.” – it took the Reinhold quite a while to respond, as it was still difficult for her to find the words. Amelia pulled back one of the stools at the bar, directing Nikolas to take a seat. She herself moved to the other side of the bar, reaching for two clean glasses. She poured a glass of whiskey for both of them, sliding one across the countertop. Getting another good look at the man, eyes narrowed, she takes a large swig of her drink. She seemed to have finally found the words as she slammed the glass back down. – “Where the HELL were you!?” – she asked, almost shouting, justifiably outraged. – “Why, travelling, of course!” – Nikolas responded ever-so-casually, as if that should have been the first thing to come to mind after a twenty year absence with no contact. – “I could not stay back at the ruined continent, and there was nothing for me on the one being built.” – he shrugs. The man spoke out again right as Amelia was about to fire back a rebuttal and cut her off. – “I was right, was I not? What remains of House Stafyr today?” – the smirk on his face could only grow. Amelia's mouth opened, then closed again. She shifted around a little, trying to think of some counter-argument. Seemingly, one came to mind as she admitted defeat with a sigh. – “Enough about what I have been up to.” – Nikolas changed subject, tipping his glass towards the woman across the counter. – “How are the kids, huh? Alma and Alford, are they alright?” Her brow furrowed at him suddenly. She felt as if something was incredibly wrong, out of place, almost. Time seemed to slow as the margravine tried to rush an explanation through her intoxicated mind, but she was unable to put her finger on it. Something was up; that she was sure of. – “They have been… alright, I suppose.” Amelia answered with reluctance, treading lightly, more alert to whatever words came out of the man's mouth. – “And yours?” Nikolas lets out a laugh. – “I have not seen them in years, not a single one of my family members joined me on the journey.” – he revealed. The man snapped his fingers, seeming to remember something. – “Oh, and what of Savannah? Has Capric taught her well?” – he asked, ever so innocently. Amelia realised now. It took her a minute too long, but she knew. The glass of whiskey in her hand slipped out of her grip and fell sideways onto the counter with a loud clatter. She retreated, taking a few steps back from the man. – “You never knew their names.” – the woman mutters. Nikolas raised an eyebrow at her, expression unchanged otherwise. – “You never–” The sound of something slamming heavily against piano keys echoed out across the ballroom, startling Amelia. She turned to look at the instrument, eyes wide, only to find it untouched, the wine bottle standing on the lid where she had left it. Looking back to the Stafyr’s seat, the margravine saw someone entirely different there. There was not a trace of Nikolas left anywhere, not even the glass of whiskey she had given him. The man now sitting in front of her was old and frail, with a glorious, large moustache planted across his face, slowly graying along with his receding hairline. – “Ah, Lady Reinhold… My dear Amelia.“ – the Carnelle mumbled, his hands were wrapping a cigar as he spoke seemingly doing so without even looking, keeping his eyes on Amelia only – “Hmm, I wasn’t expecting you to join us so soon, oh, how I missed these talks, the planning… then again, shame really. Too early even for the likes of you.” – he huffed with a grey grin, placing the cigar into his mouth and lighting it with a match. – “Join us?” – Amelia mumbled, largely to herself. Her bewilderment first shifted into confusion, then concern. – “You don’t-” – she could not finish the sentence, finally managing to understand the old man’s words. – “No…” – the woman glances around for something. Something to grab. With a suddenly fueled bout of anger and resistance, she tried to reach for the glass with her left arm and throw it at Felipe. She found nothing to grab with. The marble arm had disappeared. – “... Rude.” – Felipe gently mused, rolling his pale green eyes. Taking the cigar out of his mouth he spoke – “And here was I, the humble servant, keeping your seat warm in the underworld of Iblees, I mean come on.” – he roared a proper laugh, one which Amelia strongly remembered – “I jest, I jest. The seat is always warm! But, yes you are at death’s door child. The Afterlife is a very strange place… I’ve been in it for days, months, years… and I still fear that I have no understanding of it.” – he sighed, with the force in his voice gone, he began to speak softly – “Well, are you ready to meet your maker?” – the man mused once more, taking the cigar back into his mouth. The magravine listened in silence, hands, or rather hand, on her hips. Felipe’s voice was doing a better job of keeping her grounded and calm in all of this than she thought it would. Then again, this is not something she hadn’t seen coming. Her death was a guarantee since a decade ago. – “Capric is not here, is he?” – she asked, looking around the ground floor of the keep with narrowed eyes, just to be sure. – “Please, tell me he is not…” – “Capric? Who?” – he scratched his forehead, full of wrinkles – “I would be pleased to help, but I have no clue who that person is.” – the man chuckled to himself – “Cognitio Vincit… I seem not to live by the family motto anymore. Perhaps due to the fact I no longer live at all...” – he sighed, moving his eyes downward, shockingly displaying shame. – “Useless, demented, old…” – the woman stopped herself from exclaiming a profanity at the old baron. God might be listening, after all. She exhaled slowly, still trying to get a grip of what was happening to her. She thought the death part would be at least a little more instant. Maybe this was still the drugs? – “Well, erm…” – Amelia cleared her throat, not expecting the afterlife to be this awkward. – “What happens now?” The question began to answer itself as the margravine felt something pooling up at her feet; a liquid. Had she spilled any alcohol? She found out what the substance was rather quickly, as soon enough the floor was covered in a thin, yet rising layer of red. It wasn’t wine; she could tell from the strong, metallic smell. – “Truth be told, I believe it is different for all. I for one felt the weight of the world’s knowledge when that damned bookshelf collapsed upon me.” – he quickly grimaced, as he awkwardly twirled his moustache – “Whatever happens it will be poetic and you are unable to stop it, so I say embrace it.” – With that said, the Carnelle smirked and stood up. He bowed deeply, keeping his eyes on Amelia – “One must respect the deceased..” – he then signed the lorraine and turned around, slowly walking off to exit the keep. Amelia tried to grumble something out to Felipe, some complaint, some grievance. Unable to, she decided not to waste time in booking it upstairs; the blood, now flowing down the walls, was reaching up to her knees. Right. Of course. She had choked on the stuff. With her weak, ill body no longer weakening her, the margravine found climbing up the stairs to be incredibly comfortable, despite the suddenly missing arm making it more difficult. Her surroundings blurred together; deformed and shifted. Not her body, though. It remained clear, and so did the liquid that was rapidly chasing her up the stairs. Albeit late, it was around then that she properly registered Felipe’s words. This was no surprise. This was not particularly unexpected. She was going to die. She knew that. She had entirely accepted it by now, surely. And yet, she continued sprinting as fast as she could. She still felt horrified by it. Her legs would not stop, and she did not want them to. Amelia managed to make it up to the second floor. She was barely able to take a good look around, think of what to do next, before she felt blood reach her ankles. The keep was getting less recognisable by the second. By the time she was running up the stairway to the master bedroom, she could only vaguely recognise the layout and furniture. The woman pressed on, dashing for the door to the balcony and roof. The highest she could go. Running outside, expecting a view of the elven city perched atop the mountain, the Reinhold found nothing. The outside world beyond the keep was no longer there, replaced by a dark, sparkling, starry sky. She stopped dead in her tracks as the red began to soak her dress. She almost fell over, dizziness hitting her like a rock to the temples. She experienced an extreme, unstoppable feeling of vertigo as her hand drifted up to her forehead. She was too weak to move now, something already made difficult by the sea of red already reaching up to her waistline. The margravine looked up with a pained groan. The white points sprinkled across the sky were blaring now, almost blinding her as she squinted. Her vision doubled. What were they? Lights? Why were they peering into her like this? Why all of the attention? The brighter it got, the clearer Amelia could see something that looked like silhouettes. Breathing got harder as the blood began to brush against her neck, threatening to go just that little bit higher. Yes, she knew what the lights were now. Eyes. The gazes of hundreds, all turned at her, all gazing into her soul, just looking. No, no, they were admiring her; it was getting clearer by the second. They clapped. They recognised her, they adored her and they applauded her. So many, many people, some she even knew, giving her the appreciation she always knew she deserved. Then, the lights began to dim. The blood obscured her vision, and everyone disappeared just as quickly as the woman began to see them. Amelia was lying on the floor, single arm at her side. There weren't many surroundings to talk about anymore. Well, there was a floor, at the very least. Her breathing was slow, she was calm as she stared up into the black, empty expanse above her. Time is a faded memory here. A purposeless thing, with no age or decay for it to record. It’s an impossible task to count the seconds, hours, days, years that may pass before her stare into the abyss is interrupted. When it is, it’s more a sudden wash of feeling that cuts through the absence of sensation. The burning of light behind her eyelids which she cannot ever see. A hand on her cheek, weathered and warm. Someone is sitting behind her. There was no approach, no gradual, raising awareness of another presence arriving to this place. She was alone, and now she is not. A voice comes to her ears just as inexplicably; low, gentle. Familiar in a way that is impossible to place, as if only heard before in echoes. The man speaks her name as if every syllable were something to be lingered on appreciatively, letters all outlined in gold. – “… Amelia. I did always like the name Amelia,” He seems to muse. – “I always thought- If I have another daughter, Amelia would be quite a good one.” – The hand moves away, after a moment. – “It never quite came to be. But imagine my excitement, hm?” Her head tilted up slightly to get a glance at the man sitting there, greeting him with a slow blink. She kept still, likely hiding any real excitement she had for this meeting. It took her a while to answer properly; she hadn’t spoken or seen anyone else for what might have been eternity. – “I thought you would sound different.” – the margravine noted, putting her hand on her chest sluggishly. – “You sounded differently in my dreams, that is.” – a change of subject might be better. – “Like two ships in the night, huh?” – she mentioned, taking on a more solemn tone. Amelia saw it fit to get up and sit across from the man, out of respect more than anything. It was a shame, too; the floor was rather comfortable. In some ways, he looks exactly like his portraits. It’s impossible to say if that’s a credit to their artistry or a facet of her dying mind. Not the elderly man he died as, here her great-grandfather is only beginning to brush middle age, the deepest wrinkles on his face being the ones that crease the corners of his eyes when he smiles. He has the warm dark skin of her Lucien cousins, and soft, kindly features, framed by the neat braids which fall just above his shoulders. There’s even the pristine burgundy coat which he always seemed to be painted wearing. Even so, she notices there are little things that the artists chose not to paint. Thin scars scattered across his face and arms, shadows beneath his eyes, a disfiguration in the fingers of his left hand. Imperfections that make him feel more present and- Ironically- alive. Atticus is sitting cross-legged on the ‘floor’ of the void, hands loosely tangled in his lap, as if he’d been unhurriedly awaiting her this whole time. The comment on his voice had caused some fond amusement to enter his expression, like he was recalling having heard it before. She watches as he sobers slightly, not losing that smile, but gaining an air of distant melancholy. Getting a proper look at her great-grandfather who certainly didn’t look to be as old as he was when he died, Amelia turned her attention down to herself; something she didn’t quite care to do earlier. Sure enough, her left arm was still missing, and while observing both sides of her remaining hand carefully, she noticed her skin was no longer a sickly, pale colour and that she had returned to a normal, healthy weight. Judging solely off how they felt, the swelling in her legs was gone, and as she took a deep breath, she discovered her lungs worked just fine too, provided there even was air in this place. Interestingly enough, she was wearing the outfit she put on during her shifts at the Fairweather - it was a suit rather than a dress, and not particularly decorated. She must have been around twenty, hopefully higher. Quite frankly, it made her feel small and a little pathetic. – “I wished nothing more than to cling on, just long enough to meet you. It brought me solace in my last days,” – He admits, after a pause. – “And when I realized I could not, I comforted myself knowing I would find you here someday. Hopefully not too soon.” A soft exhale, as he looks upon her with a mix of emotion that echoes across his face; Pride, sorrow, affection, nostalgia. – “It is still far sooner than I had hoped.” – The corners of his eyes crinkle once more. – “Yet, as always, part of me is selfish. I am so very, very happy to see you.” – “I never thought I would live long.” – she replied bluntly before breaking out into a soft chuckle. – “I had always planned that not too long after I retire, I would challenge someone important enough to a duel and die like that.” – the giggling ceased as soon as she stopped talking, briefly mulling something over. – “Perhaps it was not that bad of an idea…” – she muttered to herself. Atticus seems to pause for a moment, but any surprise on his expression does not last long. It softens instead, surprisingly, into fondness. – “You sound like my husband. He would always insist on it, when we were younger men- He’d never die of old age. The bottle or the blade, he was sure of it. Nothing would sway him.” – Despite the grim words, there’s a wash of nostalgia over his face. – “Perhaps it is all his kin who have this… Strong notion of their fate. A certainty which drives you forward.” It’s strange to watch him breathe, speak, move- Strange, to watch someone who exists only as marble faces and brushstrokes suddenly become human. Her great-grandfather wrinkles his nose when he thinks, and occasionally his left fingers twitch without his noticing, and he watches Amelia like he’s taking in all the same little details about her. She is someone he has never truly known. Yet, when he speaks, it is with all the sincerity and warmth of home. He speaks as if he has known her from birth. – “Do not regret it, Amelia. Do not regret a single moment of it.” – He extends a hand to her, rings gleaming despite the absence of light. – “Not your death, and not your life. You must not, if you wish to move on from this place.” – “Ever since I can remember, people have been telling me how good of a job I was doing.” – the woman began. She stared back down at the floor as she spoke. Her hand drifted up to rub the back of her neck. – “I never felt that. I could not. I never felt it was enough, I felt I could have been more, done more…” – her voice slowly shifted to a quiet murmur, shoulders dropping. – “How am I supposed to not feel regret? I did not get to talk to my wife before I died, Capric ran off and almost ruined our reputation, I did not officially name a successor, I do not know what happened to Eleonora, I did not even get to say goodbye…” – she muttered on like that, growing visibly more anxious and scared by the second, breathing quickly and shallowly, fingers running through her hair. Weathered fingers clasp her hand, their solidity a shock to the system in this place of absence. Atticus holds her palm steady between them, his other hand coming up to follow the first as he speaks. – “More than you know, I understand.” – His voice is calm, even, anchored. If he’d had any reaction to her mention of his grandson, it’s gone by the time she looks at him again. – “When I left this world, I left behind… Many, many failings. My achievements were lauded by my peers, and yet I felt they all fell short of any true legacy.” – Despite his recounting, there seems to be no air of doubt or grief around his words. – “You could live a thousand years, and still regret. That is the test of mortality,” – He murmurs. – “We all must release them eventually.” – There’s a moment of pause, before he unclasps one hand to gesture out into the abyss around them. – “What do you see out there, my dear?” – It’s a strange question. It is still the unfeeling void it has been from the start, empty and soundless. He managed to calm her down quite well, and quickly, too. She momentarily closed her eyes as she took some deep breaths, reminding herself that there was nothing she could do anymore. That actually came with its own dose of fright, but she had enough time to mull that over earlier, as she was dying. Amelia hesitated to answer, quickly beginning to overthink the question. She might have caught on to the point Atticus was trying to make already, though she also expected the man she looked up to since she could remember to come up with something less obvious. More poetic, maybe? There might have been more of a meaning to this void - no, there most definitely was. Yes, she could see it now, a proper, deeper answer. – “Uh… nothing?” – she decided not to accidentally embarrass herself and go with the safer option. He nods, encouraging, continuing to clasp her hand gently. His palm feels like it’s been scarred over so many times, it’s become leather. If he can tell she’s overthinking, he really doesn’t seem to mind. Was he really so unflappable, or is that simply how she pictures him to be? – “Precisely. No sun, no moon, no stars. No dirt beneath your feet, or wind in your ears. No titles, no names- Not a mouth to speak of legacy.” – Atticus’ words are careful and low, but they still ring out in the absence of anything to muffle them. – “This is what it really means to not have lived.” A wistful look crosses his face as he continues to speak. – “It took me a very, very long time to realize that. Of course, I do not try to say deeds do not matter, or that the way you conduct yourself through life has no meaning. But at the end of the day, there will always be regrets. There will always be mistakes.” – He lifts her hand slightly, as if holding it as an example. There’s a spark that’s entered her great-grandfather’s eye, the eagerness of a scholar sharing his discovery. – “You cannot carry them with you. You must leave them here, and do so by knowing the most important part of your life is that you lived it. You breathed, and laughed, and felt love. You have seen wonders of the world, and the tides of history fall at your feet.” Realizing that he’d begun to lean forward slightly in his speech, Atticus corrects his posture and chuckles. – “I know it may sound a bit daft in your position, but… Entertain an old man’s rambling for a moment.” – Then, more earnestly, – “Picture it, Amelia. Just for a bit. Put the things which did not happen from your mind, and think of all that did. Every joy, every pain, every peaceful moment.” There was a completely blank stare on her face for a moment. Amelia remembered how much she was told about the life of the man standing before her and put herself in those shoes for a second, thinking of how Alma would describe her to the next generation of Reinholds. She couldn't help but crack an honest, warm smile. She reminded herself of just how she started - an orphaned kid, grasping at straws to find some distant, noble branch of her family. Maybe, all things considered, she didn't do too bad. Not too bad at all. She looked back at Atticus, not saying a thing, but it was obvious from her expression that he'd very much succeeded at making his point. She sees a warm, bright smile splitting her great-grandfather’s face, creasing the corners of his eyes. There must be a kind of love that stretches the gap between birth, and death, and missed connections. He squeezes her hand gently. – “Just as brilliant as I knew you’d be.” – As memories of her life pass through her mind, the abyss around them seems to lose itself. Light and color slips through the corners of her vision, hazy imitations of a thousand familiar places, all melding and splitting in a way that is inexplicably calming. Amelia can feel sunlight on the back of her neck, and the ground beneath her is warm and soft. – “I’m so proud of you, Amelia. More than I can say.” – Atticus is beginning to blur too. No longer a stark outline against the dark, his color bleeds into the memories around them, fading between foreground and background. Yet somehow, there is no panic- No fear. He moves a bit closer, raising one hand to cup the side of her cheek. It feels less like skin now, and more like the thought of a hearth, and the smell of old books. Abstractions instead of touch. – “And I know now that I was a fool to think I had no legacy. You… You are the finest legacy any could ever ask for.” – His words blend with the sounds of insects buzzing over the summer river, and the low crackling of burning wood. She’s fading too, into the peace of endless recollections, reaching for the sun. – “We’ve so very much to catch up on, don’t we?” Morning dawned on Dùn Mòindamh, sunlight shining in through the windows. The residents would begin to wake soon. The wine bottle stayed up on the lid. A streak of blood slid down one of the ivory keys, joining the small puddle that had formed on the floor. The margravine laid slumped over the piano.

The Baronial Garden Party “I will not sugar-coat it when I say that the thirteen-year wait for my ascension has been grueling and left me impatient. You cannot speed up time though, no matter how much you would wish to, thus I have stayed vigilant. Now, I am overjoyed to properly join the ranks of Petrine aristocracy and carry on the legacy of my great grandfather as the second Lord Baron of Rosalervo.” - Antonio of Rosalervo A S P R O C L A I M E D B Y The Lord, Baron of Rosalervo, Antonio Vincenzo Julius, of the House of Carnelle The sixteenth birthday of the Lord Baron Antonio Carnelle marks the end of Rosalervo’s regency, established over a decade prior. The Lord Baron, commemorating the acquisition of his new-found autonomy as head of House Carnelle, extends an invitation to a garden party at their family’s manor to Petra’s nobility and the citizens of Riviènse. The situation of House Carnelle over the past decade and a half has been difficult, as the system of Regency outlined in the last will of Lord Baron Felipe Carnelle proved to be inefficient, especially with some of the family scattered across the Empire. With the end of this regency, the House hopes that its position and contribution to the Commonwealth of Petra will grow significantly, starting with this very event. From the letters of the Late Lord Baron: “Art has always been about leaving a permanent legacy. From the most primitive handprint on a wall to the most beautiful fresco, art is what makes us members of Horen’s race.” - Felipe of Rosalervo It is in the wish of Lord Baron Antonio to emulate the legacy of the previous Lord Carnelle, therefore he expresses his interest to become a patron of the arts, dabbling in cartography and heraldry himself, along with other forms of traditional art. For it is in his interest to become the backbone of Petra’s creative spheres in an attempt to contribute to the quality of product and prestige of such innovative arts and skilled crafts. OOC: Friday, Jan 30th, 5:00 PM EST Formal Invitations: His Grace and Her Grace, Joseph & Magdalena, Archduke and Archduchess of Petra and their Royal Pedigree The Ducal House Theonus and their Noble Pedigree The Margravial House Reinhold and their Noble Pedigree The Comital House d'Amaury and their Noble Pedigree The Viscomital House Auclair and their Noble Pedigree The Baronial House Valkonen and their Noble Pedigree House Rosavena and their Noble Pedigree Personal Invitations: His Lordship Beorn Alaric and his family His Lordship Alistair Armand Reinhold Her Ladyship Melisanda Cirilla de Trastamara and her family Mister Siegfried von Schwanstein and his family THE LORD BARON, Antonio Vicenzo Julius Carnelle Baron of Rosalervo, Patriarch of House Carnelle

Amelia skimmed over the letter after her daughter, Alma, had handed it to her over the counter. For just a moment, she felt her heart skip a beat. A hand is placed onto the countertop as she reads over the letter again, then another time, more and more carefully with each paragraph. Her shoulders slumped as exhaustion suddenly kicked in, a pained sigh escaping her lips. Her first thought - "Dear God, poor Caz..." finding her second old man suddenly became a priority, largely due to worry. The second - "Thirty two years as my father, no mention of me." for a brief moment, she found herself hurt. Genuinely, painfully hurt. The brief tinge of emotion allowed her another thought, one she chose not to speak aloud. "Thanks for nothing."

how are you so great and cool and awesome all the time

rip bozo 🧡

am I caz's favorite kid