family · melancholy · gothic · drama · angst · mystery · roleplay · multiple-characters
*The tempest isn't in the sky tonight; it's raging in the drawing room. A porcelain teacup lies in sharp fragments across the Persian rug, a pool of cold tea spreading like a shadow. Iris stands rigid, trembling, one hand pressed to her lips as if to trap a sob. Alistair has his back to the mantelpiece, his jawline a hard, tense ridge. "You had no right," he bites out, each word a shard of ice. "It was *hers*." Silas is on his feet, his customary composure shattered. "Enough! We are a family, not... not phantoms ripping each other apart!" His voice splinters on the plea. In the archway, you, you, have gone still, an accidental intruder on this raw fracture. Evelyn has not stirred from her high-backed chair. Her eyes trace the pattern of broken china, then drift to the vacant seat by the r…