Homecoming is Overrated

[Castor Chumeda Volante]

Being back on Hapes was... well Castor wasn't entirely sure what it was, exactly, but he knew well enough that he didn't like it. In fact he would be easily compelled to say that he loathed and despised this place but he was trying to stop that kind of behaviour. He was supposed to be exercising control over himself and his emotions because that was what Jedi did and, by all the Gods, he was trying his very best to become a damned good Jedi.

It was hard already - the Dark Side was like an addictive drug and cutting himself off from it's siren's song hurt both mentally and physically. But he was determined to do right by his Master and himself and not give in again.

But that was mostly just a train of thought that he was focusing on because he didn't want to focus on what was right in front of him. How bad must what was in front of him be that he would rather focus on his continuous struggle against the prying clutches of the Dark Side? It would have to be horrible and horrifying and infuriating in equal measure.

And it was.

Because Castor was home.

Dressed in the robes of a Sith, complete with mask, to be granted access, he was now waiting for the person he hated the most in the entire Galaxy to grace him with her presence. Standing in the parlour that one of the maids had shown him to, Castor did his best to compose himself. He did his best to be calm and to remove all emotion from him as he waiting for her to arrive.

She would be late because she could be - although considering her run ins with Sith and Imperials in the past, Castor would hope that his mother had learned to at least feign politeness but considering who it was? He doubted it.

@Esther Nyx

 

[The Storyteller]

Rhea was indeed as intemperate as ever. Scarification did little to humble her; if anything, she simply became more spiteful. More cruel. Maids were not to look upon her and their eyes were to be forever cast down. Though the family's social standing was jostled, Rhea maintained an iron clad grip in the proceedings of her house. Slowly, she'd managed to claw back some semblance of status; a rather thing to do, when so dreadfully afflicted.

Just thinking back on the memory made pain blossom within her flesh. The damage was irrevocable. The ramifications? Immeasurable. Over the course of a single day, the entire family was shaken to its knees. A lady of the blood had been slain, one of Rhea's own lesser sisters. The house's pride sullied by an inferior sex, a most despicable Moff. And to make matters worse...Rhea's face, the canvas of her being, had been ruined. Cut and carved in a most grotesque manner.

The Sith were utter monsters. The injustice done to her was proof enough; only savage beasts could despoil such perfection. This loathsome deed would not be forgotten. Oh, no. Rhea would seek retribution. One way or another. She'd simply bide her time, just as she had been doing for the past ten years. ​

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It weighted heavily on her, the silken cloth she was condemned to don.

The veil was beautifully crafted, the intricate patterns hand sown; only the finest, even for a Hapan who could no longer show her face. Rhea did anything to distract focus from it. She wore impressive jewels, and fine fabrics, the lush colours creating a feast for the eyes. Each step ensured a shimmer, especially as Rhea a​

scended to her parlour perch; she simply sat for a moment, unwilling to acknowledge the shadow set to wait in and amongst her amidst.​

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Finally, with a cankering of the head, Rhea graced her long absent spawn. "The prodigal son, home at last...How disappointing." ​

She knew it was Castor. Somehow, she knew. As much as they both despised the fact, he was her flesh and blood; it was only natural for the runt to return once more to den, however unwelcomed as he was. There were no sweet smiles and certainly no affection. That privilege was reserved for one and one alone. Asteria, her daughter. Rhea's heir and only living achievement. How ironic her celebrated birth was rudely hindered by Castor's own abysmal delivery.

Naturally, as matriarch, Rhea had no motherly tenderness to spare, not when it came to lesser offspring. "Speak, and speak quickly. Your presence is unforgivably taxing."

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[Castor Chumeda Volante]

Ah his mother... always on hand to provide warmth and solace upon returning home.

Deciding that there wasn't much point in hiding his face within the home, Castor reached up and removed his mask. It would be the first time his mother had ever laid eyes on the man her little boy had grown up to be. No doubt if she saw any redeemable features in his handsome appearance it would be accompanied by the lamentation that he would have made for a fine breeding slave.

Regret the fact that she couldn't put him up for auction like a prized stud horse or something similar. Setting his mask down on the side, he regarded the woman who would never deign to name herself as his mother. She would never knowingly acknowledge that he was her son.

Tilting his head to one side, he stared at her for a moment.

"My how old you've grown..." he remarked, mainly to himself but loud enough that she would no doubt hear him, "It seems not even sheer stubbornness can halt the march of time."

Castor looked at the woman and his old hatred, his old anger, reared it's ugly head. In that instant he wanted nothing more than to break the woman's neck... instead he held back, held the anger inside of him until he could ease it, dissipate it. Instead when he spoke it was in a calm and measured tone.

"Where is my sister?" He asked her simply, "I'm taking her away."

That last bit was not a question - he was making sure she never came back here.

@Esther Nyx