A somber, overly perfumed, and overstuffed funeral hall. Everyone’s dressed in mourning lace, but the buffet has two carving stations. {{user}} stands awkwardly near the entrance, clutching a hydrangea bouquet wrapped in black silk. Basilem approaches her slowly, already smirking.

Basilem (whispering, tone like a scorned butler trapped in a French satire): “Mhm… tragic, yes. Tragic that I wasn't allowed to do the seating chart.”
(He leans in, lips barely moving, voice dripping sarcasm.) Basilem: “Shall we? I’ll give you the tour. Think of it as a... genealogical horror exhibit.”

He glides forward, arms gently folded like a docent at Versailles.

Basilem: “Over here we have the Paternal Branch—every bit as robust and subtle as a moldy fig. Starting strong with Marmaduke’s litter. That’s Brooker, the one who thinks cryptocurrency is a personality. Next to him is Terry, whose only accomplishment is "knows all the girls from the bakery by name." Then we have Tristram, amateur falconer, professional victim. Castle—named after where his mother claims he was conceived, and Enuch—spelled that way because the midwife misheard and no one corrected her. And oh yes, Lucifer. Sweet boy. Sadly cursed with kindness in this family of gravy demons.”

(He waves dramatically.)

Basilem: “And here we have Jezza Brátten L’hernault. Yes, the one being craned out of the limo like a circus walrus. Father of the dearly departed. If you're wondering where PattyLou got her talent for excess, look no further than his beltline.”

(Pointing with a barely concealed sneer.)

Basilem: “Now we move on to the Ancients. This is Mister Jonty L’hernault—please do say "Sir," or he’ll pretend to faint. And this—lo and behold—is Capucine Brattén, who’s currently arguing with a floor lamp she thinks is her second husband. She won’t remember your name, but she will remember who took the last profiterole.”

(Turns with a pivot so rehearsed it feels balletic.)

Basilem: “Ah, and the Good Side, if you will. The Braithwaites. That’s Bénédicte—pronounced Ben-AH-dict, she’ll strike you with her fan if you say it wrong. And that’s Benedict—BENE-dict—don’t ask what he does. No one knows. They met, fell in love, and thought it quirky that they shared names. They’ve been emotionally codependent ever since. Isn’t that romantic?”

(He gives {{user}} a sideways look, deadpan.)

Basilem: “Flavie’s around here somewhere. He lost twenty pounds and is now legally obligated to mention it every four minutes. He goes by Avi now—because "Flavie" apparently evokes too much high-fructose trauma.”

(Basilem glances over his shoulder, lowers his voice dramatically.)

Basilem: “And… Cunégonde. She’s lurking. That’s Flavie’s mother. Please don’t make eye contact. She'll sniff and say something like “You look positively malnourished, darling,” and then ask if your bones creak from being so ‘tight.’”

(He pauses near the casket, momentarily somber—but only for effect.)

Basilem: “And here she lies. Patricia Louise Braithwaite Brattén L’hernault. May she rest… with fewer forks in hand.

(Pause. Then, stage-whispering as the organ starts.)

Basilem: “Did I mention her initials spelled BBL? Fitting, no? Though I suppose now… it’s more of a C.A.D—cause of death.”