A young noble woman is left disgraced and destitute, with only her family's title to her name... That is until the good fortune she's been looking for presents itself in the death of an eccentric and estranged relative. Wealth, an estate, and good land away from the prying eyes of those who know her family's down fall, a wonderful would be opportunity if it wasn't for the peculiar stranger who claims he's more worthy of her deceased relative's fortune. With old and new rumors circulating about him, the old building, and her now dead eccentric relative, getting their inheritance might spell more trouble than what it's worth, especially if there's even a lick of truth to any of them.

A literate Fantasy rp

Katrine Wellings | Avremont Front Entrance

Katrine woke under the shade of a tree in the mid-morning hours, clutching a piece of paper in her hand that she didn’t recognize. She didn’t have a good recollection of how she’d gotten here, nor how she’d obtained the gash in her head that was lazily dripping blood into her hand. It was fresh, but there was nowhere for her to have received it in the nearby vicinity. As she became more lucid, she became more aware of her surroundings: a barren field of wildflowers nowhere near any cities or plantations. She winced, feeling the sting of the gash and the piercing pain in her head, then clambored to her feet. She looked down at the piece of paper. She couldn’t read very well, she had never had much of an education in the periods of time between her hospitalizations, but she recognized a few things: the Hawthorne family crest, her uncle’s name, and, beside it, a second name: Edmund Desrosiers.

The family crest refreshed her memory on how she had gotten here. Or, what she had dreamt in the time between when she’d fallen asleep in her quarters at the asylum in Aubron-Lacour and when she’d woken up in this field, far from the city and far from the sea, aching and exhausted despite the rest she had supposedly received. Her uncle had visited her in her dreams, instructing her that he was not well and he would be leaving the estate to her. She’d received the paper from him, which was an odd occurrence. She’d visited her uncle in her dreams often over the years, but she’d never been capable of manifesting anything from them quite like this. If this was a new effect of her madness, she did not know it. She only knew that this paper, which her uncle had emphasized the importance of emphatically, was in her hand, present, unimagined.

The only thing that shook her from her thoughts was the shrieking of a train somewhere nearby. It startled her so dramatically she was pale and shaking by the time she’d come to the awareness of what it was, spinning around to follow the direction of which it had sounded. She did not know for how long she walked or at what point the gash began to clot, but eventually she escaped the endless vision of woodlands and arrived in a small village. She ventured around until someone took pity on her and asked her if she was alright. That someone happened to be the wife of the town doctor, who was traveling on business. She knew enough to clean up Katrine’s face to a societally acceptable extent, although she was cold and apprehensive, asking a thousand questions which Katrine knew she could not answer honestly. All she revealed was that she was from Marennes, a wealthy coastal town situated between Port-Duvet and Haversley Port, and she had become separated from her husband in an accident while on her way to visit her family in Bruyère. While she marveled at the length of the journey Katrine would need to go on with an uncanny suspicion, she fed her and pointed her in the direction of the local seamstress at Katrine’s request, indicating that the southbound train would not arrive until the early evening.

Katrine spent the majority of the day being fitted for a new gown, a mourning gown at her request. She was sure her uncle had visited her for the last time, and although she was sure she was still married, she’d been stripped of her ring at some point and did not have anything to her name to use as payment for a replacement. She’d deal with that later, once she’d arrived at Avremont. Her maternal uncle, Persimmon Radcliff, had been a man of extensive wealth, just like the rest of her family. And, while they’d exiled her, Persimmon never had. She’d left the seamstress with a vow that she would return with payment once she found her family, and gratefully accepted just enough money to allow her to take the rail to Bruyère, where her uncle’s estate, Avremont, remained on the outskirts of the small village. She must’ve fallen asleep on the ride because the sun had just been setting when she’d boarded and it was well past midnight by the time she arrived at her destination, if the location of the slowly-setting moon was any indication.

While she might’ve liked to stay at the local inn and take the rugged journey up the jagged cliffs to Avremont in the daylight, Katrine did not have any money to pay for the inn and it seemed highly socially inadequate to pester anyone at this hour. Avremont would be unoccupied other than the staff who cared for the estate, and it was likely that at least one or two of them remembered her from the time in her childhood she had spent there. It was surely dangerous for a woman to travel unaccompanied at any hour, married or not, but it wasn’t as if Katrine had much of a choice. She borrowed a lantern from the train station that she vowed to return in the morning, although no one was there to witness the theft. She then took the two-hour journey through the woods on foot, making haste despite her impending exhaustion and the fear that had crept into her mind and made her feel insane. She was lucky to arrive at the estate at four or five in the morning completely unscathed, although highly aware that she could have been.

Knocking on the grandiose front doorway incessantly, Katrina shivered in the cold evening air, body damp with sweat and beginning to cool now that she was not in a constant state of motion. As more time passed, she became increasingly aware that she wasn’t sure what had happened to the staff following her uncle’s passing, and if they would even continue to work without the home having inherited an owner. She began to shiver, silently begging that someone would be around to allow her to enter despite the fact that she hadn’t called ahead to announce her arrival.

Erik Chastain

Erik thumbed his pocket watch impatiently, circling the back of the gold plated thing with a degree of annoyance he couldn't vocalize without disturbing the other guest's own mourning. Few people had approached him beyond the the short greeting and small talk they had shared upon arriving to the wake, too busy murmuring amongst themselves, sobbing, or giving their last regards to the lifeless corpse in the casket before them. They had shared the usual pleasantries of course, each guest giving their own similar but different enough greetings and inquiries, all before they separated ways to view the master of the estate's body for one last time. It was a chance to give whatever visitor who graced this home whatever closer they needed before he was to buried, and possibly the last time one would see the man as he once was, as a person. There was no doubt in Erik's mind about how surreal it was, having to host the wake of a man that he couldn't help but feel shouldn't die. Couldn't die. Erik in the end pocketed the watch in his left breast pocket, choosing to forgo checking the time despite his frustrations. They had another mourner waiting to be greeted, and as the ever dutiful host it was up to him play his role with up most perfection.

-

Mr. Radcliff, his host and friend, had informed Erik of his death a week before it happened with an air of indifference. The old man had been up right in his large mahogany bed, rigid in a way that had unsettled him while Mr. Radcliff spoke with an apathetic tone about his own demise, the younger man unsure if the older gentleman was simply putting up a front or not. Mr. Radcliff would die in a week's time, and the old man had given him a list of instructions to follow through with: letters would be sent to all friends and acquaintances he deemed worthy to attend his wake and funeral, Erik was to be expected to prepare for both events to suit his tastes, there would be no questions about his will as those matters had already been settled , and there was a special guest that was to be expected at his wake before his funeral could properly commence. There were other things as well, but Mr. Radcliff had stressed that his guest, a young woman by the name of Katrine Welling was to be in attendance before any further actions beyond the vigil could commence. Before Erik could further question the old master, he was shooed away like some pest, sent straight to work with prepping for the death of a man who was still living yet.

-

It was the late afternoon now, damn near evening, and yet there was still no sign of the deceased Mr. Radcliff's guest. Erik was tempted to blame it on the fact that she never received an invitation to the funeral, at least no one that he was aware of. The possibility someone might loose one's self in the woods that had kept the the Avremont estate secluded from Bruyère wasn't too hard to believe. Erik had suffered the same faith himself in his first attempt to visit Bruyère, his caravan having lost a wheel mid way through his trip leaving the poor man stranded amongst the thick trees and wilderness, only saved by Mr. Radcliff himself when he found the young man wondering the woods surrounding his property. It was a chance opportunity to meet a man like him, offering to let him stay at the large old Avremont estate free of charge in exchange for some assistance. Magical assistance. Apparently the old man had rumors of a wondering mage selling his craft under the guise of false products and promises. Seeing through his charade, Mr. Radcliff had offered Erik the opportunity to use his skills without having to resort to underhanded tactics, a golden opportunity. While he might have been nothing more than an assistant to the man, Erik was under the assumption that if he played cards right, he could change his position in the house quite easily when the time came around.

By this point, a majority of the guests who had come to give their vigil had already returned to their inns, homes, or one of the many guest rooms the old large building had. A hand full of people had opted to remain in the parlor that the casket resided in, still needing time to either process or pay their respects to Mr. Radcliff due to their late arrival or for other reasons, which meant Erik was left alone with his irritation once again. Erik had spent the last two and a half years residing in this old country house with a man he selfishly wanted to consider something like a father figure, knowing all to well that the bitterness that still resided in his heart towards the master of the house wouldn't allow him to honestly claim such a thing. Two and a half years, and almost nothing had changed since the first time he had entered this grand house under the pretense that he'd be walking away with it in his ownership when the bastard croaked. Instead, he was kept at an arms distance like some unreliable stray dog. Perhaps that's what he was to Mr. Radcliff, nothing more than something he could use. An now he had to wait for his damned guest on top of it all. Erik could really go for a cigarette right about now.

As the sun set in the parlor, a couple of maids had taken it upon themselves to properly light room before the remaining guests where left in the pitch black darkness of night as they continued to linger in the musty room. It was hardly used in the first place back when Mr. Radcliff was still alive, the dark emerald walls gave it an elegant but gloomy atmosphere along with it's equally dark furniture. Two women spoke amongst themselves near the coffin on some extra chairs brought in specifically for the wake, mismatched to the rest of the matching furniture as one of them sobbed into hands in near silence, the other doing her best to comfort her crying companion's shaking frame. Four of Mr. Radcliff acquaintances had crowded around the unlit fire place the resided in the parlor, voices low as they discussed their deceased friend and eyed him with hesitation, the men clearly unsure what to make of his presence. He met two of them before, old scholars way more versed in the art of spell casting than he could dream of being, but it seemed whatever pleasant interactions they had shared together were over shadowed by suspicion. A maid scooted them over to light a fire, ceasing their murmuring for a moment as the brick and metal work were illuminated with a faint warm glow. An older woman stood motionless and silent above the master's casket, the back of her black mourning gown out lined by the warm light as she stared into the open coffin, Erik was almost worried she was about to do something to the corpse when she left the room in an almost trance, all without saying a word as the old wood of the floor boards creaked under her heels. Upon her departure, one of the men huddled around the now lit fire place approached him by his place near the still opened window.

" Ah, Mr.- ahh..."

" Mr. Desrosiers sir."

" Ahh, yes, yes, Mr Desrosiers. I do apologize, as they say with age, your memory fails you, do savor your youth will you still have it... But that isn't why I approached you, to make small talk I mean. There's just a question I would like to ask you," The older gentleman asked slowly, as a knobby hand subconsciously fixed his glassed with shaky precision, and lips pursed into a tight line.

" Ask away my good fellow," Erik gave the man an all too wide smile, teeth an almost unnatural shade of white and far too straight for a man like him, causing the other to hesitate for a moment.

" Right... I don't mean to pry, but it's been bugging me and my companions something fierce that you would be left in charge of all the arrangements for our good friend Persimmon's funeral and wake... I by no means want to doubt your relationship with Persimmon, but I would have assumed he would have left that in the care of, well... Blood family. He didn't speak about them very often, but he did speak of them, so I'm surprised why he would leave this matter in the hands of a stranger."

Erik tilted his head, smile still present on his face but with far less teeth as he contemplated what to say. It was true, usually matters like this were left to the family, and yet... And yet he was put in charge of it despite everything. Mr. Radcliff never spoke of his family in front of Erik, they were mystery to him in that sense, so he had assumed the old bugger had a rather poor relationship with them. But it never occurred to him that might not be the case at all. The young man brought a well maintained hand to the back of his neck, tone light as he maintained an airy attitude, " I'm afraid even I don't know the answer myself Mr. Lawrence. Mr. Radcliff never spoke much about his family to me, so I was under the assumption he had cut ties to them, thus leaving me the only person he had any remaining close personal ties to. I had initially felt we had become something like father and son, but it seems that might not be the case to me anymore. Regardless, it was still him who put me in charge these of all ceremonies so I'm sure he had his reasons, but they'll have to remain a mystery now. Is that answer sufficient enough for you and your companions Mr. Lawrence?"

Mr. Lawrence cleared his throat, dry, as he nodded dumbly, hands clasped tightly together as he stared at him. It took the older another moment to collect his bearings before he spoke again, " My apologies Mr. Desrosiers, I'm sure your right that Persimmon had his reasons..." It looked like he had more he wanted to say, eyeing his companions behind him before returning his gaze back to the man in front of him. " But you must see how strange it is that he's left you to all of this out of any one else, it's... It's down right suspicious!" He had gotten bolder it seemed.

" Mr. Lawrence, while I'm sure Mr. Radcliff would appreciate your concern, I'm afraid all matters regarding his death have been settle whether you think it's suspicious of me to abide by his wishes or not," Turning his attention to the men by the mantle, Erik raised his voice so the older men could hear what he had to say next better," If you gentlemen wish to confirm this with Mr. Radcliff himself to put your doubts at ease and know I have no ill will towards him, or foul play wasn't afoot, then be my guest. There is no doubt in my mind that you gentlemen have the shared collective knowledge to communion with the dead if you so choose, so, go on. I won't stop you."

The older men's faces all turned a collective red shade, whether it was out of embarrassment or anger, Erik didn't care. Mr. Lawrence turned sharply, his tailcoat swishing dramatically as he joined his friends in leaving the parlor together, leaving Erik alone with the two women who had began to watch their conversation with intrigue. Moments after, they took their leave as well, possibly due to the awkward air that still resided in the room. He was alone now. Making his way towards the coffin near the front of the room, Erik pulled a chair close to Mr, Radcliff's casket as he took a seat. Elbow's on his knees and head in his hand, Erik inhaled sharply as his smile turned to a scowl. He didn't particularly like dealing with stuffy busy bodies like that, but there was only so much one could do to avoid them. Picking at a couple loose strands of blonde that had freed itself from his slicked back hair style, Erik was starting to regret all the effort he had put into all of this, from the funeral to the moment that he first stepped into this damned country house...

" You're a lot more trouble than what it's worth old man," Erik sneered, all before slouching back in the mahogany limply. He should have never chosen to stick with This old man all of those year like he had.

-

Erik wasn't sure when he had passed out in the parlor, but only the faint illumination of a single candle and a slowly dying fire had kept him from being left completely in the dark. Large eerie shadows streaked across the walls in front and across from him, while the back corners of the room behind him where blanketed in darkness, only the faint outlines of book shelves could be made out from the low light, and a blanket had been carefully draped across him. The handy work of one of the maids no doubt. Yawning, Erik fished for his pocket watch mindlessly, still groggy from sleeping as he eyed the casket in front of him. The coffin had been closed since he had fallen asleep, figures. Flicking open his watched, Erik cupped the small gold thing close to his face to better read the time. It was nearly morning, the sun should be rising soon. His guest was beyond late. Rising from his chair, Erik folded the blanket he had been so graciously given before placing it on his seat. He'd hand it off to someone to put it in it's proper place later. Right now, he had a guest to look for.

Searching for her in the woods shouldn't be too hard, it was more about seeing if she was there in the first place at all. While he should change out of his mourning clothes, it would only mean that much more time that the poor girl, if there was a girl, would be out there by herself. Possibly. Slinking towards the front entrance, Erik grumbled to himself, maybe it would be better for him if he just left her there for the remaining hours of night, it would be easier to find her in the daylight than in darkness. While magic would make the search easier, he wouldn't say he was a bless as as Mr. Radcliff or his compatriots in magical ability. Radcliff had used him more so as a demonstrational tool for young mages he had been tutoring or a battery rather than an equal. He was never really expected to do much more than that. At least this would give him a chance to dust off his knowledge.

Erik had decided to forgo a coat and lantern, a simple heat spell would suffice at keeping him warm while he searched, and the same thing was true for light. Rubbing his hands together, the young man was prepared to start his search when opened the front door to the Avremont estate and was greeted by a shivering woman dressed in mourning clothes. Erik gawked at her, the gash on her forehead, the dire state of her dress that he could only assume was because she had trekked here by foot rather than conventional means, her pale appearance that contrasted her black hair, and the fact that she had some how made it here in mostly one piece from where ever she had come from was astonishing. She must be mad. This couldn't be the guest Mr. Radcliff had told him to wait for, this had to be some stranger who happened upon the building looking for shelter after escaping some sort of asylum. Though... the nearest asylum was miles from here. Swallowing, Erik eyed the women in shocked silence as he tried to convince himself she was anything but the woman Radcliff had informed him of, just something, anything, before he caved.

" Miss... Would you happen to be, uh, Mrs. Katrine Wellings?" Erik was kicking himself for not bringing his blanket along with him.

Katrine | Avremont House

After what felt like an eternity, the large doors wobbled and began to open, thrust backward with a power that made the trembling woman rather fearful. The grandiose home was not well-lit, and with only the light of her lantern to aid her senses, it was difficult to maintain a sense of safety or security regarding what was before her. Yet, to her surprise, the figure before her was shrouded in light, giving her more of an opportunity to observe him, despite the curious and fear-mongering occurrence.

There were a lot of things that surprised her about the figure that opened the door. For one, he was quite young. He was closer to her in age than her uncle, which meant there was no way he’d been a guest or worker of the estate in any significant manner when she’d lived with Persimmon. Even if he was the child of one of the workers, it was doubtful that he remembered her.

Secondly, he was rather attractive. It wasn’t so much that she was expecting someone ugly to answer the door as it was that she hadn’t expected them to be young, youthful, dressed in clothing that appeared nicer than what Persimmon’s house servants typically wore. He towered over her, even as she scrambled to her feet to make his acquaintance, and without any additional layers of clothing, she found herself fighting to keep her eyes from wandering all over his figure, his slim waist, his muscular physique, everything Persimmon and the majority of the individuals he surrounded himself with weren’t.

Third, he wasn’t wearing a coat, or otherwise dressed for the weather. He didn’t have a lantern. Yet, he’d swung open the door and recoiled as if he’d not expected to find anyone on the other side. He must’ve been going somewhere, but where might he’ve been going, dressed like that and with no light to guide the way? The blinding phenomenon she encountered was easy enough to pass off as the usual hysteria she exhibited–seeing and hearing things others couldn’t, exhibiting symptoms of an unsuitable wife, too much mental excitement. And, of course, then there were the dreams. But the evidence in this scenario, it almost made the hysteria seem valid, as if what she were seeing, as if what were causing her to squint, was real.

The only thing that wasn’t curious at all to Katrine was the expression on the man’s face. It was obvious that her appearance mirrored how she felt on the inside based on the manner in which he was gawking at her. Obviously there were things that were out of her control that broke social etiquette–her hair was down and rather messy, her clothing was appropriate to her time of grief but not in any way resembling the quality that a Wellings should have, the hour and state in which she had arrived. Standing there, shellshocked, looking at a reflection of her own bewilderment in the man’s face, Katrine was grateful when he spoke and spared her further humiliation of groping for words.

"Miss... Would you happen to be, uh, Mrs. Katrine Wellings?"

“I suppose I still am. Though, I haven’t been called that in quite some time. Forgive my appearance,” she paused, drawing in a shaky breath as she shivered, her breath illuminated in the cold. “I hadn’t expected to arrive like this. I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

–

After being invited in, Katrine shifted on her feet, still shivering and waiting expectantly as the man who’d introduced himself as Edmund Desrosiers went to fetch one of the female servants to tend to Katrine. The dark-haired girl made out the familiar figure of an old woman, one she knew was close to Persimmon and loyal to Avremont through the years.

“Mrs. Trask,” Katrine said fondly, “I’m sorry to wake you at this hour.”

“Heavens, child, is that really you? You’ve come a long road dear, one no one had any right to send you down.” The older woman put the lantern up to Katrine’s face, noticing an older bruise that was still faintly visible. She didn’t speak of it, just made a face as she returned the light to her side. “But I’d recognize that face anywhere. Are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t believe so, just weary.” She felt Edmund’s gaze burning into her, and she lifted her chin to study him in the darkness, the communication between them unspoken. It wasn’t long before he excused himself and Mrs. Trask whisked Katrine in the opposite direction, offering her hot tea and a clean cloth for her wound. She sat in one of the worn armchairs in a smaller parlor on one side of the house, studying the dying light of an old fire as it flickered in the hearth. She drew one of the blankets she’d been given closer to her, getting the eerie feeling she was still being watched or heard by someone other than Mrs. Trask. Maybe it was the paranoia that had developed from living in the places she had lived with the people she had lived with, or perhaps there were others milling about in the home.

“I did not know that my uncle had any guests,” Katrine spoke, breaking the silence without offering a glance in the older woman’s direction.

“Ah, Mr. Desrosiers, yes. I’m not sure your uncle had planned on having any guests either, the boy just appeared one day and your uncle couldn’t afford to refuse the help. Things around here are not as they once were, life’s misfortune took its toll on Mr. Hawthorne and his estate. I’m sure you know about that well enough,” she offered, indirectly willing Katrine to speak on her own misfortunes.

“All too well,” she replied curtly, refusing to elaborate. “My uncle never mentioned any of this in our communications. I wish I had known, perhaps I would have found a way to offer my assistance.”

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Trask replied, “although, from what Mr. Hawthorne spoke of you, it sounds as though you had your own need for assistance that never came.”

“Perhaps,” Katrine parroted, directing her gaze back to the doorway, where the blond had returned and was looming, seemingly waiting for an opportunity to announce himself and receive permission to join them or speak. Katrine was the one to break the silence this time, saying, “Mr. Desrosiers, do you care to join us? Mrs. Trask made tea.”

While this was the appropriate thing to do, Katrine couldn’t help but feel the effects of her travel weighing on her, exhaustion beginning to seep into her aching bones. She knew she had a lot to do in the coming days, not least of all find out what the document was that Persimmon had given to Katrine that held both his name and Mr. Desrosiers’ on it. Yet, for now, she could not muster up the strength to do much other than try to follow a polite conversation, putting the house at ease about her arrival before she could be escorted to one of the bedrooms to find adequate rest.