finalflight | psl; [a marriage of inconvenience]

THE AUBEL ESTATE is located in Derbyshire, England, a stately old home reminiscent of centuries long past. Long ago, it had fallen into disrepair and abandoned until previous generations of the Aubel family purchased the land for themselves, having found their fortunes in matters of real estate. Since that time, the outside has been restored and the inside has been renovated at least three times. Four, if you ask the uncle who remembers the one summer where the chandelier fell from the dining hall, taking a large portion of the ceiling with it. How embarrassing, if such a thing is true.

In its present state, it straddles the line between the old and new. The large, prominent rooms are ostentatious as they are filled to the brim with austere English culture; the smaller quarters, traditionally used by the servants and staff, are far more modest, and over time have allowed the tendrils of modernity to creep in as a result. Regardless, the home is impressive no matter how you look at it, and there are few who do not cast an envious glance at the estate as they pass by Derbyshire on their way to town, or perhaps northwest to Manchester, if they've even farther to go.

PHILIP AND JAMES AUBEL, father and son respectively, are the owners of the home, though only the father remains for any extended period of time. And even then, he only stays perhaps one or two seasons at a time, until he returns to his home in London, spending one or two seasons there, before returning again, living out his life of retirement to the fullest. James visits nearly every week (driving in from Manchester, and back) in the Spring, until the first freeze of Winter, when nothing will grow. Though they have a staff of two dozen -- give or take, depending upon the time of year -- taking care of the estate and its grounds, James is more diligent about keeping up appearances of the house, showing a special interest in maintaining the complex hedge maze on the land directly behind them. Only he keeps access to its center, a literal walled garden of seasonal flora.

AS RECENT DEVELOPMENTS WOULD HAVE IT, James has been drawn into an arranged marriage by his father and an old business acquaintance. She is scheduled for an extended visit soon, and the staff have done a meticulous job of preparing the hall for her arrival -- and the rest of the rooms, as well, if she is expected to make her living here permanent, one day. Today, the weather is clear and the help is eager to aid her in unpacking. The grounds are green and the family dog, an old greyhound with cataracts in one eye, bounds up to her with a slow wagging tail. The father will greet her, of course, with all the usual formalities, and though he doesn't know her all that well at all, she at least seems nice enough. He disappears soon after, leaving her to her own devices as she sees fit. James himself is nowhere to be found.

Somewhere, sooner rather than later, a collision course of first impressions will take place.

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D I R E C T O R Y;

➤ shitpost.
➤ first impressions.
➤ diamonds.
➤ text her, texter.
➤ saviour.
➤ flirt.
➤ closer.
➤ cross-examine.
➤ PARTY CRASHERS.
✶ elle + devon
✶ elle + corvus
✶ ian + james + corvus
✶ devon + james
➤ alien abduction.
➤ sleep now.
➤ bathe.
➤ remember.
➤ drink.
➤ welcome home.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

That's not my name.

[The jokes keep hitting a brick bearded wall here... Sorry Elle.]

Too many eyes inside for you to go get it?

I know that's not your name... I was joking. You're more of a Mordred anyway. Don't you know about King Arthur and his Knights?

And yes. Too many people saw me knock over expensive champagne. I'm just going to wait it out for a little. Are you sitting or not?

[FINE he'll sit. He keeps his distance away from Elle though, a good several inches even. The birds remain on the ground, hopping back and forth and rustling their feathers. He continues to watch the guests inside. The future bride happens to pass by the exit with a little boy, her brother. She's smiling. She's the brightest.

His eyes don't follow her, not for long anyways. He closes his eyes.]

She wouldn't be mad at you.

[Well, she'll take the small victories; it's not like she expected him to sit right next to her. She looks down at the birds, admiring their plumage in the short silence that follows.

She's taken out of her reverie when he speaks. She looks over at him, then follows his gaze over to the exit, settling on Devon who's passing by.]

Devon? No, she doesn't seem the type. I'm more... embarrassed about myself than worrying that her or James will be mad. [He looks at him again, more curiously this time.] You know her, too? [As well as James, she means. She still needs to clarify that.]

[He gives a noncommittal shrug. A non-answer. A crow hops onto the bench, right next to him.]

You should get your coat.

And then you can get more cake while you're at it. For them.

[SIR???]

[Okay, that was not an answer at all. She frowns. And then-- what?]

Excuse me, but do I look like your local crazy bird lady to you? That's-- [she waggles a finger at him, and then at the crow that's just so casually hopping up next to him] -- more your thing, apparently. Also, this is the part where I ask: what's with the crows anyway?

They're smart.

[A few of them fly up and return to their perch above them.]

And they like the cake.

[There's three types of asshole this man as been so far and it's asshole, dumb asshole, oblivious asshole, and just doesn't really answer questions well asshole.

So, an asshole.]

The coat retrieval in your case is highly recommended, cake or not.

[Elle is definitely getting differing versions of asshole vibes... But it's weird, it's not like he's being particularly rude to her, or even vaguely cross. It's just his manner is... a little distant. Not quite interested. (She tells herself dryly that, yeah, that's a great attribute for a man to have: to not be interested when you talk to him.)]

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think you're telling me that you want me to go get you and your friends here cake.

[SHRUGS. The crows are looking eagerly at Elle too, DON'T LET THEM DOWN??]

One slice is enough.

[don't test your luck, strange crow hobo man]

Fine. But only because I need my coat, not because I feel particularly compelled to run errands for your winged friends here.

[So she gets up and, trying not to shiver, walks back into the house. She comes back a couple of minutes later with her coat on, and two plates of cake. One plate in each hand. Because she's actually pretty nice like that.

Finding him still seated, she walks up to him, standing in front of him.]

I'm holding these slices hostage until you at least tell me your name, since you can't be bothered to answer anything else.

[Name...

Funny. He doesn't use a name often. With the crows, he never needed one. They all knew he was, they all knew each other. Of course, a name is one of the most significant attributions for the other, the human. And right now, that's what he looks like, so a name it is.

He reaches out for the cake but stops when Elle gives him that ultimatum. There's a long pause as he sets his hands down and clasps his fingers together, thinking.]

Corvus.

Corvus? [She echoes, barely breathing out the name. At first, she thinks to herself, Is this man a supervillain or something?, but when she realizes the serious consideration the stranger puts into his answer, she hesitates. It's strange; it's as if he had to think about it, as if giving a name was a much heavier task than it should be.

What's this guy's story?

Elle realizes that she's frowning, and instead attempts a strained smile.] Corvus. That's a pretty cool name, actually. [And she hands him the plate. His has a fork settled onto it, so he can eat it without having to use his fingers.

Elle turns to look up at the perched crows, holding out the other plate.] Come down here. [She's not so eager to hide her... persuasive abilities with these crows, since this man probably wouldn't seem to care either way. Then she turns her head over her shoulder to look at Corvus.] I'm Elle, by the way. I bet you'll forget it by tomorrow.

[Corvus takes the plate automatically and blinks as if he just only realized it appeared.

The crows flock around Elle eagerly. They seem to like her presence. Intrigued by it even. There's no complaint from him. When she gives him her name he nods slowly. Evenly. He gave her his name, she gave him her own. It's to be expected.]

Depends.

May not remember name. Champagne. Definitely remember.

[And with that, instead of using the fork, he uses his fingers to take small bites of cake instead.]

[She cringes. Well, at least he's honest.]

Great.

[But, what does she care? She has a feeling this meeting is just two ships passing in the night.

She puts the cake down for the crows next to her, eying Corvus as he eats.]

Um, I got you a fork...

Hands are the same thing.

[Them being dirtied is not a concerned.

He isn't a human all the time anyways.]

Are you a hobo?

No.

[She gives him a look that says, Are you sure? But she supposes he's too well-dressed to be some weird crow hobo man.]

Well, not to sound like your mother, but you're going to get sick if you eat with your hands.

psl; [a marriage of inconvenience]

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