The will of those forgotten
Banner by Isabella Bernard
The Crawford Manor was one of pureblood grandeur a formidable sight was this grand manor sitting in the atop a hill glaring down over the woods that surrounded it. This manor had been passed down from Crawford to Crawford a generational house of secrets and pureblood supremacy, thought the bloodline had years been tainted the ink of scandal and hidden truths dripped from its history. On the outside it is quite plane built of cold imposing stone the inside was a different story, it was decorated with family portraits and expensive artworks three floors each as grand as the other. The first floor was home to the ballroom, dinning room a kitchen three bathrooms and one small library/drawing room. The second was home to the grand library the Master study and four main bedrooms each with its own walk in closet and bathroom along with a music room and the large drawing room. And lastly the top floor one of which was in little use now with the lack of children. The top floor was home to 3 children's rooms a playroom a school room and a smaller music room with shelfs of music books and one grand piano.
History is important it is a story of ones family and god does this family have history. The house itself was built around 1586 by Pureblood Thomas Crawford for his wife Isabella Crawford as a sign of his love since then it had been passed down from heir to heir but in late 1800's the house was left without an heir when the current owners William Crawford and his wife Elena had three daughters Rose Jane and Nola so they were left to change the family's tradition by passing it down to Jane the oldest of the three and consequently both were forced to leave the family with their last two daughters. Jane married a man called Edward and had a son and the tradition continued again. Through out the years there had been many a Crawford to be disowned and cast out for things such as having a baby with a man not of pureblood or becoming something distasteful such as a writer like Natalia Crawford did in mid 1920. But despite all this the family was still considered pure but one more scandal arose once the now dead owner of Crawford manor died at the age of 82 in her sleep leaving this world with a missing will and a letter sent to her eldest son saying that the house was to be left to whoever found the will.
So there she was sitting in a corner of a house she hadn't been in for years watching her family argue. Kora Eliot was a halfblood and since she shared the blood of a Crawford she had to be here along with everyone else on the family tree. The news of the grandmother passing was not as sad as she had thought it would be not since she was kept away for so long not since her mother was treated like an outcast by the family for being muggle and a painter. Kora had been told to sit and wait for an outcome wait for the fighting to stop wait to be told if she was left anything form the old woman she once called family.
People watching was an interesting thing to do while you watch rich people fight over a cold house built with lies and the promise of a name in this world but then again she did get to meet those she long had forgotten her uncles talked of how she would become a 'beautiful young woman' and 'a true Crawford' one day but to her it just seemed like an excuse to get her to go to the silly balls the useless formal dinners. For now all she would do is watch, watch and wait for a glimmer of hope from this dark tunnel of misery
Reducio
- Word count: 667
- Thoughts
- @Archer Duncan
- OOC note: sorry this took so long hope you like it
Last edited by Jessamine Lancaster on 6 Oct 2025, 14:04, edited 1 time in total.
Reason: Changed topic type to RPG =]
forever running out of time
The will of those forgotten
exeat weekend | Crawford manor
Apparently, Archer Theodore Duncan had more family relations than one would expect, and apparently, purebloods were an inbred mess.
Crawford. A name he had never heard of before. And in an act very much like his father, he had refused to explain to his son what that name meant to them. As much as Archer cared, it could have been the baker down the street. Instead, the two of them arrived at a cold, imposing mansion with three storeys and who knew, probably sixteen bathrooms to start off with. At least the pureblood world never disappointed.
Archer plopped down on an armchair next to a girl who looked equally unimpressed at the song and dance of adult activity in front of them. Smaller than average and not much to look at, she was exactly the sort to get lost in a crowd like today’s and in that, Archer found some sort of odd solace. Instead of attempting to present herself as more than she was, as a haughty heiress or an entitled princess, she seemed down to earth enough. Voice unintentionally rough and interrogative through speed and carelessness, Archer asked, words said brusquely, “Remind me what the hell we’re doing here again?”
He knew well enough why he was here.
He was here because adults insisted on behaving like toddlers, because the pureblood lines had to fuck up each other’s connections. Some may have called what the Crawfords had history, but if one was the ask Archer, he would have said it was too much for him to give a fig about. After all, he had never been one much for genealogy, both his parents having fled from their expectations. Having been introduced to an onslaught of names, what with Thomas and Jane and Natalia and every other wix he couldn’t be bothered to care about, Archer thought he might as well have been done with the whole thing entirely.
Speaking from experience, the death of a family member ought to have put the Crawford family in a different type of chaos. Grief, respects paid, all dressed in black, and even an expensive funeral — any of the listed could have been an appropriate response. Instead, apparently there was a missing will (incredulous, he knew), and the house was ambiguously left to whomever found it. As if that was no recipe for disaster. It wouldn’t have been if these grown ups knew some basic diplomacy, in Archer’s most humble opinion. He did have to admit that the sight of no one even displaying the slightest of sadness was a disorientating truth.
In an action beyond his control, his indifferent gaze drifted to the centre of the room where the adults argued, somewhere far away from what felt like reality.
He watched his father, not because he harboured any attachment to the man but because he did not quite know who else to watch if not for him. They were playing his game of eloquent speeches and they were playing his game of volatile emotions. If there was anything his father was supposed to be worth, it should have been this. But Archer knew, fighting against a family he had never even heard of, Atticus was never going to win the money he needed. So his eyes followed him, hopelessly, as he whirled from conversation to conversation, debate to debate, all without a good ending.
There, however, was a woman who radiated an entirely different aura from the rest of the gathered parties. Instead of shouting over each other, she stood, poised, but far from the sidelines. Clearly, she was none of the wallflower that Archer was. She was in the centre of the conversation, gesturing as she spoke, barely a flicker of irritation on her face, simply the impatience of a teacher facing a room of kindergarteners. Her hair, as dark as Archer’s yet now turning white with age, was knotted into a bun both de rigueur and practical. Her dress, a veil of mystery, seemed out of the Victorian era. Yet one thing Archer knew: she wasn’t Jane nor Natalia or certainly not Thomas.
Ruby Crawford. Not that he knew who she was. Yet. Asking the exact question, he murmured to himself, lips pursed, “Qui est-elle?” The dignified air around her almost intimidated Archer, with him in his scruffy boots and unthreading sweaters. He glanced at the girl to his side, who he reluctantly concluded as the only person who might have known the answer to such a question, and realising there was no point in keeping his musings private in a language she could not speak, translated begrudgingly, nudging her slightly in the arm, “Who’s she?”
Until he received the answer from his father, who approaching, greeted the woman with graveness, “Mother.” Archer laughed.
@Kora Eliot
banner by Pericles Dralt
banner by Pericles Dralt
I am not even singed. My wings are untouched. You use them for everything, except flight.
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht
Liliya Starkova| Anthonie Engelbrecht