2020-08-11 - History in the Making

On this particular occasion, Atli Addington is stopped at a trophy case near the gym of the high school, beaming fondly at something within it. A pale blue of the shoulder top with dramatic bow, and black pedal pusher trousers are her chosen statement pieces of the day. This is paired of course with a set of shiny black heels, only tall enough to still be considered appropriate by all standards. A clipboard rests in the crook of one arm and a designer clutch is held in a well-manicured hand. Her platinum hair is curled in angelic ringlets.

She seems preoccupied but not unapproachable.

It's been a few days since Ravn Abildgaard was a high school student. (In fact, he never technically was a high school student, considering that the Danish educational system is somewhat differently structured). He's not faculty -- and he's a little young to be somebody's parent; what he is, though, is curious. Wandering onto the school grounds he carries a small traveller's brochure in one hand, no doubt nicked at the Town Library -- one of those that discusses local history and sights to see, among them the site upon which the original school was founded. He's a tall, blond fellow who draws a few curious gazes; people who dress in all black often fancy themselves something or other, and a few of the kids at least glance in his general direction to see if he's somebody they ought to know. He's not, though, and they quickly lose interest.

Wandering up to the trophy displays the tall guy starts reading the plaques in the fashion of someone who thinks he's at a museum exhibit. Only after a while does he murmur something to himself in a language that is decidedly not English, and glances at the brochure in his hand as if it has very obviously failed him. Looking around and spotting -- aha! a helpful person! -- he turns to the blond woman and says politely, "Excuse me, miss -- do you know if there is anywhere to take a look at the school's history?"

The blonde swivels dramatically in the dark clad man's direction. Sapphire eyes seeming to leave their transfixed state to focus on him fully. If one followed their trajectory they would find a photograph next to a statue displaying a small metallic cheerleader. In the picture, her likeness was visible in the center of the squad.

One frenched pointer targets bricks behind him. "History you say!? Well those bricks are apart of the original remodel from the early 1900's!" Atli pivots ballerina style to direct attention to the doors in the opposite direction. "Those doors are said to contain wood processed prior to the town mill shutting down. This place has pieces of many factors in the history of Gray Harbor!"

She swivels on the toe of her heel to face him once more, curls whipping as though forced by a whirlwind. A toothpaste commercial smile plastered to her lips as she considers him curiously. "Are you an author? You look like you write."

The foreigner -- and he must be, with that accent -- blinks and then offers a grin at the woman's exuberance, his gaze following her hands and gestures as she points at things. With a hint of good-natured amusement he shakes his head. "Well, no. I'm a bit of a blogger but nothing serious. I'm quite heavily into history, though, and this brochure claims that the original school building of Gray Harbor was right here. I was hoping to learn more about it, and Grey Harbor's history. Do you know if there's an exhibition, anything along those lines?"

A couple of kids wandering by roll their eyes dramatically, probably at the idea of going to a school to learn more about it. Well, they can find some other conversation to eavesdrop on, then. Ignoring them, the man's grey eyes skip over the cheerleader statue and back to the blonde woman and he adds, "You must be a genuine local, miss."

Atli did not seem to mind the passing looks of judgement, a perk of being almost entirely self absorbed. The students moved on to most interesting pastures, she continues her overly peppy assessment. "Never sell yourself short, a writer is a writer!" Tucking a stay ringlet behind one ear and revealing a pearl stud earring, she seems to light up like a Christmas tree.

"I am in fact a local and a founding family member. Atli Addington, pleased to meet you! I work at the family home which is a form of museum really. You should drop by!" She pauses and squints about the place, trying to make a form of calculation. "To be exact, the old school was only on ground beginning over there." Her head tilts more to the middle. "Expansion came with population."

"History will be a bit hard to uncover in some cases though, I'm sure you've noticed that as a shiner." She says this passively, having her own brightly glimmering quality.

The foreigner scratches absentmindedly at his arm in the way typical of someone who has a healing sports injury or something along those lines; an entirely unconscious gesture that essentially reads, Ow, shouldn't have done that. Probably exerted himself playing tennis or something. He opens his mouth to say something polite -- and shuts it again. A shiner. Of course.

"I see." The man gets back on track. "You had me at museum, Miss Addington. I take it the family actually lives somewhere else now? It's open to the public?"

His manners politely step up and tap him on the shoulder. Looking slightly sheepish, he hurries to add, "My name is Ravn Abildgaard. I'm a folklorist, technically. I, er, yes, it's the whole... shine thing, that caught my interest in this town." He extends a gloved hand, presumably remembering that at least in polite company, it's generally considered the norm to introduce yourself before you start interrogating people.

Atli seems momentarily concerned by his vague injury, but politely says nothing of it. There were several about including one of her own cousins that didn't approve with non-medical assistance of these type of things. She had taken to primarily leaving them be.

She shifts her purse to the arm with the clipboard and extends her own petal soft hand to him. Not that he could feel it with all his glove clad angst. "Pleasure to meet you! There are some ghosts that do, and sometimes I swear my Uncle Patrick only pretends to have his own address, but primarily yes. The Addington House is a museum." Atli has at this point turned her full sunny charm on him, radiating positivity.

"Where in Europe are you from? I studied in France for some time, but my ability to place accents geographically isn't as entirely perfect as I would like." She releases his hand gently, though the shake had been practiced and business like.

Ravn's grip is firm in spite of the dainty impression his kidskin gloves might leave. "I'm from Denmark," he murmurs. "I... Er. Ghosts?" For a moment it's almost painfully obvious that he actually considers the idea that the family home might literally be haunted. As in, actual dead people, walking around, doing whatever dead people do. He catches up with reality and straps on a bright smile. "And it is open to the public, you say?"

Atli could not seem more enraptured with the idea of his country of origin. Pink lips part a tad agape, though no less smiling. Crystal eyes glitter in fascination. Next to the idea of Denmark, to her ghosts seemed positively blase.

"Usually there is an admission price, but I am sure if you could write something in promotion of the house for your...blog? The ticket charge would be waved as a promotional fee." Her free hand waves in dismissal of the severity of the concept of the not quite dead. "They are usually fairly harmless, except at garden parties...Try to be kind in your review though, I do work rather hard to keep everything restored to my standards."

Something about this indicates that Atli's standards may be higher than most peoples, the type A perfectionist vibe a bit overt in her mannerisms. "Denmark though! Fascinating! I have always wanted to visit, you simply must tell me more!" Even in heels she is shorter than Ravn, her excitement seeming to even out the height difference in presence alone.

"I, uh, don't mind paying," the foreigner says, mouth going on automatic as his brain tries to keep up with the sheer bubbliness that's focused on him. He's not new to Americans thinking him exotic and interesting -- or, in a number of cases, thinking him a pretentious piece of shit European -- but this is an unusual amount of blonde sparkling at him.

"Denmark is probably a lot more interesting to someone who wasn't born there," Ravn finds his footing. "You -- are the conservationist? I seem to be in luck, then. I don't suppose you give tours?" Look, he got to the point. "I have a few friends back home who do something similar -- preserve the estates of old family houses, most of them are open to the public at least in the tourist season. I promise not to touch anything -- and not to scare the ghosts. One should always be kind to the old family ghosts." Was that a joke? Maybe.

Another theatrical wave of her hand with a fanning of her digits. "Nonsense! I will make sure you have a ticket reserved! I prefer restoration but conservation is highly respectable. You can use the fee towards an upcoming charity event instead!" Her head dips to the clipboard again. "I'm discussing ideas with the Teddy S. Addington High School faculty for extracurricular funding."

Atli did not look old enough to have any children in high school which just made her zeal all the moire confusing. Perhaps she just really liked helping. With a small amount of effort , she wriggles the clasp of the clutch open and removes a stark white business card with gold embossed lettering and the emblem of a rose. Atli Addington: Addington House Restoration Specialist it reads with the address of the house and a phone number beneath it. Notably there was no e-mail. "I don't lead tours typically but I have no problem doing so if you like. Also feel free to give me a ring if you end up with any injuries from dreams or any questions about the town!"

She holds the card out to him with a winning grin.

Ravn takes it with a smile and tucks into a blazer pocket after looking at it. "I'm sorry to say, I do not have a card to offer in return. I would not wish to impose on you, Miss Addington -- I imagine that you are a very busy woman. I am looking for information on the settlement's very early years -- perhaps you might be able to tell me a thing or two? I'm sure that being a local, and of the founding family at that, you know all the stories about Grey Harbor's unique -- situation. I have a very... loose theory, barely a notion yet, but an idea all the same, that perhaps we need to look all the way back to log cabins and coonskin caps to find out what it is that seems to be so unusual about the town. I was hoping that perhaps I might find out more, particularly if I was indeed fortunate enough to run into someone else with a keen interest in local history."

Nerdboy, your eyes are gleaming.

Atli's head cocks to the side, curls spilling down one shoulder. "Never too busy for a fellow historian!" She winks a single gemstone eye in his direction. "I have some theories, but concrete evidence is ...dare I say...difficult. the other side of the towns history doesn't like to be learned about much, like a book that keeps flipping pages as you try to read it. Very...Mercurial..." Her expression darkens at the thought for just a moment, her mind flashing to the number of Addington deaths that no one knew the true causes of, in some cases not even Addington's.

A bell rings to signal the end of period and the reverb snaps Atli back to present. "That's my cue for a meeting!" She replies cheerily, despite a moment earlier looking like someone had shot a puppy in front of her. The smile returns, painted to her pale face. "Pleasure to meet you Mr. Abildgaard! I look forward to your visit!" The idea that someone else may want genuine answers regarding the causation of current matters seems to put some genuine happiness into her demeanor, furthering the glint in her gaze.

"I'll be sure to call upon you at Addington House," Ravn promises; a fellow academic, he quite understands the need to obey the sound of the bell. "Thank you very much for your time, Miss Addington. Grey Harbor is surprisingly kind to curious travellers."

He stands aside, letting the blondesplosion pass if she so wishes, and looking at the displays once more as if he somewhat hopes to find answers among sports trophies and plaques of old. And why not? A good hard look tells him, at least, a great deal about what family names one can expect to encounter over and over, out of which Addington is merely one -- if admittedly, the most prolific. Researching the past sometimes starts very much in the present.