Roman

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

Got Wonder Slayer 2 up a couple of days later than I said I would but I feel I've hit my stride now and am already working on #3 which will be some mythological, spooky scary, big overarching plot happenings "the end of the world" indeed - if any of you other myth peeps want to let me sprinkle in some of what you're dealing with please let me know so Giles can make his big exposition prophecy phooey.



I'm also overdue dropping my heaps of praise on some of the arcs going so far so please look forward to that as well~!

@Stormyx

I'm pulling heavily from Arthurian myth for Dane; tag me on Discord if you want more detail, not sure how much you're going into with your prophecy.

Roman's Scrapbin

Jed who believes the Force’s cosmic purpose for the existence of the Sith is as a whetstone against the Jedi order to force them to improve and better themselves until they reach a such a state of harmony and wisdom that through their guidance galaxy-wide peace is established and upheld and the sith are no longer necessary. Has taken it upon themselves to further this utopian ideal by seeking out taboo and forbidden knowledge and techniques and then issuing challenges to Jedi Knights, forcing them to learn and adapt and overcome or be wiped out; those they beat aren’t capable of fulfilling the Force’s ultimate goal of peace.

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

For anyone in New York my next Black Knight post will setup a monster encounter in NYC that will be effectively open for anyone interested who wants to get dragged in. Give me a shout if that’s you!

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

_{Location: New York}

III

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

Sitting on a barstool in the Nosedive with two bottles and a tequila chaser getting to know each other in my belly meant I was developing a nice warm late-afternoon buzz and slowly convincing myself that the whole 'talking to my grandfather who's inside a sword with another couple hundred years of my family history' incident was just a very minor no-big-deal sleep-it-off psychotic break brought on by months of isolation and depression combined with hysteria from the details of the so-called 'will', which at this point I'd written off entirely as a poor-taste practical joke. All of these thoughts I kept entirely to myself, uninterested in being labelled the local loony, especially in a neighbourhood I had yet to ingratiate myself into despite living here gone a year at this point; to say I'm not much of a social butterfly these days would be a gross underestimation. It didn't bother me any; I never felt like there was much out here waiting for me to discover. New York was a big city and it kept to itself, and I kept to myself, and that seemed to suit us both just fine.

I needed to pee.

I swang my legs around and hopped off the bar-stool, the slightest amount of unsteadiness finding its way into my feet as I took one experimental step and then another, secure that neither the floor nor my ankles were about to give way beneath me; the bathroom door loomed into view and I pushed through into the men's toilets. Dingy didn't begin to cover it.

The urinal trough played host to a centimetre-deep...film ('liquid' did not seem the right term to use) of a deep and diseased-looking yellow-brown, and I pivoted on my heel immediately not wanting to risk disturbing or adding to whatever ecosystem was developing there with the contents of my own bladder; the smell in here already churned in the back of my nose and was working away on making me queasy quick and effectively. I kicked the first cubicle door open, looking down as I fumbled with my belt and buttons, and then froze as my gaze moved to the toilet itself.

The fucking sword, scabbard and all, stood on the toilet seat, resting against the cistern.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I mutter, and then step into the cubicle and grab the sword. I growl at the voices within. “I don’t like being followed.”
“Well get used to it.” Comes Garrett’s reply, he and the background chorus sounding as aggravated by the situation as I am. “It’s the sword’s will that brings it here, not ours. The blade knows you now. It’s sticky. You can’t just put it down and walk away.”
“Or what?” I snap back, before dropping the sword behind me without hearing the answer, taking the leak I came in here for and hitting the flush handle with a balled-up fist. I grab the sword again on my way out of the cubicle.
“At least wash your hands first, you rot.” Garrett protests.
“Shut up or I’ll stick the pommel up my arsehole just to spite you.” I counter, but balance the sword carefully across the sink and dutifully scrub my digits. God knows what the bogs in this place are crawling with under black light. When I pick it back up, Garrett continues.
"Gods, but I didn't know my only grandson was such a cretin. Ewan not teach you manners?"

I flinch at Dad's name.
"Don't you mention him. You never did us any favours."
"Hm." He responds, and then pauses. When he picks back up it's like he'd never mentioned his dead son. "You'd best keep hold of the sword. It will only make itself more inconvenient if you abandon it again."
"And walk around New York waving a sword? I thought you were mad, not stupid."
"No one will notice the sword. No one wants to. It is an ugly thing, and people would rather put it out of their minds; so they do."
"Hm."

I don't really believe him but also I do; there's gravity in his voice and murmur-buzz of agreement in the background, years of family lending their assent to his words. The scabbard has some kind of clip-hook-thing that lets it hang neatly on my belt; I rest my hand on the pommel and take a look in the mirror. Despite myself, there is something simple and satisfying and cool about the sword hanging on my hip and the relaxed pose as the butt of my palm rests atop of the hilt.
"If you're done preening, time is short. You must prepare." Garrett snaps, impatient.
"The only thing worse than a bore is a cryptic bore." I snap back. "Can't you just make sense for one minute?"

The sword is quiet and I get a feeling from it like everyone's moved to another room to have a hushed discussion away from my prying ears, and then the bubble of noise returns.
"There's a certain process to be followed when a new Knight wields the sword, but you are...uniquely under-prepared. We are limited in what we can explain, but from the moment you touched this blade, very extant dangers became aware of you, and they will not stop or slow for your lack of training."
"Dangers? Training?!"
"Quiet! You wanted an explanation, and you shall have it, but not if you interrupt. This sword holds a long and bloody legacy, and through the centuries has caught many in its wake, wittingly or not. Oaths became chains, curses promises, and over time an order emerged; a routine. A recurring way of things for each new Knight. You will first be tested; then you will be hunted; and then you will be sworn to a guardianship none of us asked for, yet all upheld. Were it not for our family, this sword would have fallen into foul hands long ago."
"So what?"
"Our family has protected this world from great evil for centuries past, and that stewardship will not be idly cast aside by the likes of you!"
The indignance in his answer was so passionate it vibrated up the nerves of the arm that held the blade and seared itself across my temples, a white-hot flash behind my eyes; I quickly paled, and understood.
"Right." I said, and left it at that.

"We should go. The hour grows late and your first test will arrive on the morrow, whether you are rested and ready or not. I should not think you would want to face it hungover."
I look at myself in the mirror; my mood has already been thoroughly soured, and now the buzz is wearing off as well and I'm tired and cranky and hungry, and if I have another beer I'll just be chasing getting drunk without achieving anything except making myself miserable.
"Alright." I surrender, and push my way back out into the bar. I leave some cash on the counter for Tiff - not enough to cover my tab, but she knows I can't anyway, and the gesture is accepted until I can come up with the actual figure - and hit the streets, concrete dappled pink-orange in the early evening sun, light laying low over the urban sprawl and getting lower each passing minute. The air is still and I find I'm unconsciously holding my breath - the entire city is waiting for something to happen, dancing along a thin wire, not even a single hair shed for fear of upsetting some invisible balance.

I breathe. The spell is broken. No one notices the sword, just like Garrett said. I go home, and I eat, and I go to bed, and I toss and turn and wonder what's waiting for me on the other side of the morning, rising up with the sun to rally against me.

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

A fair way through Wonder Slayer 2; if I can keep my eyes and brain out of Pokopia enough to get to my computer of course (;

@Stormyx

Me every time I boot up my PC and somehow end up on Slay the Spire 2 just from sheer muscle memory alone at this point

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

_{Location: New York}

II

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

I slide through closing doors into the subway carriage and plonk myself down on a seat, breathing hard and thinking about how out of shape I've let myself get. It's still before 5 so it's pretty quiet, and the few other passengers in the car don't even spare me a first glance, let alone a second. It's New York, after all. When the train arrives at my station I get off, having caught my breath in the in-between, but the sense of urgency has worn off slightly: if the delivery has arrived already, it'll be waiting for me, and if it hasn't, I've got nowhere to be; I'll sit and doom-scroll all day until I hear the buzzer go.

When I get to my building my lift is still out for the third week running and I curse the super, whom I've called personally at least three times and my neighbours probably more. Especially the old couple the floor above me; one's mobility-impaired and four flights of stairs aren't really an option for an octogenarian with a walker. I've been helping out dropping groceries off and taking their trash out when garbage day comes around but even I can tell they're getting stir-crazy. Cabin fever. Wish I could relate; most days I barely explore beyond my mattress, let alone walk out my front door. Today's been the most eventful afternoon I've had in months.

I reach my floor and my neighbour - Janek - is sitting in his usual spot: a cheap patio chair positioned outside his apartment, smoking a cigarette. He taps the end off as I come up the stairs, sweating again, and the embers drift down to a small grey-speckled patch of floor below.
"C'mon, man, I asked you not to ash in the hall. I don't want to track your shit into my apartment."
Janek shrugs, taking another drag. "Wipe shoes." He suggests, chewing his words through a thick Slavic accent. We frown at each other.
"Just inconsiderate, man." I finally say, and step over the discarded embers in an emphatic sort of way before fishing my keys from my pocket and unlocking my door. "Have you seen a parcel arrive for me?" I ask before heading in. Janek just shrugs again.
"I don't see anything. Not your postman."
"Whatever, Janek. So much for being neighbourly."
He regards me with such an utterly discompassionate expression that I may as well be talking to a brick wall. I let myself in, and behind the closed door, flip him off, looking through my peephole. He flips me off too, and despite myself I do find that quite funny.

I turn around and step into my apartment proper and stop immediately because there's a long wooden crate sitting on my kitchen counter. It's just...there. I look at my door; it looks fine. I even check my window, but it's locked just like how I left it. Only the super has spare keys to the apartments in this building but if he'd been, I'd have heard about it, and he's avoiding us anyway because he doesn't want to be pinned down and made to deal with the elevator. And he wouldn't have given a fuck about bringing in a box for me anyway. He'd have been more likely to have taken it for himself. So...how did this get in here? There's no manifesto, no shipping receipt, not even a postal label. It's just a blank crate on my counter. Hmm.

I take a look at opening it but it's nailed shut pretty tight and there aren't any locks or hinges or latches or really anything to crack the lid, puzzling me further. I go back to my front door and lean out into the stairwell. Janek's still on his chair, still smoking, and he makes a point of not looking at me.
"Janek, do you have a crowbar? Or a hammer? I need to crack something open."
Janek scoffs. "Janek, stop smoking. Janek, take post. Janek, give me your tools. No. Janek has strict 'no assholes' policy on his tools."
"How come you still use them, then?" I reply, and Janek actually smirks at this.
"Is fair point. Give me moment." He says, standing up and pushing his way back into his apartment. He reappears a few seconds later holding a claw hammer. "Here. Give back quickly. I don't want to be nagging you like you nag me, understand?"
I roll my eyes, but thank Janek and disappear back inside. The claw slips neatly into the seam beneath the lid of the crate and with some effort I pull down on the hammer until the wood splinters and nails rip out and the crate pops open. I put the hammer aside and pull the lid the rest of the way off before laying eyes on what's inside.

Resting gently in straw and packing peanuts is a sword, sheathed in a scabbard. The guard and pommel of the hilt are a dull gold, but the grip itself is tightly bound in a deep crimson leather strip that winds around the metal between. The scabbard itself is plain, dark-stained leather, with only a crest I don't recognise carved into it near the top. I run my hand lightly across the scabbard, feeling the leather grain beneath my fingers and tracing the lines of the carving. Carefully, I snake my palms beneath it and lift it out of the box. It's heavier than I expected, but there's something comfortable about the weight. Is this really the artefact my grandfather described as the 'key' to his inheritance?

I set it back down in the crate and pick up the hammer instead, returning to the stairwell to hand it back to Janek, who's waiting for me.
"What you get?" He asks, thanking me as I pass him the hammer.
"A delivery from my grandfather." I answer, wondering if I should elaborate. I decide to. "A, uh...a sword."
Janek's eyebrows shoot up. "Sword! Maybe I start smoking outside after all, eh?" He says, chuckling and prodding an elbow into my ribs. I chuckle back half-heartedly, and Janek ducks back into his apartment and leaves me in the stairwell puzzling over the crate and its contents in my head. After a few minutes, I return to my grandfather's gift.

It's shockingly unassuming for being a sword, particularly one of such apparently importance. I look over the crest engraved into the scabbard again; it's about the only identifying feature the relic has. I fish my phone from my pocket and snap a photo of it, then quickly run it through Google Lens, hoping that the wonders of modern technology will handily unlock this puzzle within a few nanoseconds and save me the trouble; but no such luck. The search doesn't turn up anything specific, mostly just returning papers and sites explaining crests and the various meanings of the symbols involved; I take a cursory look, but it's nothing illuminating. The only interesting titbit is a footnote on one website mentioning that many historical artefacts, particularly weaponry, can be dated and even identified by nicks and imperfections on the blades - microscopic debris left in chips can tell the right expert with the right equipment where it was used and roughly which era, which can then be used as context clues to deduce the wielder, and some weapons were even inscribed with unique artistry and runes for power in battle or luck against death, the methods and patterns themselves identifiable to certain periods and smiths. I look at the blade. The scabbard is in very good condition, and the leather looks contemporary, and I get the sense it's probably not the original but one freshly-made to help preserve the sword. I pick the sword up by the scabbard again and wrap my other hand around the grip to pull it free and inspect the bla-

I have the distinct sensation of walking into a room within which a loud and lively conversation is taking place between a large crowd of people all speaking at once, and upon my entry, every mouth closes and all talking ceases and in the deathly and conspicuous silence, a hundred and more pairs of eyes turn and settle their gaze upon me. And then they all start talking again.

Beneath the rabble is a voice that is not a voice, but a dark urge, a malodorous insistence upon evil deeds and the worst impulses, and despite the cacophony of speech all directed at me in a single surge, it is the clearest, the loudest, the most seductive. The other voices seem to notice my daze, because all at once they harmonize and, in a shattering chorus, deny the tempting tongue. The refusal is so loud and powerful that I drop the sword in shock, and as the grip leaves my fingers all voices cease entirely.

I take a few minutes to catch my breath and collect my thoughts while staring at the sword laying in the box. I try to convince myself it was just a brief bout of hallucinatory madness but I'm also reluctant to label myself 'bat-shit crazy' quite so quickly. Talking swords? I live in New York, I've glimpsed the Spider - and I've seen the news coverage of Hawkman in Chicago; the world is weird, but I never thought that weird would come home to me, and 'talking sword' still feels so separate and alien to me from the publicly-acknowledged weird out there in the city. Very heavily against my better judgement, I reach out and grasp the sword again.

It's less of a rush, this time; it's like the voices know they scared me off, and they're more subdued now, the roaring conversation reduced to a low background murmur that blends together into a kind of white noise layered over the darker sound. Above them, one singular voice speaks to me directly, in a tone vaguely familiar in an ephemeral way.
"Dane? Is that you?"
The question lingers a while; I hear it, but I also know I don't hear it - it's like my own internal monologue got a new set of vocal cords and a mind of its own. I'm not sure how to respond.
"Yes? Hello?" I say out loud, my voice echoing slightly off the kitchen cabinets. Still I hear the background murmur, and again the single voice cuts through above the din.
"I know you must be confused. Maybe frightened. We all understand; we were all the same."
My forehead creases as I furrow my brow.
"Sorry, 'we'?"
"Every Knight who's ever wielded this blade; generations of our family dating back centuries."
My mind boggles. "Our family...?" I trail off, and then the nascent familiarity with the voice's tone clicks, and I come to a sudden realization. He sounds like Dad.
"...are you my grandfather?"
There's a pause.
"Yes. Nathan Garrett, your grandfather. You are my heir, Dane; this blade is your oath-sworn birthright."
"I haven't sworn a damn thing."
"Neither did any of us, with one exception; yet we carried the blade all the same, and so here we are. It's just how it is."

I start putting the pieces together; my grandfather, his will, my inheritance, the sword. I get angry; indignant.
"What exactly have you opted me in for?" I demand, my voice hard and demanding. The reply is solemn and unwavering.
"Duty. You will understand, in time."
Nathan Garrett is a stranger; no father to his son, and no grandfather to me. Years of disconnection from any kind of family rush to the forefront of my mind; and now, only after losing Dad, the seeming intention of his first and only contact with me is to trap me in some unwitting obligation under false pretences of promised fortunes.
"The fuck I will, asshole." I say, and drop the sword back in the box, leaving it there as I grab my jacket and head back out for the second time today - a new record - and head for the nearest hole-in-the-wall for a beer.

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

if that's the only criteria I expect acceptance of my Sonic the Hedgehog sheet before I've even posted it

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

Cue my 12-page essay detailing the minutae of Camelot's court in 1100's Briton.

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

Character I've never seen before in one of our comics games ☑
Diving into a mythology I've never considered using for inspiration/reimagination ☑
Writing in a perspective I'm not sure I've ever written in ☑

Yeah, we're moving different in this one lads

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

_{Location: New York}

I

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

I wake up when it's already far gone the first rays of morning light breaking through my window and for a brief and fleeting moment feel a sense of peace as wakefulness washes over me; and then I hear my phone vibrating next to me on the nightstand as a call comes through, and as I roll over to check it my gaze sweeps past a small photo of Dad framed on the shelf, and my serenity is sucked out of the room with an audible 'pop' and replaced with a viscous malaise and a whirling storm of grey misery inside my head. The number calling me is a New York number but not one I recognize so I ignore it, rolling back onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut, sinking my body into the mattress, and willing unconsciousness to pull me under once again; but I can't. I need to piss.

The phone's ringing again when I come out of the bathroom. I take a few steps across the room, shivering in the open air in nothing but my boxer shorts; it's the same number again. I can't imagine anyone has anything important to tell me that requires back-to-back calls, but I google the number out of curiosity and the result freezes me to the spot and furrows my brow hard. It's a Manhattan law firm, and a pretty prestigious one at that.

A hundred worst-case-scenarios push through my mind like a hurricane. Debts I'd forgotten I had piling up and come to collect; powerful rich people I'd not realized I'd hacked off arriving to payback a grudge; court orders and subpoenas I'd unwittingly breached now here to haul me off to jail; sharks that had circled Dad before he died now hunting me down, smelling fresh blood in the water. I look out the window down to the street. It doesn't look like a long enough drop to do the job, and I can't risk a broken leg or two and an ambulance trip and a hospital stay. I can't afford any of that.

The phone stops ringing and goes to voicemail, and this time, whoever's on the other end actually starts leaving a message. Before my nerves can get the better of me again, I pick up.
"Hello?" I answer, my voice hoarse from a couple days of not actually talking to anybody, and more than a little shaky from the chill and my still-racing heartbeat. I hear a slight startle from the caller for my interruption of their voicemail, and then brief sounds of shuffling papers.
"May I speak to a Mr. Whitman, please?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Dane Pendragon Whitman?" The voice on the other end clarifies, and I wince slightly. It has always been an embarrassing middle name.
"Yes, speaking." I confirm again.
"Good morning, Mr. Whitman. My name is Thomas Nichols, and I'm calling from Latham & Watkins. I'm a solicitor; is now a good time?"
I sit on the edge of the bed, gathering my sheets up around my shoulders around my bare torso to stave off the chill, rubbing my thighs with my free hand to soothe the goosebumps.
"I'm a little busy," I lie, "what's this about?"
"I understand, Mr. Whitman, I'll try not to take up too much of your time. It's in regards to your grandfather's estate."

I pause again, puzzled. I never knew either pair of my grandparents; Dad was estranged from his father even before we left England for good, and any connection to my mother's side of the family walked out when she did. Since I was six, it had only ever been me and Dad, and for nearly a year now, it's only been me.
"Mr. Whitman?"
I break out of my fugue.
"Sorry. I don't know any of my grandparents. I certainly don't know about any 'estates'. Are you sure you have the right person?"

There's the sound of paper again, and then Thomas Nichols rattles off practically every legal identifier that could be applied to my person, all of which I confirm one data-point after another with an onbvious tone of stunned surprise and not a small amount of incredulity.
"We're very thorough here, Mr. Whitman." Thomas says, in a way that indicates that's as close as I'm getting to an apology for some nebulous and strange legal professional having quick-fire access to every possible item of personal data that could be catalogued about me.
"Clearly." I reply, in a way that indicates the apology is not accepted. I hear him sigh, and honestly that just winds me up.
"It may be easier to do this in person, Mr. Whitman. Are you able to make time this afternoon and visit my office? I assure you, it is in your interests."
I'm sure he meant for that last bit not to sound ominous and vaguely menacing, but he failed all the same. Still, I look at the time; it's just crawling up to noon, and today is a Thursday, and I'm unemployed. Yes, I have time - I'm just not sure I want him to know that. I tell him to hang on while I check my diary, and make a deliberate racket of moving about my apartment rifling through assorted stationery and discarded rubbish.
"I can move some things around and be with you for three." I say, trying to convince myself as much as Thomas Nichols.
"Three works perfectly, Mr. Whitman. Thank you very much. My assistant will be happy to receive you when you arrive. Looking forward to meeting you later on."

He hangs up, and I take a moment to repeat his part about his assistant in a mocking tone of voice while jawing a fake mouth open and shut with one hand, and then I set about finding a clean pair of jeans and trying to remember if I even own a shirt.

---

I'll be frank; I found the Latham & Watkins office building to be gaudy, or at least the front of it - gold-plated, or something to look like gold, a grand revolving door and their name emblazoned in impactful black font stamped above it. It was emblematic of the version of New York I didn't like: glittery lights and impossibly tall buildings and people in suits swapping made up parcels of companies for obscene wealth; like the Bronx or Melrose or East Harlem didn't exist. Like the average New Yorker wasn't some guy eking out a living waiting tables for tips and standing in line for the food bank every other Sunday.

I pushed the thoughts from my mind before they darkened my mood irretrievably, and pushed through the revolving door at the same time, entering a well-lit lobby blanketed in a quiet calm, interrupted only by the soft 'ding' of an elevator or a phone-call being taken. Directly ahead of me was a reception desk, and the receptionist behind it waited for me in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know I was certainly expected and ready to be received, but only at my leisure and there was no rush or obligation to approach quickly. I did anyway.
"Mr. Whitman?" She asked, before I'd even thought about opening my mouth to introduce myself. I closed my flapping jaw and nodded. She smiled warmly like my arrival was the defining moment of her day.
"Thomas' office is on the fifth floor; the elevators are just behind me on the left-hand side. I'll let his assistant know you've arrived and he'll await you just as you get off."
I mutter a thanks, not really sure I have anything else that needs saying, and she smiles again and goes back to her computer in a well-practiced and subtle way that let me know the interaction was over and I was expected on the fifth floor post-haste. The elevators were behind her on the left-hand side, and I leant against the back wall of the lift as I ascended, crossing my arms and tapping my foot, irritated but not really able to articulate why or what with.

Thomas Nichols' assistant did indeed await me just as I got off; I'd barely planted one foot past the door when he was already upon me, clarifying my identity and hoping my journey wasn't too strenuous and thanking me for making the time to attend in-person. I waved away his platitudes, finding the crisp air of corporate politeness cold and unpleasant, and mostly eager to get whatever new wrinkle to my creased life this was out in the open. He guided me quickly down the corridor and back to what was clearly his desk, several dirty mugs littering his workspace next to a laptop and a small calendar. There was a small sofa opposite the desk, and I automatically moved to take a seat, only to be stopped short.
"No need, Mr. Whitman. Thomas is ready for you now - you can head straight in." He explained with a plastered smile, gesturing at the door next to him. I nodded and pushed through the door without any further delay.

"Mr. Whitman," Thomas Nichols opened with, standing up from his chair and moving toward me to take my hand in a firm grasp and deliver a solid shake. He's a lot younger than I expected him to be - we probably share an age bracket, if not a tax bracket - and well-dressed, African American with a navy suit that fits him snug and complements his eyes. I can smell his cologne. He smells nice. He catches me scrutinizing and I clear my throat, looking away. "A pleasure to meet you in person. Please, take a seat. I trust you didn't have any difficulties getting here? We appreciate you coming in person."
He gestured to a sleek-looking chair on the other side of the desk to his own, and I plopped down into it ready to hear the spiel.
"You said this was in my interests?" I replied, bored of the copious pleasantries I'd already endured and keen to get on with it. I was also hungry, and there was a decent deli a block from here.
"Direct to business - I like it. Yes, it is. As I mentioned on the phone, this is all in regards to your grandfather's estate."
"And as I said, I don't know any of my grandparents or their estates, so if you could explain...?"
Thomas shifted slightly, clearly holding onto some uncomfortable news. I just looked at him until he said it.
"I'm afraid to inform you Mr. Whitman that your grandfather passed away late yesterday afternoon."

He pauses, clearly wanting to give me 'space' to 'process', and we just stare at each other for a couple seconds. I'm half expecting him to carry on, but he doesn't, and eventually I just say:
"Okay. So what's this about his estate?"
Thomas clears his throat and takes a stapled sheaf of papers into his hand from in front of him on his desk. He holds it up slightly and skims over the first page before returning his gaze to me.
"Mr. Garrett-"
"Mr. Garrett?" I ask, and Thomas falters awkwardly.
"Uh- your grandfather. Nathan Garrett."
"Huh." I say, and Thomas starts to say something, thinks better of it, and continues.
"Mr. Garrett has stated clearly in his will that upon his death, the entirety of his estate - all stocks, bonds, liquid finances, property and land - will be passed down, after due tax and duties are paid, to his closest living descendent." Thomas puts the paper down and looks at me. "Now, I am to understand your father, a Mr..." more paper-shuffling, "'Ewan Whitman', is deceased?"

My face flashes hot. Thomas notices and his expression immediately falters and flips to one of mortification. I take a moment to let the knife slink through me and control my features, and then clear my own throat and nod, inviting him to carry on with only the slightest wobble in my voice. Thomas smiles a thin, apologetic smile.
"Well, um...that would make you, Mr. Garrett's closest living descendent. And therefore the recipient of his estate as laid out in his will."
I nod slowly, taking this in, slightly feeling like I'm being set-up.
"And, uh, how...much? Would this estate come to?"
Thomas flips through a couple pages of the stapled sheaf and looks back to me.
"Well, it's primarily Appleby Castle in Cumbria and the surrounding grounds - roughly 27 acres - and all current furnishings therein, and then once we've liquidated stocks and options as per your grandfather's instructions, after levying appropriate taxes and duties and, naturally, our fees, I would reasonably estimate..."
He paused for an unbearably long time, and I watched him squint and re-read his papers as he did some quick internal math.
"...$184.7 million. Give or take."

He looks over at me as I faint and slump forwards out of my seat.

- - -

When I come to a few moments later, Thomas Nichols has laid me flat on my back and has prepared a glass of water. I look around the room and spot his assistant leaning in through the slightly-ajar door and when he notices me noticing him, he blushes and quickly ducks out. I push myself up and sit on the floor, take a sip from the glass, and try to soothe my heartbeat. I fail.

"Apologies, Mr. Whitman. I probably should have expected the news would be rather shocking."
I look up at him as he kneels next to me, completely dumbfounded and not wasting a single second trying to hide it.
"I think 'Dane' will be fine given the circumstances, Thomas." I say, letting him take my hand to help me up. His skin is very soft.
"Please, 'Tom'. It's not everyday I get to tell someone they're soon to be a multi-millionaire." He replies, cracking a very charming grin as he makes the joke.
"Multi..." I whisper softly, and feel myself getting light-headed again. I put an arm out to steady myself, and Tom is quick to lend me his shoulder before we guide me back into the chair as a team.

"How, um, how soon?" I ask when my head's stopped spinning. There's a microsecond of a wince from Tom and my heartrate spikes again.
"Now, that is the one...wrinkle. There's only two stipulations to what is otherwise one of the most incredibly straight-forward wills I've ever had the pleasure of handling."
I raise a single eyebrow.
"Not that your grandfather's death is a pleasure." He's quick to clarify. "My apologies. I deal with a lot of...conflict, in most of my cases. It's a welcome relief to deal with one so simple."
I nod in understanding. "So what are these 'wrinkles', then?"

Tom goes back to the papers.
"Well, the most pertinent is that no part of your set inheritance is to be released to you until, and I am quoting directly, "they have proven themselves worthy to live as Camelot lived". That is to say, no monies will be transferred, no furnishings relinquished, and you will be turned away from the Appleby grounds and considered trespassing until such a time the property is released to you."
"What. The fuck. Does that mean." It's all I can bring myself to say. I am simply agog. This feels like one big joke, and in mighty poor taste. I get an immediate sense of perhaps why Dad cut ties with him long before I was born. Tom smiles sympathetically, my reaction obviously not unexpected.
"Mr. Garrett has left detailed instructions with his solicitors - us - as to how such a quality is determined."
"Okay. And they are?"
"Per Mr. Garrett's instructions, we are not at liberty to divulge that information to you."

I go red. I go very red, and my fists ball up, and I start coming up with expletives best delivered from the angry side of a pointed finger and things I can smash up in this stupid fucking tasteless rich-person beige-nightmare high-rise office and that window is definitely high enough up-
"Mr. Whitman- Dane- it might be prudent to hear out your grandfather's second stipulation." Tom hurriedly says, trying to cut off my fury before it boils over; my nose scrunches and I push my index fingers into the corners of my eyes and I take one very long, deep breath.
"Do go on, Tom." Come my words through gritted teeth.
"No part of your set inheritance is to be released until you have been deemed 'worthy'...except one very singular and specific artefact in your grandfather's possession that, I am lead to understand, has been in your family for centuries, and is also described by Mr. Garrett in his will as being "the key to unlocking a virtuous heart and noble spirit"."

Despite it all, I am utterly intrigued. I have an unshakeable feeling of being puppeted like some dancing marionette on strings, jingling and jangling about for the amusement of some rich dead asshole - a rich dead asshole who is, apparently, my Grandad - but the word 'artefact' excites me in a schoolboy way, like I've been given my own chance at playing Indiana Jones, and it might hold something of the family history I'd otherwise been completely removed from up until now, and also $184.7 million is $184.7 million. If this thing was the 'key', then I can sure as hell find the 'lock'. I calm myself down, letting go of my momentary apoplexy.
"Okay. Where is it?"
Tom looks at his watch.
"I should think it would be with you shortly, if it hasn't already arrived. Your grandfather was quite clear in that other arrangements would be made for its delivery, that he assures are quite foolproof. I suppose FedEx isn't for everybody, is it?" He cracks a joke again, chuckling weakly. I stand up.
"Thanks, Tom. I'm going to...go find it. Whatever it is. Thank you for your time, I think?"
"Yes, it's all rather odd, isn't it?" Tom says, standing with me and showing me to the door. He clicks at his assistant and points to me when he looks up, making silent orders to escort me back down to the lobby. "Take my card. As soon as you've figured out Mr. Garrett's wrinkle, you give me a call, day or night. I wish you the best of luck, Dane."

I give Tom and his assistant one final set of half-hearted thanks, and then as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside the office building, I sprint toward the nearest subway station.