Roman

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

_{P L A Y E R E V E N T}

THE QUESTING BEAST

The Questing Beast has arrived to challenge Dane Whitman as it has challenged all Black Knights in his family before him, in the first true test of his worthiness to carry the Ebony Blade and his family's legacy. Unable to reject its ultimatum for fear of wreaking terrible havoc on all of New York and beyond, Dane is forced to confront the Beast in Times Square at noon, though he knows not what to expect from the creature, nor how he is intending to battle and ultimately defeat it. With only the Ebony Blade by his side, he will need to rely on the guidance and teachings of the forefather spirits held within the sword, as well as timely intervention by any other, more well-seasoned heroes, to survive this trial, and reckon with forces that hunt him down irrespective of his willingness to cede to his late grandfather's will.

^{Characters Involved: Black Knight, TBC
Desired # of Players: 3-4}

The Questing Beast rampages through New York out of Times Square, having issued its challenge to Dane and awaiting his arrival for their fateful clash. However, the risk to New York and its innocent citizens goes beyond what Dane is capable of handling, and he's out of his depth in need of help; luckily, the Questing Beast's threat can't simply be ignored, and more seasoned heroes will come to his aid, and induct him into a world he doesn't necessarily want to be a part of.

I'm opening up the Questing Beast as a player event in New York! If you'd like to get involved just let me know - I'll be welcoming in collabs, solo posts, and any ideas you have for linking your own character's journeys into this challenge!

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

That’s my first Ben arc done (sorry for the double post but I wanted to finish it)

@Natty

If you'd have given me just fifteen minutes...........

Absolute Comics - A Multi-Fandom Singular Universe Roleplay

_{Location: New York}

IV

^{_{_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

I sit up to the table at which all men are equal, squires and knights and kings alike, and I look around and see my friends. We have assembled this court out of vagabonds and wastrels, royalty and the destitute, and turned each man and woman into noble spirits and countrymen, righteous and valiant, all upholding a singular golden kingdom and spreading goodwill amongst their people. We sit at this table not as knights in service to kings, nor as subjects loyal to their rulers, but as friends, as brothers, and we parley and converse in the way friends and brothers do, with good-natured teasing and amusing boasts shared across cups filled with rich wine and plates laden with meat and cheese and bread.

"See here," says good Arthur, "how my holy sword doth shine so brightly - its edge ever-sharp, its blade so keen, its guard perfectly balanced. It is Excalibur, and was imparted on me by the fairy queen Nimue; surely, it is the most handsome sword in Camelot."
"Nay!" Shouts Gawain, humbled since his youth by the Green Knight but still able to rise to a challenge. "'Tis surely my own Galatine, the blade of which can ne'er be nicked; it shall never know a single flaw, no matter how many battles it sees. There is no blade more handsome than that which can ne'er be blemished!"
"By my rights, your sword has seen more blemishes than I have hot meals!" Lancelot calls, for Gawain's flock of maidens and his penchant for laying with whores is well-known, and laughter erupts around the table, none louder than good Gawain's himself; we settle, and Lancelot continues, next to brag: "Regardless, you and Arthur are companions in error; 'tis surely Arondight, the Light of the Lake, that is the envy of the kingdom. Her edge can cut through sheer rock, and dragons quake in fear at the shine of its blade."
"Aye, and you quake in fear at the shine of a maiden's ankle!" Comes the taunt from Bedivere, for Lancelot's chastity is as known as Gawain's promiscuous nature, and again we laugh, though Lancelot less so; those who notice him catching the Lady Guinevere's eyes soon forget.
"This talk of maidens, blemishes and ankles alike, shows my goodly blade Red Hilt is that which you all covet; the leather is stained with the covenant of my wedding night, and thus my sword bears my love - and truly, what is more handsome than love?" Says Geraint, and we all raise our cups to Geraint's love and his lady Enid in a solemn moment, as Arthur reflects on his good love with Guinevere, and we all agree, love is a handsome thing indeed; until Lamorak, fierce and fiery:
"If a red hilt were truly the promise of love and marriage, Geraint, then Gawain should be wed every day for the next ten moons!"
And again we roar with laughter.

"I say, Arthur has the right of it, though he is mistaken that Excalibur should be held aloft." Says Lancelot, quelling the ribald chatter.
"Aye, that's the truth." Lamorak agrees. "'Tis Caliburn, that fabled sword in the stone, that is the kingdom's pride."
We all murmur agreements over our cups around the table; Caliburn is a fine blade indeed, and steeped in the history of this very court. Arthur accepts the praise with grace, the sword holding a solemn place in his own heart for its significance to his ascent.
"Two holy blades to make Arthur a godly king twice over; is there better proof of Camelot's blessed nature?" Bedivere asks; again we raise our cups. Though we are equals at this table, Arthur remains our King, and we his Knights. I feel the wine stir within me, and stand; the court looks to me, and the eyes of my brothers settle upon my rosy-cheeked face, some bearing amusement, some quiet respect.
"What say you, Percival?" Asks Tristan, and in response I draw my own sword.

"I swear an oath, my brothers." I announce, and at this every face falls stern; an oath is a solemn thing, to be heard solemnly. "My sword is not befitting of such a glorious kingdom as Camelot."
"Take some pride, man - the blade is well-made." Calls Lancelot. "You have slain enough to make it worthy."
"Aye, Lancelot, well enough; woe betide me to blacken the name of the good smith who worked the metal. But no story, brothers, no holiness attached to this sword, and Camelot is a holy kingdom deserving of good and godly treasures. And so it is my oath to find such a sword to call my own, and return to Camelot with such a story - and then we shall meet 'round this table again, and share such merriment once more. This I swear to you," I said, sheathing my sword and bowing to Arthur, "my noble king."

"I shall hear your oath, Sir Percival of Scandia," King Arthur replied, "and I will await thy return with baited breath."

And so my oath was made.

---

I stir and roll over and something straight and hard pokes into my thigh; for a moment I wonder if I really did just head home after only a couple last night, but then my mind comes back to me and I open my eyes and it's the sword. The sword is in bed with me. I am very certain I did not make this choice myself.

I don't grab it, not wanting to fill the first few minutes of my day with the chatter of my forefathers while I'm still half-naked, and instead sit up and scoot down the mattress before pushing my legs over the edge and standing up, stretching as the late-morning sun streams in through my window. It's looking already like the weather will be pleasant; god-rays filter through thinning clouds, and the snatches of blue sky I get glimpses of are a welcome sight after several gray days. A quick shower rejuvenates me further and then I set about making coffee, all the while watching the sword from the corner of my eye to ensure it's not about to insist itself upon me unbidden; it remains laid on my bed, much in the way you might expect an inanimate object to do so. Eventually, air-dried and caffeinated, I dress, and only then do I approach the blade and take it up once more.

"You are wasting time, Dane. The task is almost upon us, and you've not had an inch of practice."
"Good morning, Garrett, how are you today?" I reply, laying the sarcasm on thick.
"You would not be so flippant if you knew what was coming for you, boy." He says. "Were we bedded at Appleby, we'd have risen with the sun and trained every minute since."
"Well we're not at Appleby, are we? And you'd ought to remember exactly why. We're in New York, and as long as we're in New York, we're playing by New York rules, and New York says 'get good sleep and drink good coffee'. And right now it's also saying 'go look for a good bagel'."
I hang the sword on my belt again and grab my keys and wallet off the side, stepping out with purpose and ready to grab a warm breakfast from the first cart I find.

I don't get far; I don't even get out into the stairwell. There is an...animal, waiting, and as soon as I open my door it begins to look at me, and I at it; but the longer I looked, the less I knew what kind of animal it was. It was variegated in every way: it had the head and neck of some great draconic serpent, thickly scaled and possessed of an iridescent turquoise hue and tipped with horns sharp and keen enough to rend any armour. This was attached to the strong, lithe body and legs of a mighty leopard, golden and spotted, but those same legs tapered and concluded in powerful hooves, like the cloven feet of a goat, the fur changing from thigh to hoof in a fine gradient from elegant gold to a tarry-pitched black. On its rear was a powerful and coiled tail, furred still like that of a lion, yet tipped in a catastrophic stinger that twitched and spat. Thus it resembled several animals, yet none, each recognizable segment making the full beast all the more alien when regarded in the whole sum of its parts. It advanced toward me, redoubtable and ferocious, and I retreated back into my apartment, my hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of the sword on my hip; and I swore, upon noticing this motion, the creature smiled.

"Come now, sirrah, what could you hope to accomplish with that twig?" It said, its tongue flicking and twisting around its words, its voice like the sound of a pack of a dogs snarling and barking. It was right; I didn't know how to even hold the sword, let alone swing it, but all the same I pulled it free from the scabbard and grasped it in both hands out in front of me, hovering the blade pointing at the beast. Still it advanced, unperturbed by my meagre threat.
"You'll hurt yourself before you land a blow upon my back; put that away."
"Hold your guard, Dane. It seeks to test you, and it will find any method."

The creature hissed and snapped at me, nimble and quick in its movements and darting past my slow, clumsy attempts to parry with nary a hint of effort. It chortled, a throaty, repugnant sound, and then taunted me once more.
"Of all the Knights I have vexed, you are surely the most pathetic specimen; look at your ungainly flailing, how the weight of the blade sags your arms! You can barely hold the thing. Is this what has become of your mighty line? Are you truly the heir of the Pendragons?"
"Pay it no mind, lad; we have all bested this beast before, and your trial will be no different. Hold firm."

It snapped again but this time I'd anticipated it, watched the pattern in how it snaked its writhing neck; the sword moved with a strength and quickness I didn't know I possessed, and found itself clanging loudly in the mouth of the beast, the black steel ringing against its yellow-white fangs. It reared back, shaking off the impact, and a guffaw escaped its maw.
"Oh-ho, perhaps there is hope for you yet, squire! Very well - 'tis not sporting to dispatch of you here, not when we can make a spectacle of it."
It circled around me, nudging its way over to the window I'd left open last night, twisting its body to slink out the small gap - smaller than it had any right fitting itself through - and clambering deftly onto the gantry beyond.
"You shall meet me in the Square, young Knight, and there we shall clash proper - you shall be tested, as were your forefathers before you, as is the way of the Ebony Blade."
"What if I decide I'm sick of this blade and my 'forefathers' and dealing with this shit, and I don't, and you fuck off?" I challenge, hiding my terror with angry bluster. The creature falls silent, all hint of amusement dropping away from its movements and tone. In an angry, malevolent voice, it answers:

"Then I shall be cruel. I shall be violent. I shall ravage the region, destroy the wheat. I shall kill men and their horses. I shall tear down houses, and devour children from their cradle. I shall crush good women when I find them alone, and no man, no matter how well they strike, how keen their armour, will resist my destruction. I shall be an abomination upon your land, see your people torn apart by dogs. I'll howl, and roar, and whip animals into savage frenzy, and when I grow hungry, and tired, and bored with havoc, I shall feast on what remains, until all that is left of this kingdom is you and I, and you will be alone with your fright and your failure."

It fell silent again, and I shook with fear.

"Find me hence, at the noon sun. We shall challenge each other, and you will wield the blade, or perish. Such is the way of Knights and Blades and Beasts."

And then it disappeared, slinking away down the side of my building and off into the city. The sword hung at my side, my arm slack and grip loose.
"All bluster and boast, lad." Said Garrett, trying to reassure me. "We've all faced the Questing Beast, every one of us. You're in good hands."
"Uh-huh." Was all I managed, watching myself move back toward my front door and leave my apartment, seeking out this terrible creature, all the while feeling like a passenger in my own body.

Roman's Scrapbin

Flash & Green Arrow team up concept?

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.