From the Desk of John Simony~I am afraid.
All we had were rumors and incidents: The removal of bodies, the breaking of decorum, the association with the X Street Unfriendlies, the servitude of Anfisa Maksimova, the disastrous duel with the Angel Carmichael. All unfortunate, none illegal, and yet my employers feared that they did not even begin to scratch the surface of all that he had done and all that lurked on his property.
The incidents were enough, however, that when Dougal Forsyth met his end, the councilors sent me down from the Offices of Simony. Enough to review, oversee, and sometimes control the dispensation of his estate. Enough to assess the full extent of his crimes, and the fallout that is to come.
And still the dead bastard was ready for me, for when I first entered his estate I found a listing of six assets meant for six heirs in particular. Old Laws of Horizon put them beyond my reach and tied many other parts of the Forsyth estate into them.
These are not laws to invoke lightly. These were not mere inheritances, for to take them up was to entangle themselves in all that Forsyth had done.
I cannot stop them from taking them up. I cannot walk away from what they might do under the influence of Forsyth's unbearable legacy.
I am afraid.
Yet, I Will Make an Accounting of Our Sins.~
Gathering of the Heirs
Gathering of the Heirs
From the Desk of John Simony
~It is a dismal hour on a dismal day, but the worst of it has passed. I sit now in the foyer alongside a few remaining relatives, former partners, jilted lovers, and colleagues of the Stone and Imp. No real surprises among the crowd, Prom is here to find out if he inherits anything at all. He's attended by his nightmares, dressed in suits and crudely in the shape of people. Balthazar from the Stone and Imp didn't like the man, but he's always been courteous on his good days. The support staff flit in and out of the shadows. The only real shocker is the sobriety of Benita Stain and Walsh Porter. Even they have their propriety I suppose.
Ever the dramatic, Forsyth's foyer is lit by strange witchlights. A blue glow covers everything and yet the light is insufficient to banish the gloom and dust and the rain outside.
The funeral is over, and in moments I will begin the reading of the will and the handing out of the estate, or at least the pieces I know I can give away. It will take some time to discern what is part of the special inheritances and what is not.
But first, the special guests must arrive.~