IC [Chuubo/Horizon] The Unbearable Legacies of Forsyth


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A Prologue
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.~

Chapter 1
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.~


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Helena Williams, the Lost Ward
Impressed Whistle XP; wp 8/8; mp 5/5; basic 0/9xp; otherworldly 1 0/21;

The great mahogany doors of Forsyth Manor swing open with a loud groan revealing two figures.

The shorter of the two is a young woman with blue-white hair and enormous, luminous eyes. She looks over at her companion, reaching out to touch the other girl's shoulder comfortingly. She seems uncomfortable and nervous; she is not of this place.

That is not the case with the other girl.

It has been three years since Helena Williams stepped foot in Forsyth House and, in the moment she walks through those doors, it is like no time at all has passed. The oppressive weight of this place settles upon her, a familiar dread which she had thought long forgotten and cast away. She reaches out run a finger across the door frame, feeling the touch of it, the bones of this place. Her chin drops as visions of the past

"You okay, Len?" Edony Margueritte asks quietly, holding her friend's hand for support.

"Fine, E," she mutters, squaring her shoulders and lifting her head, "Totally under control."

Her golden eyes scan the crowd, passing over Prom and his strange little attendants without even a glimmer of recognition.

OOC: Showing my Totally Under Control card! (What's that on the back? Oh yeah, it's whyyyyyyyyy?


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Fingal Forsyth, the Admiral
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8/8 Will, 5/5 MP

Admiral Fingal Forsyth marches into the middle of the foyer, boots clacking with every step. Tall, straight-backed, and robust despite his age, he carries himself with ironclad confidence. Even in mourning clothes, there’s a touch of nautical style to the man: the buttons of his suit jacket have anchors on them, and the clip on his navy blue tie is carved with stylized waves.

RIGHT!” He barks, white mustache bristling. ”That’s quite enough gloom for the time being, I say!”

He sweeps an arm out for emphasis, a motion that loosens the albatross-patterned handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. He tucks it back in with such a quick jab that observers are likely to miss the tear stains on the fabric.

Glancing over everyone present, Fingal catches plenty of familiar faces: his sister Blair, some other relatives, Dougal’s less objectionable friends, and... Dougal's ward? She's still here?

“Ah, Helena!" He approaches her. "It’s been too long, my girl. I’m sorry that when we met again it had to be in such grave circumstances.” He pats her on the shoulder and offers her friend a welcoming nod. “But ain’t this a fine crowd?" He gestures at the assembled group. "Who could we possibly be missing here? The butler? The bat?


Yeti On The Lam!
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Samuel Titov, the Butler
Shiver of Terror XP | 8/8 Will, 5/5 MP, 3/3 Miraculous Will

"I assure you, sir, that I am present and accounted for."

Samuel speaks from roughly one foot behind Fingal's ear - just far enough back to avoid any instinctive punches that might be thrown. The butler is wearing his formal best for this occasion, but as his formal best is, in fact, distinguishable from his other clothes only by lack of wear, this might pass unnoticed to some. He is looking as proper as ever, and his eyes flicker over the Admiral and Helena.

"Welcome back to Forsyth Manor, Admiral Forsyth. Mistress Helena." There is an almost imperceptible pause as he looks over Edony. "And guest. The staff has prepared light refreshments while we we await the formal beginning of this event. Would you care for any?"

He gestures to one wall, where tea, coffee, and biscuits have been laid out. In honour of the occasion, the tablecloth, napkins, and cups are all black.
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My dearest Emily,--

This may be brief, as I know not how much time I have--

But let me start at the beginning, or as near as it may be perceived. You may recollect that long-standing order -- a large black coffee, with espresso in, and as insufferably-hot as humanly-possible -- which I had delivered, lo these many years, to that queer old Forsyth place. Or perhaps it is more likely that you do not recollect at all; there was really nothing much to commend it to memory, no slight fingerhold to keep it from slipping away into forgetfulness.

Yet now as I look back upon those preparations I recall quite clearly, but clear only in retrospect, that there was, on occasion, not only a hot beverage to be delivered on a cold morning. I once included that infamous pamphlet of Duchamp's; once a rare non-expurgiated third volume of the Reticiniad; I even hazarded to pack in a notebook forgotten or abandoned here by some student-customer, which made my eyes burn and fingers itch just to handle. Why I should have thought it advisable to do so unbidden I cannot say; I can say even less why it never seemed worthy of a moment of reflection until this very morning.

In any case, such was my introduction to the House of Forsyth -- an unremarkable destination for unremarkable goods; a place best hurried-past while on the way somewhere sunnier. I would have been hard-pressed to describe the place in any detail, save a vague sense of rigid gloom and blunted dread.

My surprise, then, to receive correspondence sent on behalf of Dougal Forsyth was quite palpable. It seemed at once to be too ornate for some petty complaint, but too formal for even a perfunctory compliment.

I should say that upon reading the contents of that letter that my jaw dropped wide, my heart near-burst from the shock of it all, the sheer outrageous novelty of something so unexpected nearly-unhinging me -- these things I should say, but I cannot in good conscience do so. For as unlikely as it is, the truth of the matter is that, as I read that letter, I felt nothing so strongly but an oppressive sense of deja vu -- that this twist of fate was not only not-unexpected, but was in fact entirely inevitable.

For reasons I cannot even guess at, but which may perhaps become clear in the fullness of time, that man Dougal Forsyth, by the instrument of his last testament, bequeathed to me certain accoutrements, objets, and encumbrances, &c &c, to be numerated at a later date -- today, as it has turned out.

I've always considered myself rather fortunate, even unfairly-so, and thus you might be forgiven for assuming I would have swept up this unexpected windfall with immodest glee. Yet even now I cannot shake the shadow of forboding which has fallen across my hours; that sense that some great reckoning has befallen me, that Jordan Kanda will at last get his due, and I feel a nameless apprehension.

Yet, for all that fear lying cold and still within my heart, I could not delay nor avoid the singular gathering at the House of Forsyth, by which those worldly possessions would be redistributed in accordance with his final wishes.

The road seemed to have grown longer and more-twisted since the last time I'd ridden here, with potholes more treacherous and deep, and an ill wind in my face from every direction. And the house itself -- Emily, I can scarce begin. How had I not before noticed its cancerous and corpulent bulk, the sheer mass scale of it, its tumorous exuberance of balconies, balustrades, parapets and cornices? It loomed now, hunched, tense, like a mad horse that had thrown off its rider to his death. Yet my path led inexorably into its maw, and I could do nothing but pedal on.

Thus have been the events that have led me, torturously and inevitably, to be sitting here now, in the angle of a window in the foyer of the House of Forsyth, awaiting -- interminably -- the beginning of the final piece of a life's end. There are others, milling about -- others to whom something is owed, I should imagine. Despite their bewildering range of appearances, they somehow all look exactly the same. Some trick of the light, or the air, or the house itself.

There is a stirring, now -- the proceedings seem on the verge of, well, proceeding. I shall write more when I find the time--

Jive Professor

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Taldin, the Familiar.

"...and ~I~ as well."

Taldin did not enter so much as slink slank slunk into an empty space near the others. His features were bat-like as you'd expect but not dialed up to 11 - his ears were pointed just so and his nose was slightly smushed and so forth. But he was a young man, dark hair poorly tended in a messy bowl about his head, clothes finely trimmed but a half size too small in some places and too large in others. Whether he was out of sorts of never in sorts was hard to say.

"Here we are again." There was a finality to the way he said it. But it was quiet, a soft breeze over a lonely grave.


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Grendel Forsyth, the Creature
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There is no groan of the grand mahogany doors, no click clack of boots on the hallway floor, no clearing of throats to announce the final figure to join the funeral party. Instead the strange man, dressed for the rain in a leather cloak and hood that hide most of his appearance, the rest concealed by tightly wrapped bandages and a surgical mask, simply stands in silence and shadow, unobtrusively lurking near the serving table. He takes a biscuit with some care, examines it curiously, and then slowly and with great difficulty takes a bite behind the mask. An expression of pleasure flits across his face before he can hide it, and thus begins the complicated dance in which he endeavors to discreetly help himself to great number of biscuits, while simultaneously avoiding drawing attention to himself, avoiding giving sign of how much he enjoys the biscuits, and avoiding removing the mask, despite how difficult it makes eating quickly.

He then eyes the coffee with the expression of one who wishes desperately that he'd taken a beverage before swallowing several biscuits dry and nearly whole, yet who is not certain of the protocol for pouring coffee at such an event.

OOC: While he's enjoying the biscuits, Grendel is not comfortable with the large crowd and even less comfortable with how many are Forsyths or Forsyth adjacents, and thus he Rejects this World at the moment.


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Fingal Forsyth, the Admiral
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8/8 Will, 3/3 Miraculous Will, 5/5 MP

"I assure you, sir, that I am present and accounted for."

Samuel speaks from roughly one foot behind Fingal's ear - just far enough back to avoid any instinctive punches that might be thrown.

"Welcome back to Forsyth Manor, Admiral Forsyth. Mistress Helena." There is an almost imperceptible pause as he looks over Edony. "And guest. The staff has prepared light refreshments while we we await the formal beginning of this event. Would you care for any?"
Fingal, halfway through a reflexive punch, pulls his arm back to his side. “Ah! Samuel! Stealthy as ever, I see.” He says, with just a hint of sheepishness on his face—this always happens the first time. "Thank you. I might grab some coffee in a bit."

"...and ~I~ as well."

"Here we are again." There was a finality to the way he said it. But it was quiet, a soft breeze over a lonely grave.
“And, here’s, er…” The Admiral pauses and looks Taldin over. A few seconds pass, but he can’t for the life of him remember if he’s ever seen this kid. “It seems I’ve been gone for far too long! Someone remind me: who’s the sad boy?”

OOC: I’m operating under the assumption that the Admiral doesn’t know Taldin can talk or turn human.


Bleak Academic
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Helena squints in surprise and leans over, staring at the strange little fellow from behind intense golden eyes. She sniffs the air, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, she leans back, seemingly satisfied.

"Well," she says, looking Taldin up and down, "Huh."

She blinks and looks around at the crowd. "Samuel, Admiral..., er... Taldin. It's been a long time."

At her side, her friend coughs and nudges her. "Oh," Helena says, "This is... my friend Edony."

"Edony Margueritte," the pointy-eared young woman says, smiling a somewhat crooked and many-toothed smile, extending her hand to each nearby, "Helena has told me so much about...," she glances at Taldin, "... each of you. I'm so sorry for your loss."
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