The letter came in the mail just two days ago, requesting your reply 'at your earliest...
??? Quest (Cancelled as I Found a Similar Quest, oopsie)
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Character Info
001
- Location
- .
The letter came in the mail just two days ago, requesting your reply 'at your earliest convenience'. Considering you'd just graduated
[ ] high school
[ ] college
with absolutely no job secured, and no cash to your name... well, you had plenty of time to spare. The lady on the phone may have been cagey about exactly what the deal was, but checking the letter heading online told you that Barnabas & Chadwick was a real firm of lawyers (and classy, reputable ones at that), which is why, with nothing better to do, you're stood outside their offices in New York.
Kind of weird how they immediately funded your journey out from
[ ] a small town in the middle of nowhere, Ohio
[ ] Los Angeles, California
[ ] Anchorage, Alaska
[ ] Honolulu, Hawaii
[ ] Hollywood, Florida
[ ] Write in
but you're not complaining. An all-expenses paid two weeks in New York (well, meals and room, but good enough), and transport back? Hell yeah!
[ ] Walk into the main lobby of their office building.
[ ] Walk away for now. You only said you'd come 'sometime today', and it's only morning.
-[ ] Go where?
Cash: $32
[ ] high school
[ ] college
with absolutely no job secured, and no cash to your name... well, you had plenty of time to spare. The lady on the phone may have been cagey about exactly what the deal was, but checking the letter heading online told you that Barnabas & Chadwick was a real firm of lawyers (and classy, reputable ones at that), which is why, with nothing better to do, you're stood outside their offices in New York.
Kind of weird how they immediately funded your journey out from
[ ] a small town in the middle of nowhere, Ohio
[ ] Los Angeles, California
[ ] Anchorage, Alaska
[ ] Honolulu, Hawaii
[ ] Hollywood, Florida
[ ] Write in
but you're not complaining. An all-expenses paid two weeks in New York (well, meals and room, but good enough), and transport back? Hell yeah!
[ ] Walk into the main lobby of their office building.
[ ] Walk away for now. You only said you'd come 'sometime today', and it's only morning.
-[ ] Go where?
Cash: $32
Last edited:
002
- Location
- .
[ ] college
[ ] NOT YET CHOSEN, secondary vote later
[ ] Walk in
______________________
You walk into the lobby - holy crap, is that real marble everywhere? And how much do all those flower arrangements cost? - and make your way over to the reception desk, under the watchful eye of a pair of black-suited security guards who look like they could break your neck with a pinky finger.
The receptionists, male and female, are all model-attractive, dressed in tailored pant-suits and busy speed-typing away or chattering on their headset. One finishes her call as you approach, looking up to fix you with a perky, well-trained smile. "Welcome to Barnabas and Chadwick," she trills, manicured nails already forming rapid, precision strikes on her keyboard. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Yeah, for Mr Scagletti," you answer awkwardly, feeling all the more out of place. Your jeans are specially washed, and you threw on your nicest top - no holes, no stains, no funny writing on the front - but this isn't a place you ever imagined stepping into.
"Your name?"
[ ] Write in name
-[ ] Pick male / female / it's not important
[At college, you majored in
[ ] Major - Write in
And minored in
[ ] Minor - Write in
These may have a small or extremely large game-effect, depending how you play.]
[ ] NOT YET CHOSEN, secondary vote later
[ ] Walk in
______________________
You walk into the lobby - holy crap, is that real marble everywhere? And how much do all those flower arrangements cost? - and make your way over to the reception desk, under the watchful eye of a pair of black-suited security guards who look like they could break your neck with a pinky finger.
The receptionists, male and female, are all model-attractive, dressed in tailored pant-suits and busy speed-typing away or chattering on their headset. One finishes her call as you approach, looking up to fix you with a perky, well-trained smile. "Welcome to Barnabas and Chadwick," she trills, manicured nails already forming rapid, precision strikes on her keyboard. "Do you have an appointment?"
"Yeah, for Mr Scagletti," you answer awkwardly, feeling all the more out of place. Your jeans are specially washed, and you threw on your nicest top - no holes, no stains, no funny writing on the front - but this isn't a place you ever imagined stepping into.
"Your name?"
[ ] Write in name
-[ ] Pick male / female / it's not important
[At college, you majored in
[ ] Major - Write in
And minored in
[ ] Minor - Write in
These may have a small or extremely large game-effect, depending how you play.]
003
- Location
- .
[ ] Rowan Harper
[ ] Fuck your gender options, I'm a tree
______________________________________
"Rowan Harper," you tell the receptionist, trying not to sound like you're terrified of touching anything in case you leave fingerprints and get thrown out. You are terrified of that, though.
Five seconds of rapid tapping later, the woman glances at her screen, looks back at you - chipper smile still on display - and chirps, "You're expected! Please take the elevator to floor B2, straight down the corridor, right hand side. His office will be labelled as such. Have a nice day!"
That's an obvious dismissal, if ever you've heard one. You edge back before turning and heading for - yeah, there's the elevators - isn't B2 a basement, though? Whatever the case, you step into the (shiny-walled, plush-carpeted) elevator with only a reasonable level of confusion, and jab the button for B2 - and yeah, that's below the ground level. At least there's no staff member assigned to the elevators to ask you why the hell you want to go down there.
There's barely any noise on the ride down, smooth as it is - a gentle ting announces your arrival over the classical music (classy or pretentious? YOU decide!), and you step out to... well, a basement level corridor. It's not exactly dirty, but it's obviously an area for the behind-the-scenes cleaning staff, not the lawyers and office-bees.
Still, this was the right floor. You move on, doors easing shut behind you, and eyeing the plaques on the doors you pass. Cleaning supplies. File room B2-A. File room B2-B. Single-stalled, unisex toilet. Paper supplies. Scag- ah. There it is - same door as the ones for the store cupboards and file rooms, too. Great.
You knock politely, and are immediately answered by the voice of an elderly man. "Come in, come in!" The door opens before you can even touch it, revealing - surprise, surprise - the face of an elderly man to go with the voice. Stooped over, dressed in a somber suit, and squinting through bottle-cap lenses, he beams at you with obvious delight. "Rowan Harper, yes? Come in!"
You'd like to, if he'd just - and now he steps out of the way, letting you enter, and jogs spryly around the massive desk inside, nearly knocking off some of the dangerously-leaning stacks of paper coating them. It kind of reminds you of Mulder's basement office, except with even fewer fucks given.
In any case, you sit yourself down opposite him, praying the over-stuffed chair doesn't break (it creaks ominously), and stare at him.
He beams back.
You keep staring.
"Now!" He snags a thick file off... well, a file of identical thick files, and opens it, peering up at you over the top. "You are Miss...ter... well, never mind that. Young Harper, I'm delighted to inform you of the tragic death of your great-uncle."
He beams more.
You keep staring. "Uh."
"Oh! Oh, not that it's a good thing, of course - terrible, absolutely terrible! Tragic! I'm sure this is an awful shock. Were you close?"
... Did you even have a great-uncle? You think you might recall someone mentioning one once. Tentatively, you ask, "Wasn't he somewhere in Europe?"
"Yes! Well, no. He travelled a great deal." Fiddling with his glasses, Scagletti clears his throat. "Anyway, he passed away recently, and - well, I understand there was some difficulties with most of your family, some disagreements here and there - in any case, your family are the only ones yet living, and his will was most insistent it not go to your parents. I'm not certain why..." He trails off, but you don't provide him with an explanation, not that you have one anyway. This is just... weird.
"And so," the lawyer continues, "due to his lack of marriage or children, your parents' removal, and your being an only child, and not being, ah, explicitly removed as such from the will - well, it seems you've inherited his entire estate. Taxes and such have already been collected, but you have the grand total of what's left - all you have to do is sign some papers, and if you'd like the moneys transferred to other accounts, please inform me - but, ah. Any questions?" He... just keeps beaming.
Is this really how people are meant to learn a family member they'd never heard of is dead? And that they've inherited some kind of estate? On the bright side, that probably means a house and some cash - maybe enough to tide you over until you find a job, or - if you're really lucky - cover some of your college debt.
[ ] "What did he leave me?"
[ ] "Why is your office in the basement?"
[ ] "Your office is a fire-hazard."
[ ] Write in
{I will now be going to bed. NIGHT, Y'ALL.}
[ ] Fuck your gender options, I'm a tree
______________________________________
"Rowan Harper," you tell the receptionist, trying not to sound like you're terrified of touching anything in case you leave fingerprints and get thrown out. You are terrified of that, though.
Five seconds of rapid tapping later, the woman glances at her screen, looks back at you - chipper smile still on display - and chirps, "You're expected! Please take the elevator to floor B2, straight down the corridor, right hand side. His office will be labelled as such. Have a nice day!"
That's an obvious dismissal, if ever you've heard one. You edge back before turning and heading for - yeah, there's the elevators - isn't B2 a basement, though? Whatever the case, you step into the (shiny-walled, plush-carpeted) elevator with only a reasonable level of confusion, and jab the button for B2 - and yeah, that's below the ground level. At least there's no staff member assigned to the elevators to ask you why the hell you want to go down there.
There's barely any noise on the ride down, smooth as it is - a gentle ting announces your arrival over the classical music (classy or pretentious? YOU decide!), and you step out to... well, a basement level corridor. It's not exactly dirty, but it's obviously an area for the behind-the-scenes cleaning staff, not the lawyers and office-bees.
Still, this was the right floor. You move on, doors easing shut behind you, and eyeing the plaques on the doors you pass. Cleaning supplies. File room B2-A. File room B2-B. Single-stalled, unisex toilet. Paper supplies. Scag- ah. There it is - same door as the ones for the store cupboards and file rooms, too. Great.
You knock politely, and are immediately answered by the voice of an elderly man. "Come in, come in!" The door opens before you can even touch it, revealing - surprise, surprise - the face of an elderly man to go with the voice. Stooped over, dressed in a somber suit, and squinting through bottle-cap lenses, he beams at you with obvious delight. "Rowan Harper, yes? Come in!"
You'd like to, if he'd just - and now he steps out of the way, letting you enter, and jogs spryly around the massive desk inside, nearly knocking off some of the dangerously-leaning stacks of paper coating them. It kind of reminds you of Mulder's basement office, except with even fewer fucks given.
In any case, you sit yourself down opposite him, praying the over-stuffed chair doesn't break (it creaks ominously), and stare at him.
He beams back.
You keep staring.
"Now!" He snags a thick file off... well, a file of identical thick files, and opens it, peering up at you over the top. "You are Miss...ter... well, never mind that. Young Harper, I'm delighted to inform you of the tragic death of your great-uncle."
He beams more.
You keep staring. "Uh."
"Oh! Oh, not that it's a good thing, of course - terrible, absolutely terrible! Tragic! I'm sure this is an awful shock. Were you close?"
... Did you even have a great-uncle? You think you might recall someone mentioning one once. Tentatively, you ask, "Wasn't he somewhere in Europe?"
"Yes! Well, no. He travelled a great deal." Fiddling with his glasses, Scagletti clears his throat. "Anyway, he passed away recently, and - well, I understand there was some difficulties with most of your family, some disagreements here and there - in any case, your family are the only ones yet living, and his will was most insistent it not go to your parents. I'm not certain why..." He trails off, but you don't provide him with an explanation, not that you have one anyway. This is just... weird.
"And so," the lawyer continues, "due to his lack of marriage or children, your parents' removal, and your being an only child, and not being, ah, explicitly removed as such from the will - well, it seems you've inherited his entire estate. Taxes and such have already been collected, but you have the grand total of what's left - all you have to do is sign some papers, and if you'd like the moneys transferred to other accounts, please inform me - but, ah. Any questions?" He... just keeps beaming.
Is this really how people are meant to learn a family member they'd never heard of is dead? And that they've inherited some kind of estate? On the bright side, that probably means a house and some cash - maybe enough to tide you over until you find a job, or - if you're really lucky - cover some of your college debt.
[ ] "What did he leave me?"
[ ] "Why is your office in the basement?"
[ ] "Your office is a fire-hazard."
[ ] Write in
{I will now be going to bed. NIGHT, Y'ALL.}
004
- Location
- .
[ ] How did he die?
[ ] What percentage of funds remain and what is the total liquid value of all assets at current market prices?
REACTION INTERRUPT!
-[ ] Also, are you aware that your office violates Sections 2301.3, 2305.4, and 2306.1 of the New York Fire Code?
______________________________________
Your first question is, perhaps, an obvious one to anyone curious about the sudden existence of an unremembered family member reported to have popped his clogs. Presuming he wore clogs.
He probably didn't.
"How did he die?"
Scagletti shrugs helplessly. "The certificate lists cause of death as 'Misadventure'," he confesses, "but I have no idea precisely what counts, in this case. To be perfectly frank, I've rarely dealt with the man, and never in person - but he seemed in well-enough health, good even, for his age. I must admit, I was rather more busy dealing with all the paperwork for his estate."
You frown. That... was not the sort of answer you were expecting. Misadventure? He got lost in the woods and starved to death? Slipped in the shower and cracked his skull? Got high with a prostitute and overdosed? Got lost in the woods with a prostitute, while high, and slipped and cracked his skull? ... Actually, that would be pretty cool.
Well, time to move on, and sound smart about it. You dredge up vocabulary as best you can, drawing yourself up straight. "What percentage of funds remain and what is the total liquid value of all assets at current market prices?"
The lawyer stares. "Ah... according to the final amount, after estate tax, some charitable bequests and the like..." He trails off, before selecting a thick folder from the side of his desk, and leaning across the table to hand it over to you. "The first page is a brief summary," he explains. "The rest is details, legal technicalities, and the like."
Settling the hefty folder on the edge of the desk, curiosity growing (how the hell many pages is this?) you open the cover and skim the first page.
You stop.
You stare.
You go back up and start from the beginning.
$261,411,738.19. Post-taxes. What. What the absolute crap. Your parents just never happened to mention this guy?! Seriously? How are you even meant to believe this?!
[ ] "Is this a joke?"
[ ] "... What's the catch?"
[ ] "Where did all this money come from?!"
[ ] Just flip out in
-[ ] utter shock
-[ ] sheer joy
[ ] "Okay, but your office violates New York Fire Codes, just so you know."
[ ] Write in
[ ] What percentage of funds remain and what is the total liquid value of all assets at current market prices?
REACTION INTERRUPT!
______________________________________
Your first question is, perhaps, an obvious one to anyone curious about the sudden existence of an unremembered family member reported to have popped his clogs. Presuming he wore clogs.
He probably didn't.
"How did he die?"
Scagletti shrugs helplessly. "The certificate lists cause of death as 'Misadventure'," he confesses, "but I have no idea precisely what counts, in this case. To be perfectly frank, I've rarely dealt with the man, and never in person - but he seemed in well-enough health, good even, for his age. I must admit, I was rather more busy dealing with all the paperwork for his estate."
You frown. That... was not the sort of answer you were expecting. Misadventure? He got lost in the woods and starved to death? Slipped in the shower and cracked his skull? Got high with a prostitute and overdosed? Got lost in the woods with a prostitute, while high, and slipped and cracked his skull? ... Actually, that would be pretty cool.
Well, time to move on, and sound smart about it. You dredge up vocabulary as best you can, drawing yourself up straight. "What percentage of funds remain and what is the total liquid value of all assets at current market prices?"
The lawyer stares. "Ah... according to the final amount, after estate tax, some charitable bequests and the like..." He trails off, before selecting a thick folder from the side of his desk, and leaning across the table to hand it over to you. "The first page is a brief summary," he explains. "The rest is details, legal technicalities, and the like."
Settling the hefty folder on the edge of the desk, curiosity growing (how the hell many pages is this?) you open the cover and skim the first page.
You stop.
You stare.
You go back up and start from the beginning.
On and on it goes, nearly the full length of the page. A list of 'minor estates' in nearly twenty major cities across Europe and America (none in New York, unfortunately, and where the hell is Vakrovia?), but it's more the number at the top of the page that gets you.
$261,411,738.19. Post-taxes. What. What the absolute crap. Your parents just never happened to mention this guy?! Seriously? How are you even meant to believe this?!
[ ] "Is this a joke?"
[ ] "... What's the catch?"
[ ] "Where did all this money come from?!"
[ ] Just flip out in
-[ ] utter shock
-[ ] sheer joy
[ ] "Okay, but your office violates New York Fire Codes, just so you know."
[ ] Write in
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005
- Location
- .
[ ] ... "How did I not know about this guy?"
-[ ] "Is this a joke?"
--[ ] Look around for a hidden camera or something.
---[ ] If you're satisfied that it is not in fact a joke, sit down (maybe commenting on the fire code as you move a pile of papers to do so) and start reading in depth. Where on earth is Vakrovia for starters.
[ ] But where's Vakrovia?
-[ ] And does your office violate Fire Codes there, too?
______________________________________
"... How did I not know about this guy?" you ask, confusion half-overwhelming you. "Is this a joke?"
As you glance around the room - no TV crew in sight, and no cameras visible from where you sit - Scagletti answers. "As I said, he and your parents had... something of a falling out, before you were even born. He's never spoken of them since - you were just named in his will as his 'first-born nephew or niece', so i doubt he'd had much contact with them. And no, it's not a joke."
"This is insane," you mutter, flicking through the pages. Vakrovia, according to the file, is a small, landlocked European country, mostly made up of farmlands. It sounds like the kind of place where the locals regard vampires as real, the internet a ridiculous myth, and probably spend every night getting drunk on turnip moonshine as a better alternative than killing themselves. Lovely. No doubt an internet search will tell you more. "Vakrovia? Does your office violate fire codes there, too?"
"Pardon?"
"Nothing." This is just... crazy. And suspicious.
Scagletti coughs, obviously putting your comment out of mind for now. "Aside from that, Mr Harper, there's one more item - at the back of the folder, if you'll turn it over..."
Flipping to the back, you find it; taped to the inside of the back cover, a thin envelope, 'To my heir' written on it in beautiful, calligraphic handwriting. Curiosity rising, you pull it off and after a moment's fumbling with both that and the heavy folder, open it and pull out a sheet of - well, not even paper. Thick parchment, like top-class wedding stationery or something. The kind no-one ever sees in real life, unless they're raking in top dollar and driving a Ferrari.
Jeeesus. Even the guy's paper is posh.
To my brother's grand-kid, whoever you are, it begins. Okay, at least his style of writing is more grouchy old asshole than stuck-up toff. If you're reading this, there's one of two options; either I'm dead, or I've gone somewhere you can't reach. Either way, I have a great deal of things I don't need to take with me, and it's too much damn hassle to deal with, so you get to have it all. Congratulations.
I would just let it all go to whoever's first in line, but to be blunt, your parents are idiots. It's entirely possible you're an idiot as well, but I'm taking the chance you aren't, and it might as well stay in the family rather than go to a stranger, funny as it would be to pick someone random from a phone book and drop a fortune on them. No doubt your dipshit parents could tell you a lot about me, all of it bullcrap - maybe they already have. Whatever the case, know this: what I'm leaving you, you can do with as you will. Have fun, blow it all, use it responsibly, I don't care.
There's only one - ONE - thing you absolutely MUST be responsible with, and that's my old home in Vakrovia. I lived there the past thirty years, despite having the money to go anywhere, and there's a damn good reason I did. You don't have to live there, you don't even have to visit, but you absolutely MUST NOT sell it off or let anyone else get hold of it, nor let nosy assholes wander around it. That's all I ask.
If you want to know where the money came from, that's where you'll have to go, but it's not like you need to, and you may find it more trouble than it's worth. Spend my fortune on hookers and blow, if you want, kid. It's all yours now.
Good luck,
Lynden Harper
... Well, that raises more questions than it answers.
[ ] So the first thing you've got to do is book a flight to Vakrovia. If they even have an airport.
[ ] Time to call the 'rents...
-[ ] Say what?
[ ] Screw mysteries. It's time. TO GO SHOPPING.
[ ] Excuse me, I have to go bathe in a tub of money, now.
[ ] Write in
-[ ] "Is this a joke?"
--[ ] Look around for a hidden camera or something.
---[ ] If you're satisfied that it is not in fact a joke, sit down (maybe commenting on the fire code as you move a pile of papers to do so) and start reading in depth. Where on earth is Vakrovia for starters.
[ ] But where's Vakrovia?
-[ ] And does your office violate Fire Codes there, too?
______________________________________
"... How did I not know about this guy?" you ask, confusion half-overwhelming you. "Is this a joke?"
As you glance around the room - no TV crew in sight, and no cameras visible from where you sit - Scagletti answers. "As I said, he and your parents had... something of a falling out, before you were even born. He's never spoken of them since - you were just named in his will as his 'first-born nephew or niece', so i doubt he'd had much contact with them. And no, it's not a joke."
"This is insane," you mutter, flicking through the pages. Vakrovia, according to the file, is a small, landlocked European country, mostly made up of farmlands. It sounds like the kind of place where the locals regard vampires as real, the internet a ridiculous myth, and probably spend every night getting drunk on turnip moonshine as a better alternative than killing themselves. Lovely. No doubt an internet search will tell you more. "Vakrovia? Does your office violate fire codes there, too?"
"Pardon?"
"Nothing." This is just... crazy. And suspicious.
Scagletti coughs, obviously putting your comment out of mind for now. "Aside from that, Mr Harper, there's one more item - at the back of the folder, if you'll turn it over..."
Flipping to the back, you find it; taped to the inside of the back cover, a thin envelope, 'To my heir' written on it in beautiful, calligraphic handwriting. Curiosity rising, you pull it off and after a moment's fumbling with both that and the heavy folder, open it and pull out a sheet of - well, not even paper. Thick parchment, like top-class wedding stationery or something. The kind no-one ever sees in real life, unless they're raking in top dollar and driving a Ferrari.
Jeeesus. Even the guy's paper is posh.
To my brother's grand-kid, whoever you are, it begins. Okay, at least his style of writing is more grouchy old asshole than stuck-up toff. If you're reading this, there's one of two options; either I'm dead, or I've gone somewhere you can't reach. Either way, I have a great deal of things I don't need to take with me, and it's too much damn hassle to deal with, so you get to have it all. Congratulations.
I would just let it all go to whoever's first in line, but to be blunt, your parents are idiots. It's entirely possible you're an idiot as well, but I'm taking the chance you aren't, and it might as well stay in the family rather than go to a stranger, funny as it would be to pick someone random from a phone book and drop a fortune on them. No doubt your dipshit parents could tell you a lot about me, all of it bullcrap - maybe they already have. Whatever the case, know this: what I'm leaving you, you can do with as you will. Have fun, blow it all, use it responsibly, I don't care.
There's only one - ONE - thing you absolutely MUST be responsible with, and that's my old home in Vakrovia. I lived there the past thirty years, despite having the money to go anywhere, and there's a damn good reason I did. You don't have to live there, you don't even have to visit, but you absolutely MUST NOT sell it off or let anyone else get hold of it, nor let nosy assholes wander around it. That's all I ask.
If you want to know where the money came from, that's where you'll have to go, but it's not like you need to, and you may find it more trouble than it's worth. Spend my fortune on hookers and blow, if you want, kid. It's all yours now.
Good luck,
Lynden Harper
... Well, that raises more questions than it answers.
[ ] So the first thing you've got to do is book a flight to Vakrovia. If they even have an airport.
[ ] Time to call the 'rents...
-[ ] Say what?
[ ] Screw mysteries. It's time. TO GO SHOPPING.
[ ] Excuse me, I have to go bathe in a tub of money, now.
[ ] Write in
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