What will follow in these pages, prefixed as MFX, is fan-fiction I am writing which takes place in the Malifaux setting.
Also. Portions of the materials used are copyrighted works of Wyrd Miniatures, LLC, in the United States of America and elsewhere. All rights reserved, Wyrd Miniatures, LLC. This material is not official and is not endorsed by Wyrd Miniatures, LLC.October the 8th, 1900
I had just finished sorting and preparing the Gere paperwork for Mister Carter’s appointment that afternoon when the messenger came. We were used to such things at the office, it being a common occurrence in a law practice, men coming and going, each bearing an urgent package that would doubtless go untouched for a day or two by either Mister Carter or Mister Thomas once it reached their desks. It wasn’t until I was about to call for the boy, Elijah, to bring it to the back that I noticed the wax-sealed letter was not intended for either of my employers, but myself, and even more curious that the return address was an attorney’s office in Malifaux.
It was no small surprise, after
reading the first few lines of this missive, to learn my father had passed and
left me a sizeable estate in the famed city beyond the Breach. Considering he
and I had been largely estranged since my eighteenth birthday, I never knew he
had even left London .
Upon further reading, I was informed I had until the end of the calendar year,
nearly three months, to present myself and the letter to the estate
representative, J. M. H. Bixley, Esq. in Malifaux to discuss the details of my
inheritance which knowing my father would be of no small means.
I decided to finish the few small
tasks that remained to me and, before any of the other clerks could find work
to pass off to my desk, approached Mister Carter before his appointment had
arrived. Showing him the letter, I requested a leave of absence to prepare my
travels and see to my father’s estate, to which I witnessed the first hint of
any emotion on that dour man’s face. To describe it now would be a mixture of
interest, excitement, and jealousy, all three of which I would attribute to my
need to travel to Malifaux. The climate in his office shifted considerably, I
could tell, and his normally unaccommodating demeanor slipped away in an
instant. It was as if Mister Carter were a new model of himself, treating me as
a client rather than his senior clerk, raising his portly self from his chair
and crossing the desk to return my letter.
“Of course, my lad, you may take what
time you need to settle such things.” He adopted the same light and unctuous
tone reserved for wealthy clients, sounding as if he couldn’t do enough for me.
Had I not heard it over one hundred times before, I may have believed he truly
cared, but knowing better I figured the man likely caught the scent of
potential income for the firm. My suspicion was proved correct with the last
thing the man ever said to me, as he opened his own office door to show me out.
“We shall keep your desk clean for
when you return, and, though it is only a fledgling idea, Mister Thomas and I
may need a junior partner in future.”
Of course, should I return with
less money in my accounts than my employers hoped for, that junior partner idea
Mister Carter spoke of would naturally remain just that.
