(In honor of me beating Bloodborne, here’s the Pistoleer that came out from my imagining with it!)

Name: Abigail/Teuthida

Appearance: As a human, Abigail was 5 foot 10 and wore the Hunter’s Coat, the Black Yahar’gul gauntlets, the Charred Hunter leggings, and Lady Maria’s hat. She wore her chestnut hair in a ponytail and had brown eyes. Her main weapons were the Reiterpallasch and the Evelyn, upgraded to the max and after her ordeal were granted special abilities on their own.

As a Great One, her size is similar to that of a Blue Whale, and is serpentine in appearance. She has 12 or so long and physically strong tentacles around her maw, which when open, reveals a horrifying secret of the Cosmos that can obliterate the minds of the ill prepared. A fifth of the way down her body, she has two fibrous arms that end in four razor sharp claws. She can also quickly create additional limbs all along her body for manipulation and attack. These are formed by countless tendrils sprouting and twining together. Her lack of visible eyes betrays the supreme senses she has.

Bio: Abigail started as a Hunter of Yharnam, and stumbled across a secret within the Nightmare Frontier. The wandering Cazpar had been making forays into those worlds surrounding the Waking World of Yharnam, and granted audience and an offer to Abigail. The Moon Presence’s machinations had started to concern Cazpar, but the Great One was well hidden within troublesome layer after layer of Dream and Nightmare. So, in exchange for Abigail hunting the eldritch horror, Cazpar would honor her with the title and powers of a Pistoleer, and grant peace and fulfillment to the weary Hunter. Abigail readily accepted.

The Hunt was long, but in the end, Abigail succeeded in slaying the Moon Presence. However, because she had to consume the Umbilical Cords to resist the Presence’s power, she was transformed into an infant Great One. Cazpar still kept her promise, and granted the title of Moonstruck Pistoleer to the inhuman creature, in honor of her Hunt’s final quarry. Together, they both crafted a new Dream world outside of reality, cannibalizing the unstable and crumbling Nightmares of Mergo and Kos to do so. This new Dream is a wide, peaceful field with a castle of onyx and jade. In the tallest tower resides Teuthida, the transformed Abigail, who creates from her memory clones of her former Hunter self to serve the missions and will of Cazpar.

Powers: As a Hunter, Abigail had access to several useful Hunter Tools and a fully upgraded Evelyn and Reiterpallasch, all of which are remade in memory for the Cloned Hunters. The Evelyn and Reiterpallasch have new properties as well. The bullets fired can pierce any armor and dissolve in an opponents blood, turning it to poison. The Cloned Hunters are adept in the art of Quickening and tactics, each one being given memory from previous Hunter’s attempts. Teuthida has immense power herself, and is perhaps the strongest living Pistoleer, of which she is one of a few dozen. She can create Cloned Hunters from her memory, crush foes with her tentacles, drive them mad, shred foes with her claws, and utilize a power that creates a sphere of swirling Arcane Bullets that fire and ricochet off one another, drowning an opponent under a hail of gunfire. She also has the Moon Presence’s “Gaze of the Moon”, although it is not quite as powerful. Teuthida can also “Dream Up” defenses within her realm, turning a peaceful Dream into a harrowing and ironclad Nightmare fortress.

Teuthida is the true Moonstruck Pistoleer, a secret guarded fervently along with other items and information Cazpar would see hidden. Pistoleer, jailer, guard, Hunter, Teuthida is all in one. She is indeed quite powerful, but does have a weakness. She is unable to leave her Dream, for once outside it, it shall crumble away to nothing, sending all held there into the unmerciful Void; and her along with them.

The Cloned Hunters are Teuthida’s vanguard, her arms and will within the Waking World and Reality, but they are imperfect. The Night and the Hunt were long, and often impurities and nightmares of blood and beasts seep into their makeup. When the Hunt gets to be too much for them, and the sickly sweet stench of Blood pervades their senses, they quickly turn into powerful Beasts, reminiscent of both Vicar Amelia and Darkbeast Paarl. When this occurs, Teuthida sends another Cloned Hunter out to slay the failed creation (for what use is a Beast to one who lived killing them?), knowing full well that the Hunter will fall to the same urges as their prey. And so, even in universes infinitely removed from the cursed streets of Yharnam, the Beast Blood is spilled. 

CHAPTER 2: THE HALL OF THE SI’CAVALK

           Cazpar knew it wasn’t going to be a good day when she barely missed grazing the Sirhan shaking her awake. On a good day she wouldn’t have missed. She got dressed in a grumbling daze and staggered out into the main tavern. True to her word, Ma Sarkis had swept up the mess and kindly placed a shiny apple on the center table for her daughter’s breakfast. Cazpar groaned as she scarfed it down. She hated apples. The skin always got stuck in her teeth.

She pitched the core into the empty fireplace and stepped outside with her Sirhan contingent. A gust of northern air swirled into town, sending fallen leaves dancing in the before dawn darkness.

“Ah…Forgot how cold it gets outside…” Cazpar hissed.

They set off, Cazpar bouncing and hugging herself. The leaves danced again. Cazpar ran back and got her scarf and coat.

“Please do hurry. Si’cavalk Muse, is like a cyclone. Hard to keep focused,” the lead Sirhan said. Despite their stockiness, Cazpar at a jog barely kept pace. Angelo had just sunk beneath her horizon so all Cazpar had was the familiar cobbles of Waldundberg as a guide. Well, those and the faint shine of her eyes. No one really knew why or how Halmvian eyes glowed in darkness, but there had been theories. Cazpar never took part in such sciences. The last time there was a debate a house burned down.

“B-by the way, I never really g-got your names, g-good Irh’s,” Cazpar chattered out.

“Ah, we do beg your pardon,” the lead Sirhan said. “My name is Herald, on my left is Harbinger, and my right is Messenger. Now, may we please move a tiny bit faster?”

“I’m m-moving, I’m moving…”

Eventually the group managed to make it to Waldundberg’s famous cart station, which lay dormant beneath the greying sky. Cazpar bent over, lungs burning from the frigid air and jog, and shooed off Herald’s urges to continue. After about a minute of gasping and annoyed shuffling, Cazpar stumbled over to her impatient guides. Harbinger (or maybe Messenger, they could’ve shifted during her break,) gave a chittering hiss and lit the signal lantern inside the waystation. Up above, confirmation flickered from Initus’s slope.

“We can go,” Harbinger (yeah, probably Harbinger,) rasped. The cart barely shifted as Cazpar heaved herself over its lip. She got herself comfortable against the smooth wooden bottom. She heard the Sirhans try and fail to shift the frozen door latch. Herald gave an embarrassed cough. Cazpar lifted them in.

“Let us…Not mention this, shall we?” Messenger chirped sheepishly. Cazpar nodded, discreetly wiping her hands on her scarf. Even with their cloaks, the rigidness of their chitin still had her shiver. The cart juddered and began to roll up, the rope attached glowing purple from an unknown command. Cazpar had read what little there was on this system; its construction being mainly of Sirhan design. What she recalled was that Muse had grown tired of the wear of regular rope and so gifted this new, self-pulling kind. Cazpar distrusted it immediately.

Herald had taken a point position in the cart, standing as solemnly as he could on the uneven ride. His companions were muttering to each other, their words lost to the winds. Cazpar huddled in on herself to keep warm. The rising altitude brought a noticeable drop in temperature. Fifteen minutes passed, and the sun was just peeking up when the four reached the yawning mouth of Initus. Mouth is right… Cazpar thought, uncurling as a gust of warm air greeted them.

Directly inside sat an identical station to the one below, its signal lantern beaming down. But beyond that, a veritable rainbow of flames sat in their sconces, their combined heat bringing a grateful sigh of relief from the shivering Halmvian. The cart docked itself and immediately was swarmed with Sirhans. These ones had simpler masks in comparison to Heralds group and, regrettably for Cazpar, were not as well covered. Instead of flowing robes of comforting burgundy, the cart workers had on bright yellow and orange garments that looked like a cross between a vest and a skirt.

The workers moved in organized chaos. They checked and tested and jimmied the cart to satisfaction, then with minor effort, opened the side door and parted. Herald left first, walking slightly taller between the rows of bowed heads. Unnervingly, they didn’t remain so when Cazpar got out. Countless yellow eyes rose to stare and Cazpar suddenly became quite self-conscious. The crackle of torches became deafening under those eyes. A faint odor had her flush with embarrassment. I didn’t have time to bathe, shut up… brooded Cazpar.

“It’ss fiinee,” hissed a Sirhan to her left. Cazpar went a bit quicker. She caught up with Herald and the others just before an intersection.

“With me, Ms. Sarkis,” Herald said. “Messenger and Harbinger have business, Si’cavalk Muse is left.”

Cazpar followed Herald through the tunnels, taking sharp twists and nonsensical turns. Now and again she caught glimpses into the other paths. In one chamber they passed there was a miniature waterfall feeding countless types of moss and fungi, most of them glowing. Sirhans moved in the deep blue light, but didn’t seem to be harvesting anything.

Further along came the sound of stone being tap-tapped away. Cazpar peeked. It as a steep shaft with Sirhans crawling on the walls and on narrow ledges. The workers chipped away with what looked like a shiv, illuminated by dim, purple lanterns. A sharp squeal turned all heads upwards. A dark shape hurtled pass into the depths. The Sirhans went back to work. Cazpar caught up with Herald.

“Was that a-“

“No. The sound was wrong. If it was one, much longer scream,” Herald said, not breaking his stride. “Please, not much further.”

Not much further turned out to be about five minutes of downward slipping for Cazpar. Fear and anxiety had been punched aside by annoyed bitterness. I hate this now. I hate this tunnel, I hate this mountain, and I hate Muse now too. No wind, no sun, no nothing, she thought darkly. Her sheer annoyance made her blind to any other rooms she might’ve passed. It even made her miss the large and elaborate door until she ran headfirst into it. Specifically, the sharpest point on the large and elaborate door.

“Ow! Areungee’s Dice!” Cazpar cursed, rubbing her forehead. “Who puts a, a…” She looked at what she actually ran into.

“What is that?”

Herald gave what sounded like an exhausted hiss. “He calls it, ‘modern art’. I don’t know either. Please, I’ll just announce us.”

He knocked twice and with a massive groan, it split open. Herald stepped in quickly, leaving Cazpar behind. She attempted to make sense of the art. It took roughly fifteen seconds before she gave up. Two seconds later the door creaked open. Herald waved her in.

Inside was an antechamber. The door slammed shut behind Cazpar, leaving it pitch black apart from her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Sarkis,” Herald said. “Just a bit forward, and if you could scream, that would be preferable. It makes him happy.”

“What do you meeaaAAHHH!” The floor beneath Cazpar suddenly gave out and she tumbled through the dark. “I HATE THIS I HATE THIS I HATE THIIISSSS!!”

With a jolt, she stopped. Cazpar opened her eyes slowly. A net made of purple glowing rope held her and Herald. The surrounding cavern was full of stalagmites, all glowing with the same dim purple as the rope. Several yards ahead sat a figure on a throne. Smoldering braziers made its shadow dance.

“So,” the figure hissed, his words echoing over Cazpar’s beating heart. “I must admit, of all who fell from my parlor, none have said they ‘hate this’…”

He rose. Clawed feet clacked with each stride. Four arcing horns crowned his long head. Spikes jutted from his shoulders and forearms, striking an intimidating outline in the darkness. He stopped just out of arms reach.

“I must also admit, none who have fallen have ever been so… nicely coordinated. I am, LOVING, that scarf. CHAMBERLAIN! Light this place up, let me get a better look.”

The cavern burst into light, forcing Cazpar to wince away.

“Hm? Oh, yes, let me get that for you.”

The net snapped and dropped its contents to the stone floor. Before Cazpar could recover, four hands snatched and stood her up. She blinked.

“Umm,” she began.

“Oh, yes yes yes yes, where are my MANNERS,” Muse withdrew, clucking and shaking his head. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’m Muse. I run this little patch of Sirhan existence, and may I hazard a guess and say you’re Ms. Sarkis?”

“Y-yes, I’m Cazpar.”

“Splendid! Then my little errand Irh’s did their job right. Normally I WOULD offer you some refreshments, buuut time’s short and I don’t have any. Come along!”

“Wait, more walking?” Cazpar groaned. The apple really didn’t fill her up and she’d missed out on a couple of hours sleep too. Muse tilted his head. Compared to Herald, his masks colors where a touch simpler, but that was overshadowed by its construction. The horns were mirrored below, vaguely familiar to fangs. More disturbingly, his mask had eight eyeholes bored out, and none of them actually had any Sirhan eyes in them.

“Weeellll, I guess I could summon Carriage for you...” Muse tapped a claw against a fang.

“Is Carriage a Sirhan?”

“Yes! And I must say, a rather splendid example of selective breeding.”

“Never mind, I’ll walk.”

Muse lead Cazpar away from the throne and down a very…‘modern art’ staircase, through another door and into easily the most luxurious hallway Cazpar had ever seen. Carpeting took the edge off the hard stone floors. Paintings choked the walls and sculptures slimmed the walkway significantly. Instead of the rainbow torches Cazpar had seen, lamps of every make and model burned fiercely. And when the light reflected against the strewn mounds of gold, Cazpar winced in more ways than one.

“I can already guess your question,” Muse said in a sing-song tone. “My precious little children like their, ugh, ‘rustic’ settings. Me, I prefer the more ‘can literally drown in culture’, style.”

Muse glanced back to Cazpar, who was stumbling about in a daze.

“Yes, I do LOVE that reaction. Now then, my workshop is juuust up ahead, so we can talk business there. Also, close your mouth Ms. Sarkis, your drooling on my Tikambu rug.”

Muse moved like oil through the mess, so each time Cazpar slipped over coins or was trapped by a statues outstretched arm she risked losing him. After too long Cazpar caught up with a now impatient Muse who shushed her before she could complain. Cazpar wished she’d brought a fork.

“Here we are, my humble workshop, where the gods trip over themselves to give me inspiration!”

Before them was a blank wall. Cazpar said as much. Muse tsk’d her.

“Surely by now you get me, Ms. Sarkis. Try to have a little bit of an imagination.”

With a flourish, Muse pushed a nearby painting slightly ajar. The floor dropped from Cazpar again. She bit down another scream as she and Muse fell onto a slide, the Si’cavalk laughing manically all the while. It wasn’t long before they came to a crashing stop, although the crash was more her faults than Muse’s. Cazpar collected herself and glanced around. Vague outlines in darkness was all she could see.

“Now, I know you won’t be here that long, but I have a very, VERY, important rule. Don’t touch anything I don’t SPECIFICALLY SAY you can touch,” Muse extended a clawed hand. “Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Cazpar said, simply nodding. Muse withdrew his hand.

“Wow, no one’s really passed that test before. I just KNEW my little Herald picked the right one!” Muse wrapped her in a four armed squeeze, making Cazpar shiver at his chitinous touch. Muse snapped, and lanterns sprung to life.

Cazpar was shocked at the state of Muse’s most inner sanctum. Coming down from the oppressive sea of culture and grandeur, this was a welcoming island of humility. A simple desk here, a wooden chair there, a hatch, another door, and just odds and ends scattered by genius.

“Ooh, again with the faces, I just LOVE it with the faces,” sang Muse. “Ok, before I show you my true reason for you being here, there’s just a few details about your quest I need to run by you. Specifically, the details that you’re going on a quest, and what your quest actually is.”

“Ok, no,” Cazpar said, rubbing her forehead. “Quest? What quest? No one said anything about questing, Muse.”

“Si’cavalk Muse.”

“Whatever! You’re saying your whole reason, no, not even the ENTIRE reason according to you, for dragging me up this mountain is to send me out of the one place, THE ONE PLACE, that I have known my entire life on some quest?”

Muse tapped his claws together. “Why, yes. Thought that’d be obvious, what with the whole ‘mystery entourage’ deal. I hear it’s quite a common practice nowadays.”

“And what if I just say screw you and head back home?”

“Aww, come one! You haven’t even heard what it is yet,” Muse whined.

“Um, may I come out now, Si’cavalk,” a new voice piped up.

A Sirhan peeked out of a floor hatch. From what Cazpar could see, he had the simplest mask yet. No markings, no forms spiraling from it, nothing. A pristine field of white, with two hazy eyes peeking out and a gash over his mouth that would allow him to eat, but would hide how it happened. Muse shifted uncomfortably.

“Yes, you may come out, little Crafter,” the Si’cavalk said. “I did hope you’d jump at the whole quest thing, Ms. Sarkis. That would’ve made this part a bit easier…”

The smaller Sirhan, Crafter, scrambled up from his hiding place, revealing himself fully to Cazpar. While his mask might be simple, what he wore certainly wasn’t. Like Herald, it was a near full body shroud. Unlike Herald, it was a very pale violet color and was far less voluminous. Furthermore, bits seemed to be cut out, allowing his natural armor to poke through. He was also very small, probably even by Sirhan standards, as he barely rose past Cazpar’s knee.

“Little Crafter here, well, is your quest, Ms. Cazpar. I wanted to build up his reveal a bit more, but I see now you’re not one for dramatics,” Muse lamented, draping an arm across his mask. Crafter shuffled over and patted Muse on the leg.

“You would recall, the mountain of Sanctis, and who rules it?”

“I read about it a while ago,” Cazpar confessed. “It’s over on Siteidel, and the Si’cavalk is… he’s… umm…”

“Prophet,” Muse finished for her. “Prophet reigns there. And it was he who told me about Crafter’s birth. Specifically, that Crafter would BE born, and is needed over there.”

“Wait, if Prophet’s in Siteidel, then how’d-”

“A trivial matter really,” Muse interrupted with a wave. “Each Si’cavalk has access to a magical pool that-”

“Magic’s fake,” Cazpar said flatly.

“Rrriiight, of course it is,” continued Muse. “Well, I have a ‘special’ pool that can communicate to other, ‘special’ pools. It’s used all the time, really.”

“Ok, so what do you want from me?” Cazpar said warily.

“Simple, I just need someone to take Crafter to Mount Sanctis,” Muse said, tapping Crafter on his mask. Crafter emitted a purr broken up by a weird clicking sound.

“That’s it? That’s what you brought me here for,” Cazpar could feel the heat of annoyance building. “Forced to get up before dawn, go out in freezing weather, suffer unneeded anxiety, only to be told I was chosen to be a glorified gopher. Forget this, I’m out of here.” She pushed past Muse and Crafter to the other door.

“Aw, wait! I haven’t even gotten to the special gifts for you yet,” Muse complained, blocking her exit. Cazpar blinked. She couldn’t place it, but something about Muse just set a warning bell off in her head. We can get mad later, Cazpar thought.

“Fine. If it means that much to you, show me what’s up, then we’ll see,” she said.

“Marvelous! Now, close your eyes, and picture this,” Muse said, waving his hands mystically. Cazpar closed her eyes. “A forested path, walking along with Crafter, when suddenly! A bandit, and not just any bandit. A bandit, with a matchlock!”

Crafter let out a small ‘eep’. Cazpar’s brow furrowed.

           “What’s this got to-”

           “Hush, you’ll spoil the imagery,” Muse chittered. Something fell to the ground. “Now, this gun toting outlaw wants anything and everything you got, and that includes our little friend here. But, because that stupid upstart, Harold Gunneman, invented them to be so inefficient, you have a chance!”

           “They aren’t that inefficient…”

           “Hush, of course they are. Lousy idiot, taking all the credit for an original idea,” grumbled Muse. Cazpar could hear more clanging. “Anyway, back to the story. Now, because Mr. Gunneman’s invention is completely inept in every single way and he should be ashamed for even considering it, you easily dispatch the bandit with MY invention!”

           Cloth wrapped around something weighty was thrusted into Cazpar’s hands.

           “Now, open your eyes, unwrap it, and MARVEL at my GENIUS!”

           Carefully, Cazpar opened the gift and was shocked to see what lay inside. In her hands was a gun, but not any kind of gun she had seen, or even had been described to her. It was small for a start. Small and elegant with a rotating something or other making up its entire middle. The trigger was far easier to identify, but above it was something new. It looked like it helped fire the weapon, but she couldn’t find where the rope would go. Muse barely contained his glee as Cazpar poked and prodded his invention.

           “You like it? I won’t lie, it took me ages just to get the chambers to turn,” Muse said.

           “It’s, completely new. How do you, well, how do you anything with it?”

           “Here, let me show you,” Muse gently took it back. “To fire, just move this little thing, which I call the hammer, back and then pull the trigger.”

Muse easily pulled the hammer back, and it fastened with a click. With a sharp snap, it slammed back down when Muse fired it, causing Cazpar to wince and Crafter to scurry back.

“Marvelous, isn’t it? But that’s not all, no, not even close!”

Muse leaped to his desk. From the lowest drawer, he pulled out an orange striped bag.

“Here, yes, here is where it gets special,” said Muse, his tone almost conspiratorial. “First off, the reason WHY Crafter is needed by Prophet is clear when explained. Our little Sirhan here can shape things, any kind of things, as if it were wet clay. Kindly show Ms. Sarkis would you?”

Crafter nodded, then with a touch of uncertainty, plunged his hands into the solid stone floor, and removed a good sized chunk. Cazpar touched it. Smooth rock met her fingertips. Crafter shuffled away and began to, well, Cazpar couldn’t find any other expression other than he began to pour the rock from hand to hand, shifting and shaping it into a crude human figure.

“Your mouth again, Ms. Sarkis, please do stop drooling,” tsk’d Muse. “Oh, and kindly put my floor back will you, Crafter? There’s a good little Irh.”

“That’s remarkable,” Cazpar whispered. “How the, what, who, how’d this, I don’t know, happen?”

Muse shrugged. “Haven’t the foggiest. One day Prophet tells me Crafter’s to be born, and lo and behold from the same ma-‘special pool’, Crafter’s born. But we get off topic, the bag, the bag, the bag, right!”

“Now, you’ve seen what Crafter can do,” Muse said, pointing to Crafter who was fixing the floor. “And I got to thinking. I thought, ‘there probably isn’t a smith alive who can make bullets for my beautiful gun,’ but then, out of nowhere, an idea sprung up. Crafter was generous enough to…lend me some unneeded parts. Mainly the organs that atrophy soon after Sirhan birth, which I then wove together inside this little marvel!”

Muse stroked the bag lovingly. “What it does is-oh, you look a bit squeamish there. No need to worry at all, it’s well dried and tended, a bit like the leather you humans make. Anyway what this bag, which I’ve called the Bandolier Bag, does is if you take any solid substance; iron, gold, bone, and things like that, place it in here, pull the strings tight, and in under a minute you have yourself a brand new, perfectly portioned round of ammunition! And to save on fiddly powder packets, the bag even makes the bullets come complete with gunpowder! Easy really, just a bit of ma-‘special’ Sirhan knowhow and artificial selection…”

Muse snatched up a bit of scrap metal and put it inside. All three waited expectantly. And waited. And waited. Muse looked concerned and opened it back up. Groaning, he plucked the unshaped bit of scrap out. “Naturally, you’d have to have about a bullets worth or more material in here for it to work, lousy Law of Equivalencies…But if you get it right, then voila! A handheld, ‘drop-in-and-forget-it’, bullet factory for THE one, and THE only revolver in allll the world! Oh, yes, I’m calling it a revolver, mainly because of how the bullet chambers ‘revolve’ when firing. I’m so amazing…”

Muse handed over the small bag and revolver to Cazpar while he muttered to himself about how great he was. Initial shock and amazement faded, Cazpar got a better look at the weapon. Disregarding its radical design, it was actually quite beautiful. The stock was a pearly white, with spiral flourishes all along it in what looked like gold. The metal of the gun was polished to a perfect shine, blending neatly with the silver plate laid over here and there. Two issues Cazpar found after an examination. The first was the large, cursive MUSE carved into the side. The second and most address-able, was how to load it.

“Quick question Si’cavalk, but how-”

“How’d I come up with such a great idea? I’ll tell you, it started when I was upside down in my-”

“No, no, not that,” Cazpar interrupted back. “You mentioned rounds and firing, but how exactly do I, uh, load it?”

“Oh, quite simple,” Muse snatched the revolver back and flicked a small lever just to the side of the hammer. The gun broke open, revealing the bullet chambers fully. “There we are, and when you’re done loading it up,” with a flick of the wrist, the gun snapped back whole.

“So, you’ve seen what I have to offer. Just take amiable and amazing Crafter to Sanctis, and you not only get a first of its kind weapon, which I hear is all the rage, but you also get a…‘special’ bag and the adventure of a lifetime. What do you say?” Muse spread his arms, waiting.

Cazpar felt a twinge of guilt. Yes, Muse had promised an assortment of wonders for her, yes it seemed as if he really needed someone to take Crafter, who was starting to grow on Cazpar, but…

“I’m sorry, Si’cavalk Muse, but my answer is the same,” Cazpar said. Muse visibly deflated. “It’s not that I find your end of the deal wanting, quite the opposite, but… but I can’t just go on an adventure right now. I’m still needed at home, and Year’s End is coming up, and frankly, I’m not the adventuring type. I can try and help you find someone else for this mission, if that will make this easier…”

Cazpar trailed off. The mood had shifted. Crafter sensed it too, and scurried back to his hatch, laying low as possible. Muse stood fully and started to pace.

“Oh, how I was afraid of this,” he said. A chill ran up Cazpar’s spine. The Sirhan Lord moved differently. Before Cazpar could see fluidity in his stride. Here, Muse was much, MUCH, more rigid. A force in restraint, sizing up a meal.

“You see, I realized that not EVERYONE might take me up on my offer, and I do hate being wrong. So I just decided to cut out the trial and error process, and get straight to someone whom I just KNOW, would agree.”

“Sorry, my answer is still no.”

“Pardon, hearing might be going a bit,” hissed Muse, who now paced closer and closer around Cazpar. Drips of glowing purple fell from the fangs of his mask. “Before you repeat yourself, I thought I might share another…incentive that I learned about a while ago. I’m sure you recall Conqueror’s War?”

The name froze Cazpar’s veins. “Everyone does,” she said, trying to still her whirling mind. “A Sirhan rose up against all nations, declared war on the gods themselves. Hundreds of thousands died in it. Lasted four years.”

“And do you know why it lasted four years? When it could’ve easily been won in about two or so?”

Cazpar stayed silent. Muse made a clicking sound.

“It was prolonged for another two, bloody, brutal, grueling years because of a single man’s actions. You and I both know who he was, so I’ll spare you that. However, I know of a great many people who DON’T know who this man was. And I’m sure they would be EXTREMELY interested to find out.”

“How could you know?”

“Please, I command one fourth of the Sirhan’s on this planet,” Muse laughed. It sounded like something small and deadly moving through leaves. “It wasn’t that hard to piece things together. And besides, fever from hacking off your own arm can make people say the darndest things…”

“You know what would happen to us, to her, right?”

“Naturally, or else I wouldn’t be using it against you.”

“No, no you wouldn’t, couldn’t do that,” Cazpar whispered.

“Can’t I? If my generous offer was turned down again, I would feel so distraught I might just let a few…phrases, slip out here and there. Waldundberg might not even hear of it, but I’m sure Scieltora, grand capital that it is, would catch wind of them…”

Cazpar could barely breathe. Her thoughts were wiped away by the implications, and countless scenarios stormed through her mind’s eye. She snapped back to reality as Muse tilted her head upwards. Eight dark eyeholes bored into Cazpar, drinking in her anxiety with relish. Muse gave a chittering hiss.

“Oh, now there’s a face, which I enjoy… So, what do we say now, Ms. Sarkis?”

“Fine.”

“Hm? A little louder if you please, and more explicit too.”

“Fine,” Cazpar said, feeling very ill. “Fine, I’ll do it. Just, just don’t say anything, please?”

“Naturally,” Muse backed off. “I’d be too sick with worry about you and young Crafter to even dream to letting something like this slip.”

Muse went to Crafter and began stroking his huddled form.

“There, there little one. We talked about this; you’ll be going on a very important trip now. Pay attention to everything Ms. Sarkis here tells you to do, and be a good little Irh. Also, you needn’t worry about her hurting or foisting you off onto somebody else, ok? I’ll find out if she does, so there will be no worrying about that. Isn’t that right, Ms. Sarkis?”

“Naturally,” Cazpar ground out.

“There, you see? Now then, to the both of you, this way please,” Muse opened the standing door. Another corridor stretched from there. “Herald is waiting at the end, and with a good sum to help you with traveling too. Off you go, onwards to adventure!”

Cazpar walked past Muse, accepting the revolver and bag held in outstretched claws. She briefly entertained the notion of shooting him, but even if she did manage to load up and kill him, there was no way she or Waldundberg would be spared. Crafter shambled out with her, small hands clutching the back of her shirt for support.

“Oh, and Ms. Sarkis?” Muse called out. Cazpar turned to look, suppressing a glare through fear. The emerald torches of the hallway cast the Sirhan in dancing shadows once more.

“It truly has been a pleasure doing business with you. If anything goes awry, please don’t hesitate to tell someone. Toodles!”