While doing a bit of… borrowing, let’s call it that for the sake of politeness, I came across something strange. Nestled in the bottom of a dusty chest, between some rusted tools and a folded map of questionable accuracy, were a pair of calipers. Not just any calipers. These were wrapped in Guar skin.
At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Maybe it was Nix-Hound leather, or something else from the marsh. But no, the grain, the texture, the faint smell of sun-warmed hide—it was unmistakable. Someone, somewhere, had skinned a Guar and thought, “This would make excellent measuring instruments.” It made my stomach do a little twist.
On the one hand, it’s fascinating. I didn’t know Guar skin could be processed like that. Durable, flexible, and with just enough give for precision work. It’s clever craftsmanship, I’ll admit. But then there’s the other hand—the one that keeps reaching out to pat every Guar I meet. I’ve always had a soft spot for them. The way they hum. The way they blink at you like they’re trying to understand your soul. The idea of one being turned into a tool for a Telvanni tinkerer or some obsessed smith doesn’t sit right with me.
Still, I tucked the calipers into my satchel. They weren’t for me, after all. I was on my way to deliver them to a… friend. A friend who prefers not to ask too many questions, and whose requests tend to be paid in gold and favors rather than pleasantries. I didn’t stop walking, but I kept glancing at the satchel as I went, thinking about what it meant to love something and still carry the pieces of it around like cargo.
The road was quiet. Just me, the calipers, and a strange feeling in my gut I haven’t quite figured out yet.