(This is a follow-up to an earlier story, Birthright. You may want to check it out, but you don’t have to to understand.)



Guinevere crested the hill as the sun began its descent. She lifted the hood off of her sea-green hair, letting her jet black eyes soak in the fading light. She sighed in contentment and dropped the pack from her shoulders so she could sift through it for the map Apphia had given her.

“And what brings a Sea Elf like you up to the swamps?”

Guinevere jumped with a start, not expecting any voice at all. Even if she had been, this one was unique in its own right—it was masculine, gruff, earthy, and loud, almost right beside her even though no one was. As the voice tapered off, it echoed dully into the air.

She looked about and found the source of the voice not far off—although, she wasn’t sure if she was truly seeing the figure before her, or if the sunset light was tricking her eyes. It was a land crab, roughly 3 feet tall and 4 feet wide at its largest. It held a reed tobacco pipe in one claw and was perched on a rock overlooking the marshy waters down the hill from them.

Also, it was translucent and baby blue; the ghost of a land crab.

“Are… are you the one I was sent to find?” she called out, her voice cracking from lack of use.

The crab scuttled over to her, its beady eye stalks giving her a once-over. “I wasn’t anticipating company, to be frank, but I suppose I could be. Now, are you gonna tell me what you’re bloody well doing here?”

The crab brought the pipe to its face and took a draw from it—how, Guinevere did not know—filling its translucent shell with smoke.

“I—Uh, I was sent by the Guardians to meet the Great Sorcerer Drystan,” Guinevere spat out. “I was told he could help me learn more about wielding magic and harnessing raw potential to use magic without specific spells in min—”

“Drystan’s dead,” the crab interrupted, monotone and cold. “Been dead for a while now. He used to be my master, but…”

Guinevere’s face fell. “Oh. I…” She turned away from the crab to look into the sunset. “I didn’t know; I’m so—”

“The Guardians sent you, huh? So, you’re a Guardian-in-waiting.” The crab took another draw from its pipe. “Well, I can probably still be of some use to you.”

“How did you know that?” Guinevere asked, perplexed.

“They aren’t the kind that would send anyone who isn’t one of their own, and you didn’t introduce yourself as one.” The crab raised his claws in something of a shrug. “You’re really green, and you wear it on your sleeves.” He scuttled around in a small circle to face the swamp and started heading downhill. “Come with me, Greenie.”

Guinevere blinked, then grabbed her pack and sprinted to catch up to the crab. “What do I call you?”

“Drystan never really gave me a name. He gave me sentience himself, and brought me back after I originally passed on.” He waved his pipe claw around in the air. “Called me a lot of nicknames though, ‘Crabby,’ ‘Crabbington,’ ‘Mr. Crabs,’ ‘Sir Crabalot,’ but I never really had a full name.”

“Have you thought about taking on a mantle of your own?” Guinevere pressed.

“Nah,” the Crab of Drystan dismissed. “If you want to call me something, I’m fine with crab-based nicknames.”

The swamp was getting thicker, the cypress branches filling the sky above them like tighter and closer brushstrokes filling a canvas. The swampwater-coated grass blades were starting to soak through Guinevere’s boots, the cool touch relieving stress on her worn feet. “How do you feel about ‘Crabapple?’”

“Is that you trying to call me fat?” the Crab retorted with a snort.

“N-no!” Guinevere raised her hands in a gesture of self-defense, but lowered them when she came to a realization. “Can ghosts even get fat?”

“I could have died fat, then I’d be stuck like this forever. How horrifying.” The Crab laughed and made a sharp turn around a thicket of cattails. “Our stop is right up ahead, not too much farther.”

Within minutes, the pair came upon a wooden door in the side of a rocky cliff face. It was beginning to show signs of rot, and vines and moss were built up all over it. It hadn’t been opened in decades, for certain. The shape of the door lead Guinevere to believe that it probably used to be a house for someone – probably Drystan. She had to wonder how anyone could have not noticed Drystan’s disappearance for so long.

“First thing’s first. You’ll have to go inside.” The Crab gestured for Guinevere to approach the door.

She grabbed the handle and gave it a tug. It was locked or stuck, or, perhaps, the vines had grown it shut. She glanced over her shoulder at the Crab.

“Go on. Get it open.” The Crab hesitated for a second. “Without breaking it, of course.”

Guinevere faced the door again and frowned. She wasn’t entirely sure of the root of the problem, which made it that much harder to solve. She raised her hands in front of her, letting her magic pulse through her veins. First, she cast a psychokinetic spell on herself, to be able to feel the entirety of the door. There was a simple bar lock on the opposite side, which she quickly raised and cast aside. The door gave more leeway, but still wouldn’t open. With a little more feeling around, as she expected, she discovered that vines were growing into and across the door as well. She brought her hands down to her sides, then raised them up her chest to find the fire within her heart. She imbued the magic into her right hand and conjured a small flame across her fingertips. With the concentrated fire, she slid her hand around the edge of the door and seared off the vines. As the last vine fell, the door limply swung open and Guinevere and the Crab were able to enter into a winding tunnel that lead deeper inside.

“Alright, Crabsworth, what next?” Guinevere asked her ghostly guide.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it. Next, you clear out the rat infestation that’s been plaguing this place.” The Crab scuttled past her and into the darkness of the tunnel.

“Rat infestation?” Guinevere summoned a ball of light to stand beside her as she followed suit. “How do you know there’s a rat infestation?”

“I’m a ghost, Greenie.” The Crab didn’t even look back at her. “I can choose when I want the bounds of reality to apply to me and just walk through that door whenever I want.”

“Alright, I buy that. How bad’s the infestation?” Guinevere frowned. “I’m not particularly fond of rats. They’re terribly filthy.”

“Oh, it’s just a family of three or so. Nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle.” The Crab played it off so casually that Guinevere relaxed. Simple tasks for a simple ghost crab.

Unfortunately, her stomach turned over when she entered the large main chamber of this underground abode. There was a family of three rats, for certain. Three 3 foot tall rats. With tunnels leading off in countless directions—no doubt how they got in and out. The moment she stepped into the tunnel with her orb of light, the rats hissed, teeth bared, at her, and fled into the tunnels.

The rest of the room looked as if it had been cozy, if tight, with a degraded bed; an old wooden table with some books, a lamp, and a box; a stove in the corner with a pipe heading up, likely to the surface, and a stool.

“Now, I really don’t want to be dealing with those beasties again, so, if you could go run them down and take their lives, I’d be much obliged.” The Crab scuttled over to a corner and sat himself on the old stool. “I’ll just wait here for you to finish.”

Guinevere placed the orb of light behind her to hide her face and gave the Crab a moue she hoped he wouldn’t see. Chasing down those rats—and killing them a little needlessly—wasn’t her favorite idea. She sent the orb off down a tunnel to look around, but there was no sign of movement.

Then an idea hit her. “What if I just made it so the rats won’t come back? Without chasing them down and killing them. Would that be alright?”

The Crab gave the same half-shrug as before. “I don’t see why not, if you think you can do it.”

Guinevere placed her hand on the earthen wall beside her. “Are all these tunnels rat-made? Other than the one we came in.”

“Yep,” came the Crab’s simple reply.

“Alright, then I think I can do it.” Guinevere placed her other hand on the wall and began channeling her magic. She knew she was going to use a lot of energy in performing these spells, and she needed to brace herself for the drain at the end. The first thing she had to do was cave in the entrance to the rat’s tunnels, sealing the room again. That was the least energy-consuming part of her plan, however. With dirt covering the walls again, she would need to perform a transmutation. She placed her palms flat on the wall and connected them to make a triangle between her index fingers and thumbs. Then she began to speak in an ancient Elven tongue, and, from under her fingertips, stone began to spread across the earthen surface, converting the dirt it touched into more stone.

When the tunnel and room had been fully covered, she stopped her chanting and leaned her forehead against the wall. “The deed is done,” she wheezed out.

“Not bad, not bad.” The Crab tapped his claws together in a facsimile of clapping. “You’re better than I thought. I think I’ve made my decision about how I’ll help you.”

“Oh?” Guinevere pulled herself around to face him and rested her back against the wall. “And how’s that?”

“You see, there’s only one reason I’m still running about while Drystan’s dead in the ground and buried.” The crab pointed to the box on the table.

“He enchanted something, and now you’re bound to it,” Guinevere conjectured. “I assumed as much.”

“It’s a mask. When you’re ready, come take it.” The Crab’s tone was final and confident. He was placing his trust in Guinevere.

She steadied herself and stepped over to the table. The box wasn’t locked or magically sealed, and the top flipped open with a creak. The mask inside was wooden and rough, with black circles painted on for eyes and a gaping mouth. She placed it against her face, and it held itself there despite lacking any means to. She expected to see blackness, but she found that she could actually see more light than without it. No eyeholes nor a slit for her mouth, but she had no trouble seeing or breathing or speaking as normally.

“Wow, this is really special…” she mused. “He made this himself, I assume?”

“That he did,” the Crab confirmed. “And it’s yours now. From him to me to you. As long as you have that, I will call you Master. Or Mistress. Whatever. I answer to you. And, no matter how far apart we are, we’ll always be able to talk telepathically. And, if you ever want to see from my eyes or if I want to see from yours, it’s as easy as thinking about it.”

Guinevere closed her eyes and took a breath in, then transferred her sight to the Crab’s. It was a little alarming, being so low to the ground and being able to see herself, but she figured she could get used to it. She transferred back to her own sight before she continued. “Well, thank you, Mr. Crabs. But, why are you doing this?”

“You’re a good kid, Greenie. I see a little of Drystan in you. I may not be able to help you with magic directly, but I’m not going to stay her and waste my life missing someone who’s gone.” The Crab rose from his stool. “Now, what do you say we get out of here and find someone else who might be better suited to help you fine-tune your magic?”

