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You stare down at Guilder Martense for a long while, waiting to see if the ancient thing is going to say anything else. It tries, you think. Its jaw shifts as if gnawing at some unseen bridle, but it never manages to form the words. With a vague sense of disappointment, you let out a sigh and raise the revolver.
“Jan,” you say quietly, “Go check on Elle. Make sure she's okay.”
“Elle?” he asks foolishly, “Isambard, I-”
“Go check on Elle,” you repeat firmly, looking up from the withered corpse and fixing Jan with a hard look. Patricide is a grave sin, and while this isn't exactly the same thing, you still don't want Jan to stain his hands with it. He seems to realise what you're thinking and sighs, his shoulders slumping low. Murmuring a vague agreement, he turns and slinks away. Once he's out of earshot, you kneel down beside Guilder Martense.
“Not what you were expecting, was it?” you murmur, loading some fresh cartridges into your revolver, “What's wrong, nothing to say?”
The pale blue eyes bore up at you, churning from within with rage and frustration – and, you think, fear. Fear of death, fear of oblivion... a creature that has lived as long as this must look at death in a very strange way. Perhaps it assumed that this day would never come. If so, well, it was wrong.
Rising to your feet again, you point the revolver down and shield your eyes. Your ears are ringing by the time you've finished emptying the cylinder into Guilder Martense, while the creature's head is almost unrecognisable – blown into dust, save for a thin sliver of jaw still clinging tenaciously to the scrawny neck. Satisfied that the creature is finally dead, you sit down beside the remains and holster the revolver.
A short while later, Jan ambles over. He glances fearfully at the body, the brutalised remains, then turns away with a shudder.
“My condolences,” you say eventually, breaking the silence. Jan looks at you with wide, startled eyes, staring as your words slowly penetrate into his mind. Then, finally, he lets out a faint whimper of a laugh. Then he lunges to his feet and runs, clutching a hand over his mouth to hold back his retches. His flailing boot catches the iron chalice as he flees, sending it rattling across the stone floor.
You reach down for a closer look, only to draw your hand back as you feel a corrosive sting of Calamity radiating off it. There's certainly a dormant power still clinging to the chalice, but power of an unwholesome sort – but with Kalthos' help, it's power that you could use...
>Take the chalice. You can't afford to waste this power
>Destroy it. This power deserves to be lost forever
