A Tale of a Whip

From the request of a fan, here is a dramatized audio from Mimos Rongen (voiced by our damn awesome voice actor Arrowsight) recounting the reason he forged the Slayer's current whip sword.

What?

Oh, so you want to know how Gray got that whip sword of his, mmh? Hah! Sure, fine, sit your tail down. I got a minute.

So it was… ugh, when was it now—ten years ago? 1956, right? My daughter and sons were finally settling into that Mother’s forsaken hunk of a polished sewage we called a house, and I’m thinkin’—you know what? Maybe I’ve earned my retirement. Maybe I whip up a few gadgets, charm a couple nobles, rake in some Circle coin, finally buy a place without bats in the plumbing.

Bad idea.

Turns out success is the fastest way to paint a target on your striped ass in this town. You invent one self-oiling hinge for a Countess’s powder closet, and suddenly the Sons of Beldritch—biggest, ugliest, most nepotistic guild of brass-sniffers this side of the Cradle—decide you’re public enemy number one.

You know the type. They think they’re craftsmen because their granddad banged a pot against a wall and called it a legacy.

Anyway—one night I come home and my house is a torch. Not poetic. I mean actually on fire. And not just that—those lard-skulled thugs tried to take Vivianne and boys. Broke through the fence, tried to stuff them in a wagon. I wasn’t there.

But Gray was.

Now let me tell you something about Gray. Most folks barely notice him when he walks by—which has always suited him just fine. He only gets intense when you really look at him. Eyes like dying suns. A sword that moves like a drunk eel.

To me, though? He’s just Gray. Wears too much black, talks like a gravestone, never tips.

So I come runnin’ up the hill, panicked, ready to crack skulls and punch a goat, and I see Gray standing there. Still.

Vivianne’s holding the boys and my daughter behind him, safe. While my nose smelt burnt leather and bad decisions. And Gray looks at me, all quiet, and says, “Will handle it.”

That’s it. That’s the whole speech. That’s how you know you're in trouble. Gray may be a walking funeral dirge when he tries to assert himself but he knows how to act like the sky before lightning.

So I ask him, real casual, ‘You gonna go talk to 'em?’

He says, “Won’t have to.”

I didn’t ask any more questions.

Now, listen: I wasn’t… there when it happened? But Tormurghast got quiet that night. Real quiet. No forgefires. No hammering. Just this hush, like the whole city was holding its breath waiting for something.

And then—boom.

Not an explosion, no. Not the kind you hear with your ears anyway. The kind that settles in your bones. Turns your spit into iron.

The next morning? Whole guild’s gone. Not dead, not jailed, not even relocated. Just gone. Their forges, silent. Their banners, missing. Their ledger books ash.

Nobody in the Circle said a word. Because nobody saw anything. At least, not that they’d admit.

And Gray? He comes back to my workshop like nothin’ happened, sets down this busted-up emblem—used to be Beldritch’s, now it’s twisted into a gear—and he says, real calm:

“They won’t be back.”

And they never were. Last I heard from Tenno was that he saw five of them pack up and running.

So yeah, that’s when I finished making him the damn whip sword. It was an on off project for at least seven years and three months, two cracked ribs, and three threats of divorce. Worst thing I’ve ever made. And utterly magnificent.

Damn fucking idiot nearly burned himself alive trying to use it without unlocking the safety catches first. Would’ve been a hell of an ending, huh? Mimos Rongen—Slayer of the Slayer! 

But honestly, though… the thick-headed bastard needs to find himself a nice gal with a fat rack—someone smart enough to teach him how not to die being a show-off.