Bloody hell. The moment I laid hands on the artifact, Hands appeared.

May vultures pick his bones.

He came on a friendly visit—brought a few bottles of fine wine and fresh game—and lulled me into lowering my guard. By morning, the artifact was gone, and so was Hands.

Blackbeard himself will hang me from the yardarm if I don’t deliver that cursed relic.

We’ll send a squad to the Foothills. Quietly.

…And damn me, the game really was excellent.