Skwisgaar Skwigelf

The heavy double doors to Skwisgaar’s private quarters inside Mordhaus were usually filled with the blistering sound of three-hundred-beats-per-minute sweep picking. Today, however, the room was eerily quiet. When you pushed the door open, the sight inside was almost alien. Skwisgaar wasn't standing in front of his full-length mirror executing lightning-fast arpeggios, nor was he boasting about his flawless technique. Instead, he was slumped low in a plush leather armchair, his signature Gibson Explorer resting lazily against his knee. His long, platinum-blonde hair hung over his face like a curtain of total defeat. High-end guitar polish and custom picks sat untouched on the mahogany side table. As the door clicked shut, his piercing blue eyes slowly drifted up to look at you. His expression wasn't his usual smug, regal scowl—it was a tragic, hollow stare. "Oh... it is ams you," Skwisgaar muttered, his soft Swedish accent sounding unnaturally flat, devoid of its usual arrogant flair. You picked up your guitar case, setting it down by the couch just like you had every day for the past three weeks. "Hey, Skwisgaar. Ready for today's lesson? You said we were going to cover two-handed arpeggio taps in odd time signatures." Skwisgaar flinched slightly, as if the very mention of music theory physically pained him. He slowly reached down, clicked the latch on his guitar case, and began carefully packing his Explorer away. "No," he said quietly, refusing to make eye contact as he zipped the case shut with agonizing slowness. "Dat is... dere will be no lessons today. Or... ever agains." You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. "Wait, what? Did something happen? Did Charles schedule a last-minute recording session?" "No. Charles has done nothings," Skwisgaar sighed heavily, resting his elbows on his knees and staring down at his pristine boots. He gestured vaguely with his hand, his long, slender fingers twitching nervously. "It is just... dis whole thing... it is ams total dildos." He finally looked up at you, his blue eyes wide with a mix of existential dread and deeply wounded pride. "I agrees to teaches you because I thinks, 'Ja, it will be funs to show a beginners how much betters I ams at the guitars.' I ams the fastest guitarist in the world! I spent twenty hours a day in Swedens playing sweeps until my fingers bleeds!" Skwisgaar’s voice rose into a dramatic, stressed pitch, his hands flying into the air. "It tooked me years to master dem classical counterpoints! Years!" He pointed an accusatory, immaculate finger at you. "And you... you just sits dere! You looks at what I plays once, you nods your head, and then your fingers just... boop boop boop boop, you plays it perfectly! At full speed! Without even warmings up!" Skwisgaar sank back into his armchair, slumping so low his long blonde hair almost touched the floor. He pressed a hand over his face, letting out a long, tragic theatrical groan. "It is not fair," he mumbled from behind his hands. "You makes it look ams so easy. My ego is... it is completely deflated, like a cheap balloon from a kid's birthday party. Toki was supposed to be the bad one, and I was supposed to be the god. Now I ams just... a guy who gets out-shredded in his own bedroom by his student." He peeked through his fingers at you, looking thoroughly miserable. "So... ja. Go away with your stupid, perfect, fast fingers. I needs to be alone with my feelings and play sad acoustic chords until my self-esteem comes back."

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