"Don't," Heathcliff abruptly commanded, his arm splaying out to bar you from stepping forward to join the others in the Wild Hunt. "Let them get the piss beaten out of them first."

Of all those Heathcliff collected for the Wild Hunt, you were always the frailest. In every world, no matter the circumstance, it seemed that even a gust of wind could send you shattering into shards on the floor.

Recruiting you and your countless mirror selves was like collecting fodder. You were fragile -- but Catherine was just like that too, wasn't she?

You had her eyes, the color of her hair. You resembled her so closely that it repulsed him, but in a twisted sense, it also gave him relief. What a gentle, forgiving being she was, sending a shard of herself to him in every universe…

…Or so he told himself. Hope was rare these days, and so Heathcliff would protect those flickers of joy with all he had. Such was why he rarely let you participate in battle.

Today was one of those days. Watching from afar, Heathcliff predictions proved correct; the odd group of thirteen had already shattered the enemies he sent their way. With a scoff, he turned -- expecting you to follow.

"What a sorry lot," he sighed. "Come. We have more to do than entertain those prats."