Author: Guede Mazaka
They tell him the pipe is made from the horn of a unicorn.
Abberline doesn't believe in unicorns, even though he sees them every single day. White and dark, fine-boned and heavyset, they all run through his visions. Beautiful. Shining in spite of the world's filth.
Running. Always. The hounds chase them, close them in while the hunters wait for the fleeing beasts to falter. For the stumble, for the limp, for the failing strength. And then the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune crash into the heaving flanks, splattering crimson, and their horns become covered in gore as their legs fold under them in the final fall.
That's why he can't bring himself to believe in them. They simply don't last.