It was not so much a contract as a mere obligation, that led you to the troublesome beggar and the [[bag of holding]] you lifted from his corpse.It is not so much for holding as for burying, its contents mostly incomprehensible by Their Majesty's decree; you understand only the [[treaty written in blood]].It's not so much blood as ichor. It resolved the war between beings with too many legs and/or bristling scales, resulting in stalemate. The latter could never march out to meet [[their enemy]]; the former had no wish to hold [[territory]] they took.
They were not so much enemies as rivals in a benthic game of supremacy that reached the surface in gurgling rumours. Their Majesty would sometimes have a [[spy]] thrown overboard, seeking [[vital intelligence]].
It was not so much territory as grains of sand claimed by various polities, argued over by crustacean and/or squamous dignitaries. You were caught in wordless intrigues until your expulsion from their demesnes, being a [[spy]].
You were not so much a spy as an assassin, though it was unknown whom you were to assassinate, and whether they could die. Your [[confusing reports]] were ill-received.
It was not so much intelligence as wisdom collected from opalescent spheres of understanding trapped under contested territorial claims and sand. The oceanic magistrates were chagrined, however, by your claim that you would have drowned had you not stolen the wisdom of how not to, leading to your [[expulsion]].
They were not so much reports as anecdotes, all sadly ending in no drowning. As punishment, you were given the unenviable [[contract]] on the life of a troublesome beggar.
It was not so much an expulsion as an invitation to leave couched in the telepathic certainty that a troublesome beggar needed to die, though no land-bound authority would recognise the resulting [[contract]].