I’m all for due process and innocent until proven guilty, but there ought to be exceptions for extenuating circumstances.
Like say when a man rides up and introduces himself as a card-carrying member of a known criminal organization. That ought to count as a confession, and as such, I should be allowed to treat him as a criminal. Especially when induction into said criminal organization requires you kill someone on their behalf. It’s guilt by association. You gotta make you bones to become a made man in the Sicilian Mafia, which ain’t possible without committing murder, ergo, being a made man ought to carry the same penalty, which under Federal law is death. Fair is fair. Would do wonders for the crime rate up and down the Blue Bulwark, and probably inland and on the West Coast too. Law enforcement’s gotta step it up, and if they gotta outsource to make it happen, then I say let ‘em. In fact, put an open bounty on all known associates of organized crime today, and I bet those criminal enterprises will be out of business by year end, or at least operating from the shadows instead of out in the open and bold as can be like Michael Dipolio here.
…That wasn’t his name, was it? Dippiolio? Nope, that don’t sound right either. Dip-pip-pip-ty-do-li-oo?
Whatever. The point is, if a man identifies himself as a murderous criminal, then I should be allowed to shoot him without repercussion. That ain’t how the law works though, because in the eyes of the law, all this slick skeeze bag has done is drop a name and ask for money. To help solve a problem they themselves create mind you, which is where the illegality comes in. Don’t pay your dues? Then maybe your boats get trashed, your stables burn down, or a sawblade goes missing, and there ain’t nothing the local lawmen can do about it, since most can’t find their ass with both hands and a map. Forget them old world detective stories where law enforcement chases down leads and arrests bad guys. Here on the Frontier, if a crime happens outside of town, you’re pretty much on your own unless it’s something big like murder, and even then, most go unsolved. Especially if there’s no body, because then it’s not a murder investigation, only missing persons, and believe you me, there are plenty of missing people and countless ways to make a body disappear.
Like feeding bodies to Abby, which I myself am guilty of, and it might well be where them cultist rumours started. I ain’t saying there ain’t any crazies out there who sacrifice animals and people to Abby and Proggies, but there probably aren’t as many as the rumours would have you think. Dollars to donuts, when you see someone feeding the local Abby, it’s likely a criminal like Michael getting rid of the bodies. Unlike cultists however, mafiosos will come and cut your throat while you sleep if they hear you’ve been talking about one of their nocturnal boat rides, so those stories don’t get shared.
Hence why Michael claims there’s an extra tax on the docks now that they ain’t floating, then offers a discount if they’re allowed to use the dock and the boats whenever they like, no questions asked. Easiest way to dump bodies around here is to fill their shoes with rocks and drop them off in the middle of the lake, and having multiple docks to choose from makes you less likely to get caught. Carter politely declines the discount, citing that they’re private people unaccustomed to visitors, and all of a sudden the extra tax balloons into something ridiculous. “It’s the stonework,” Michael says, shrugging like he can’t do nothing about it when he’s the one making rules up as he goes. “Costs extra. Forgot all about it. An extra grand for the year. Math ain’t my strong suit though, so let’s call it three bills a season. Nice round number.”
This parasitic son of a gun wants $1200 a year just because Carter’s got a dock he won’t let the Mafia use. That’s a basic working man’s yearly salary these days, the going rate for what some call unskilled labour. Not to mention how this is on top of what Michael’s already extorting from them, an undisclosed amount Carter handed over in a thick paper envelop as soon as he saw who the visitor was. He don’t argue the math on these new demands either, or try to haggle down the price. He just gives me a stern look telling me to play nice before heading back inside the compound to get another $300, leaving me to keep an eye on the unwanted visitors.
Not that he asked me to. The opposite in fact, as he wanted me inside with everyone else, but I told him I was more comfortable out here. Even put my gun away when he asked, though I’m still standing ready to shoot if needed. A fact Michael don’t pay no mind to, though his goons got glares for days. Both Innates, which is how I know they ain’t made men, because you gotta be pure of blood to make it in the Mafia. No idea why that is or what purity of blood brings to the table, because Innates get Spells and Brands which can be pretty cool. Not these ones though, as the first is tall, fat, and got shiny blue crystallized growths covering his scalp instead of hair. Like pointy spiked nubs slicked back which puts me in mind of a quill shrew, all short, sharp, and prickly. Wouldn’t want to get headbutted by the fella, but otherwise, ain’t nothing special to see. The other is short, stout, and somehow has too much and too little hair at the same time. Got a bald spot the size of the sun, and thick tufts of white wizened hair growing out of his ears to go with the salt-and-peppered wispy facial hair he got going on. None of which have got a thing to do with his Brand, a set of knobbly, arthritic fingers ending in sharp, curved talons, all yellow and sickly looking but dangerous all the same. Whatever magic these Innates got don’t make up for their lack of guns though, so at end of the day, these two goons and their boss are no more dangerous than any other Spellslinger around.
And believe you me, made man-child Mikey over there is most certainly a Spellslinger.
There are a lot of ways to identify a Spellslinger, and the easiest is by their pouch. Or pouches as it were with Michael, at least three a side sewn into the inner lining of his sharp leather trench coat for all the Spell Components he keeps. Spotted a wand tucked in there too, so he uses enough magic on the daily to make Rituals worthwhile. Add in the frosty blue Aberration Cold Stone embedded into his pinky ring, as well as the Orichalcum brooch shaped like a kite shield over his left lapel pocket, and all signs point to Michael being a serious Abjurer with a penchant for Frost Spells.
And showing off. His Abjurer’s sigil is a brooch the size of a fist instead a simple pin the size of a fingertip, one cast in a metal flashier and more expensive than traditional bronze, silver, or gold to denote mastery of Third, Sixth, or Ninth Order Spells respectively. Immortal Monarchs get the clear purple crystal Aether for their pins, or at least they did during the short period of time when it was fashionable to flout one’s status, which really only made them targets. As for Orichalcum? That’s just showing you got more money than sense, and doubly so since Michael don’t keep it polished. What should be shiny, bright and golden is tarnished green and ugly, which is just sad seeing how the cost of metal alone could pay a year’s worth of fees on Carter’s new dock and still have change left over for next spring and summer. A tempting sum that’s got my trigger finger itching, but lucky for Michael, I ain’t no thief or bandit. I’ll take it off him when I kill him legit, so all I gotta do is wait until he makes the first move.
And he will make a move at some point. He’s been playing it cool so far, acting all friendly like he ain’t cheesed about getting drawn on, but I see right through him. This is a man whose pride is brittle as eggshells, because you don’t drop that much cash on an Abjurer’s sigil unless it’s all you got to be proud of. Don’t see no pins or brooches representing other Schools of Magic, nor any triangles, hexagons, or nonagons around to say he a Magus, Grandmagus, or Archmagus. He didn’t call himself a Capo, Consigliere, or Underboss either, though I already knew as much. Doubt the big cheese rides out to collect the dues himself, so Michael ain’t nothin’ but a soldato, a soldier and hatchet man sitting low on the totem pole. Can’t be all that then, so I doubt he’s got a Third Order Spell. Might wear the brooch because he’s gotten good with one particular First or Second Order Abjuration Spell. The lack of polish on the expensive sigil says he catches flak for it too, but he spent too much on the piece to let it go. Arrogant and stubborn, while mafiosos are hardly known for their calm tempers or self-control, all of which tells me Michael ain’t a man to forgive or forget.
And if that ain’t enough to convince me? His two Innate goons are giving away the game with their bloodthirsty glares, telling me this ain’t over just yet. They won’t come at me today though. No, I already got the jump on them once, and Michael knows he won’t get away with grabbing his guns and doubling back. Too predictable, so he’ll leave and come find me another time, one of his choosing because he’s a thug who don’t got the stomach for a fair fight. That’s why he’s got a shield sigil rather than any other symbol, because his Abjuration Spells make him feel safe, and he probably walks around buffed to the gills in Abjuration Spells every minute of the day, which is why he needs Rituals to help fill in the gaps.
I know, I know. I’m making a lot of assumptions about the man’s character, and I could be completely wrong. Don’t think I am, but I’ll stay guarded all the same, ready to drop him and his goons should they so much as twitch funny.
“So what’s your deal, kid?” Michael asks, gesture at me and then all around us. “They run you out of town or something? You live here now?”
“Nah. Just work here.”
“You do that dock? Nice job. Must’ve cost Carter a pretty penny. What’s your going rate?”
“Zero.” I shrug. “Hard labour for conduct unbecoming. Don’t get paid.”
That seems to be a touchy subject, as Michael goes off on a bit about how hard labour is just modern slavery and the justice system is stacked against guys like him. I don’t let myself get drawn in and stay vigilant just in case. If we do throw down here and now, it’ll be a tough fight. Got a dozen different ways to deal with enemy Spellslingers, most of which start and end with a Bolt to the head before they know the fight’s started. Gets trickier when you gotta let the other side make the first move. Still feel confident I can take ‘em considering I got more guns than they got people, but Spells are one hell of an equalizer. Can never account for them all, so all you can do is be ready to act when the Spells start flying, or preferably before. Most important of all though, if a fight does break out, then I need to be sure I get every last mafioso around. There’s three here and the two chuckleheads I spotted further back, but there could be more. Can’t afford to let a single witness get away and spread word of what happened, because Carter and his people will be the ones taking heat. Doesn’t matter that I’m unaffiliated, because criminals don’t care about the facts. All they’ll care about is the fact that their people got hit, and that means they gotta hit back.
Me, I can handle myself well enough, but Carter and his people? Their Wildshaping don’t change the fact that they might as well be sitting ducks out here. No guards, no law enforcement, no friendly neighbours to bear witness, meaning there’s nothing stopping the Mafia from showing up one night with a dozen men and molotovs aplenty.
Which is why I gotta make sure don’t none of this blow back on no innocents, on top of letting Michael make the first move. Sucks having to play by the rules when your enemies never do, while also being held to a higher standard than normal. Not just because of Uncle Teddy’s expectations, but everyone else’s too, because now that I got a rep for stepping outside the lines, everything I do will be seen in that same light. If word gets out that I took out a mafioso, I wouldn’t put it past the rumor mill to paint me as a wannabe criminal mastermind looking to muscle in on the Mafia or something.
All that is putting the horse before the cart though, so I focus on the here and now. I keep an eye on Michael and pretend to ignore the goons, because that bothers all three of ‘em which suits me just fine. Carter comes out after a couple tense minutes looking mighty put out, and it’s easy to guess why when he beelines over towards me. “Elodie’s got my wallet,” I say, before he can open his mouth, and Carter nods as he holds it up, having already anticipated as much. Rather than accept it, I simply shake my head and say, “Take what I owe you.” Ain’t gonna make him ask for a loan, not to pay off some skeezy mobster. As an alternative, I meet Carter’s eyes in a wordless offer to make this all go away. He doesn’t nod or shake his head, just presses his lips together in silent rejection as he takes what he needs and gives the wallet back to my waiting Mage Hand.
Which tucks it away in my back pocket before settling on the handle of my Doorknocker without trying to hide it. Makes both goons shift on their feet, as they none too happy to see it, while Michael gives a little chuff and a shake of his head to act all amused. I don’t buy it though. Doubt he’s used to dealing with people ready to fight back, because the mere mention of his status and backing is usually enough to rattle most folks. In his mind, he the big bad wulf, and the rest of us are all Red Riding Hoods who exist to bring him tribute, so he don’t like being reminded that there are huntsman around who kill wulves for a living.
Michael accepts the cash from Carter and counts it all out then and there, which takes a bit seeing how there so many ones and fives. “Saw your girl out there,” he says, by way of idle conversation, and Carter tenses up to hear it. “Didn’t know you had a daughter. You kept her hidden good.”
“She’s Aether-touched,” Carter replies.
“Yea I figured,” Michael replies. Gesturing back at the spiky headed goon, he says, “Cold Cuts there has a kid the same way. Fifteen and tough as nails, but ain’t all there in the head.” The spike-headed Innate grunts in affirmation, and for a brief, infinitesimal moment I wonder if I read Michael wrong regarding his interest in Elodie. Then he opens his mouth again, and the moment passes. “Could get her work, if you want. Good lookin’ girl like her would make decent money, even with all that shit on her face. Pay your yearly dues and then some.”
Only need one guess to figure out what sort of work Michael got in mind, and it takes every iota of self-control not to shoot him dead here and now. Carter though, he cool as a cucumber as he shakes his head and lies through his teeth. “I appreciate the offer, but no thank you.”
“Well, you ever change your mind about the dock or the girl, you let me know.” Waving the envelope of cash he extorted from Carter, Michael adds, “Her signing bonus would make this look like chump change.” As he turns to mount his horse, he shoots me a smile. “Be seeing you around, kid.”
“Not if I see you first.” That wipes the smile off the mobster’s smarmy face, and he turns away without another word. While they’re all distracted, I activate a Spell Structure in my mind and Intone, “Effugere – Non – Poteso”, or “You cannot escape.” The Vocal Component to Hunter’s Mark muttered under my breath, a First Order Spell I sling at the talon-handed goon’s horse. The beast feels the Spell take effect and side steps away, its ears flicking and hooves pawing as the goon tries to get it under control. The goons don’t think nothing of it, and I don’t think Michael does either. Clocked how Talon there was the worst rider of the bunch, which is why I went for his horse instead of someone else’s, but the beast calms soon enough since the Spell don’t do any actual damage.
It's something of an upgrade to the True Strike Cantrip, which intuitively helps to guide the Caster’s aim. Hunter’s Mark does the same thing against one specific target, but also has the added benefit of making said target easier to track and follow. As the horse and rider disappears into the forest, I can feel a mental tug moving in that direction, one that will guide me to the location of my marked target without fail until the Spell ends. Without a range limit mind you, so long as the target started within range of the Spell. Lasts a full hour and requires Concentration, but should my target die, I can move the mark to another target within range with little more than a thought.
It’s mostly there to make sure they don’t double back with their guns and their friends. Handy little utility First Order Spell that’s the bread and butter of the Scout’s kit, one I need a whole lot of practice with. Would love to run off and follow Michael into the woods, maybe track him back to their base camp even, but that might take days and I don’t got the supplies for a trip. A shame we didn’t get into a scuffle. With a bit of blood, hair, or even a torn piece of cloth from his fancy trench coat, I’d have a Spell focus for Locate Creature or Locate Object that’d be good for three days. Those Spells do exactly what you think they do, but you need a link to whatever it is you looking to locate, like the blood, hair, or cloth. After three days though, those are all no good, because they’ve been separated from their original host for too long and lose that magical connection the Spells rely on to track their target.
More importantly though, Hunter’s Mark could’ve saved Marcus’ life back in Pleasant Dunes. Already knew a Mind Spike would’ve told me that the Proggie was playing dead, but I recently learned during one of Uncle Teddy’s lessons that Hunter’s Mark would’ve done the same. Which hurts because I had it prepped for the delve and had juice to sling it too, but I didn’t because I didn’t know how useful the Spell really was. I just had it prepped because it was a staple of my daddy’s everyday Spell list, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for screw up like that.
Told Simone I was to blame for Marcus’ death, but she didn’t believe it. Them’s the facts though, the ugly, unvarnished truth, and a burden I’ll have to live with for the rest of my days. Got no cure for regret, so the best I can do is make sure I never make the same mistake again.
As for Carter, he doesn’t say anything once the Mafioso’s are gone. Doesn’t punch no walls, kick no rocks, or so much as snarl and stamp his feet. Just takes a deep breath, holds it, and exhales over the course of a couple seconds, then waves me in for lunch. There’s a lot I want to say, but for once, I keep my mouth shut, because calm and collected though he may appear, I can sense his anger bubbling away just underneath the surface. Same with the other members of the community, whose emotions run the gamut from sulky to despondent as we all eat in silence, our moods sombre and gloomy not just because of Michael, but the droning Mindspire too, which hits us with Bane about halfway through our meal. We’re all more or less used to it by now, but Elodie seems real put off by the whole encounter, sticking close to her mama the whole time in search of comfort. Not sure she entirely understands what happened, but she knows a predator when she sees one, and don’t much like being seen as prey.
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Soon as we’re done eating, I head back to work with Carter and Raja, the non-distinct South-East Asian with the fake smiles. No one says much of anything at all, though I’m not sure if Raja even speaks English, as I ain’t heard him say anything besides yes, no, and ah. Least he’s stopped glaring every time I look away, so that’s something, though he’s got his eyes narrowed, lip curled, and nose wrinkled in obvious resentment as he toils away laying stone bricks and mortar beside me. As for me, I play it cool and maintain my hold on Hunter’s Mark for the next hour and a half, sensing the horse moving further and further north until I can’t hold my Concentration any longer. A poor showing to be sure, since my daddy could hold Hunter’s Mark for eight hours easy, and go a full day if he upcasted it to Third Order. Got to a point where he could cast it without effort like it was a Cantrip rather than a First Order Spell, which is one of many signature skills that the United Federation Rangers are known for.
Got a long ways to go before I catch up, and even longer before I surpass him. Longer still if I don’t keep practicing, but the Mindspire’s got all the birds and marties in hiding, so I haven’t had many targets to work with. Maybe I should start using Hunter’s Mark in fights and throwing it on Abby as they run away. Could give me a general idea of where they’re scampering off to, but seeing how they’ll know they’ve been marked, I doubt they’ll lead me straight to their Proggie.
Although…
“Hey boss?” I say, after a solid two hours of silence while hanging out on the scaffolding. “You guys spend a lot of time swimming out in the lake, right? Been doing that for years, probably.” Carter nods, and acts like that’s the end of it, but I push on and ask, “You ever spot any Abby tunnels down there?”
“No.” Giving me a look that says he knows what I’m thinking, Carter gives me a look from across the near finished dock. “We avoid Aberrations wherever we can. A simple enough task since they are not built for speed.” Makes sense seeing how mudkippers and ranakin are ambush hunters, while merhounds are pack hunters that work in groups to wear their quarry down. Guess sea lions are pretty fast swimmers then, though I still don’t know what they look like.
Undeterred by Carter’s curt replies, I ask, “Well, you got an inkling of any Abby hotspots then? General locations would be good enough.” As if on cue, the Mindspire fluctuates and the pitch sharpens enough to make me wince. “Could help narrow down where the Proggie’s hiding, or reveal an opening down under dark for the Rangers to delve into.” Carter doesn’t say anything, but Raja glances at him to see if he’ll say anything, which is telling because it means there’s something worth saying. “If you’re worried about folks finding out,” I say, keeping it vague because you never know who might be listening, “Then I could say I was the one who noticed it. Claim I marked a froggie or tagged a fish and came across a point of interest. Anything comes of it, I’ll make sure the reward gets to you and yours.”
Carter spends a long time pondering over his answer, and I don’t push him for one. I just continue laying stones and marking out where the Etches will go when we have the materials needed to lay a ward. Materials they could’ve afforded if they didn’t have to save up to pay their protection fees, a reminder which puts me in a foul mood. All I can think about is drawing a bead on Michael’s greasy face and putting a Bolt clean through it, or tracking down his base of operations so I can set fire to the whole thing and laugh as them mobsters die screaming inside. Would be too merciful an end if I’m being honest, because mobsters are no different from scavs, a burden on society who offer no benefit whatsoever while being a drain on resources like food and fresh air.
Got plenty of the latter. Just don’t believe mobsters and scavs deserve any is all, and you can’t tell me different. Maybe Michael’s right and hard labour is just modern-day slavery, but if I’m being honest, I got no real issues with that. Least then we can put criminals to work, instead of paying for their room and board in a jail cell somewhere, or worse, leaving them to be a drain out in the world like they are.
With the three of us working in silence, we manage to put the finishing touches on the dock by late-afternoon, and all that’s left is to let it dry before removing the cofferdam keeping all the water at bay. A full day at minimum, at least two to be safe, so I tell Carter to let it to sit for the weekend, and that I’ll come back Monday morning to finish up. “No need,” he says. “That’s less than an hours worth of work, which doesn’t meet the minimum requirements for hard labour. We can take it down ourselves.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little awkward as I glance around in search of something else to do. “Don’t suppose you got any more work for me to do? Would love to end today with a full ten to put me at two-thirty.” Leaving me with only 250 hours of hard labour to go.
“I’ll mark it down as ten,” Carter says, waving my concerns away. “You worked overtime most days you were here, so it’s only fair.”
Makes sense, but I don’t feel right shirking my hours, even if it’s only by a few. This here a punishment set by Uncle Teddy, so I gotta be able to look him in the eye and honestly tell him I done all 480 hours to make things right. I don’t argue though, just keep the facts in mind as Carter fills out my time sheet hands it over before asking if I got a map of the lake. I do, and he sends the next half hour marking areas on it and telling me what to look for, details I commit to memory while asking relevant questions the Rangers might want to know about. There are three areas of interests he thinks needs checking out, while he’s got a half-dozen other locations that are only slightly promising. Still more than what I had before, and I thank him for the help. Offer to waive the money borrowed too, because even if the info doesn’t lead us to the Proggie, I could make bank setting up ambushes for Abby. He tries to refuse, but I’m more stubborn than he is, so he got no choice but to accept it soon enough.
At which point we hit a lull in our conversation as I wait around in hopes of an invitation to come back, and he stands there in a firm but polite manner that tells me he got no work for me, and that I should be on my way. It’s an incredibly articulate stance he’s got there, one I read well enough, but even though I got more prospects for work up in Mueller’s Quay, I’d much rather finish all my hours here. They don’t expect much in the way of social interaction, leave me be without pestering me with questions, and mortifying as some of my exchanges with Elodie might have been, she’s got this straightforward, guileless, child-like nature that makes me want to protect her from all the ugliness out here on the Frontier.
So of course I feel compelled to explains things to Carter. “So about Elodie,” I begin, before I’ve had time think of what I’m going to say.
Luckily, Carter understands. “No need,” he says, with a little half smile and shake of his head. “I know you have no ill-intent towards her. No romantic interest either, which is a relief, though I can’t say I understand.” The half-smile turns into a full one as he looks me up and down. “Most boys your age are drawn to pretty girls like moths to a flame, but you seemed upset to learn that Elodie was a girl instead of a wild, ferocious beast.”
“Because I got my priorities straight.” Grinning, I explain, “I know plenty of pretty girls, but how many prospects for unstoppable, magical beasts do I have? Only Cowie, and he plenty stoppable so far, making a diamondclaw a most welcome addition to the family.” Which is a real bummer. Here I am, a one-handed man without a diamondclaw to my name. Which is the same place this time last week, but it’s all a matter of perspective. Thought I found a shortcut, a springboard to launch me far enough ahead to make up for lost time and then some, but alas, it was all just a dream, and now I’m mourning a fluffy friend I never had in the first place.
Doesn’t help that Elodie was so cute as a diamondclaw, with them big, round eyes and that adorable, permanent smile. And those human-like mannerisms like how she tucked her hands, held her food, or fell back into my arms and looked up at my face. All actions which were just animalistic enough to make it seem like a real smart creature, rather than a person masquerading as an animal, though as far as I can tell, that’s just how she is when she Wildshapes. She’s not Elodie in a diamondclaw body; she’s a diamondclaw with Elodie’s memories and maybe even cognitive abilities, but not necessarily the same thought processes.
“You only think this way because you’ve never met a diamondclaw in the wild,” Carter says. Seeing my wince, he continues, “Or perhaps I’ve misspoken.” Which would be a great launching point for my story, if Carter wasn’t such a terrible conversationalist. “Either way, raising a pet diamondclaw is a recipe for disaster, so I would strongly advise against even trying.” Glancing back at the compound, Carter heaves a long sigh before turning around again, all serious as the grave once more. “As for Elodie… Don’t take this the wrong way Howie, but I would ask that you keep your distance and not contact her again after today.”
Now there’s a sucker punch I wasn’t expecting, because I though Carter liked me well enough, and I was hoping to stay friends with the girl at least. “Mind if I ask why?” I begin, more sad than angry to hear it. “You said it yourself. I got no romantic interest in her, or professional ones either if that’s what you’re concerned about. Don’t matter if she can turn into a diamondclaw, I would never think to bring her out on a hunt now that I know how she is.”
“I know,” Carter says, giving me a look that’s almost pity. “I also know you mean well Howie, but I fear what might come from association with you. You live a life steeped in violence, one that will remain so even if you live out the rest of your days in New Hope.” I don’t understand, and my expression gives it away, so Carter places a hand on my shoulder and explains, “You see your actions as normal and logical, and most of the time, you are right, except for those all-too-common occasions when they are anything but. How many people would make ready to draw down against a deputy over something as minor as mucking the stables? Or consider hunting down a known member of the Mafia over no real grievance at all?” Shaking his head, Carter says, “You look down on us for submitting to their demands, for paying their fees instead of fighting back, and perhaps you are right to. Yes, we could refuse, and yes, we have strength enough to fight back, but it would not end with a single skirmish. No, we would have to wage war against the Pugliano Family and their allies, and for what? So we don’t have to pay their fees? Fighting them would cost more, leave us destitute in the long run, and then where would we be? Even if we won, that would not be the end of it. A new group of criminals would emerge in their place, and then what? We fight again, and again, until we cannot fight any longer, because there will always be someone to fight.”
Got a lot on my chest that I want to say, to explain how I see things and why he’s wrong about it, but Carter just shakes his head again. “You are a good man, Howie,” he says, giving me no chance to say my piece. “You see the wrongs and mean to right them, and the world needs men and women like you, but yours is a thankless and impossible task. Chances are, your life will end in spectacular violence, and when it does, I will not have my daughter anywhere near you.”
Which I suppose is his right, and I can’t even argue against it. Lost my hand because I was too stubborn to even pretend to submit, and almost got shot by Deputy Juan for the same stupid reason. Can’t help it though, because it’s how my daddy raised me, to stand up for what I believe in and fight back against injustice. Still gotta get the last word in though, because while Carter ain’t wrong, he ain’t entirely right either. “And what happens when you can’t back down no more?” I ask, keeping the heat out of my tone like it’s just a normal conversation. “What happens when Michael raises the price beyond what you can afford or is no longer willing to take no for an answer?”
“Then we fight,” Carter replies, all matter of fact like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Seeing that I don’t get it, he explains, “The difference is that I will only fight when I have no other option.”
Whereas I wake up spoiling for one. Which is the crux of the issue, now ain’t it? “Fair enough,” I say. I don’t like it, but I get it, so I can’t hold it against him. “No hard feelings. I’ll get my things and head on out then.” Extending my hand for a shake, I add, “Was good working with you.”
“It was,” Carter replies as he clasp my hand firmly. “A shame you could not love the work. I think you would be much happier if you did.” Pointing at the dock we’ve built, he says, “The world places too little pride in this.” Pointing at the gun on my hip, he continues, “And too much in that, when it should be the other way around. As Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, ‘the real and lasting victories are those of peace, and not of war’.”
Wise words to reflect on as he leaves me to gaze at my work. It’s a good, solid stone brick dock, nowhere near as big or sturdy as the one my daddy helped build up in Mueller’s Quay, but one I finished in three days when most mundane crews working by hand would take at least two weeks. Mostly thanks to using Mould Earth to level the foundation and liberal application of the First Order Evaporate Water Spell to dry the mortar and cement which Carter’s people mixed up themselves. Filled the whole interior with cement and rubble, and then took turns slinging the Spell to dry it up right quick, allowing us to lay brick and build nonstop without having to wait. A lavish expense when you think about it, because what construction crew can afford to have so many accomplished Spellslingers on payroll?
It's an accomplishment to be sure, one I played no small part because I seen these construction methods used by the Rangers, and showed Carter’s people how it’s done. I don’t mind doing it either, as hard labour lets me focus on the job in front of me and shut out everything else, to the point where even the droning Mindspire doesn’t bother me too much. Thing is, there ain’t nothing to love about the work, because end of the day, it’s a dock. Or it’s a pipeline. A water tower. A cobbled path. An irrigation system. All marks on the Frontier that I’ve made here in this community, but who’s gonna care besides Carter and his people? A lot of people can do what I did here, even if it takes them longer to do it, so what’s there to take pride in?
Sure, the lasting victories are made in peace, but don’t no one remember what the date was when New Hope got hot water, when we broke ground on the Highway, or the day the first watermill in town went operational. No, we remember the days that battles were won, and to win, you gotta fight, which is a job not everyone can do. Me, I do it damn well, and it’s work I love to boot. What’s the saying? Do what you love and never work a day in your life, and I know what I love.
Stressful as my job for the Sherrif might’ve been, it made me feel happier than I have in weeks. Not because of the excitement you get from putting everything on the line and walking into a village full of armed strangers, or even the fact that I did some good getting the information out there. Wasn’t the fight with Abby that made me happy neither, or the profits reaped from their corpses. It’s the thrill of the unknown, of never knowing what’s going to happen next, whether I’m gonna have a sleepy, boring ride through the forest or stumble across a fluffy baby murder machine who you instantly fall in love with and want to cuddle and spoil for the rest of your life.
Except it wasn’t a fluffy baby murder machine, just a lovely, innocent, green-eyed, green haired girlie whose daddy don’t want nothing to do with me.
“Howie,” Elodie proclaims, running over carrying Cowie in her arms with Old Tux and her mama trailing close behind. “You are leaving so soon?”
“Yep,” I say, smiling to see her reluctant expression because it’s so rare to meet someone who finds genuine comfort in my presence. She doesn’t pester me to tell her stories or drag me away to play games, puts no demands on my attention, and just wants to be near me. That’s all it takes to make her happy, offering her unconditional affection for no real reason as far as I can tell, and as uncomfortable as her fixation on making me her husband might be, I’ve grown real fond of her in our short time together. Patting her head one last time, I say, “Works all done, so it’s time to head home.”
Leaning into the touch until I’m all but pushing her away, Elodie fixes her big, green eyes on mine and asks, “You will come back Monday, yes?”
“Afraid not.” Breaks my heart to see her pout, but I power through it and explain while I set to saddling Old Tux. “There’s no more work to be done, so I’ll probably keep Chrissy company for the week. Tina’s headed off to escort a caravan down south, the first of many heading out to Summerbloom. Soon as that’s done, I guess I’ll be off to Mueller’s Quay to find work enough to finish off the rest of my hours, so I’ll be busy for a good, long while.” Though she looks so very sad to hear it, I push onwards before she can ask when I’ll visit next. “You be good now, okay? No more running away from home and taking candy from strangers.”
“Yes Howie, but I did not run away. I was scared, so I swim to safety.” Elodie explains her very simplistic thought process about how she ended up swimming halfway across the lake and bypassing her home because it’s safest out in the middle of the lake. Which don’t make much sense at all to me, but she’s very matter of fact about it. Then she goes on to talk about how she’ll come to visit me and Chrissy and show us all her favourite spots out there, though I doubt it’ll actually happen. By the time I’m done and ready to leave, she’s halfway ready to cry because she don’t want me to go, but being the good girl that she is, she hasn’t asked me to stay even once. She knows I got things to do, so she don’t want to be selfish and bother me, which is just the sweetest thing I done ever seen.
“Alright then,” I say, holding my arms open and gesturing for her to hand Cowie over, but Elodie mistakes it for an invitation to hug. I don’t back away this time though, which is a mistake, because she came in fast and hard expecting me to. Giving her a tight, but brief hug so her mama don’t go feral and rip my face off, I collect Cowie and say, “Time for me to hit the road then. Bye Elodie.”
“Bye bye.”
Again, she don’t complain, just stands there and watches me go while waving goodbye. Is still watching and waving when I turn around to look a minute later, standing there on her tippy toes to see me through the trees. I wave back, then disappear around the bend as Old Tux brings me back home for the night. A bittersweet parting, because the girl is too pure, and I can’t help but feel like I’m abandoning her by the wayside never to see her again. Bit of a whirlwind appearance, showing up in my life like that only to disappear again, and I doubt I’ll forget her anytime soon.
Life goes on though, so I put the past behind me and focus on what comes next. Some time off at home doesn’t sound too bad, especially since the Mindspire’s been making Chrissy downright miserable. Can barely stand to spend more than an hour or two outside the Church everyday, even with a Mental Fortress helping her along. Aunty Ray and Tina have got it even worse, spending most their days outside without any protection whatsoever. Might be I could help out by putting some more hours into studying the Mental Fortress Spell. Then I could cast it on one of them for a few hours of solace each day, but the Spell Formula is one heck of a doozy. Lots of repetitive functions that differ ever so slightly, making it really easy to slip up and miss a changed figure or variable. There’s also the matter of building the Structure itself, which is confusing to say the least. Dense and layered flows, which make it difficult to track and visualize, so much so that I wouldn’t even be close to ready to prep it if it wasn’t for Uncle Teddy taking an hour out of his busy schedule on Tuesday to walk me through it right quick.
Having a proper teacher makes a world of difference. Took me the better part of half a year getting the Fireball Spell Structure embedded into memory, because I had to go through line by line and value by value to figure out which numbers were nodes on the Spell Structure and which were just variables meant to plug into another section of the Formula. Then I had to figure out how all them nodes matched up in real time, because a plot of coordinates ain’t the same thing as a moving model of the Spell Structure itself. In the end, I succeeded in the dumbest way possible, brute forcing the math and working things out through trial and error rather than any actual insight or understanding. It’d be like writing out the multiplication table up to nine digits in no particular order, then looking up each entry every time you gotta do math instead of just learning how to do long multiplication in your head. It works, but it’s slow and agonizing, and downright impossible without a good feel for the Spell itself. Don’t know how else to describe it, but Uncle Teddy says not everyone’s got it, and that I’m particularly gifted in this aspect, so there’s that.
In contrast? With a little guidance, I might well have Mental Fortress prepped and ready by this time next week. Probably even sooner, since I got two hours with Uncle Teddy this Sunday, which might well be all I need to iron out the last few kinks blocking me from success.
All of which has me real eager to get home and get studying so I ask all the right questions to get me what I need. Don’t let myself get too distracted though, as I remain ever vigilant throughout my travels. The forest is still eerily quiet, and the journey thus far utterly uneventful. Detect Abby gives me nothing and my Divination Cantrips give all the usual information every time I cast one. North is still behind me, the shore about twenty-two metres away, the saddle is still elk leather, the buckles 70/30 brass, and no matter how many times I cast Detect Heartbeat, the only ones that register are mine, Cowie’s, and Old Tux’s.
Or at least that’s how it is until it isn’t.
Soon as that fourth, fifth, and sixth heartbeat registers in my perception, my heart skips a beat as I heel Old Tux and spur him to action. Spry and alert as ever, he responds in an instant to get off the trail, leaping over a thicket of dense brush and around a big whitewood tree. A half-second later, two gunshots sound with a loud crack and bang, but lacking the sharp whistles to denote a Bolt flying by close to my head, but it’s got my blood boiling all the same. The crystalline chime of fast freezing ice is difficult to mistake too, and I glance back to see a patch of frozen dirt and cloud of freezing vapours that would have hit me if not for the massive tree trunk blocking the caster’s line of sight.
A close call, but this is far from over just yet. Hooves thundering on the forest floor, Old Tux zigs and zags through the trees on a course of his choosing while I look for the people who shot at me. They would’ve been better off holding their shots, because then I wouldn’t know where to look. Detect Heartbeat is designed to be used on a single target, so when you cast a wider net, you lose out on a whole lot of details like distance and direction. Not so with tracking gunfire, and doubly so when your assailants are dressed in black trench coats and fedoras in a forest full of pastel whites.
So for the second time today, I Intone, “Effugere – Non – Poteso,” to sling a Hunter’s Mark at a target, the tall, fat fellow with the quill shrew hair if I’m not mistaken. I ain’t, which I only know as soon as the Spell takes effect, showing me nothing my eyes can’t already see while helping my brain fill in the missing pieces. It’s almost like he’s outlined in glowing purple, and his expression appears clear as day from well over thirty metres away and growing as Old Tux puts distance between us. There’s anger there, but consternation too, utterly confused as to what gave him away and thoroughly dreading the fight to come.
Because he’s got orders to take me out, and was laying in wait to do just that, but now that my Hunter’s Mark has taken effect, he knows our roles have reversed. Told Michael he best have no regrets before taking a run at me, and now it’s time to practice what I preach.
Yeah… Maybe Carter was right to want nothing to do with me. This here is the life I live, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.