Most of my magic, I learned from my mama’s Spellbooks and lessons with Uncle Teddy, but my daddy was the one who taught me how to survive.
Was real good at it too. Says a lot about a man when he can run point through narrow, maze-like, Abby infested tunnels without getting got, especially after doing it for fourteen years. Finest point-man the Rangers ever had, that’s my daddy, and I been learning at his side since I was eight. He never took me through no Abby burrow, but he made sure I knew how to approach any potentially dangerous situation, which is about any given situation you might find out on the Frontier. First step is always preparation, most of which I already handled, including inching my Chicago Doorknockers outta their holsters without anyone being the wiser.
Second step is threat assessment.
Most would see Carl’s friends and focus on Jumbo. It’s only natural. Size is strength, and strength is feared or respected, as is the case with our tall, dark, brawny, bald, and bearded friend. Don’t matter that he’s likely forty, seeing how the youngest non-Qin settlers were twenty at the Advent and that was just over seventeen years ago. Jumbo is a hulking menace of muscle and he knows it. That’s why he tore the sleeves off of his nice cotton button-up, to better show off his beefy arms crossed over his hairy barrel chest, which is also left on display with an open shirt. Got a real thick neck too, which is likely why he leaves his collar unbuttoned, though that don’t excuse leaving it wrinkled, unfolded, and unstarched. Would do wonders to hide the throbbing veins in his neck, since he’s really working at looking big, flexing and straining for all he’s worth while pretending he ain’t. This only makes it clear that them bulky biceps ain’t home-grown. They got that hard, lumpy, irregular look about them, the one that screams Transmutation magic. Maybe False Brawn, a First Order Spell that only make him thick with temporary Ectoplasmic padding without bestowing any actual strength. Then again, maybe he got some real skills and cast himself a Second-Order Enhance Physique. Bull’s Strength, if we going by the old vernacular, though ain’t no way Jumbo ever gonna be a match for Cowie, pound for pound. Sure could rip me in half though. Pluck my arms right out them sockets if he really mean to, and I bet that’d be his first instinct instead of reaching for whatever gun he got hidden behind the bar.
Which would be a mistake. See, we ain’t barbarians bashing each other over the head no more. We civilized folk, ones who’ve elevated violence into a refined, genteel pastime in which we shoot each other instead. Jumbo ain’t got that memo yet, thinks we still in the stone age and his bulging thews give him the advantage. That’s why if it comes down to a fight, I’ll beat him on the draw, and his muscles, magic or otherwise, won’t do nothing to stop me from putting a Bolt through his chest or head.
The next obvious choice to focus on is lean and lanky on the right. Puts me in mind of a hobgoblin, all rangy and angular, with the addition of greasy unkempt hair and a face full of stubble. His too large and too long t-shirt don’t help his appearance none, not with the dark fabric showing sweat stains that tell me he usually wear a vest overtop it all. Hobb is the only one on my side of the bar, leaning back on one elbow while his right hand flicks his butterfly knife around. It sure do look impressive, but looks is all it is. Anyone who ever held one them knives knows it don’t take much skill to do them showy spins, just gotta wave it about and let the knife do the rest. Hobb is more casual about it than Jumbo, but he also trying to intimidate and done missed the mark. Sure, knives can be dangerous, but guns are more dangerous, and he got two of ‘em on his belt which he can’t use on account of the knife in one hand and his weight on the other. If it comes to a fight, he’ll stick me with his knife while I pump him full of Bolts, and I’ll take them odds any day of the week.
Nah, the most dangerous of the bunch is the most unassuming of them all. The man behind the bar, though Jumbo back there too. While the latter postures and flexes, the bossman stands slouched and leaning with arms folded over the bar. No mistaking him for anything else, as his ain’t a tired or lazy lean. It’s a looming lean, a predatory lean, a power lean, one belonging to a man who stands up high looking down on his kingdom, wondering who he gonna kill for his next meal. This is his turf we in. The bossman knows it, I know it, everyone else knows it too, and he basks in that knowledge in like a cool spring breeze. The bossman is in control and likes it that way, as one can tell by his handsome, well-groomed appearance. Got strong features and piercing blue eyes under his long dirty-blonde locks, all pulled back into a neat and tidy ponytail that hangs low and straight. Supporting all that is a trimmed and brushed beard which comes to a rounded point that almost reaches his chest, the hair so straight and fine I’m of a mind to ask him what product he use.
Not cause I got a need for it myself; my black hair is naturally straight, as is with most born of blood from the Qin Republic. I got no facial hair to care for neither, or at least none worth mentioning. Nah, what I need hair product for is Cowie’s curlycues. His shaggy white coat got a real tousled look that no amount of brushing can fix. Makes him look cute and all, but he a grown bull now, so it’s high time he updated his look for something more stylish.
As for the bossman, his neat appearance is only accentuated by the simplicity of his clothes. A dark, navy-blue shirt with crisp pearl buttons done up all the way to his starched collar, and shirttails tucked in tight. Even the man’s cuffs are buttoned up, with little silver links to boot, which I only ever seen on Uncle Teddy’s Sunday best. Ain’t nothing fancy, but the bossman wears it all with a regal pride, one accentuated by the silver belt buckle holding up two shiny and expensive Aetherarms. Can’t quite tell the model, as I’m unfamiliar with the design, maybe custom work for the bossman who likes his hand cannons big and nasty. Loud too I bet, because when a man like him kills, he wants the world to take notice.
Composed. Methodical. Domineering. That’s the bossman in a nutshell, and those traits mark him as a dangerous fellow, more so than the impression of impending violence he exudes so casually while watching my approach with a slight smile. Jumbo and Hobb lost interest the moment they laid eyes on me, because all they see is a skinny kid who’ll scare easy. A well-armed kid, but a kid nonetheless, wearing a goofy smile, his daddy’s oversized coat, and a cowboy hat like I’m dressed up for a costume party. That’s why they’ll die third and second. Their disdain stings my pride a bit, but I get it, so I’ll overlook it, maybe even forgive it. Prefer it even, compared to the bossman’s studied interest. He sees something that holds his eye, but I can’t quite tell what it is or how that makes him feel, nor can I say what it means. Nonetheless, ain’t nothing left to do except move on to step 3, and engage.
Raising a hand to touch the forward-facing medallion of my Stetson and hoping it look casual, I keep my pearly whites on full display and mosey on over to the bar. Soon as I’m there, I stick my hand out for a shake and say, “Howdy folks. Name’s Howie Zhu. Good to meet you.”
Neither Jumbo nor Hobb makes a move to reciprocate, because my handshake ain’t for them. It’s for the bossman. The other two are just furniture to me, and I make no secret of it, a point the bossman notes with a smirk as he looks me up and down as you do. A moment passes in silence before he gives a dry chuckle, just a small one as he slaps his hand into mine and clamps down tight. “Ronald Jackson.” The bossman’s voice is deep and gravelly, his accent crisp and neat, and his words slow and unhurried. His deep blue eyes are full of cheerless mirth and his grip crushing without overwhelming, as he waits a beat before adding, “President and C.E.O of Vanguard National.”
Already figured they’d be company men, seeing how this here is a company saloon and they all sporting V.N embroidered onto their dark coloured shirts. Didn’t figure on meeting the head honcho himself though, which could be bad or good. Either way, one thing’s for sure: if all hell breaks loose, then I’mma kill Ron first.
Nothing to do but play along with his game. He’s expecting least a wince before he intends to let go, and there’s no need to put on an act. I ain’t the smallest feller around, but Ron’s got twenty years and at least hundred pounds on me, not to mention a good six inches if not more. No need to fret, as I ain’t done growing just yet, and five-eight ain’t exactly short neither. “Good to meetcha Mr. Jackson,” I reply, still smiling after he releases my hand, and I give it a good flap to make sure it still work. Little joke there, showing everyone he the big man, something he appreciates as he gestures for me to take the seat across from him at the bar. One at the end that puts Jumbo to my right and Hobb to my left. Ain’t the worst spot to start a gunfight, so I hop up onto the square stool, wince as the sharp corners dig into my wranglers, and settle in with both hands laid flat atop the bar once I’m ready to get underway.
Ron’s eyes flick to my hands and he offer me a little nod, a thank you for my polite notice of a lack of intent to draw guns or waggle fingers. A proper professional then, unlike Carl and his boys. Speaking of Carl, he gives me a nod and a smile after knuckling his head for the bossman, and I nod back as he turns to leave. It’s a wonder how he can be so ignorant of what’s happening in front of him. He just plain don’t sense the tension and thinks everything hunky dory. Well, better than him walking me into ambush and feeling mighty fine about it. Like I said, Carl ain’t a bad sort, but he greener than green and dumb as a bag of bricks.
Ron on the other hand, well, he been around the block and knows more than a little bit, still wearing his little smirk as he bobs his head up and down, not quite nodding but giving the impression of approval while he looks me over. “Firm grip. A good start, boy.” Hate it when people call me boy, but at least he don’t got that sharp inflection towards the end that turn it ugly. “You brought me a fine bottle of mead, so I say it’s only fair I treat you to a drink as well.”
Out comes the glasses and bottle with a clunk, but it ain’t Ron who doing the clunking. No, that’s Jumbo, and the way he stuffs his fat fingers into the glasses makes me suspect bartending ain’t his day job. The smell hits me before the drink even touches the glass, sharp and pungent as can be. “That’s some strong shine.” Least it’ll sanitize whatever Jumbo’s fingers left in them glasses. Can’t fathom how anyone can enjoy drinking moonshine, but then again, I ain’t one for alcohol or drugs in general. Seen what it can do to a man and don’t much care for it, not even nicotine in cigs, which is about as harmless as harmless get. “Thank you kindly,” I say, giving a little nod of the head, “But ‘fraid I’ll have to take a rain check on the drink, least for a hot minute. Need a clear head for work if I’m fixing to keep the job, and I am.”
“No need to worry son.” Ron leans in close with a twinkle in his eye, like we friends whispering over secrets. Picked up on how I didn’t like being called boy too. Sharp man. Don’t miss much it seems, but I hide how I don’t like being called son better. “You’re only seventeen, and it’s illegal to serve drinks to minors. That glass could get me in some real hot water, but if you don’t tell, and I don’t tell, then what do we got to worry about?”
Bet he’s a real charmer, and not just with the ladies. There something about Ron that makes a man want to befriend him, impress him, be useful to him. Ain’t magic, far as I can tell, just natural charisma, him knowing how to talk to a stranger and make you feel like best friends. “Well, I’ll drink to that,” I say, acting all eager like I was just waiting for the excuse to my glass, which I clink against his before we both take a pull. Mine’s not too big, because a half-glass of this shine might well have me slipping off my seat, but enough to make it look like I’m a stupid, excited kid who don’t smell what he done stepped in. “Hoooooo-wee!” I exclaim, coughing and patting my chest. “That’ll get your Cores primed.”
“You handle it well, son. Shine has a real bite which takes some getting used to.” Holding up the half-empty bottle of mead I asked Carl to bring in, Ron gives it a good, appreciative look as he continues, “Not like the mead you brought me. Smooth, light, and dry. Good flavour profile too. How long you let it sit?”
“Three months to ferment, and three weeks to settle. Got my daddy’s special blend of herbs to go along with it, give it that nice smoky aftertaste.”
Ron nods along then frowns and shakes his head. “A real luxury, comparable to what we had in the old world, and a steal at a dollar a bottle, son. You’re selling yourself short. I’ll give you two dollars a bottle for the sixty you got, and the same price if you bring me more.” This is not how I expected this meeting to go, so I’m a little caught off guard by the generous offer. Not because of the amount, just having trouble keeping up with what’s going on. Good thing Ron reads my confusion as shock, or maybe he thinks I’m tipsy. “It’s worth every dollar,” he says, giving me a wink and pat on the shoulder, “But we’ll settle up after you have a bite to eat. Laura sweetheart?” The last is directed to the waitress, a lovely dark-skinned belle with curled ringlets dressed a little more conservatively than the gals outside, but not by much. She also looks completely done with all this, her pretty features locked in pursed lips and a frigid gaze as she slowly saunters on over. Totally lacking all the social graces that one might expect from someone in hospitality services, she stops a few steps short and looks at Ron with hand on hip and waits. Sassy and real fetching, so I take a moment to appreciate the view. “Be a dear and fetch our friend here a plate of steak and taters.”
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“That sounds mighty fine, thank you.” Still don’t understand what’s happening, but I could eat, and it’s hard not to stare at miss Laura as she struts away through the heavy kitchen doors, all the way over at the other end of the bar. Because I’m hungry. And maybe other reasons too, but not ones I mean to act on. “Rangers do a lot of things well, but making travel rations ain’t one.”
That earns me another dry chuckle, all too brief again as Ron intones, “Some things never change. Army chow is not made for the taste.”
“Made to get you where you’re going,” I say, completing the saying. It’s something I’ve heard Uncle Teddy say, meaning Ron’s got some army training in him too. They the same age? They don’t look it, but it’s hard to tell with white folk sometimes. I seen fifteen-year-olds who look thirty-five, and forty-year-olds who look twenty. Ron here is the latter. “You serve?”
“Signed up and did four years in Lebanon up until ‘84. A real Charlie Foxtrot.” Another term I’ve heard from Uncle Teddy, but he won’t tell me what it means. Ron just assumes I know, so I nod sagely along despite never having heard of Lebanon or about what happened in ’84. “After we pulled out, I signed on for the Frontier. Figured I survived that hellhole, so how much worse could it get?” Shaking his head with a sigh, Ron adds, “Turns out, much worse. At least we had equipment in Lebanon.”
And just like that, all the pieces fall into place. How disappointing. So disappointing I can’t help but sigh and slump down. I blame the shine, because otherwise, I’d’ve hid it better and played along, but it’s too late now. Ron gives me a questioning look, and there’s no sense trying to get back into the game, nor have I any desire to. “Yea, sorry.” Scratching my head for the best way to frame my words, I settle on being frank and forthright. “It ain’t nothin’ you said or did, see? I was just mistaken regardin’ the intentions behind this meetin’, and the penny just dropped. Hence my disappointment. Not aimed at you, but me, for not seein’ it sooner.”
The wheels are turning, but Ron still don’t get it, but only because he don’t got all the pieces in play. Not his fault, plus the drink’s making me really lean into my accent, which I’m told is thick even on the best of days. “And what did you think this meeting was about? A few cases of mead?” Ron’s decided friendly is no longer working, so now he trying derision, like I’m gonna fall over myself to win his approval.
Won’t work though. I got more than my fair share of approval growing up, and from men much better than him. “Nah. Honestly?” I ask, with a shrug and a smile, figuring I might as well tell the whole truth, because I ain’t got any other reasonable excuse. “I thought y’all might be fixin’ to rob an’ kill me. Was hopin’ for it really.” Course, now Ron’s really confused, but I don’t wanna get into it. Ain’t nothing to be gained from saying I thought he might be a thieving, murdering rapist, or that he might be consorting with them. Could still be, truth told. Just cause I don’t think Ron is my outlaw don’t mean he ain’t cozy up to them. Man like him who run this town the way he do, he’d probably welcome the help of monstrous animals like the ones I’m hunting down.
“Look, why don’t I save us all some time?” Drumming a bit on the bar top while I gather my thoughts, I rattle off everything I just put together. “I’m thinkin’ you and your boys got a problem. An Abby problem, to be precise. An armoured Abby problem would be my best guess, on account of all the Tec-LS’s and Snapdragons I seen outside. Thems Penetrating Aetherarms they are, and any gunsmith who can make those should have the chops and know-how to pump out the Tec-L and Tass98, both of which are easier, cheaper and flat out better in most situations. Unless you shooting something armoured, of course. How am I doing so far, Ron?”
A knife slams into the wooden bar with a bang, the steel quivering between my thumb and index finger while Hobb leans in real close. “That’s Mister. Jackson. Boy.”
There’s the sharp inflection at the end, the one which turns the word ugly. Unimpressed by Hobb’s words, actions, proximity, or odour, I fix him with a blank look. “Ye missed.”
“…What?”
Ugh, that stench. I get it, we in a desert and water is scarce, but ain’t Hobb ever heard of a Cantrip called Deodorant? “My hand. Ye missed.” Slowing down my speech to make sure he understands what I’m saying, I explain, “I get it. Ye wanted to take initiative, get us back on track. Put a little scare into the boy so he more liable to do whatcha want. Thing is, if ye wanna intimidate someone, it works better if ye stab them, not the bar, even if you trying to show how precise you can be.” Flicking the flat of the knife’s blade with my left hand, I pick up the pace and continue, “Besides, ye slammed it down so ‘ard the darn thing’s prolly wedged tighter than a Templar’s drawers. Makes for a sorry sight, ye strugglin’ to pull it back out. Not to mention now ye up close and personal, so ye can’t keep track of what’s happening around ye.” Hobb’s confusion is clear, and his hesitation even more so. This ain’t the reaction he expected, but he seen enough to know it ain’t an act neither. I got no fear or concern for him, and he don’t know why. Then the answer pokes him between the legs and his eyes go wide with a gasp as he tries to stand on his tippy toes, like that’ll make any difference.
“Jacob?” Ron finds his lack of control over the situation aggravating to the extreme, especially since he’s not sure how he lost it.
“Fucking Qi – he got a Blastgun pointed at my balls!” Pressed right up against them in fact, all purple, primed, and ready to shoot. That right there is how you make a threat. Credit to him, Hobb’s voice only pitches and quivers a bit while his eyes are fixed on my gun. “Got another one pointed at Franky too, through the bar.”
That’d be Jumbo, but I’mma keep their nicknames. “No, no, no,” I says, shaking my head in disappointment. “Don’t be castin’ no aspersions on my actions now.” Turning to Ron, I put on a patient expression and explain, “I ain’t pointing a Blastgun at yer man. Well, okay, it is technically pointed towards his nether regions, but only cause he stepped so close while I was bringing it out to show you. It’s a real beaut of an armour penetrating Aetherarm, something that might help ye with yer problem.” Having made my point clear, I wait while holding Ron’s stare, his eyes just brimming with questions. Considering he sees both my hands still laid out flat atop the bar, I can understand his confusion regarding how I’m holding not one, but two Blastguns to his men. I ain’t ready to show and tell just yet though. “Is it alright, Mr. Jackson? If I bring my Blastgun up for a look-see? Or is your skittish boy here gonna be a problem?”
Though displeased regarding what’s transpired, I’d say most of Ron’s ire is directed towards Hobb, who jumped the gun, so to speak. We was just talking about their problems, and I ain’t had a chance to say my full piece, but now I got my guns out and hold the upper hand. Hands, in fact. “Jacob,” Ron begins, and to his credit, Hobb finds it in himself to pull his eyes away from the gun pressed up against his dangly bits. “Quit looming over our friend here and come around to this side of the bar. The long way, with your hands where he can see them.”
“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Jackson,” I say as Hobb leaves his knife behind to follow orders, and I mean it too, though I keep my guns trained on Hobb and Jumbo for now. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll paint the walls with Hobb’s blood and everyone else’s too if I have to, but we ain’t that far gone just yet. That’s why I’m putting so much effort into enunciating my words now. Sound more proper like. “And I apologize for getting overly familiar earlier and calling you by your first name. Bit of it is the shine, but most of the fault lies with me, for letting it get to me. Won’t happen again.”
“Nonsense.” Ron’s smile don’t reach his eyes, same as ever before, but this time those baby blues hold a promise that run contrary to what his lips be saying. “You can call me Ron anytime you like, boy.”
This low-down, spongin’ son of a… “Appreciate it, Mr. Jackson.” Now that we know where we both stand, I turn a bit in my seat so I can face all three from across the bar and keep an eye on the patrons and anyone else who might be coming in. Helps that it puts my back facing the wall too, but I don’t think the drinking folk even notice anything amiss. They all still sitting quiet and working on their drinks and cigs, doing their best to down their sorrows in a shallow puddle. While I scan the crowd, Jumbo tries to be all sneaky like and move, but I snap back to him like a harpy who done spotted a lone child in the field. “You keep your hands where they are big guy, because if you reach for that weapon again, I’m of a mind to start Blasting.”
And Jumbo believes it. Hobb and Ron too, because when I say it, I let it show. That same, savage air of violence that all men of our nature possess, a primed readiness to inflict brutal and dire harm upon another human being. The only difference is, I show mine with a smile. It ain’t because I enjoy it, or even because I want it, but about the necessity. If there’s killing that’s needing to be done, then I’m more than happy to do it.
Way I see it, I’m making the Frontier a better and safer place, one dead dirtbag at a time.
Once I’m sure Hobb and Jumbo know to behave, I turn back to focus on Ron, who gives a little whistle as my Blastguns float on up to settle on the bar. Carried there by my Mage Hands, two transparent, almost spectral constructs made entirely of glowing blue Ectoplasm. They start with a wrist and end at the tips of five fingers, with dimensions all the same as mine. They do most things my real hands can do with nothing more than a thought, though they clumsier about it than the originals. Just a silly little Cantrip I used to play with all the time, on account of all the stories my daddy told me about my mama. She was an industrious sort, always crafting or writing, and the Mage Hands helped her do even more. Work on knitting both socks at once or making dumplings while she writes, little things to speed matters along and make sure everything was ready before I arrived.
That’s why Mage Hand was the first Cantrip I ever learned, which makes it one of my more practiced Spells to boot.
“Never seen someone Conjure two Mage Hands at once,” Ron says, and I simply smile in reply. My mama figured the trick out, but I’m the only one who’s picked it up so far, and I can see Ron’s mind working. He’s wondering if I got a hidden friend helping me out, and I ain’t about to ease his worries. “Impressive technique too.” On account of how he didn’t see me waggling no fingers or hear me muttering no chants. The Mage Hand Cantrip typically requires both, and while I could use my Metamagic bracelet to eschew one of those vital components, I usually don’t bother. I just cast it when no one’s looking or listening, like I did after my horse bath outside. Then I typically go about my business with the extra hands hidden under my duster, clinging to the handles of my Blastguns as it were. Takes a bit of effort to keep them around for more than ten minutes, but don’t take much to recast, and I like having them ready whenever I can. That’s why I didn’t mind dismissing them before my horse bath, and recasting them after, so as not to show them off before they’re needed.
Because a surprise is only a surprise if no one sees it coming.
“Impressive weapons too,” Ron remarks, nodding at my Blastguns resting on the bar top, next to the Mage Hands which are laid out flat too. Only seems polite now that everyone knows they there, but it's alright. I still got more cards to play.
That being said, I can’t resist talking tech when it relates to Aetherarms, so I allow myself to puff up at the compliment. “These sawn-off double-barrelled babies are custom jobs,” I begin, silently asking for permission to handle them, which Ron allows without hesitation. “Modelled after the Dresden Forzare and hand-tooled by Armand Kalthoff himself,” I proclaim, holding one up to show off the all the loopy, squiggly Metamagics Etched into the black, carbon steel barrels and dark wooden frame, Etchings which glow purple to show that the Cores are primed and readied to fire. Another threat, but I ain’t holding the gun in a proper grip, just two fingers a hand, though Jumbo and Hobb still flinch. Not Ron though, because he understands the new game we playing, and he plays it just as well as the first. Difference is that I’m the one in control now. He don’t like that much, but he gets it, so no harm in allowing him the appearance of control, if only for the sake of saving face.
A complicated thing, the games of power among men. Be a lot simpler if we just started shooting, but I still got a job to attend to, and killing Ron, Hobb, and Jumbo ain’t gonna pay the bills.
“Now it don’t look like much,” I say, after giving them a moment to drink in the view, “But this baby Blastgun packs a real punch. A modified Forzare built around a pair of First-Order Blast Spell Cores which each deliver a spray of pure kinetic Force in a cone-like pattern. Nicknamed the Chicago Doorknocker, on account of a Spellslinger for hire who got famous for using a gun just like this to bust down the doors to various mafia enterprises in that particular city.” Got a real kick outta those campfire stories, though I ain’t sure how much truth there is to them. “This dubsie is breech-loaded with two 40 grain shells and can fire one or both barrels with a single pull of the trigger. All you gotta do is cock the hammers, point, and let loose. The base Spell itself got a 45-degree arc and only reaches up to 5 meters. Not a lot of range, I know, but the standard Forzare, well that’s a 20 inch long double-barrel that’s got Metamagics to narrow and stretch that arc and range to up to 5-degrees and twenty meters if you like. Great for tunnel fighting, as you can adjust your spray to avoid chewing up the walls and scattering stone shards all about. Still only has two shots before you gotta reload, which ain’t ideal. There are revolver or pump-action Blastguns that’ll give you more shells in the tube or cylinder, but the Forzare’s Metamagic loadout is tailored for hard-hitting, armour-penetrating power at a reasonable price. You pack enough Abby in tight, like say out in one of them mining tunnels, and I bet you kill ten, maybe twelve armoured Orcs in a single Blast.”
My dubsies will also daze anything they hit and send them flying to boot, which don’t come standard. Pays to be the Firstborn sometimes; means some of the older folk treat me extra nice, including our town’s resident Danish gunsmith, Armand Kalthoff, who made my doorknockers special. “The standard Forzare comes in all flavours of damage types too,” I say, laying it on thick even though I got no real intentions of making a sale. “Fire is a favourite, but you might want to consider Acid, depending on what you up against. Something real big and armoured like a bugbear or behemoth might take more than single Blast to put down, but you hit it with Acid, and that armour will melt right off, leaving it vulnerable to Spells and regular Aetherarms which ain’t armour penetrating.”
“Very impressive.” Ron squints his eyes in silent question, and I glance at my other Blastgun on the bar as permission. Picking up my sweet little dubsie, looking so cute with its short, Etched barrels sitting side by side, he looks it over with an expert eye. While pointed away from me and down the bar mind you, since I still got mine in hand, and he ain’t in no mood to gamble his life on which one of us gonna be first to shoot. Especially since we standing so close. Even if he kills me first, my finger could still pull the trigger, which will likely kill him too. That’s why these Blastguns are perfect for using with the Mage Hand Cantrip. Although I can control the spectral hands with a thought, aiming is still tricky, and they got no hope of ever controlling recoil at all. Add in the fact that they can only hold up to 5lbs each, while moving and accelerating far too slowly to be of any use with a knife, it means my Mage Hands ain’t good for much else in a fight. With a dubsie though, I just gotta get them pointing in the general direction of what I mean to kill, and a touch of the trigger will handle the rest.
My darlings Doorknockers have saved my bacon more times than I can count. Sure, there’s only four shots between the two of them, but if I ever get myself into a mess that take more than four shots from a Dresden Forzare Blastgun to buy me time to breathe, then I done gone and made a real mess of things. I could clear this current problem up right now with just one, maybe two shots at most, though I’ll need a whole lot more to get outta dodge if we heading down that direction. I’m thinking we won’t though, as Ron ain’t looking for a gunfight, especially not one where he’s right in the thick of it. He’s still looking to get something outta me, which is why he’s playing along, but I’m afraid that’s all about to change.
“Incredible craftsmanship. Beautifully put together.” Placing my Blastgun back down with a little shake of his head, Ron posts back up against the bar with his predatory lean and a knowing look. “Only… I’m afraid I was looking for something a little more… robust. Something similar to what you have mounted on the roof of your wagon outside.”
At this point, miss Laura has the unfortunate timing to pop out from the kitchen with my steak and taters. The thump of the double doors takes us all by surprise, though I handle it better than they do. Jumbo starts in place and turns to look, but Hobb is quicker on the draw, his hands darting down to the guns on his belt and leaving me with a decision to make right quick.
Do I only kill Hobb and give Ron another chance, or should I just kill all three and call it a day?
Dagnabbit. And here I was hoping I’d still have a chance to bag my outlaws, but now I might not even get to deliver the mail.