The pellet plunged into the bark, vacuuming the tree's center into itself as if a focal point of infinity. On the opposing end, a spiraling protrusion of wood stabbed outward. He jolted the gun upward, causing some attachment at the muzzle of the flintlock to spin around the opening. As it spun, it chipped through some hollowed material attached to its left side, and a round lead ball rolled into the gun from the small opening. He fired the gun a second time, earning smogged hands from the weapon exploding. “Huh," he vocalized, "toss me ‘notherone… I’m gon’ figure it out.”
“Where did you get the galleons to buy all of these guns just to destroy?”
“It pays ta’ be buds wid an admiral – if that muh’fugger decides ta’ stay as one. Seems Jawn has a tree growin’ in his ass ever since dat-uh… what’s his face attacked the outpost,” Balton said picking another gun and a bottle in thought.
“Blassadahl,” Zolton said, kicked back against a tree. “Odd how you never heard of him despite being a friend of the guy who’s his apparent rival.”
Balton took the frizzen off of a nearby musket and set the gun aside. He bit on it and shook his head with disappointment. “Damn metal’s too soft… err, well… it’s ain’t a challenge ta’ be blind ta’ these things when a bottle’o some wicked shit be far mo’ appealin’”
“Do you think bottles of alcohol are going to save you from everything ?” Zolton spat with a simmer growing within him.
“I’on got a clue. Here,” Balton said, bringing his hand over an empty glass bottle, “Lemme know if ya think so.”
He hurled the bottle at his son, sending the glass whistling through the air. Zolton, however, did not move from his spot in the shade… That was until a purple glow manifested around the container, amplifying its speed. His eyes widened and he rolled off to the side, feeling the wind of the hurled bottle heat up his left ear. The bottle crashed into the redwood tree, cracking into combustion and setting the towering wooden giant aflame. From the ground, Zolton looked up to the blazing tree. “So that little quip was worth threatening my life over?”
Balton shrugged smugly and turned back to fiddling with his plethora of firearms. “Ain’t you the one dat wanted a demonstration? I done proved my shit.”
“Yeah? Can you demonstrate how you’ll put the fire out before it burns down Auxuth’s woods?”
Balton paused. He looked up at his son towering above with a dumbfound grimace. “Didya’ forget you’s a water spitter? Put the shit out, boy! Damn you silly – must get that brain from me,” he concluded to a pause. A bizarre shift occurred to the Blitz Bullet as he started again. "Definitely not from that goddess. She made your brain bigger than mine by an infinite trail…"
"You said that… with surprising coherence. Everything alright, Pa?"
"Co- what? Just sprinkle some rain and put out the flame. Not telling you again, son…" Balton spoke defeatedly. His head tilted back as he brought another bottle to his lips.
Zolton ripped through his brain for thoughts in an awkward pause. “I don’t have it anymo– I don’t think my magic is strong enough to put it out.”
Balton put down his second bottle. “I know you know I ain't deaf. You don’t got what anymore? What, did you start putting more effort into your swings instead of your throws? Go on n’ extingui’that shit before it gets too hot… I ain’t move to the coolness of Auxuth to deal with no damn heat…”
“I can’t do it.”
Without facing the inflamed giant, Balton guided his hand towards it. With the ghastly spiral, a redwood-shaking gust caused a portion of the forest to dance, but the body of flame had been torn to pieces like an elk to the wolf pack. His fired glare locked with his boy’s apathetic eyes and, as if pulled from the air itself, he put a blunderbuss to his son’s head. “Summon the circle."
Zolton watched it straight on with unbothered eyes, but his heart told a juxtaposing story. “You think bullets can still dish out hits to me like that?”
Balton looked on, enhancing the gun in an aura of Gravity. “Trial n’ error.”
Zolton sighed. “Fine,” he capitulated.
The giant kin raised his arms as his father lowered his gun. As the blunderbuss descended and its spherical bullets rolled from the barrel, a swift bearhug from Zolton locked Balton. In a surprising maneuver from his seated position, he suplexed his father into the tree behind him. His multi-gallon hat hurled into the wind as the bark of the tree caved in from the force. With his legs closest to the wood Zolton kicked off the tree, pivoted, and launched forward with a fist instinctively enhanced in darkness. From the bowels of the bark, a gust mimicking that off a steel wall slammed into his body. With the omen of Gravity lighting the area, the tree of a hundred feet imploded on itself into a sphere descending into the palm of the Blitz Bullet. He spat on the tree sphere and inserted it into his gun. Despite his age, he rolled and pulled the trigger, shooting off the orbed tree. Zolton froze in his tracks, gawking with awe at his old man's surreal strategy.
He sidestepped the pellet, but it radiated a violet glow and exploded into the grand tree once more before shattering into hundreds – thousands – of sharded wood. With his unrealized fist, Zolton shot forth a torrent of night-dark water. The shattered wood before him was caught as the rest raged past him. The darkness from his view cleared in a settling to the ground and falling from the heavens, a leg of gale and Gravity bringing Zolton down to his knees. “Hot shit, bud, hot shit,” his father praised with an offered hand, to which he accepted.
Balton looked over the black sludge steaming in the soil with the many pieces of wood coating it. “So, care ta’ explain what in da tartarian pit dat be?”
“Uh – you know, honestly, I’m not even sure myself,” he sighed. “Why do you care so much?”
“Should a father not care for his boy?”
“You put a gun to my head not more than five minutes ago.”
“You grown, you would’a been fine – nothing some rum can’t fix. Gon’ tell me how the hell you got this shit?” Balton dug.
Zolton scratched the hairs poking from his chin. “Yeah, a deer man, cave, big ol’ black orb, decaying slaves, buff guy with dreads, elf kid, some lady in a dress disappearing and I only know of one still that hadn’t ran off.
“What?”
“Exactly. I’m sure I’ll figure it all out later.”
“Do you feel any different with it?” Balton questioned with unease in his tone, yet surprisingly clear speech.
Zolton shrugged. “It used to make whatever limb I casted it from very heavy – wouldn’t be able to even raise my arm. Worst of all, I wasn’t able to cast anything either – I was kind of defenseless… Well, I guess I can’t say that. I ended up finding a…” he sighed begrudgingly, “A good trainer that pushed me through some physical barriers. He’s pretty great at teaching fighting techniques – and that only.”
“Oh yeah? What’s he specialized’n?” Balton inquired, spitting on the gun and gently rubbing it with the bottom of his brown shirt as he awaited an answer.
“Renegade, apparently. Has taught me rat ass all, though. He likes telling me, ‘it’s too dangerous,’ and ‘you are not yet ready.’ But again, I can’t be that mad; he’s still teaching me some other fighting techniques and getting my endurance up.”
“Renuhgayde? My ears caught sound of an ‘R’ and was hopin’ you’d say Radius. But Renuhgayde is innerestin’ – never heard of it. How’s it work?”
“From what I can see, his hands turn red and he hits like a,” he pondered, “I don’t know, I can’t really say since I can’t think of anything that’s compared to such a hit before. I guess imagine a cannonball as heavy as the moon but condensed into the size of your fist, right?”
“Uh-huh,” his father nodded.
“Now just throw the lightest, most disappointing punch you can with that weight, but it still renders a person unable to breathe for a few moments… I haven’t seen him do much with it other than punch me one time. He usually just throws normal hands at me.”
“Whatcha sayin' is someone could be a Naitol yet still be relevant? Innerestin’. Think he’ll be willin’ ta teach me some o’ dat?”
Zolton shook the debris of wood, plant fibers, and dirt from his shirt. “No. I highly doubt it. He’s adamant on keeping it to himself unless someone is ‘disciplined’ enough.”
“‘Adamant.’ Look at mister wordsmith over here. Well shit, don’t seem like there be any purpose in meetin’ him, unless… does he ‘preciate a good drink?”
“...I’ve never seen him drink rum. Usually he’s eating an onion and drinking water.”
Balton grimaced like he witnessed a rotted, worm-ridden corpse. He began stepping from his shabby home; away from the redwoods and beckoned his giant-blooded son with a finger. He said, “Nah, that man sounds weird as hell. I’ll pass – what about that Blassadahl guy? Seems he got a bone in ‘em for a good time.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“He sucks,” Zolton spat. “First met him at a pub and he was nothing but a steaming pile of – wait, what do you mean? He killed those people at the outpost and let out all of those criminals in the process, all while laughing like it was a party. Not to mention whatever he's done to earn such a staggeringly high bounty. What do you mean he seems like a great guy?”
Balton spat into the fallen red and orange leaves, returning his eyes to his forward path. “I ain’t say a thang like any of that. Alls I said was the man seems like he ain’t borin’. Take dem jellyfish stingers out ‘ya ass and calm it.”
A light sway moved Zolton’s head. “I bet White Eyes ain’t borin’ either but most people ain’t wanna look to it for something to spice up life. Where are we going anyways?”
“I need some more parts. I figure wid all dem people arriving tryna’ do renuhvations to Auxuth to bring it down from shit to ass, surelys there be people bringing some materials, right?”
“I suppose so. What are you trying to do anyways?”
“How far can I push a gun till rulers n' kingdoms n' allat start throwin' a hissy fit?" he said, stepping from the path of dead grass onto a freshly paved road cutting through shops and homes of dilapidated condition, but it appeared as though a fresh sweep was undergoing Auxuth.
Fighting through his often nonchalant ways, a smile cracked on Zolton's face. Balton, too, grinned but it was one driven by awkwardness. "Whatcha bein' all toothy for?"
"Ain't it just a little bit great to you? How we can actually go to a shop in this place and actually, y'know, shop.”
“Take ya head outcha ass,” his father seethed. “Where they be lambs, they be wolves; Just more headache…” He came to a cross section where a great deal of people were. Their clothing was relatively clean and untattered – certainly were no natives of Auxuth. Lining the roads leading to the coast were several shops; ateliers; tailors, two blacksmiths howling at one another, a metal distributor conveniently squeezed between them, an apothecary, and more stores beyond the eyes for careless spilling of galleons. Balton pushed apart both swinging doors and strided into the metal distributor’s shop, with Zolton sighing as he entered easily with only the ajarring of one door. “Aye, kiddo,” Balton called, “see if you can find two or three rockwell C hardness barrels.”
“What?”
“Get some steel tubes. Steel – nun’ else. No tin, no lead, no aluminum, no iron – Steel.”
“How am I supposed to tell the difference?”
“Just… just pick somethin’ up n’ bring em’ by when ya done.”
Wagon parts, bolts, foundation supports, ship coheres, and more. A plethora of metals for a plethora of needs – all overwhelming to the one who had touched up an old shack of a home years ago during his childhood. All of the parts seemed to breeze by him as he walked alongside them. Hair on his neck began to stick up, but he couldn’t tell why. Zolton ignored it, but the feeling could not be thrown away through feign ignorance. Through subtle turns of only the eyes, he looked out the store’s window, finding active bodies walking in and out view. But a single eye far in the sea of walkers briefly locked with his own. A strong jawed, ebony-skinned man with an black patch over his left eye stood with one foot back against the wall of a store across from the metalworker’s. His hands were together before himself. For the most part, he donned a rather casual appearance; a long sleeved gray shirt, ankle-reaching black pants, with some dark brown boots. Zolton pondered, Is he looking for something here? Or just in this general direction and I’m worrying for nothing?
Zolton grabbed some random stuff and moved to the otherside of the store. He pretended to be looking through the metals with his free hand, keeping a side eye at the man again. Fulfilling expectations, the man had turned his head to his direction. “What did’ya find?” Balton broke into his investigation. He looked at the random assortment of stuff in his son’s hand with disappointment. “Ain’t none of that what I said to ge–”
“Hold on,” Zolton hushed him, “I’m checking on something.”
“What you talkin’ bout, boy?”
“Look out the window slowly, don’t make it too obvious. That guy ‘cross the street watchin’ me – the one with the eyepatch.”
Balton followed his son’s lead, moving his gaze lightly. He found the man staring and squinted. “So? Kid, when ain’t people watchin’ ya? You’s like, what, 250 centimeters tall ain’t ya? Hell, you ain’t notice dat balding bum o’der behind the counter been starin’ since we stepped in? He should just shave that fuzz off his head, he looks ridiculous…”
Zolton turned over to him for confirmation, triggering the vendor to quickly stare at the ceiling. “Yeah, I get that, they usually gawk like a fish on sand, but that guy was different. Something about his demeanor was… off.”
“Well ain’t you a damn narcissist!” Balton mocked with a bellowing guffaw to boot. “Though, I can’t blame you. Gon’ take a walk through the redwood to clear my head later – you should too. Right now, though, I need to get them parts. Luckily, they seem to be in stock - even if a bit longer than what I need. Nothing one'uh them blacksmiths can't fix. I'm sure.”
Even with his father's attempts to defuse his firing nerves, Zolton couldn't lose the feeling of fret lingering over him. When he looked back at the man, he wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more worried to find him gone. Opting not to mull over the weird occurrence, the vastus-blood took a hand grasp of steel tubes before meeting up with his father at the counter. He set them down beside the few Balton had placed and the aspiring gunsmith threw some galleons on the wood. Balton looked at the man who quite obviously was pretending to not notice the giant and said, "Alright, I know it ain't no coincidence y'all placed a metals shop and two blacksmiths together like a polygamy. Not a bad idea for you, so I ain't finna spit on your business tactics. I'on get why they'd create such competition like dat though… anyways, answer this lil’ thing here for me: which one of them is a fish to the sea? Bird to the wind, y'know? A killer with his knives?"
"What? What the hell are you babbling ab— oh, uh, I gotcha… well it depends on what you want done. I've learned one tends to be good at something the other does poorly."
"Uh-huh. Like what?"
The dealer scratched the thin red hair on his head. "Well, for example, the one on the left is more specialized in brownsmithing, or at least metal bindings and parts for things of that nature. He's also a bit of a farrier, but the man doesn't stop there. He works on wagons, traveling merchant carts, woodwork, and a little bit of locksmithing. He's a good man."
Balton's cheek puckered with respect. "What about the other one?"
"Ah, Barvy Jack Jones. Coppersmith, silversmith, even a goldsmith. He'll make any ceremonial item, goblet, flamboyant plate, pots, or pans! Mister Jones also does a little something-something with sheet metal, leatherwork… to the extent of decor and utensils."
"Well shit… you said a lot but I ain't 'ear nothin' a man needed. Either of them able to shave down steel?"
The store owner chuckled at the question in an almost mocking tone. "That's like asking if a bird can peck through iron. I'm not saying they can't, neither am I claiming to know even further into the depths of their practices, but you don't seem like the patient type and that is a process that may take a bit of time… and money. Whattya looking for? I can maybe point you in the right direction."
"Ya damn dirt dog, you think I ain't got a clue 'bout my own home? I should put a bullet–"
"Pa, chillout," Zolton cut into Balton’s raging ramble with a cold, nonchalant blade. "He just asked what you're looking for."
A shuffling on the wood came to the ears with a cold click soon following. The tongues of father and son were frozen by it and they both turned to the shopkeeper with empty eyes. A redwood-refurbished pistol upwards erected in the shopkeeper's hand. He brushed a thumb on the cylinder, spinning it to a click as his suddenly dull face remained aligned with theirs. The red-headed shopkeeper said, “You know how to shoot? With that mouth, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
An aura of alacrity formed around Balton and a beaming smile plastered on his face – perhaps even a bit psychotic. He reached in the rear end of his shirt collar and drew a musket with golden engravings. He directed the extensive firearm at the shopkeeper and guffawed with excitement. “Go on! Go on, big dog!” he yelled with violent eagerness. “Pull that trigger, mister bold balls! Go on, git wid it! I dare ya! I double dare ya, mu’fuhgger!”
"Pop!" Zolton shouted as his hand gripped his father's arm. "What the hell?! How were you hiding that?! What's the deal wid ya?! Put it down, you and I both know his gun ain't gonna hurt you!"
Balton ripped his arm free and hung his musket down. "Obviously! You think I can’t sense that this summabitch ain't got a lick of will in 'em ta'even scratch the wing of uh fly? Muchless deal wid me? You need to be reminded of your blood, boy, this just how we do back in good ol' Oblitess'!" The Blitz Bullet jolted his arm back, stumbling his son and raising his musket again. "He wanna raise a gun: he wanna get that soul raised to elysium! Put that revolver back up, punk, we shootin'!"
"Wait, wait! It's a misunderstanding, I didn't even point it at you!" He pleaded from behind his counter, dropping his firearm in relent, and causing it to fire off from the collapse. "I meant that you seem like you know a thing or two about guns! Right?! I figured you were looking for gun parts then, right?! Right?!"
Balton remained statued with the long rifle pointed no more than a few fingers from the shopkeeper's head. "Oh, ya figured? No shit! Spit it out, ya piss drinkin’ dog! What you sayin'?!"
“I have some parts you may be interested in! It’ll augment your guns’ efficiency! Th-they’re under the table, though! I keep them up here since the metal is of higher quality! You know, I can't let people steal them! Can I – can I reach for them?”
Balton bumped his knee against the table, listening for any bumps of metal within. Upon getting a vaguely confirming message of clanging, he nudged his head permissively with his musket still firm. With one arm visible, the vendor lowered the other beneath the table with slow movement. As he came back up, he placed a hollow rod of steel on the table, a few dozen oddly shaped bullets, and a cylinder. “There are other stuff down there. Can I – can I get them?” his voice quivered as he sought permission.
“Go on,” Balton granted.
He brought about a mix of smoothed wood and more steel parts, leaving them on the table for his… patrons to examine. “You said these was all ‘posed to be gun parts. What is most of this scrap usable for, mister? And tell me your name.”
“Urphan–Urphan Ofric Kos. I wanted you to see my gun so that you’d be impressed but, uh, maybe presenting it like that wasn’t a good idea. Did you notice the spinning device on it?”
“I didn’t ask for your father’s blood, just ya name… Name’s Balton. That’s all you’re gettin’ from me. Pick the gun back up and lemme see it. Be quick.”
He reached to the floor and picked up the peculiar weapon. He took out the cylindrical part of it and set it on the table, presenting it to Balton. “You can put bullets into that there, but not the usual round steel balls. Instead, you need these long, cylindrical ones. Don’t need to worry about them rolling out the gun! Best of all, thanks to their more pointy top, the aerodynamics are optimized fully; you’ll get better precision!”
Balton picked the bullet between his index and thumb, focusing on it. He took his hat off to get more light to the slightly yellowish bullet. “Where ya get this from? One of your polygamist blacksmiths fashion the metal into this?”
“...No, I purchased them from afar. I’m willing to let go of some though… for a price.”
“How much for a single?”
“150 galleo–”
“A hunnid fiddy?! Man, I should shoot you dead right now!”
“Hey, hey! I’m offering the next-gen in gunning tech, here! For only one hundred fifty galleons!” Urphan sweet tongued.
The gunner grinded his teeth, ultimately capitulating to his interests. “I’ll buy one pellet – just one. And the rest of that stuff there.”
“Just one, eh? Alright… I don’t think I’ll dare to poke at you any longer. 650 galleons for them all.”
“Six hundr– nah, 390.”
Urphan smirked. “600.”
Balton put his boss of the plains-style hat back onto his head. “405”
“589.”
“420.”
“I’m trying to run a business here. 564.”
“495. Take it or Imma have to leave all this shit right in front of ya.”
“You’re going to leave that exotic bullet? Where else do you think you’ll find such a treasure? That bullet and the other metals for the final price of 520.”
Balton’s index tapped the wood in repetition. After a silent trade of eyes, he extended his hand, and another returned to his. “The way I invest…” Balton mumbled, tossing additional coins onto the counter. “Zolton! Grab some of that scrap, we gotta go to one of his business polygamists for them to work these pieces.”
“Why don’t you just do it? Can’t you use gravity to bend them or something?”
“Kid, it’s about the principle... Also precision in metalwork. Take that half to, uh, what’s his name? Jimmy John Jonathans.”
“I — I don’t think that’s what he called him.”
“Don’t matter, meet at the front when ya done,” Balton ordered. He took himself around the left corner of the metalworker’s store. He brought himself to a halt before the door of the blacksmith, embracing the heat spilling out into the cold climate of Auxuth. To Balton’s suspicion, there wasn’t a red glow of flame coming from the inside as he expected, though there was still a smoky scent about. With hands full, he stared at the door with mild upset in his eyes. “Son of bitch wants to take 520 galleons from me but can’t spare a damn bag to hold this shi–”
A smoking arrow zipped to the Blitz Bullet’s brown boots and the gray plume became all-consuming. Before his vision had been clouded completely, Balton caught a glimpse of the smoggy trail leading to two figures cloaked in edge-tattered, black cloaks riding away on a pair of dark horses. One of the riders turned back with a cluster of bizarre clear arrows reeled back into a bow of metal and wood. A light glow filled the innards of the arrows. The shadowed figure donned a black hood with an iron mask modeled after the face of a spangenhelm. A silver material adorned with flowing patterns covered the left eye opening of the mask.
The partner at the side wore some sort of black head covering with an assortment of gray and white animal furs and hair lined high at the center, forming a sort of silver mohawk. This one, however, did not show its face. Instead, it opted to hurl a plethora of spheres behind and about that emitted sounds of clanging metal as they struck the buildings and road. The orbs cracked on impact, leaking some yellowish fluid and the others releasing black powders. The spangenhelm rider then released the arrows off into the sky and they rained. The horses galloped, their hooves stomping, and arrows descended into the amberish colored pool of liquid, spurring a flash. In the blinding blink, a monumental flame engulfed the village. Screams of those damned to the inferno were drowned by its calamitous combustions. In a flash, blaze had exploded into a grand, titanic pyre.