Typically attempting to traverse the dunes of New Country would be nothing short of a death sentence; the sands stretch out for many scorching days and frigid nights. Riders make themselves an exception to this rule as the assistance of a mount makes shelter only a night's journey, not that it makes the cold more bearable for most riders. John preferred the cold, felt it more in touch with his spirit. He had been riding for several hours, having left Montgummery near sunset; he would only be an hour or so from Tulmet if his directions were to be believed.
John often tried to keep to himself, but in many cases, his work demanded otherwise. He wore a nearly all-black uniform marked with a deep blue sash bearing a shield symbol. It seemed important to the court that its agents are not only known of, but visible; the hand which looms over garners more fear than that which lies in wait; at least, this was John's belief for why such a uniform was mandated. It at least didn’t cause issues during travel, as the uniform's dark tones allowed the riders to move with some secrecy. When he reached a settlement, the resentment began to take hold. Rather than fear or power, he more often found that the court's name held much mockery among the colonists; John himself couldn’t blame them despite his suffering.
Riding into the town, the sand storms had managed to settle. Not that the inhabitants of Tulmet would be much appreciative of this, half of whom are presumed sleeping or dead, the other half in its only tavern, perhaps drunk enough at this point to be no different from the first half. John examined the quaint houses as he rode in, Tulmet was a mining town at one point, but the mines were shut not long ago, anyone who could have left did for more profitable ventures, but it would seem not all were so lucky. To call what remains a ghost town would be an insult to the lively activities of the deceased; those abandoned here seem content to rot away, to be forgotten, merely the remains of an unprofitable venture. He found a suitable place to dismount, not wanting to lose a boot to the filth and muck, not that the porch he found himself landing on was a paragon of cleanliness; cigarette buts and ash made up most of the flooring, and there was an intrusive smell of rot, but John couldn’t identify its source. John got off his mount; brushing his hand on its shell-like carapace, it let out a soft clicking noise with its mandibles as he retreated to the building. Entering the tavern, John understood that he may have misjudged these drunks of Tulmet as they reacted to his presence sharply.
The inside establishment, if one could be persuaded to call it that, was a lowly place. One could only wonder how it managed to survive the near-nightly storms. It was an almost entirely wooden building for starts, a strange thing to see this far out into New Country, where sandstone starts to be used more often. The bar sat opposite the entrance, and between them were two tables. He counted four people: two sat at the table to his right; a lady sat at the bar, Sharline Constance, John recognized her instantly; and the bartender, who was the only one that didn’t seem armed, though John knew better than to think that. Thankfully for John, it didn’t appear that there were any side doors or back rooms, he felt assured this was all to see. He took a seat at the unoccupied table. It didn’t take long for Sharline to break the silence.
“Not many riders come to Tulmet.”
She gestured to the bartender, who started to fill a glass.
“I can see why, it stinks of shit in here.”
The bartender tossed the glass to him, and it soared across the room, landing on the table; the glass nearly tipped over, but instead, it miraculously returned upright. John took the drink and rested his boots on the table, which leaned gently.
“So The Court sends you lot out here just to insult the smell of our shit now?”
“I ain’t here on any court order, just stopping on my way to somewhere nicer is all.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Not many places near here.”
At this point, John’s heart skipped a beat following a rapid motion coming from Sharline, as her arm moved for a pouch on her hip. But rather than any kind of sidearm, she instead produced a cigarette which the bartender quickly lit, making an ember from the snap of his fingers.
Sharline held a dominant power in the room; John had, of course, heard of her reputation, as the Tusks of Manbar hold much power in New Country, to the absolute and total obliviousness of the court. Sharline was not much different from many other shamans John had encountered. Her orcish roots may justify her bearing of false prophets, but John had not travelled here to make excuses for the damned. Her build did not make matters of confidence any easier, as her stature easily dwarfed that of John, even though John’s plan here didn’t account much for physical prowess. Her eyes felt like they would pierce right through him, and as she looked on, she occasionally ran her thumb across one of her slightly protruding tusks.
“We don’t get many guests, Rider. I suggest you cut your visit short, the court don’t want nothing to do with this town.”
“I said I ain’t here on court business; treat me like any other visitor. Say, for example, I was a humble traveller, maybe even a holy man preaching the divine word of Sol.”
He paused for a moment but didn’t actually allow a response.
“Tell me, say i was to be lost in this here town, and i were to stop to ask for some directions, would yall shoot me? Or is it more satisfying to rob and beat me first Sharline?”
She repeated her motion at the mention of her name, surprisingly not presenting another cigarette but instead a rune-cannon. John kicked the table over, making some not ideal, but in this case passable, cover. He held his cannon close to his chest, the metal felt cold to the touch in his hands, and as he cocked it, the runes on the chamber began to glow a light blue. The handle was ivory white, and an emblem of the sun appeared on it. Before he can look to see where the other combatants have moved, a streak of flame sees fit to make his acquaintance; it leaves a smear of seared flesh across his left cheek.
“Told you they’d come looking.”
“Can it and just kill the bastard.”
A jet of flame punched its way through the table, and another followed soon after. John could return fire, casting a silvery spear of ice out the barrel of his rune-canon, which disabled the bartender’s shooting hand. Unfortunately for John, he had noted the bartender’s use of innate magic earlier; disarming him of his cannon wouldn’t help in this case. Another shot tore through the table, this time a direct hit. It was a strange spell, it went through his shoulder, but there was clearly no visible effect or projectile, simply an absence of space where the rune-cannon had pointed. It took a moment for john to notice he was bleeding despite the loud noise from the cannon. John managed to find another opening; he shot a burst of ice, this time impaling one of the men who had been earlier playing some kind of card game, the second was hit twice in the chest, he fired two more shots into the floor as he fell. John is able to breathe for only a moment before another shot manages to find his person, this time a jet of flame searing his right leg leaving a reddish gash down his thigh. John found his angle one last time, his shot tearing through the bartender. Unfortunately, there was no time to celebrate the well-placed shot, which pierced his heart, as john himself had been shot twice in the chest in return. He drops to his knees, the cannon has already left his hand, but he fails to notice. Sharline lowers her sidearm and looks at the arrogant fool, as close as he was to success.
“Solecian scum”
John gives no verbal response; he had no need. It concerns the righteous not what those think of him in the moment of his end; there is only the mission and ensuring that, dead or alive, those who have wronged Sol shall be wronged themselves. The last bit of johns energy would prove all he needed; his hand arced upwards; Sharline attempted to match his draw but clearly didn’t expect John to have something up his sleeve with no weapon.
If done correctly, a singular shard of ice being born of his bare hand may have been a rather poetic sight. But the dead have no concern for such things. Instead, the jagged ice ruptured from his hand. It came from his hand bloodier than it would be as it passed through the neck of Sharline, she drops with an audible thud, left gargling helplessly
“Rest easy brother, for the glory of the empire.”
There came a pause as he looked at the carnage in one moment.
“Ego Te Absolvo”
He fell limp, a person reduced to a concept, reduced to blood and meat, only until he is instead reduced to dust.
15 spells cast,
5 killed,
Nothing gained,
Little lost.