1st of Middle Summer, 1535
His expression fell as he saw the significant portions of red-stained grass. He put his sword back and jumped off his horse. The stench of death was pungent, and the summer heat did these bodies no favors. The first three were of young men; two were drenched entirely in their own blood. They both had several long, thin gashes across their torsos. Oleander recognized rapier cuts when he saw them. The third person dishearteningly matched Marcus’s description. He had a single puncture wound—a direct strike to his heart.
“Poor bastards,” Oleander uttered.
The fourth body was that of an older man in his mid-thirties; given his ratty appearance, he looked like some sort of vagrant or maybe a member of a bandit gang. Marcus and his friends were thoroughly picked clean of their weapons and belongings.
Oleander searched the fourth man's pockets only to end up empty-handed, “I guess there’s no honor among thieves.”
The bodies were somewhat limp; there was slight resistance when he moved them. He racked his mind about what one of his former Red Wolves colleagues, Dalton, taught him about approximating the time of death of bodies. Their backs were red and didn’t change color when he pressed his fingers against their skin. Oleander guessed they'd been dead for maybe a day, but the heat would make it harder to pinpoint an accurate time.
As he patrolled the area for any leads, he discovered part of a human hand lying on the ground; the four bodies around him weren’t missing any of their fingers. A faint bloody trail leading further into the forest was not far from the severed body part. He’d have to circle around and return to the strange tracks later; if he wasn’t quick, these murderers might disappear.
The trail led him to an abandoned campsite. The fire had been stamped out recently, considering the charred logs and the ashes were still warm. The blood trail ended in a large stain next to a cleared-off area of dirt where a tent would’ve been made. Oleander kicked at the fire pit in frustration as he couldn’t find any nearby footprints or a continuation of the blood trail. It all ended here.
A distant gunshot broke his concentration. Oleander raced back onto his horse and traveled west from the campsite with his claymore fully drawn; he slashed open a path as he thundered through the forest. Another shot rang out. There! After a quick course correction, the hunter charged toward the source.
Closing in, Oleander spotted another small clearing that led up to a small cave. A smile curled on Oleander’s face as he witnessed a trio of bandits fleeing from the tunnel; they were armed, and one had a heavily bandaged hand. The trio seemed more preoccupied with what was behind them instead of noticing the engine of destruction hurtling their way.
Oleander leaped off his horse and out of the foliage, catching the three men off guard; he swung his sword down at the nearest person. The rapier-wielding bandit reacted in the nick of time and blocked the attack, but the force behind the claymore’s swing shattered the thin rapier’s blade after bending it into a ninety-degree angle. The two-handed sword lodged into the ground, but Oleander pushed forward and slammed his fist into the bandit’s jaw, dislocating it. His first opponent crumpled to the ground.
Oleander’s sudden intrusion completely threw off the other two men. On Oleander’s left, the bandit with the heavily bandaged hand drew a short sword with his off-hand — the crossguard was suspiciously absent. On Oleander’s right, the gunslinger chose to flail his rifle like a club instead of using the perfectly usable swords affixed to his belt.
“Is he out of ammunition?” Oleander pondered.
Whatever the reason was, they weren't in the best headspace for a fight, and Oleander would exploit that. He reached back into one of the pouches on his belt; when the two lowlifes rushed in, Oleander chucked finely powdered salt at their eyes. The gun-flailer missed Oleander’s face by a wide margin. In one quick motion, the hunter ripped the rifle out of the bandit’s hands and slammed the stock broadside into the man's head. The bandit toppled over with blood trickling out of his ear.
“Agh! Fight like a man!” The blinded swordsman roared as he swung his broken blade chaotically. Oleander circled the crazed man’s flurry of offense; he reared back and cracked the rifle’s stock against the top of the man’s head — the bandit dropped his sword but didn’t fall. Now that the man was unarmed, Oleander wrapped his arms around the bandit’s neck and forced him into a chokehold. Weak slaps and punches assaulted him, but Oleander applied more pressure. Fifteen seconds was all he needed until the man went limp.
Oleander gathered up the unconscious men and tied them up. He dug through their pockets and knapsacks for any stolen goods from Donohue but only scrounged up a paltry sum of coins. He pocketed their money; he reasoned that murderers like them wouldn’t need it. When Oleander went to retrieve his claymore, he stumbled across the small tracks from earlier leading straight into the cave. He took the sheath from his horse’s saddle and strapped it to his waist.
“Well, whatever I’m chasing, it was enough to send these bastards running and shooting,” Oleander said to himself.
As he approached the entrance to the cave, quiet but noticeable clanging noises could be heard from deep inside. Out of curiosity, he looked over the gun the one bandit was swinging about; on closer inspection, it appeared to be a shotgun with two barrels, but it was utterly unusable now due to having a massive blown-out hole near the breech. Donohue didn't mention anything about a completed shotgun being taken, so either the thief stole this weapon from someone else or made it themselves.
Oleander's curiosity was piqued, but the idea of fighting someone with intimate knowledge of firearms made him pause. He’d been in plenty of firefights before, but he almost always had his friends James and Ivy with him, two of the best sharpshooters he’d ever met. Oleander would have to make do with what he had at his disposal. Looking back at the cave, he didn't know how cramped it would become, and if the cave narrowed too much, he wouldn't be able to swing his claymore effectively. He decided to take a second, smaller weapon with him — the shotgun; without ammunition, it now functioned like a truncheon or a lead pipe.
As he marched inside, it immediately felt much colder. Oleander initially worried that he wouldn’t have enough light to see, but he soon found a torch on the ground — more than likely dropped by one of the bandits. After blowing on the embers, the torch gained a second wind and shed some light onto his new surroundings. He examined the walls and noticed three melted-down candles on a ledge above him; something had made this rocky shelter their home for some time.
An ominous feeling tickled at the back of Oleander's neck; it struck him as odd that whatever scared the bandits off didn't follow them out of the cave. Something rustled off in the distance, or maybe it was from someone scurrying about. The dimness of his surroundings was annoying; Oleander could barely make out anything within five feet of his face. There was a loud snap underfoot — the distant movements also stopped.
With shotgun at the ready, Oleander surveyed his immediate area; he was only met with silence. Looking down, he saw that he had stepped on a thin tree branch. A bunch of twigs and pinecones littered the ground, serving as a rudimentary alarm system. Whatever was in here surely knew that he was here too.
He took a deep breath and trekked onward. A faint glow in the distance only worried Oleander; was this a secret hideout of sorts, or had he stumbled upon the lair of a cunning beast? The cave then opened up into a larger space, but it was, curiously enough, a dead-end. The last vestige of light was from a candlestick resting on a shaky-looking work surface.
Some gun components were sprawled on the table with tools and loose bullets. A crude diagram was left among the various odds and ends; it illustrated the same shotgun Oleander was holding — it looked much better in the sketch. What surprised the hunter the most was the anvil sitting next to the table. Was this stolen too?
Oleander brushed his hand against another small fiber. He pulled it up to his torch to inspect his new clue; Texture-wise, it was similar to the silvery thread he found earlier, but this was white and stuck to his fingers. After hearing a crunching sound from under his feet, he saw several small animals trapped in the same white fibers — spider webs.
"What sort of chthonic abomination did I just find?"
Something scuttled behind the hunter. The footsteps were nearby and quick. He swung around with his torch and shotgun, ready to strike, but found nothing. There was still faint breathing close by.
"It's still behind me," Oleander realized as he swung around again.
The entity was nowhere to be seen. This time, Oleander turned while raising his candle; his shifty foe stood on the cave's ceiling, looking down at him.
She let out a sharp, feminine scream and extended her four arms. Fear washed over Oleander, not so much from the scare attempt itself but from the appearance of this stranger. She was pale with six eyes: a set of human-looking eyes and two pairs of smaller, entirely yellow eyes positioned adjacently. Oleander noticed four venomous black fangs emerge from her angry scowl as they stared at each other.
To the hunter's surprise, she didn't lunge at him. She grew equally surprised that Oleander didn't scream and run in terror as the bandits did earlier — so she froze in place, unsure what to do. Then suddenly, she tried to circle around Oleander, but he slowly mirrored her movement, maintaining constant eye contact. The spider woman quickly snapped at the hunter, but he swung his shotgun only to barely miss her. She slowly retreated while putting one set of her hands behind her dress. Their gazes remained locked. Oleander moved one step forward for each of her steps backward. He’d seen regular-sized spiders and tarantulas fight when he was a child; this woman had mimicked how they raised their limbs to attack—it unsettled him.
After backing up enough, the woman lobbed a lump of webbing at Oleander’s torch, knocking it out of his hand and briefly snuffing out the flame. She pounced during the brief instant that Oleander’s vision was forced to adjust. He was pushed to the ground with the woman’s full weight on him — his gun flew from his hand and was swallowed up by a dark corner of the room.
The spider woman's beadier eyes reflected the dim light from the distant torch. He caught her by the shoulders — just an inch or two from her biting his neck. She writhed in his grasp, clawing at his shirt, arms, and face. They rolled across the floor, exchanging punches and scratches; Oleander managed to get on top of her, but the mount was shortlived as the woman could bring in her four legs and kick the hunter off with a startling amount of force.
Oleander stumbled back and caught himself on the cavern wall. He still had his claymore, but the woman seemed capable enough of maneuvering around his swings. He patted his salt pouch; there wasn't much left to throw.
“Geh raus!” The woman shouted as she pulled a rifle off the wall and fired at Oleander.
The woman's wild shots grazed Oleander's left ear and shoulder. Thinking quickly, the hunter lurched for the darkest part of the cave, but two more rounds followed him — both grazing shots. Oleander was lucky that the woman seemed too angry to consider aiming, but if she continued shooting, she would get lucky soon enough if Oleander didn't close the distance. Out of ammunition, the woman scuttled toward the table to retrieve more bullets.
A familiar odor caught Oleander's attention — gunpowder — he was crouching next to a bag filled with it. The hunter lobbed a handful of powder at the torch beside the table, producing a small fireball that surprised the woman. Oleander rushed forward, but the woman took her last opportunity to attack and fired one last shot before being tackled against the wall.
With his opponent stunned, Oleander spun the woman around and suplexed her. Her flailing about in the air changed their trajectory, with the woman's head bouncing off the anvil, making a sickening thud. They broke apart from each other, with Oleander scrambling to his feet and unsheathing his claymore; He was prepared for whatever the spider woman would attempt next.
"Schmerzen..." the woman softly wined. She hadn't attempted to get off the floor, instead staying in the fetal position, cradling her head, completely vulnerable.
Oleander's gunpowder fireball helped revitalize the knocked-over torch as he saw the blood trickling down the woman's face.
She glanced up at him and spoke while holding back tears, "Töte mich schnell,” the woman said.
He ground his teeth in frustration. With his adrenaline wearing off and the thrill of the fight being over, he couldn't bring himself to kill someone who looked so pitiful. He let out an annoyed sigh and sheathed his sword.
"Look, I don't know if you can understand me, but I'm here for all the guns and supplies you've stolen."
Oleander kept his right hand on the hilt of his claymore; she proved cunning enough by snuffing out his candle and pouncing; the thought of her feigning a surrender weighed on his mind.
"How-How did you find me?" The woman asked.
A bilingual spider humanoid? Though surprised, Oleander was somewhat relieved that they could now effectively communicate.
"I followed your footprints from town; I almost lost your trail a few times."
She said something in response, but her hands muffled it. Putting her hands on the table, she tried to pull herself up.
He couldn't hide his curiosity, "What are you?"
The woman turned to look at the hunter; she had expected to be killed already, so she was mildly confused to still be alive.
"I am... a spiderkin," she stated. "Now, take them. Take what you want and leave. Please, do not hurt me anymore."
Neither Joanie nor Donohue mentioned a bounty for a thief. If Oleander captured this woman and turned her over to the police for thievery, he'd get a pittance as a reward; this woman, on the other hand, wouldn't face fines or a lengthy prison sentence like a human burglar — she would be executed.
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Oleander didn't think she deserved to die for her minor crimes because she was some bizarre human-spider hybrid. As he pondered, his gaze wandered around the room; Oleander spotted other guns webbed to the walls. Some were pristine models, while others appeared to be hasty mishmashes. He caught a glimpse of the shotgun from earlier and retrieved it. Aside from the blown-out part near the trigger, he liked the idea of a double-barrel shotgun variant.
"I've got a couple of questions, and then I'll figure out what to do with you."
The woman looked away, initially worried, but nodded. She couldn't hide her nervousness as she reflexively started tapping her feet.
"What's your name?"
"K—" She cleared her throat, "Moira Kallenberg."
"Where did you come from, Moira?" Oleander asked.
"You may know it as the Barrens."
Oleander had seen the region she was referring to on a map between Morrigan and the Orcish territory of Bemerog. Neither country claimed the area as it was left unfit for sustaining life. The region was also prone to severe dust storms. Oleander was amazed that anything would willingly choose to live there — then again, it seemed like the perfect hiding spot.
"Why are you building guns? Do you plan to smuggle these weapons across the Morrigan border?"
"No. I have no interest in returning home with the guns I built for myself."
"Are you affiliated—?"
"—No. I am alone and haven't spoken to anyone in weeks."
"Why?" Oleander asked, "You're a long way from home, just to be hiding out and stealing bits and pieces from Blackburn Hollow."
"I crossed into Morrigan with curiosity motivating me. I didn't intend to make this my final destination."
"Where were you planning to go?"
"...the only place I know outside the Barrens is Ursulaburg."
"The capital of Angstrom? You're a long way from getting there, lass."
Moira looked down dejectedly. The hunter contemplated; the young woman seemed genuine in her responses. She appeared to be just a lonesome, wandering soul. He tossed the shotgun back over to Moira. Her face turned to horror as she inspected the firearm.
"I take it that those guys who ran out of the cave earlier took your shotgun?"
"Yes...this was my prototype. I assembled it with all the tools I took, but I never got to test it. At least, now I know it was a failure," Moira remarked as she ran her fingers along the hole in the right barrel.
"Any ideas on what went wrong?" Oleander asked.
"Either the barrels need to be thicker, or I put too much gunpowder in the shells. More testing, and I can figure out which was the problem."
"It'd be harder to steal the right size barrels; what if you forged some? Do you know how?"
"I forged many small things at home and know approximately how to make cylinder shapes with the correct tools. Though I need more specific tools to make rifled barrels..."
"Well, what about other things like swords, nails, and horseshoes?"
"I have never made them, but I could learn," Moira said.
Oleander stroked his beard.
"Alright," he said, "Here's what we're doing. I'm going back to town so I can return everything you stole from Donohue. I'll have to escort the police over here to gather the bodies of Marcus, his friends, and the three bastards that were giving you trouble earlier. I won't mention you; I'll just say that the thieving bastard took off when I came 'round. Once that's taken care of — who else did you steal from? I know Donohue wasn't the only person with stuff missing."
"I did not take as much from everyone else. Tools, materials, the anvil—"
"—yeah, I meant to ask; how did you get that out here?"
"Up and over the city walls. How else would I do it?"
"Well, yeah...that's still impressive, lass."
There wasn't much left, excluding Donohue’s guns and miscellaneous components — not enough to warrant Oleander going all over town trying to give the right supplies to the right people.
“I’ll just consider this payment for stopping you. I wasn’t expecting to get much anyway. Now..." Oleander corrected his train of thought, "Once all of that’s taken care of, I’ve got a small homestead in the Patchwork Woods — it’s called Fawksden. As long as you make me some damn good weapons, I’ll give you a place to stay.”
Moira shook her head in confusion. She didn't expect such a request from someone she was shooting at minutes earlier.
"W-w-why?"
"I've wanted to start up my own hunting company. At the moment, it's really just me. I've been on the lookout for mages, gunners, fighters, physicians, cooks, and blacksmiths."
Moira thought over the man's request. "And...if I refuse?"
"Then I recommend you take off. Head north if you're trying to get to Ursulaburg. Stick around here too long, and some other hunters might come along and be...how should I put this — less civil — than I was. I also can't guarantee you won't be attacked while walking into one of the largest cities in the world. Lass, take this deal. I see potential in your design, and I could use a new arsenal of weapons."
"Potential..." Moira muttered to herself, "You believe so?"
Oleander pointed to the shotgun in her hands, "You already showed me a glimpse. Let's get you a proper forge and some tools and see what you can really do?"
She smirked, but she tried to hide it.
"I prefer that to eventual death, but I don't know who you are."
The monster hunter offered his hand to Moira, "Alexander Swine, but I prefer to go by Oleander."
There was a bit of unease between them; Oleander was still wary that Moira would attack him, and Moira worried that this stranger would turn on her at any moment. But now that they were an arm's length apart, Oleander could get a better look at her. Patches of soot and gunpowder covered her white apron and lavender dress; the dress had plenty of rips and tears. Her natural resting height was about five-foot-seven; however, given the construction of her legs, she could raise herself to over six feet tall. Despite the minor discomfort, Oleander had from seeing her additional eyes and her legs; he stood by his decision to give Moira a chance. He was once in a rough position like her many years ago.
Oleander returned to town with the stolen materials and relinquished them to the Donohue, who was heartbroken over losing his protege. Oleander assured the old blacksmith that the three men responsible would get their due punishment as soon as the police came to collect them. Donohue handed his old acquaintance a small bundle of banknotes and a pouch with some silver pieces; there wasn't much, but he appreciated it.
Later, Oleander arrived back at the cave with an entourage of police officers. The bandits pleaded for their lives, with one even mentioning a strange spider woman that chased them out of the cave; he stated that it was hoarding firearms. Wanting to throw the police off Moira's trail, Oleander sarcastically responded to the accusations.
"A half-person, half-spider hybrid? I bet she had eight arms, too, and scuttled around like a wee tarantula." Oleander did a mocking eye-roll that he played up for the police officers. He even managed to get one of them to laugh along. "I went in there and found nothing. Whoever this thief was took off when they heard me come snooping by."
One of the officers recognized Oleander as a former member of the Red Wolves, so he was deemed trustworthy enough to be telling the truth. Much to Oleander's relief, the police took the murderers away without giving the cave a second glance. The hunter chuckled to himself before returning to Moira. He helped her gather the remaining supplies and tools in an impromptu web knapsack.
As Moira began to carry out the anvil, Oleander waved her down, "Lass, I have one back at Fawksden. Don't worry about it."
The two sped away from Blackburn Hollow's outskirts and rode toward the Patchwork Woods. It was approaching sundown by the time they entered the oddly formed forest.
"Why did you leave the Barrens?" Oleander asked, "Especially by yourself."
"I felt trapped in there. I wanted to be somewhere else; Mother mentioned the winters in Ursulaburg, where the rain would become white and fluffy and the night sky would shimmer with unimaginable colors. It sounded pleasant."
"You say that, but you set yourself up in that cave for some time; why did you stay?"
"After being chased and shot at by lunatics, that cave became the only place of solitude I could find. Once I had time to bandage my injuries and eat, I needed to occupy my time. What I enjoy most is disassembling and reassembling things — to understand how things work."
"So, let me guess, instead of wanting to be shot at; you wanted to do the shooting instead?"
"Somewhat. Since arriving in Morrigan, I have become fascinated with these guns. They don't exist where I come from. How do I say this...I have previously disassembled clocks and steam engines and put them back together in working order, but I could never think of how to improve them. But guns...guns make the gears of my mind turn. They are a puzzle I can understand and, most importantly, something to expand upon.
"Just a puzzle?" Oleander asked.
"Well, I would be lying if I said I didn't make my prototype shotgun for self-defense. Although, as you saw, improvements are sorely needed."
"Your aim could do with a bit of fine-tuning too. Did you forge any of these pieces, or did you steal them all?"
"I had to steal them; there was no way to ventilate the cave without the smoke being noticed." Moira continued, "Now, I want to know why you want me to make your weapons, considering it sounds like you knew the man I stole from well enough. Why not ask him for help?"
"I respect the old man's work; at this point, he's been smithing for more than forty years. My only problem with him is that he makes service weapons — standardized stuff for the military. Those are better suited to person-sized targets; I hunt monsters for a living, and one shot from a rifle will not cut it. Your shotgun design, with the longer barrels and increased firepower, that's what I need. I want an arsenal of weapons to pick and choose from to bring on different contracts."
Moira nodded — what Oleander proposed to her sounded like fun.
The two continued through the Patchwork Woods. Sections of the forest appeared to be exclusively one type of tree before switching to another dense region of a single, different kind. The forest looked like a massive quilt from the hills to the north. Interspersed between the foliage, Moira would catch glimpses of wild deer and boars running off as their horse raced down the faded dirt road.
Once the duo trotted across the stone bridge that crossed the only source of water Moira had seen in ages, they finally arrived at what Oleander called Fawksden. It was a sizeable cleared-out portion of the forest with a rough but oddly cozy cottage, a dilapidated barn that had been struck by lightning half a dozen times, and a heavily padlocked storage shed.
On their approach, Moira noticed that each building had a ring drawn around them made of salt, and it seemed to have been reapplied multiple times as the ground underneath was completely dead.
Oleander hopped off his horse and carried all of Moira's belongings by himself. He stepped on the line with salt crunch beneath his boots. Moira was more hesitant to cross as she didn't know what it would do; she delicately extended one of her legs and tapped it against the salt. It stung, but the pain quickly subsided as she pulled away. For a moment, she was worried she'd triggered some sort of magical defense or something, but nothing happened.
She hurried back to Oleander before he noticed she was lagging behind. The hunter scooped up a handful of white sage that grew around his cottage and brought it inside. Moira was surprised to see how prevalent the one plant was on his property; it surrounded all three buildings.
Oleander led the young woman on a grand tour of his abode. The house was split into four rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen, a storage room, and a spare room not currently in use. He led her outside through the back door to a small, poorly tended forge and anvil.
“I tried my hand at forging. It’s an odd skill. It requires a lot of power and stamina, which I’ve got plenty of, but it also requires finesse and an eye for detail — those two I don’t have. That’s why I’m giving you this space to use. Depending on the project, I can get more tools and supplies, but funds are limited for now.”
Moira circled the area examining everything she had to work with — it wasn’t much, but it was her space.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Herr Swine.”
“Herr Swine?” The hunter repeated. “When you say it like that, I feel like I should be a prince or something.” Oleander reached into his knapsack and pulled out the bottle of whiskey that he stole from the Tilted Flagon. He looked into the sky to see the moon partly obscured and taking on a reddish hue.
"The lunar eclipse..." Moira remarked.
"Here's hoping there's some good luck in these next six months," Oleander remarked as he took a long swig from the bottle.
"Good luck?"
"Yeah, during the summer and winter blood moons, you pray to Orwein, Careena, Aurelian, and...the other ones...for good luck or food or health."
"Really? When I was young, one of the scientists, Sprinckborn, would tell my half-siblings and me that the red moon was the eye of Nethsis opening up and searching for naughty children."
"Ah! Goddess of the night, I bet that kept you all in line, didn't it."
"More than you can imagine." Moira changed the subject, "Are you asking good luck for anything in particular."
"For the hunting company I mentioned earlier. I've been kicking the idea around for the past two years, and plans kept falling through, but today...feels a little different." Oleander raised his bottle to the sky, "Mark my words, Garrison! The Swine Hunting Company will be the most fantastic group of monster hunters the world has ever seen!"
After his proclamation, he drank until an inch of whiskey was left from the bottom. He turned to Moira and handed her the bottle. She looked unsure but took a drink and immediately spat it out, making retching noises. The hunter howled with laughter.
image [https://imgur.com/1mf23iz.png]