Rifles and Rapiers: An expansion of America Stranded

Jürgen made his way down the center of the village road, carrying two sheaves of wheat under each arm as he passed beastkin townsfolk. As he tried to spot Leopold through the crowd, he brushed past a crowd of people gathered around a destroyed building.

The building in question had seemingly been struck by a large object straight through the roof, collapsing the supports and buckling the walls outwards. The object in question had already been removed, but the murmurs of the crowd suggested it was a magically accelerated object, launched from a nearby town under siege or something along those lines.

Jürgen shrugged it off as yet another daily occurrence of the town of Besofenhafen. Then, he spotted Leopold.

He was, oddly enough, flanked on both sides by armed men. Men, not beastkin. Leopold’s classic charismatic smile was more strained this time, and he kept glancing behind him into his large tent.

Hired thugs I’m betting, Jürgen thought to himself. Protecting whatever Leopold is hiding behind there. Despite this, he strode forward confidently with his wheat, plopped it right down on the table, and said, “Here’s the rest of it, my friend. Oh, and also, what’re the thugs behind you for? They guarding whatever that thing was that crashed into that house was?”

The guards both tensed up and placed hands on their short swords, which looked like they carried an extra-lethal dose of rustblood, and Leopold looked like he aged 50 years in one moment.

“Don’t say it out loud! Not here!” Ironically, due to Leopold’s panicked noises, several people looked at him, then at the destroyed building, then hurried away. Leopold watched them leave in dismay, and the guards had resigned, tired expressions.

“Well, yes. I don’t know how you guessed that, but yes. But I shan’t tell you no more!” Leopold spat frantically, whispering this time. One of the guards facepalmed.

“Can I see it?” Jürgen asked. He already knew the answer.

“Oh sure- Wait! No! You can’t! Oh, but I really wanna... fine.” Leopold slumped and motioned for Jürgen to follow him into the now-drawn tent flap. Both guards fixed him with a death stare as he followed Leopold into the tent. Jürgen ignored them.

What he saw in the tent, however, was nothing he had ever seen.

It was sleek, despite having crashed through a roof, with smooth curves and odd angles, and very large. Larger than Jürgen, actually. The body then grew into a tip that was larger than the actual body. The only blemish on the strange object were the jagged, broken off stubs at the end and the middle. What Jürgen presumed to be the end, anyway. He had no idea what the thing could be.

“As you, somehow, guessed, I got this thing when it crashed into that shack next door. I, in my shrewd and humble mind, immediately knew what to do, and acquired some… help… and transported the thing to here. I’ve contacted my associates via scrying, and it’s going to be brought to Świecące Światła.”

Jürgen frowned. “The elves? Why would they want it?”

Leopold shrugged. “I don’t have the faintest. But they’re paying me way more than what I can get with your shitty wheat, so I’m fine with not asking questions.”

Jürgen ignored the jab. “Well, seeing as I can’t do shit about it, here’s the rest of my ‘shitty’ wheat, and I want the rest of my money as well.

Leopold snorted. “I don’t think so, friend. You pressured me into seeing this thing, and I think it’s only fair that I take the wheat free of charge.

“Pay me for my wheat.”

“Gah! Fine! I have no choice!” Leopold thrust a pouch of dented bronze coins into his hand and waved him away. “Begone with you! Your poor person stench is infecting me.”

Jürgen walked out of the tent, juggling the pouch between his hands as he happily whistled a merry tune taught to him by a role model of his at a young age. Something about a yank and a doodler.

Making his way back home, Jürgen heard cryers from some church yelling about changes in the Weave, nonsense like that. Jürgen was never really a religious man, that's why he was out here in Besofenhafen after all.

Besofenhafen had been founded 109 years earlier, by a large group of escaped slaves. They fled south from the Ruppriecht Kingdom, to here, and founded the village on the basis that religion is inherently dangerous, and became a haven for beastkin and human victims of religious persecution alike. However, much friction existed between the ones that chose to not worship any god, and those that had religious beliefs, and fights broke out often between those visiting. Natives of the village knew to stay well away from all talk of religion with strangers.

Also, because of both their proximity to the capital, Świecące Światła as well as a disdain for the human kingdoms and empires of the North, they had a close relationship with the Elves. Mainly trading, but a small contingent of soldiers usually arrived to help assist in the case of a natural disaster.

Jürgen wondered what interest the Elves had in the object. To him, it looked like something one of the North Churches would construct, maybe a tribute to a bird god or something. He didn’t know what business it had being down here in the South, or crashing through a roof, really.

Jürgen walked into the two-story shack that he shared with an irate old catfolk that he liked to call Fishhook living on the first floor. In his first year, he had tried to kick the old man out of the first floor through various means, including but not limited to; purchasing, blackmail, gang warfare, inspiring the dust bunnies to revolt (they were pacifist so it didn’t work), pleading, praying, hunger strike, and many other means, but none were successful. So, the old man got to keep the first floor, and Jürgen had to pass by his miserable person every time he wanted to go to sleep.

But, when he opened the door, he was shocked to see another figure sitting by the fireplace. One that he admired deeply.

“John?” Jürgen blinked several times in surprise. The last time Jürgen had seen him, the grizzled man had been chasing a small horde of Skażony into the woods.

“Yes, that’s me, last I checked.” John chuckled. “And look at you! My second favorite human!”

“Who’s your first?”

“Me, who else? This old grump?” John pointed a thumb back at Fishhook, whose already sour expression seemed to grow even, well, sourer.

Jürgen laughed. He wasn’t exactly sure how John had survived, seeing as there were probably about 20 of the Skażony, but John was John. Strange name, strange customs, but never a stranger to anyone.

“Well, make yourself at home, John. It’s not my home anyway.” Jürgen motioned at where Fishhook was sitting. The old cat growled slightly, then spoke.

“Yeah, just make yourself at home. Not like anyone’s living in it. “

“Exactly what I was gonna say!” Without another word, John plopped himself down in one of the only seats that didn’t have the cushion almost completely flattened. Then, he pulled out something from behind him and leaned it against the side of the chair.

It was a somewhat long, tubular object with a handle pointed down at one end, and a leather wrapped grip at the other. Also on the end, the rod part of it kept on going to expand into a stock you would see on crossbows and the like.

“What is that?” Jürgen asked, curious. To him, it looked like some dwarven contraption. Come to think of it, perhaps the dwarves had made the thing that crashed into that house?

“The thing that killed the Skażony, of course! I didn’t kill the damned things with my hands, although I could’ve. Now that right there's a thought” John silently pondered for a moment, but he snapped back. “Enough about me! What’s new about you?”

. . .

“... and then N jumps up and says, ‘It’s murderin time!’ and murder drones all over the place!”

Jürgen laughed. “That isn’t funny in… the slightest! But I just need to laugh!”

They then both roared with laughter.

About two hours earlier, John had insisted they go to the only tavern in town still operating at this hour, AKA the only tavern in town, period. From there, they exchanged stories about their travels. Most of the tales came from John, who had seen practically every corner of the known world, as opposed to Jürgen, whose knowledge of the continent was limited to the city he had come from and the area surrounding the village he currently resided in. And yes, he knew the surrounding area better than the village. He often found the door to his home locked after a day at the farm he worked at. Courtesy of Fishhook, he supposed.

Fuck Fishhook.

Another hour passed before they both stumbled out of the tavern, holding each other up and giggling as the owner threw a bottle at them, which smashed harmlessly against John’s head. The bottle shattered with a strangely muffled boom, as is from afar. Then, the noise repeated itself, this time without any physical or visual indicator.

That's when Jürgen realized that the noises weren’t coming from random glass bottles thrown specifically at John.

They were explosions.

Just then, a huge ball of fire decimated the tavern they had just exited. Shards of wood came flying at the pair, and Jürgen covered his eyes as tiny cuts appeared all over his body. Strange sounds zoomed overhead as more explosions rang out. A pair of hands roughly pulled Jürgen to his feet as more and more flames burst into existence all around town.

“We are LEAVING!” The voice belonging to the hands spoke. It was John. Jürgen scrambled to his feet and opened his eyes.

The tavern was gone, a huge inferno in its place. Rows of shacks and homes had been struck as well. Buildings around town, shops, houses, and everything in between was hit by the invisible attackers.

But, then they weren’t invisible.

A large, dark creature swooped overhead, and a small projectile leapt from its chest and promptly exploded upon impact with the ground. Screams and shouts echoed in the distance. A faint cry, sounding suspiciously similar to the voice of a certain barterer that Jürgen did business with frequently yelled, “Get that thing onto the wagon! I don’t care if its kind has a higher kill count than rustblood, I’m getting that sweet sweet elf money! Move it!” and several whipping sounds following soon after.

Another bird swooped low, a bit lower than all of the others, and birthed another one of its suicidal eggs. But, as the egg blew up and the bird pulled out of the dive, it wobbled, and something fell off of it.

The bird, instead of flying away to whatever wretched nest it had come from, flew straight with a horrible whistling-screeching sound. Right for them.

But John swept back his long robe, pulled the metal rod from his hip, and aimed it with one hand at the bird. It continued on its flight, seemingly intent on making its last stand one of violence and glory. John held steady, and Jürgen watched as his knuckles tightened on the handle of the rod, sweat glistening on his hand.

Just as the bird was about to hit them, John pulled a small switch hidden in the handle, and the essence of fire and brimstone itself poured from the rod.

A huge booming sound, louder than even the explosions due to Jürgen’s proximity to the rod, emitted from the rod. A cloud of fire and smoke was belched out from the end, and the bird, eerily similar to the metallic object that had crashed through the roof earlier that day, veered to the side, just enough to go crashing into the ground directly to John’s left. John, like the badass he was, didn’t even look, and simply pulled the leather wrapped at the end of the rod, which made a chu-chick sound. A small cylinder ejected from the side. John looked at Jürgen, looked him up and down, and said one word.

“Cool?”