Firstborn of the Frontier

Gotta take care of yourself before taking care of others.

Told Errol as much in Meadowbrook after his slip up with the bramble elk and bandits, and I know the words went in one ear and out the other. Man thought I was being selfish and petty, that my jaded outlook was wrong and immoral, but it’s just good sense to look before you leap. If he wants to dive in without checking first, that’s on him, but I won’t shed no crocodile tears when he lands headfirst in the shallows and breaks his fool neck.

So I take it slow and steady as I move towards the sounds of fighting, because I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. That’s step two of survival, threat assessment. Know what you’re up against before you kick in the door, or at least get a good inkling before you go charging in. Kept me alive in Pleasant Dunes, and I mean to stay alive here, so I bring Old Tux around at an angle to skirt alongside the edge of the scuffle. Do it quick enough to get there in time to help out, but not so quick as to give my presence away so I can observe and strategize before committing to the fight. That’s why I stick to cover and shadows as I go in case I have to beat a hasty retreat, and as we draw closer to the fray, Cowie sits up all alert and concerned. Looks mighty serious for such a cute little calf as he scents blood and Abby on the wind, and I hold him in place with the stump of my arm while keeping my eyes and ears open, watching and listening for any clues of what’s going on only to wind up more confused than anything else.

No gunshots, no yelling, no cries for help of screams of fear or defiance. All I hear are froggie croaks, merhound barks, mudkipper whistles, and a symphony of their collective grunts, growls, shrieks, and squeals as they fall to their silent and deadly foe. Only sounds that ain’t from Abby is the hiss of an edge cutting through the air, followed by the thwacks and clangs of sharp metal striking Abby flesh and armour. Doesn’t sound like there’s more than one person fighting, but there could be two or three. Not likely, because the attacks are all happening one after the other, not simultaneously as you’d expect from a group. All this and more I parse through in a matter of seconds, matching what I hear to what I sense from the Detect Aberration Spell I still got going, one which reveals to me the presence of a decent sized warband with no less than five – four ranakin, now that another just died, and about thirty or so smaller mudkippers and merhounds.

The fight is still a good fifty meters away when I finally spot it, a bunch of moving shadows through the tree trunks and shrubbery. Can’t tell who them Abby are fighting, but whoever it is has gotta be hard pressed to be sure, with their backs to a massive whitewood while fending off a ring of Feral Abby. Can picture it now, the mudkippers hopping along on their pectoral fins that do double duty as jointed limbs on land, ones strong enough to hoist their 30lb torsos and tails up into the air and stagger about like drunks on two feet. Don’t let their stumbles fool you though. Them fins still got strength enough to launch those mudkippers face first up to three metres in a single bound, whereupon they’ll sink their mouthful of needle fangs into flesh and lock their jaws into place before grinding and shredding whatever it is they caught. Mr. Mueller’s missing foot is a prime example of how dangerous them mudkippers can be, as they like to lurk in the shallows and mud for days waiting for a target to come into range, at which point they’ll bite clean through a steel-toed boot to get at the toesies hidden within.

Whoever’s fighting will have to keep a keen eye on them kippers, who’ll be hanging back and looking for an opportunity to strike. They can afford to do this because they’ll have merhounds fighting front and centre, big old 150 lb scaled mongrels with a wulf’s muscular body and a fish’s head packing dagger-fangs that make a mudkipper’s mouth look cute and dainty in comparison. Much like wulves, they’ll pen you in and come at you from all sides, darting in for a nip and snap before dancing right back, looking to distract you just long enough for one of its pack to leap up and chop down on your neck.

All while the ranakin deliver probing jabs and scything haymakers with their hooked hands from over their allies heads, a fearsome combination of foes to be sure. Skippers, doggies, and froggies, each fills a niche that doesn’t conflict with the others, whether it be ambush predators, trackers and hunters, or brains and brawn respectively, while still working well in groups. That’s the full-on Feral advantage, the ability for the Proggie to tailor their Aberrations to fit their needs and environment, which in this case is a group of stealthy, amphibious killers that excel underwater and do just fine up on land.

Course there ain’t no such thing as perfection. Ferals are almost always gonna be dumber than goblins, because all that higher order reasoning goes out the window for animal instincts and reflexes. Still smart enough to know when to fight and when to flee, lay in wait for ambush, or undermine your walls instead of going at them head on, but they won’t be building no armour to wear or tossing no rocks to soften you up. There’s always a trade-off when it comes to Abby too, as there ain’t no one size fits all archetype. In this case, being good in water and passable on land means these particular Abby are at a disadvantage compared to most creatures who make their lives up here, not to mention lighter and less densely packed by necessity since they wouldn’t be able to swim otherwise. That’s why them ranakin had so much trouble dealing with my Warding Wind, because their froggie legs ain’t built for sustained, overland movement, and their frames were light enough to be blown away mid hop. A tuskwulf would’ve dug its paws into the dirt and been on me in seconds, but them ranakin just kept hopping into the wind getting taken for a ride. Would be even worse for the smaller, lighter mudkippers, and while merhounds might be able to get through, they’re still slower than most real runners on account of their webbed, clawed flipper feet.

Means whoever’s fighting up there was surrounded before they knew what they was up against, else they could’ve just cut and run and stood a decent chance of getting away. Course, that’s in an ideal situation, on open, flat, easy terrain, not the thick forest growth around us, so I place a blade of grass between my lips to finish up my prep for the fight and bring Old Tux further around to the side. I move quick and quiet until stealth is no longer an option, then put it into high gear as we cross a stretch of open ground until I got the whitewood standing between me and whoever it is I’ve come to save, so I don’t have to worry about hitting them with a through and through shot.

Then I start shooting with a big old battle cry of, “Sueeeeeeee weeeeeeeee! Sue weee, sue weee, sue weeeee!”

The hog call don’t strike fear in the hearts of no one, but it grabs Abbys’ attention well enough. Twenty metres is the range I opted to take this fight at, so I can see the whites of the bulging eyes in my target froggie. Last time around, I emptied six shots from the Rattlesnake into one point blank, and that ranakin shrugged it off like it was nothing. This time though, I got my little big gun, the armour penetrating Model 10 in hand, which got a mean bark to match its deadly bite. Bang goes the first shot, and the ranakin flinches in place, dead from the crater in the back of its head before its body hits the ground. Bang goes the second shot, catching the next froggie in one cheek and out the other, while carving out a good chunk of brain and meat and whatever else it got in between. Bang goes the third shot as I finish my call, but this froggie done got warning enough to leap out of the way, diving for cover alongside its last standing friend while the merhounds and mudkippers have yet to register my presence.

The doggies get there first, backing off from whatever it is they was corralling in, only for glowing streak of blue light to carve clean through the air and set some mudkippers to screaming. A second glowing strike garners another kill, and though I have yet to see whoever it is I’m saving, I got a good appreciation for their skills. Takes more courage than good sense to bring a sword to a gunfight, and this crazy swordslinger brought two. Curved swords from the look of it, and Augmented ones at that, or possibly just enhanced by the Second Order Magic Weapon. Makes them sharper and more durable among other things, but personally, I always figured if a whetstone can do 50% of what a Second Order Spell can, then you’re better off not wasting the Spell or Concentration required to maintain it.

Okay, so I may have a bias against folks who fight in melee combat. Part of it is the stupidity, because who in their right mind wants to go toe to toe with Abby? Course, there’s also the fact that I’m exceedingly intimidated by anyone who can trade blows with a bugbear and come out on top, like a certain gorgeous Nipponese girlie with golden brown hair, a fetching pout, and a piercing glare that makes me weak in the knees to see it. Intrigued too, but mostly intimidated, which I’ll never admit out loud, though I won’t lie and say it ain’t hot as all hell too.

Kacey ain’t our mysterious stranger though, because her swords ain’t that big. “Sit tight friend,” I shout, and that’s all the warning I can spare, because them merhounds are moving to cut me off, and I don’t want to get surrounded while sitting up top of Old Tux. Knowing exactly what I want from him, the piebald horse gets moving with the lightest touch of my heel, surging away from the pack as I let my Model Ten hang loose on my finger and stretch my left arm out towards the bulk of the horde. Making a clutching motion like I’m gathering them Abby in the palm of my hand, I push Aether through the Widen Metamagic bead on my wrist and Intone, “Retineo – Aestus,” around the blade of grass between my lips. ‘Hold back the tide’, which I personally don’t feel like it fits the style of the Entangling Growth Spell, but I got no complaints about the results as spiraling vines burst out of the ground and latch onto every merhound and mudkipper within the Spell’s 12m radius.

A flick of the wrist brings the grip of my gun back into the palm of my hand, and I squeeze off the remaining shots at a trio of merhounds who escaped the Entangling Grasp. Tossing the Model 10 lightly into the air, I grin as the waiting Mage Hand catches it and smoothly flicks open the cylinder to pop out the spent brass, a maneuver I’ve been practicing for a few weeks now. While my Mage Hands get to reloading the Model 10, I draw the Rattlesnake and take shots at the stragglers still looking for a fight, while simultaneously keeping an eye out for the froggies. Though I had to drop the Detect Aberration Spell in order to maintain Concentration on Entangling Growth, my eyes are sharp enough to catch sight of the bounding ranakin as they hip hop away back towards the lake ahead of their friends, always ready to cut and run whenever the fight don’t go their way. Smart move that, even if it annoys me to no end, because mudkippers and merhounds ain’t worth much more than gobbos, which is to say they’re barely worth the Bolt used to kill ‘em.

So in the interest of saving a few bucks, I stop cradling Cowie in the saddle and give him a little nudge once I see that most them Abby are running, save for the ones stuck in my Entangle. “Go on partner,” I say, as he hops down to the ground and gives himself a big shake. “Time to earn your keep.”

Always a trip watching Cowie go from small to big, as he moves with a little bounce in his step while gradually putting on about 1,975 kilos in weight over the course of two and a half seconds. One moment he’s all small and cute, and the next he’s a big old hunk of bovine muscle bellowing out a big old booming moo. Much more intimidating than my piggy call if I’m being honest, though it felt right in the moment, and I regret doing it now after the fact. There’s no changing the past thought, so I just gotta hope the person I saved is kind enough to forget I ever made that little mistake.

Huffing and puffing as only a big burly bull can, Cowie casts a second Spell and snorts out a lungful of smoke before taking a big, deep breath. Brings his head right back he does, then whips it down and stretches it out to unleash a massive gout of flames on the Entangled Abby. One that’s all too brief, just a burst of flame that putters out almost instantly without anything catching fire, but it’s enough to elicit a chorus of shrieks and screams from the trapped mudkippers and merhounds who’re still breathing. Not for long though, as Cowie snorts out some more smoke and draws another big breath so as to unleash another mouthful of flames, which he can do once every five seconds for a full minute at base thanks to the Second Order Dragon’s Breath Spell he got prepped in his head. A great Spell for killing big groups of weak Abby, though you gotta get in nice and close to use it, 5m in a forty-five-degree cone starting at Cowie’s lips. That’s without familiarity mind you, as he can push his flames out to 10m now that he’s gotten a whole bunch of practice, but I’d feel a lot better if his bloodline gave him something like Ablative Armour, Barkskin, or even Gaseous Form to help keep him safe. Big, strong, and Magical though he might be, Cowie is still a bull after all, meaning one Bolt is all it takes to take him out of the fight.

Ain’t no Bolts flying around here though, none besides the ones I’m shooting off to make sure ain’t no Abby playing dead. Take my time going about it, popping every corpse from at least fifteen metres away and the froggie corpses twice from even further while we move around my Entangling Growth to meet up with our beleaguered traveller. Two frogs ain’t a bad haul all things considered, alongside a smattering of mudkippers and merhounds, though I doubt any of them have any offensive Spell Cores else I figure there wouldn’t be no fella to save as they’d’ve unloaded their Spells on him or her soon as they were cornered against the tree. Speaking of which, I call out, “We clear out here. How you doin’ over there?”

There’s no answer as Cowie spews some flames over the pile of dismembered corpses left by the mysterious stranger before trotting on over like he owns the place. “Cowie. Stop,” I hiss, wondering what’s gotten into his fool head. I don’t usually gotta give him orders, as he knows better than to run off on his own, especially at strangers wielding massive curved glowing swords and muscle enough to cleave clean through Abby. This time though, my partner don’t pay me no mind and scampers over with a bounce in his step. Ain’t nothing sillier than a big bull who wants to play, and I can only watch as he rounds the massive whitewood to greet the stranger with a moo.

And a play bow followed by a butt wiggle, which I only catch the back end of. All good signs, since he don’t do that for just anyone, leading me to wonder if this is someone he already knows, like from Carter’s compound of a Ranger from New Hope. In stark contrast to Cowie’s playful demeanour, Old Tux shies away as we draw near, whickering in protest as he flicks his ears and stamps his feet in a display of nerves. “Easy now, Old Tux,” I say, patting his neck with my stump while raising my Rattlesnake to the ready instead of keeping it pointed down at the ground. “Easy.”

That’s all it takes really, a bit of reassurance, and trooper that he is, Old Tux moves on around the whitewood like I ask him to. Takes a wider route around than I’d like him to, but he does it without hesitation, which only goes to show his mettle as we round the corner and look death in the face.

Death got a whole lot more fur than I thought it would, but then again, you never know how you gonna go. White fur, to help it blend into the forest, and a small round head with black markings around its eyes, snout, and lips. Thin ones, which are pulled back in a natural almost smile as it raises its head to meet my gaze without fear, revealing two big, green eyes with more curiosity than malice. It’s got four, thick limbs and bulky torso that makes it about half as big as Cowie, and that’s including its thick coat of white fur. One so dense it can wander around in a snowstorm and never feel the chill, ward off bites and pokes from merhounds and ranakin, and shake off Spells like water off a duck.

How you ask? Well, my daddy heard from a hunter inland who heard it from a scientist who said there’s something in the fur’s natural oils which grants Spell Resistance. Not Aether Resistance mind you, or physical Resistance, or even Elemental Resistance, specific or varied. No, Spell Resistance is exactly what it sounds like, Resistance with a capital R against all things Spells. Force from a Bolt? Resisted. Fire from a Dragon’s Breath? Resisted. Pulse of Electricity from a Lightning Beam? Resisted. Ain’t just damage either, as Spell Resistance means stuff like Entangling Growth has a harder time taking hold of its body, Illusions never make it far enough to be perceived, and Enchantments melt away like ice on a hot summer day, an all-purpose defense that most governments would kill to mass-manufacture.

None of that is what makes this creature death. No, that comes in the form of the three massive talons it got at the end of each arm. Natural weapons enhanced by magic attached to limbs longer than its torso which also got the full range of motion like a persons. Let’s it climb with damn near impunity and spend most of its time up top a giant whitewood, using them big curved claws to grasp trunks and cut branches as it moves about the treetops. Got a powerful grip with strength enough to let it fall asleep while hanging in trees, and the creature shows off its power and dexterity by wrapping its paws around a living mudkipper’s head, one still struggling to gnaw through its fur coat. The claws cleave the things clean off with laughable ease, like one of them cigar cutters them fancy pants Richie rich types would use. Grip, snip, and release, the creature slowly and methodically removes seven mudkippers embedded in its fur just like that, all without so much as a batting an eye or losing a single drop of blood in the process.

And the scariest part of all? The fact that this particular specimen’s claws are only as big as giant honking swords means it’s still a freaking baby.

“Cowie,” I say, keeping my voice low and steady as can be while Old Tux shuffles back slowly, showing he the smartest one out of us three. “Back. Away. From. The diamondclaw.”

Giving me the mother of all side-eye glances, Cowie huffs and nuzzles the baby death machine’s cheeks. The little beastie don’t blink, but it do nuzzle him back while watching me closely, which is great that they’ve made friends and all, but I was never all that concerned about this here baby. See, where there’s a baby, there’s a mama, and a full-grown mama diamondclaw will make Cowie look like a marty, which is to say they big. Real big. Gargantuan even, standing well over twelve feet at the shoulders, or round about three and a half metres for those enlightened souls who prefer metric. Don’t matter what system you use though, that’s still a whole lot of muscle, and a whole lot of talon to boot. Take a big, angry, hormonal, and Spell Resistant animal, then give it a pair of giant claws and natural Spellslinging to boot, and what do you get?

An unstoppable mass of animalistic Aether-fuelled fury that can kill you and the army you brought with you without so much as taking a scratch.

“I ain’t playin’ Cowie,” I say, still trying to keep my cool while my eyes dart up, around, and all about in search of Mama Diamondclaw. “We’re leaving. Now.” Doubt I’ll spot it though, seeing how they’re natural Abjurers the same way Cowie’s a Transmuter, with most coming loaded with Settle into Shadows. That’s the Spell I used to keep me and the boots out of sight while the Rangers handled a horde of greenies on our way to Pleasant Dunes, meaning Big Mama could be hiding in any shadow I see, and there are a whole lot of shadows in the forest this close to dusk. Even if I spot it, there ain’t much I can do, not with only a Model 10 in my hand. Hell, even if I hand four hands holding two Nagas and two Judges, I would rate my chances as slim, because that Spell Resistance lets them shake off hits like you tossing eggs at rocks, and that’s before factoring in any defensive Spells it might have up in its head.

Blowing out a huff of displeasure, Cowie trundles over to obey, only for the baby diamondclaws eyes to grow bigger and rounder as it tries to follow after. On only on good arm mind you, as it cradles the other close to its chest. Opening its tiny mouth at the end of a short snout, the creature lets out the cutest of sounds, like a soft sigh of a squeak that just tugs at the heartstrings. Not mine, which freezes in my throat at the sound of its distress, but Cowie is a big old softie who turns back to the baby and nuzzles it a few more times. Then he positions himself beside it and hunkers down to his belly, using his head to prod at its arms which slowly lift and wrap around his neck.

“No, no, no,” I say, pointing my gun at the diamondclaw then checking myself and putting it back up again. Even if I shoot it, I can’t kill the beastie. I’ll only make it upset. If it gets angry, then Cowie is good as dead already, and if I scare it something fierce, it’ll call even louder for Big Mama and then we’re all dead for sure. To my great relief, the baby diamondclaw is gentle as can be as it hoists itself up onto Cowie’s back, seeming to understand that he’s there to help. When my partner stands up again, the baby is all splayed out across his back, its fur blending with his coat and massive talons no longer glowing blue as they hang with points facing one another to make a big oval in front of Cowie’s chest. Heaving a little sigh, the baby’s sorta smiling expression is too damn adorable as it settles in for a good rest with its head nestled between Cowie’s shoulders.

Why in the Heavens would the good Lord make something so damn dangerous look so damn cute and fluffy? Don’t make no sense is all I’m saying.

Dismounting from Old Tux and letting him back off a little ways, I stand in place as Cowie brings the baby murder machine over to me with his big grey eyes opened wide and innocent like he done no wrong at all. Craning its long neck from Cowie’s back, the Diamondclaw gives me a similar look, studying me to see if I mean it any harm. It meets my eyes, which is rare for a wild animal, then looks away to peer at my gun, which is even rarer, because not only did it break eye contact and show weakness, it also recognizes the danger inherent to my weapon. It don’t look all that concerned though, just intrigued as it watches the glowing pulse of purple Aether coursing through the Primed weapon. Now that it’s closer, I can see its chest is heaving as it quietly pants in exertion, and its off-white fur is stained in the dark, greyish-green goop that passes for Abby blood. None of its own blood far as I can see, but its left arm is clearly hurting and its body is trembling ever so slightly, shaken from its ordeal and probably still in shock, else it’d be screaming for its mama by now.

And believe you me, I don’t want to be here when Big Mama comes looking for whatever it is that done spooked her baby.

Resisting the urge to coo and pet the beastie, I put my Model 10 away, look Cowie in the eyes and say, “You put that thing down right now, mister.” Got me so shook I’m channelling my inner Aunty Ray, with my head tilted and eyes opened wide as can be. The look hits Cowie hard and he shies away, but I ain’t got mercy in me. “I mean it. I ain’t playin’ around no more. You put it down now, and we gonna get gone.” Waggling my finger in front of his face, I say, “Don’t make me come over there and do it myself, because Lord knows you ain’t gonna like the price you pay.”

I must be doing something wrong, because Cowie don’t hop to obey. Instead, he gets all huffy and stompy as he circles around kicking up a gentle fuss, and wouldn’t you know it, the diamondclaw tightens its arms around Cowie’s big ol’ neck. Keeps its wrists crossed and talons together, but that’s like saying you ain’t gotta worry about a man’s gun just because he got it held at parade rest. Still a loaded weapon after all, and don’t take much to bring it to bear, same as the diamondclaws talons there. Ain’t a threat, just a reaction to Cowie swinging his big head around in a tantrum because he refuses to leave his new friend behind, one who can lop his head off accidentally without even trying.

Yea, I bet them Abby thought this baby diamondclaw was cute too, before it cleaved all them mudkippers, merhounds, and ranakin in two. The latter two of which are armoured Abby I might add, while Cowie just got a normal cowhide like any other cow or bull. Cattle hide. Bull hide? Whatever. What I’m saying is that if that baby stretches the wrong way, I might end up having to mount my former partner’s head up on my wall next to the guns my mama made. I sure hope not. That’s the one thing that never clicked with me and American culture. The taxidermy. You shot it. It’s already dead. Let the poor thing rest in peace, or turn it into something useful like a rug or hat.

“Look Cowie,” I say, which is never a good look, trying to speak logically to an animal that don’t understand English. “We can’t bring it home. For one, it’s already got a home. Out here. In this forest. With it’s mama.” And papa maybe. Or brothers and sisters I suppose. Oh Lord… How many babies diamondclaws in a litter? Do they live in packs? I don’t know and I don’t want to know, because I’d much rather they stay in the treetops while me and mine live down here on the ground. “Even if it didn’t,” I continue, as Cowie continues to shake his head and stomp ever so gently in a hissy fit, “We can’t get it past the gate. Guards won’t let us bring a baby Magical Beast into town. You gotta get papers and permits for that, and I doubt we’ll get permission to keep somethin’ as dangerous as a diamondclaw. Even if you overlook the Magical aspect, this little thing is gonna grow as big as an elephant moose.” Or elephant I guess, which is to say them mooses are called that because they big as elephants. Ain’t an animal I ever seen in person. Elephants that is. They just big, bald mini-mammoths though, which always made me wonder why they aren’t called mini-elephants instead. Or mammoth mooses? Meese?

I hate English sometimes.

While I’m having an internal crisis in all the worst ways, Cowie gets himself a big idea. I know this because he stops swinging his head and stomping his feet to let out a big ol’ huff. A happy huff this time around, as he lifts his head up high, so high the top of his head touches the forehead of the diamondclaw on his back. He don’t gotta chant no Latin or waggle no hooves when he slings Spells, because I guess he just better like that. Don’t know how he keeps his Spell Structures from accidentally firing off, but he ain’t ever slung a Spell without meaning to, and it’s clear he means to sling this one. Right then and there, the baby diamondclaw shrinks down until its small enough to fit in my duster pocket. Not entirely in there, as half of it would be hanging out, but it’d fit and be a good place to keep it while we riding about. His Spell slung, Cowie straightens up, opens his big, grey eyes wide, and bats them all cute and innocent like as if to say, “How about now? Can we keep the baby Diamondclaw? Can we?”

And Lord help me, it’s a real struggle coming up with reasons to say no.

The baby diamondclaw don’t seem none too fussed about being tiny, and in fact looks downright happy and excited. Though still lying flat on its belly up top of Cowie’s back, it shifts its arms to make a little pillow for its chin, leaving its curved claws hovering just above my partner’s hide while it looks this way and that. Still fearsome to behold, just in an adorably cute and tiny package as it blinks its round, green eyes and takes in its new perspective.

“Cowie,” I begin, reaching up to pat his cheeks before I cup his chin. “When’d you get so smart?” Holding his gaze as I peer into his eyes, I ask, “Do you understand what I’m saying? Did you hear me complain about getting the Diamondclaw into town, and come up with the idea to smuggle it in?” I talk to him a lot, because that’s what partners do, but the great thing about this partnership is that one of us speaks something that barely passes as English, and the other is a bull. That’s what makes this partnership work after all, because I’m something of a neurotic control freak, someone who likes things done my way because that’s how my daddy did it, which means it’s the right way to go about it.

So if Cowie really understands what I’m telling him, I’m gonna hafta start being more circumspect about what I share.

He don’t answer, just closes his eyes and enjoys the chin scritches while I debate what to do next. The blaring drone of the Mindspire ain’t helping things none, which is probably why Cowie’s acting so bratty today. The diamondclaw ought to be fine though, being Spell Resistant like it is, while Old Tux is only put off by the smell of an apex predator lurking about. As he should be, but me, I’m not so smart, because now I’m considering all the angles of having a pet Diamondclaw in my pocket. It’ll take a few years for this one to grow, but if it’s big enough to fight come the Watershed, then that’ll be well worth the wait. It’s a smart beastie too, putting it’s back to a tree to cover its six, and offer it a path of retreat up into the treetops if need be. That’s while it’s still young too, so it stands to reason it’ll get smarter as it ages. Add in how it seems friendly enough with Cowie, and you got all the makings of a tameable Magical beast, one that can take a hit on the chin better than most armoured tanks and look mighty cute and fearsome while doing it.

So why shouldn’t I bring a baby diamondclaw home to roost in New Hope?

A question I mull over while cleaning up the battlefield and stacking Abby corpses onto my Floating Disc sleds. Ain’t a huge haul by any measure, but the cutie patootie beastie accounted for four ranakin on its lonesome, and a whole slew of mudkippers and merhounds, more than I took care of at least. Add in my own kills and it’s a decent day’s work, least $25 from the froggies alone and maybe half that again in smaller Abby. What’s more, I can revise my expectations of finding a Spell Core now, because I know Spells wouldn’t have been of much use against a diamondclaw. Not to mention how bigger groups tend to have a Floating Disc Spell Core in the mix, otherwise the only way to bring biomass back to the Proggie is to eat everything and get ‘recycled’ when they go back home. Another downside of utilizing Ferals, in that they rarely become Spellslingers without the Spell Cores, which makes them much more profitable to hunt as opposed to greenies. Granted with gobbos and their ilk, you can usually make bank when hunting them in bulk, but as a one-man operation, I typically found myself running more often than fighting.

Course the real trade off is how much stronger a single Feral is compared to a greenie. Not saying I would want to, but I could probably take on a lone gobbo unarmed without slinging a single Spell. All I’d need are a good pair of boots and a solid kick to cave its chest in. Against a mudkipper though? Sure, I can stomp one dead all the same, but between their propensity to bury themselves in the mud and lie in wait for days, the speed of their lunge, and the force of their bite, I wouldn’t want to fight one with anything less than a spear, and preferably a shield too.

Also depends on the type of Feral you up against. Take harpies for example, who’ve been a scourge New Hope going on six years now. The cost to produce one is probably twice that of a gobbo, if you going by Aberrtin and biomass content, but a harpy is more than twice as dangerous as a gobbo, and that scales too. I’d rather take on a hundred gobbos than thirty harpies by my lonesome, because even though the gobbos are more likely to have Bolts and Blasts in their wheelhouse, I could easily run and gun my way to victory against them. Don’t even need a horse or wagon, as I demonstrated for the boots and Rangers both on our way up to Pleasant Dunes. Gave those greenies a good run for their money, steering them back and forth along the sands for a good hour to buy the boots time enough to dig in for the fight, but if I tried that against harpies I’d’ve gotten got in five minutes flat.

But with a diamondclaw to watch my back? A fully grown one could swat a whole flock out of the sky, just snicker-snack with the claws and watch them drop. Could shield me too, with Spells or even its body in a pinch, because I seen one shake off a fully powered Lance. That’s the stuff of nightmares it is, to be sitting in a Ranger convey while they haul ass in a desperate effort to get away from an enraged, berserk diamondclaw. Watched three Rangers, my daddy included, spend a full half-minute charging up the most powerful single target Spell beneath Seventh Order, only for them Lances to bounce off the big, angry beastie with dozer-blades for hands.

And if I train this baby beastie up right, then that could be me giving people nightmares soon enough. Now won’t that be a treat?

Despite all my lofty dreams, I still keep on the lookout for any Mama diamondclaws come calling to collect her baby while I tidy up the battlefield, but nothing happens. The baby don’t mewl, cry, or even growl a single time, just lays there on Cowie’s back looking all small and tiny until I’m done gathering all the bodies onto the sleds and covering up our tracks. Don’t normally bother with the second bit, but I’d much rather not leave signs for a massive magical beast with swords for hands to follow right back to town. Ain’t no more dawdling to be done though, so it’s time I made a decision, but enticing as a pet monster might be, it’s not as simple as bringing it home for the night.

What if its Mama still tracks me all the way back to New Hope and takes a run at the town? Would probably kill a good number of people trying to get in, or worse, sneak in over the wall and kill a whole lot more trying to get out. Myself included, since I’d be ground zero of that disaster, which is not how I want to go out. Even if all goes well and no Mama, Papa, Brother, or Sister diamondclaw shows up looking for little baby, then I gotta deal with all the red tape of owning a furry little murder machine. Already gotta walk a fine line with Cowie to keep him from being declared a dangerous beast, so how much harder will it be with a diamondclaw? There are folks who train scalebears and tuskwulves as guard animals, but they ain’t allowed in town, and they’re not even magical beasts.

And most importantly of all, this little fellow won’t stay little for long. How much is it gonna cost to feed the thing? What do diamondclaws even eat?

All thoughts that go through my head as I mosey on over for a look, one that’ll decide what I do with the beast. The thing ain’t moved since I left it, just perched on Cowie’s back like it trying to blend into his body, hiding right there in plain sight because it don’t know any better. It meets my eyes as I approach, but not in a guarded or fearful way. More expectant really, just curious as to know what’s gonna happen next. Reaching into my duster pocket, I pull out a bapple I was saving for Old Tux and ask, “You hungry?”

The little critter’s mouth opens wide with delight as it slowly reaches out for the fruit, and I can’t help but flinch as its claws draw near. It don’t move quickly though, with a deliberate lack of haste almost, like it knows its claws are dangerous and doesn’t want to accidentally kill anything in haste. Spearing the apple out of my hand, it brings it back to its mouth where I swear it marvels at the dark red fruit for a bit, utterly amazed to see a bapple so big. Then it closes its green eyes, opens its mouth, and takes a chomp out the bapple, and that right there seals the deal for me.

It’s so cute when it eats with its tiny little mouth, thoroughly chewing the singular bite for a good half minute before swallowing it down. All while smiling the whole way through mind you, which is just perfect on so many different levels. I can imagine it now, me rolling into a new town on the back of a smiling diamondclaw and giving the locals a big old grin. All I gotta do is teach Cowie to smile too, and we three amigos can go from town to town with damn near impunity.

Forget hiring on a crew. Who’s gonna mess with a man who got a diamondclaw watching his back.

Grabbing the blanket I carried Cowie in for most of the day, I very carefully set it next to the baby beastie’s belly while it continues munching away at the bapple. With my stump rather than my right hand, because if I’m gonna lose something, it might as well be from there. The little critter cranes its neck to watch what I’m doing, but it don’t protest when I use my Mage Hands to gently slide it onto the blanket and wrap it up like a burrito. My heart pounds in my chest as I lift it off of Cowie’s back, but the little fella is still chomping and chewing, holding the big bapple with both its little hands and all too happy to sink back and relax while I cradle it close to my chest. Even wiggles its butt and body to get comfy as I carry it over to Old Tux, who shies away just a bit before heaving a big old sigh to once again show that he’s probably the smartest one here.

He don’t make a fuss as I mount up, though Cowie grumbles as he trundles alongside, unhappy to see me carrying an animal that ain’t him. “You hush,” I say, sticking out my tongue at the big fussy bull. “This was your idea, remember? If you don’t like it, then you just say the word and I’ll stick this baby on a tree and leave it there.” That don’t stop him from huffing and sighing, but the baby stops chomping on the apple to give me a wide-eyed look. My emotions tell me it’s trying to look cute so I won’t abandon it, and my heart breaks to see it, but logic says it’s just scared by the tone I used when talking to Cowie. “It’s okay,” I say, my voice all sickly and sweet as I set Old Tux on a course back home. “I ain’t gonna leave you here on all your lonesome. That said, if your mama or papa do come looking for you, you gotta put in a good word for me, okay?”

Not that it’d matter, but the little baby looks oh so thoughtful before giving me a soft little squeak, one so soft it’s almost a sigh. Then it returns to its meal, chomping away at the bapple in tiny, dainty bites until there ain’t nothing left. Smacking its lips, it glances up at me with its big round, green eyes on its tiny, soft head, so I feed it some grumble berries one at a time because it’s too cute to deny. And scary too, if I’m being honest, which is why I initially feed it with my Mage Hands, only to switch over to my real one once I see how gentle and careful it is when taking fruit from my fingers. It’s a surreal experience, carrying a fearsome magical beast that’s so tiny and darling, and I can’t help but melt every time I look down at it’s smiling face. It ain’t actually smiling, that’s just how its lips are, but it looks like a smile no matter how you slice it. Soon enough, I find myself scratching its head and rubbing its muzzle while coming up with names in my head, but I know Chrissy loves naming animals, so I’ll leave it to her. The whole while back, I talk to it like it can understand me, tell it how I’ll take good care of it, raise it up big and strong, and bring it out on adventures when its older. Though we still a good hour from town, it don’t make a single peep the whole time, just lays in my arm and stares up at my face with its claws and paws tucked against its chest and curled up tight.

It don’t even squirm when I cover its head up and lay it down on the saddle in front of me, so we can get through the gate without anyone asking too many questions. The guards look mighty impressed by my haul, since they think I done it all myself, because I went out of my way to put the corpses that done been carved in half on the bottom so no one would be the wiser. When they ask if I got anything else to declare, I can’t help but pretend to look around my packs while saying, “Yea. I got a diamondclaw tucked away somewhere around here.” Which is the truth, but the guards think I’m being flippant and roll their eyes before sending me on my way. Covers my behind though, should word get out about the little beastie before I got its papers good and ready, because then I can honestly say I declared it at the gates, and it ain’t my fault no one took me serious.

True to my suspicions, the day’s trip took a whole lot more than ten hours, as I get in just before the gates are closed for the night. Tempting as it is to bring the beastie to the church for an inspection from Aunty Ray, there are too many people there, and I’d like to keep my baby diamondclaw a secret for a little longer at least. Soon as we get back to the barn and I got all the Abby corpses locked away, I lift the little beastie out of the blankets to see it’s still wide awake, so I gingerly unwrap it while doing my best to keep the other horses from panicking. “It’s okay,” I say, staying far from their individual stables while letting them watch me handle the formidable beast, one that got its knees up against its belly and toesies all curled up too. A quick glance tells me it’s actually a she, and she don’t much like having her nether regions looked at. Or maybe it’s how I was holding her, with only a handless forearm against her back and two Mage Hands to stabilize her, so I bring her in close for a cuddle. “She ain’t gonna hurt none of y’all, ain’t that right, girlie?”

Using my one and only hand to tickle the belly of an animal that got swords attached to its hands ain’t the smartest thing I ever done, but damn me if it ain’t got the cutest little gurgle of a laugh.

Annoyed by the lack of attention, Cowie gives my hand a couple nudges indicating I need to set the girlie down and give him scritches instead, so I oblige. Not just to pamper my spoiled partner, but also to see how the girlie behaves on her own. Like a curious baby, which shouldn’t come as any surprise, slowly crawling around on all fours to explore the barn and look at the horses and kiccaws posted up inside. A couple of the braver kiccaws pop down from their perches to puff up and strut in front of her, and I move close to intercept in case she still feeling snacky, but she just gives them a sniff and a nuzzle to de-escalate the situation, and soon enough has got a kiccaw to snuggle. The kiccaw is almost bigger than she is, but she still perches her chin on top of its head while wrapping her arms around it, the exact same way Tina, Chrissy, and Aunty Ray like to hold the rotund little birdies. Wanting to take a Photo for everyone to see, I grab my jadite from my component’s pouch, frame up to snap a Photo off, and embed the scene into memory before remembering I only have the one hand.

Photo’s still there though, sitting pretty in my head, and it takes a moment for the gravity of what I just done to sink in. Furrowing my brow, I look at my hand and my stump side by side, then frame up again. The somatic component for the Photo Cantrip is to make a rectangle with your thumbs and index fingers, so I figured I couldn’t do it with only one hand, but as I hold a sideways L with my left hand and deliberately match them up with the phantom fingers of my missing right hand, I feel the Spell Structure activate inside my mind. Two and a half seconds to Prime, and then it’s ready to unleash, and I snap another Photo of the baby Diamondclaw cuddling with the kiccaw.

“Holy shit,” I say, and the baby glances at me like I done spooked it even though I’m speaking under my breath. “Sorry. Pardon my French. Shouldn’t be swearing in front of a lady.” Gotta be mindful of my tone around it, as it seems like a sensitive sort, though it accepts my apology with grace and aplomb before going back to its cuddles, grinding her chin into the birdie which seems to love the attention. As for me, I do my best not to laugh like a madman as I consider the implications of what I just done, because if I can do the finger waggles for a Spell with a hand that ain’t there, then that’s the silver lining of losing a hand, now ain’t it?

To test it out again, I pick out a Spell that only needs one hand to cast, and Water Sphere is the first to come to mind. To start, I ball my phantom hand up in a fist and wince as a lancing pain shoots up my forearm and down my spine. I push through it though, envisioning and feeling my fingers open up like a flower in bloom as I Intone the words to the Spell. “Obtestor – Aqua – Sphaera.”

And wouldn’t you know it, the Spell Structure lights up in my mind’s eye and the Spell takes shape above my phantom hand, one that ain’t there no more, but still feels like it is all the same. The orb of water hovers just inches in front of my stump, and I can even flex my phantom wrist and angle it all about. Amazing is what that is, an incredible sight to behold, because even though a single Cantrip ain’t all that much, it’s more than I thought I had this morning.

Now here’s the million-dollar question. Are there any useful Spells that only require finger waggling and no vocal components? I’ll have to look it up, but even if I gotta use Metamagic to eschew Vocal Components, that’ll give me an advantage I’d be a fool not to use and abuse, a secret edge that no one will expect me to have. I could cast Mage Hand without anyone being the wiser, prep an Ice Knife with just a glass of water on the table in front of me, or place down glue with Adhesive Spray using a missing hand no one will be watching. That’s just off the top of my head too, with so many more possibilities to explore, and I can’t help but grin as I snap a couple more Photos and look forward to what my next lesson with Uncle Teddy will bring.

Things are finally looking up. Got me a baby murder machine and an ace up my sleeve, turning my disability into an advantage no one could ever suspect I’d have. Add in the decent haul I brought in from the hunt, as well as the connections made along the way, and today has been a very good day, no two ways about it.