Firstborn of the Frontier

I’ve touched on the general love for guns Americans are known for, but no one embodied that national spirit more than Uncle Raleigh.

Shows in the gun room he built way back before he even had more than one gun to keep inside. A central, fortified room with lead-lined walls of solid steel and a safe door with three combination locks, the gun room is big enough to mount and display dozens of rifles on the walls. Would fit more if you stacked them up neatly in lockers, but Uncle Raleigh liked to come in here to sit and admire all his lovely collection of weapons. The polished wood panelling was Aunty Ray’s attempt to brighten the room up and make it a mite cozier and appealing, but the many rifles mounted across them don’t make for a welcoming sight, unless you American of course. Though it comfortably fits six people standing around the central countertop, I’m already feeling a mite claustrophobic with Chrissy, Errol, and Sarah Jay all packed inside, so it takes a bit of effort for me to look calm and cool on the outside.

At least Cowie got more sense than to force his way in. He smart like that.

This place also doubles as a panic room should Abby or outlaws ever make it past the walls of New Hope. There’s a hatch at the far end which leads down to a roomier bomb shelter we dug out years ago, though I don’t get down there much. Usually once a year to clear out the provisions and stock new ones should the worst come to pass. Don’t see much point in it really, since there ain’t no real threat of Aetheric Bombs dropping anytime soon on the Frontier. Even if we had a second John Von Neumann around smart enough to figure out how to put it all together, the higher order Spell Cores needed to make an Aetheric Bomb simply can’t be found anywhere on the Frontier. Not for a couple decades more at least, when the ambient Aether levels are high enough that the Proggies stop pumping out orcs and goblins in favour of Titans, Arch Liches, and who knows what else.

No sense arguing with older folk though, as they all seem to think Aetheric annihilation is just around the corner. Guess that’s what you get when you grow up with bomb shelters at home, school, and the office to boot, the result of a decades long cold war. With the Métis Nation and United Federation of American States on one side, and the Qin Republic and Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on the other. Four global superpowers with enough Aetheric Bombs between them to render the old world uninhabitable, an outcome even the Immortal Monarchs of old couldn’t bring about in long centuries of storied conflict.

Ain’t technology grand?

Inside the gun room, I open up a drawer and grab a pair of pistols for Errol and Sarah Jay before jumping into the whole song and dance. “This chonky fellow here is a classic,” I begin, holding up two hefty revolvers built out of blued steel to show off their side profile. “The Sturm & Kitiara Squire. A Ranger Standard Issue sidearm which you likely already practised with, this single-action, 22 caliber, 10-Grain six-shooter gets a bad rap as baby’s first gun.” I can already see Errol and Sarah Jay’s disappointment, as they was hoping I’d bring out something fancier, but everyone should start off with the basics. “Now it’s true that it’s a beginner’s gun. It ain’t the hardest hitting sidearm, nor is it the prettiest, and it only got a rate of fire of one Bolt every second. Also looks a bit silly and feels awkward, with the top of the grip starting just under the cylinder, but it’s built like that to better handle the recoil, since it kicks like a mule. All’s said and done, it’s Standard Issue for good reason. The Squire is durable, reliable, and most importantly of all, it’s Silenced.”

Errol’s already got the other Squire I brought out in hand. I could’ve stopped him from grabbing it, but I wanted to see what he’d do, and I’m glad I did. Right off the bat, he sticks his finger inside the trigger guard and spins it in around, with the barrel pointed right at me I might add. Then, with finger still on the trigger, he cocks the hammer, holds the gun up to his ear, and uses his other hand to spin the cylinder with a big old smile. That’s about all I can tolerate, so I look him dead in the eyes and tell him, “That ain’t a toy. Put it down.”

Errol’s smile fades away as he considers his response, one which will tell me a lot about him. His first instinct is to go with defensive belligerence, but then he remembers what he’s been taught and realizes he’s gone and done everything wrong. Some men would double down with anger here, act as if I ain’t got no right to call him out on his mistakes, and Errol starts heading in that direction before he looks to Sarah Jay and thinks better of it. Which is good and bad. Good because he listens and puts the gun back on the countertop, but bad because he’s doing it for Sarah Jay, not me. That said, he seems reasonable enough, so I calmly go over everything he just did wrong. “Keep your finger off the trigger unless you mean to shoot, and don’t shoot unless you mean to kill, because that there’s a hair trigger that’ll go off with a touch. Same goes for the hammer. Any time you pick up a new gun, you check to see if it’s loaded first, but also treat every gun as if it is, even if you know it ain’t. Means never pointing any gun, even an unloaded one, at anything you don’t intend to shoot, especially another person, as that can get out of hand real fast. Don’t spin the gun; it’s a bad habit that could get you killed, as you’ll be spinning when you should be shooting, not to mention that hair trigger. Don’t spin the cylinder while it’s locked in neither, and I’ll show you why.”

Putting my Squire down and picking up the one Errol just put down, I pop the hinge and lift the empty cylinder out to show him the rachet and cylinder stops. “See those little notches on the side? Those are there to lock the cylinder in place, line up your bullets with the Spell Core here.” Handing him the cylinder, I remove the Bolt Cantrip Spell Core nestled into the base of the barrel and hold it up for him to see, a tiny, translucent cone of amethyst crystal about the size my pinky tip. “If the bullet don’t line up perfect, then it won’t Prime the Spell Core.” To show this, I grab a cylindrical 22 bullet and rest the cone-like Spell Core on top in the right orientation. Nothing happens, as expected, and I shift the Core around just to really hammer home how precisely arranged it’s gotta be. To actually Prime it, I clamp the brass casing between two fingers and use that to line up the Spell Core until it slowly brightens up with a purplish glow, one so faint you wouldn’t be able to read by it, since it’s only using a single Grain of Aether.

Takes two and a half seconds to reach its maximum brightness, which means its armed and ready to loose a Bolt. Would take a strike from an Etched firing hammer or pin to unleash an attack, though a focused effort of will and intent can also set it off. Wouldn’t want to be holding it when that happens though, as loosing a Bolt generates a fair amount of heat and force, enough to leave a bad burn and maybe even sever a fingertip if I get unlucky. Breaking contact between the Core and bullet renders the Core safe and eventually dormant as the Aether within drains away over the course of two and a half seconds. The Metamagic Etchings on the Squire take that five-second total downtime and reduce it down to one, a half-second to arm and a half-second to recover, but the Spell Core’s gotta be in the gun for the Metamagic to work. No Aether was actually spent in the priming process, so the bullet is still good, and I finally get to the point I set out to make. “If you spin the cylinder, then those notches will strip down the bolts on the Squire’s frame meant to catch and hold it in place. If it don’t line up right, then your Core won’t prime and your pistol won’t fire.” Meeting Errol’s eyes, I try to impart a sense of gravity without being judgmental. “Outside these walls, this sidearm might be all that stands between you and death should danger come calling. Treat it right, and it’ll save your life. Treat it wrong, and it could get you killed.” Putting the Squire back together, I hand it over to him grip first, which he takes with a solemn nod the weapon deserves.

Though they should have learned all of this in Basic, I go over all the features and safety steps while they secure their holsters to their belts. “Keep your hands off your weapons much as you can,” I conclude, and that gets their attention, because it ain’t something they’ve heard before. “No resting a hand on the pistol grip. No taking the gun out to show off or play with. Don’t even keep your hands by your belts that much. Make the wrong move and some nervous nelly might shoot you thinking you mean to do violence.”

“Lot of people getting accidentally shot in New Hope?”

Errol’s raised eyebrow irks me some, because he thinks I’m being overcautious and ain’t taking this seriously. “No,” I reply, giving him the look again, “But if you mean to ride out with me, then it’s best you get in the habit. Not all settlements are as safe or friendly, and they get a whole lot less friendly if you walk around looking like you fixing to draw.”

“C’mon,” Errol says, still smiling like I’m telling a joke. “You really think someone’s gonna shoot me just for touching a holstered gun? An unloaded one at that?”

“Yes.” My straightforward reply is not what he was expecting, and Sarah Jay looks doubtful too, so I try not to roll my eyes and spell it out whole. “Reaching for an Aetherarm constitutes what the Accords call an actionable threat of aggression, as it can be argued in a court of law that you having your hands on your pistol can be interpreted as intent to draw it. Doesn’t matter if you mean to draw it or not, or if you’ve had your hand on it for hours without drawing it, or if it’s loaded or not. All that matters is that if someone gets spooked and shoots you, they can claim it was done in self defense, because you performed what they perceived as an actionable threat of aggression inside a settlement wherein one can be assured a reasonable expectation of safety. Course if that’s all they got before they start shooting, their excuse likely won’t hold up in any reasonable court. Assuming the witnesses don’t lie of course, and the Sherrif and judge ain’t bent. All goes right, and your murderer will likely be charged with manslaughter, but that ain’t gonna bring you back from the dead.” Glancing at them both in turn to meet their eyes, I conclude, “So keep your hands away from your guns, unless you have cause to use them.”

“They didn’t cover this in Basic,” Sarah Jay says, not to argue but to excuse her ignorance, because she feels like she’s failed in not knowing all this already.

Classic overachiever, which is a plus in my book. Shame she’s a woman though. Maybe I can find someone to teach her the Alter Self Spell so she can make herself look like a man. “Rangers are a part of the Federal Armed Forces,” I say, trying not to sound too impatient about all this. “They’re soldiers. Their presence alone implies aggression. They don’t need the Accords to protect them, because they ain’t civilians. So long as they in uniform and declare their presence and affiliation, they’re allowed to treat everyone they meet as potentially hostile. If someone shoots at them, even in what they believe is justified self defense, it is still tantamount to an act of war, and the Rangers will respond accordingly. We don’t get that benefit.” The blood drains from both their faces as they put two and two together, so I figure it’s time to offer them their first out. “This here is just the tip of the iceberg,” I say, leaning back so I ain’t riding them so hard. “It’s a dangerous world out there, and most folk don’t take too kindly to armed strangers riding right up to their doorstep. That’s why we gotta work extra hard to look safe and friendly, which oftentimes means keeping our cool around nervous, twitchy and heavily armed strangers.”

Just as I’m about to really turn up the heat and mention how Sarah Jay will probably have to cut her hair and dress ugly, Chrissy gets it into her head that now is a good time for a big hug. Hard to look grim and foreboding with a bigger silver-haired girlie clamped onto you from the side, so I keep quiet and return the hug best I can with my arms trapped as they are. Eventually, I manage to give her forearm a quick three squeezes, and she squeezes right back. It takes a few seconds more before I realize she ain’t got any intention of letting go, so I stifle a sigh and shelve my plan to hit Errol and Sarah Jay hard and fast with the dismal facts of life out on the Frontier.

“And you will be heavily armed,” I continue, after conjuring two Mage Hands to grab the next gun and bring it out for a look-see. “This one’s for you Errol. Should look familiar enough, as it’s another Ranger Standard Issue weapon.” His eyes light up as the rifle floats towards him, but he stops himself short before reaching out to take it. A quick study, and eager to learn when he wants to. “The M1917 Short Magazine El-Minister,” I begin, always happy to talk shop, “Which some call the Smile. This Silenced, semi-automatic 22-10 rifle is the mainstay weapon of the Rangers, Protectorate, and Chevaliers, among a few others. This particular model is based on a bolt action rifle first designed in the 1850s by the British-Metis Artificer it’s named for, with variants seeing action in both world wars. Now it’s come to make its mark on the Frontier, and what a mark it makes.”

Running my Mage Hands over the polished, pale wood stock which runs almost the entire length of the barrel, I take a moment to appreciate the beauty and simplicity of its craftsmanship before handing it over for Errol to refamiliarize himself with. “Ain’t the most powerful rifle around, nor is it the most accurate, reliable, or fast firing. Fact is, the Smile is only just above average on all counts, which alongside the ease of manufacturing is what makes it so good. Put this in the hands of a government-issue grunt, point them towards Abby, and they’ll rack up kills until they run outta ammo without breaking a sweat. Comes standard with a ten-round mag, but I got a couple thirties you can use, and the only limit on rate of fire is how quick you can pull the trigger.” Course I don’t hand him the loaded mags, which he accepts with a smile and nod of understanding.

Considering he washed out for doling a beat-down, Errol ain’t half as angry as I’d thought he’d be.

After making sure he knows his stuff, I direct my attention towards Sarah Jay, who looks eager and pleased as punch. “Now I got a Taz98 you can use, if that’s what you comfortable with, but I’m guessing you ready for something more robust.” Her rapid nods sets her high ponytail to bobbing, and her eyes go wide as my Mage Hands bring over the prized gun in the room. Still remembers to check the chamber to see if it’s loaded, making her the top student of this here class. “The Majere-Nagash 3-Line rifle with a four-times scope and mechanical silencer,” I say, giving the weapon a big smile. “Bolt-action with a five round internal magazine, it’s got the same rate of fire as the Squire, one shot every second, but hits much harder. Kicks harder too, on account of using a Bolt-1 Spell Core, as opposed to Bolt Cantrip. Personally, I ain’t a fan of the side-mounted dove-tail scope, but otherwise it’s as reliable a gun as any. You ought to take the silencer off for range shooting, as it’s got a limited number of shots before it’s no good. I got spares just in case, but they don’t come cheap. You’ll also have to carry 44-40 rounds, which are twice as thick and packed with four times more Aether compared to a 22-10. Gun ain’t four times more powerful, only about 40% compared to the 22-10 variant, but bang for buck don’t mean much when Abby comes a-knocking.”

“So why you got me using this pea-shooter then?”

Errol’s mostly joking, so I respond in kind. “Because you ain’t as pretty, though it’s close.” Giving him my best grin, I use my chin to point at the rifle in Sarah Jay’s hands and say, “Real talk, it’s because she won the sharpshooting competition, which tells me she knows how to handle it. Keep in mind, the 3-Line shoots slower and only has five rounds before you gotta reload, so she’s gona have to make every shot count. Let’s make a deal though. You show me you got the chops to make Ranger sharpshooter, and I’ll find you a Big Smile to use instead. Same gun, bigger caliber, 40% more power. Sound good?”

“Alright. Bet.”

His confident smile tells me he don’t know the required sharpshooter qualifications, but Sarah Jay does and she don’t look too convinced. Ain’t easy hitting eight out of ten shots at 300m with a grouping size less than a handspan, and only the best can do it on three separate targets within a two-minute time limit. Took me more than a few tries, but in my defense, was my first time using the Smile when I made sharpshooter. Marksman is easier, only seven out of ten on one target at 300m, while the standard for passing Basic is three shots anywhere vital on the target. Way too low a bar in my opinion, but the Rangers ain’t exactly spoiled for choice when it comes to new recruits.

Besides, if they stuck to Ranger standards, then even I wouldn’t make the cut. They’re the tip of the spear in the war against Abby for good reason, as they didn’t earn their reputation collecting bottlecaps.

After using my Mage Hands to fill a saddlebag with ammo enough for both of them, I subtly direct them to leave first so I can have a talk with Chrissy, but Errol don’t get the message right away. “What about you?” he asks, gesturing around at the guns on the wall. “You’re not gonna bring your rifle out and show us how it’s done?”

I ain’t ever one to back down from a challenge or miss a chance to talk tech, so I send my Mage Hands over to grab my carbine, which I got hanging on the wall over my pair of dubsies. “This here’s my rifle of choice,” I say, meeting Errol’s eyes with a knowing look while I show him it’s unloaded, then set to loading it. “The Ranger Repeater carbine, lever action 22-10 model. This here is another Standard Issue weapon, though less popular than the Smile, on account of how it requires more maintenance to keep in good working condition. I prefer 22-10 caliber, as it’s good enough for most work and lets me share ammo between my rifle and sidearm. Holds five rounds in the tube, which you gotta feed in one at a time, but you can keep a round in the chamber too. That said, it’s got all the same Metamagics as the Smile, with a major advantage in utility. Being a carbine, it’s got a shorter barrel which makes it easier to use mounted, and lever-action means I can use it one-handed in a pinch, so I can keep my other hand free for Spellslingin’.”

I admit I also favour the repeater because I enjoy working the lever-action with only one hand. You hold the lever in place and swing the stock and barrel forward, then slam it back in with a click, which is both fun and flashy, albeit rough on the hardware. I ain’t against fun and flashy so long as it don’t raise the chances of getting me or someone else killed, though I admit using both hands to work the rifle is better and faster.

Having long since caught onto my desire for privacy, Sarah Jay quietly urges Errol out, leaving me alone with a clingy Chrissy. “Hey Princess,” I begin, speaking softly so as not to be overheard. “Something got you feeling down?” With her cheek pressed against my shoulder, Chrissy simply nods and clings tight enough to squeeze the breath out of my lungs. Aunty Ray didn’t raise no dainty damsels, so I got a limited window to fix things before I pass out. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?” Chrissy shakes her head, leaving me no choice but to gently break free, which I do easily enough by slowly squatting down to shift the leverage in my favour. Once I can move my arms, I stand back up and turn to hug her tight, because if she ain’t ready to stop hugging, I ain’t gonna make her. Takes a good long second to figure out what’s got her so upset though, and I get to kicking myself the moment I do. She’s scared because I was talking up the dangers of the Frontier, and she don’t want me to go out and get shot. Again.

To think, there was a time when we were worried Chrissy wasn’t feeling any emotions at all.

Giving her shoulder a quick three squeezes, I can’t help but smile when she squeezes right back, even if it hurts my shoulder something fierce. “Don’t you worry about me, Princess,” I say, patting her back to soothe her fears. “I’m the best there is, and trained by the best there ever was.” Not entirely true, but it’s true enough, so it comforts Chrissy some, and she only needs a little more coaxing before she’s ready to break off the hug. Still holds tight to my hand though, which I don’t mind one bit, so I head out with my loaded carbine in hand and lock the gun room behind us.

Gratified to see they both still got their rifles at port arms, the weapons held securely against their shoulders with the barrel pointing skywards, I plop Chrissy’s straw hat on her head, get her socks and shoes onto her feet, and lead everyone out of Aunty Ray’s and over to my place so I can put on something decent. Giving my Stetson an innocuous tap as I pass by it on the hook, I leave Chrissy with Errol and Sarah Jay in the main area and head into my bedroom. Opening up my closest to pick out an outfit, I mentally tune into the Arcane Bug spelled into my Stetson which I activated on my way in, just so I can listen in on their conversation without them knowing. I ain’t proud of how sneaky and underhanded this is, but I figure better safe than sorry since I’m intending to put my life in their hands.

Errol is the first to speak up, in low, hushed tones. “So that’s the famous Firstborn.” He sucks his teeth and I can almost see his casual disdain through the walls. “Don’t look like much.”

“Errol!”

“I’m just saying, you and everyone else made him out to some big, badass gunfighter and Spellslinger, so I was expecting someone more… impressive.”

“Stop it.” Though she tries to sound playful, there’s an edge to Sarah Jay’s voice which catches me off-guard. “Seriously, he’s the real deal. A bona fide roughneck who done beat up half the boys in town and can cow the rest with a hard look. Don’t test him neither. I’d bet on you because you my man, but that’s money down the drain far as I’m concerned. He’s been out hunting Abby with his daddy since he was eight, and learning how to sling Spells from the Marshal since he was eleven. Heard tell that the day he turned fifteen, he set out for his house in the badlands and came back carting more bug Behemoth bodies than most Rangers have hunted solo in their lifetime.” Technically true, considering that for most, that number is exactly zero. Not for lack of skill mind you, it’s just there ain’t too many Rangers dumb enough to go riding solo into the badlands, much less tackle big bug Behemoths all by their lonesome. Can’t help it though. I was of a mind to visit my mama and daddy, and couldn’t find no one I could trust to escort me, so I didn’t have any other choice but to go it alone. Trip went well enough until I was on my way back and picked the wrong dune to sleep on, but the profits from those corpses made up the bulk of my seed money when it came to getting started as a trader.

“Oh?” There a teasing pitch to Errol’s tone, and I hear the faintest smack of a kiss. “You almost sound like you got a crush on the Firstborn. Should I be worried, ma chere?”

“No, dummy.” Another kiss, then another, and I mentally apologize to Chrissy for leaving her alone with the amorous couple. “It’s just… I heard a lot of stories is all, even over in Riverrun, because he done a lot for these parts. His daddy too, who I owe big.” That’s news to me, and I’m guessing to Errol too, as Sarah Jay explains, “That harpy attack I told you about? Howie’s daddy was the one who saved us. Blasted three harpies away with a Spell and shot the rest dead, then got me, my mama, Mary Ann and little Jimmy to safety before heading back out to fight some more.”

…That’s the same harpy attack where her daddy died. Now I gotta wonder: if I hadn’t put Anita’s life in danger and forced my daddy to come check on us, would he have gotten there in time to save Sarah Jay’s daddy?

My mood dark and heavy, I get dressed quick as I can so I got time to get my head right, and soon as I’m ready, I head out with a smile and grab my Stetson. “Alrighty then,” I say, more determined than ever to see that Sarah Jay goes back to boot camp for her own sake. “Let’s head on out to the gun range.”

Being the Ranger’s central HQ on the eastern front, New Hope has got a real fancy gun range with all the fixings a shooter could ever need. It’s situated outside of town though, so Cowie slips into his harness by sizing back up while I release the brake and help Chrissy into the front. Errol and Sarah Jay don’t mind sitting in the back, as it’s right proper bright and breeze once you open up the sides, and we have ourselves a chat while Cowie brings us out. They both fairly laid back once we get underway, but Errol ain’t much for conversation. Mostly it’s me and Sarah Jay talking about how things have changed, especially once we get onto the main thoroughfare and see all the improvements we’ve made since that first harpy attack. The Aberrtin-reinforced glass windows, heavy, hardwood doors, sharpshooter nests, pole-mounted siren alarms, and protocols for when they sound.

They make a downright terrifying wail, though I ain’t sure if it’s because of the sound itself or what we associate with it, a strident pitchy scream that rises and falls to make it impossible to ignore. One so haunting it takes a good second for me to realize it ain’t my memory making the sirens sound, but the sirens themselves. Luckily, Cowie knows what to do and pulls the wagon over to the side of the road, coincidentally right in front of Anita’s grocery store. With my jimmies full on rustling, I lift Chrissy into my arms, activate the Featherfall Spell stored on my left boot, and jump right off the front of the wagon. As we gently float down to the ground, I turn in mid air to Errol and Sarah Jay who are still sitting pretty inside and say, “Get out and follow me.”

The door swings opens as I approach, and burly, dependable Anita appears with her trusty Blastgun cradled against her shoulder while she scans the eastern skies. Baby Cowie, Sarah Jay, and Errol follow me in, and I direct the first to comfort Chrissy and keep her close before tossing Sarah Jay the saddlebag of ammo. “Stay here,” I say as I rack a round into the chamber of my carbine and stride back out the door which Anita is still holding open.

Meeting her eyes as I pass, she nods and says, “You go on about your business Howie. Zhey will be safe in here with me.”

Which is almost word for word what she said to my daddy, almost six years ago. There’s fear and concern in her eyes, but pride too as she watches me take up the role my daddy once had in our beloved hometown, and I ain’t about to let her down.

Feeding a round into my rifle’s tube to make up for the one in the chamber, I step out the door and move up the street while helping direct folk into shelter. There are precious few others who stay out alongside me, and not a single one got anything more than a pistol. Ain’t much cause to go walking around New Hope strapped heavy, but harpies ain’t much tougher than goblins so long as you ain’t caught unawares. With time enough to prepare, I cast Mage Armour, Power Word: Endure, Hearing Protection, and finally Mage Hand. Don’t have my dubsies for them to use, but I have one draw my Rattlesnake so I can quickly trade off soon as my carbine runs dry.

Once the streets are clear and silent, I make my intentions known by striding out into the middle of the thoroughfare. Taking a good look around at those who are ready for the fight, I say, “Last chance to get to safety. If you ain’t feeling confident, then you best take cover inside. No judgement, not from me or anyone in town.” No one takes me up on the offer, and it ain’t hard to see why. Burly Hamish the butcher. Sullen Trevor the cobbler. Angry Olav, the town drunk and tobacco aficionado. Scowling Shirley, head chef at the British Pub/American Diner. They ain’t no Rangers, but they lived in New Hope long enough to harbour a burning hatred for harpies, each one having lost people near and dear to their hearts. That’s why they stayed out on these streets, not to help me fight, but for a chance to feed that hatred and appease their anger, so they ain’t gonna let something like fear and good sense get in the way.

After directing them to better fighting positions under the awnings, I grab my polished quartz lens out of my pouch. Palming it in my left hand, I waggle some fingers and mutter a chant to cast Eagle Eye. The far-off clouds come into focus of my telescopic sight as the Spell takes effect, revealing the flock of harpies flying towards us at speed. An ugly bunch even for Abby, the grotesque, winged Ferals make for an ungainly sight as they flap their dark-feathered wings and flex their green-black talons. Razor sharp and made entirely of Abby bone, which means they’re strong enough to punch through solid steel if they got force enough behind them. The harpy itself wouldn’t survive the impact of course, being no bigger than a child and about as fragile, but they ain’t smart enough to know it. They’ll whip themselves into a frenzy with the caws and shouts, then dive down in pursuit of movement and keep right on cackling until they catch their prey or pulp themselves. The aftermath of a harpy slaughter ain’t for the fainthearted, as the survivors will feast on bloody carrion with their vaguely human and almost child-like faces, which makes for an uncanny and nightmarish sight.

Here in New Hope, we learned the hard way that it’s best to start shooting before the flock gets themselves all riled up in a frenzy and scatter all over town, so there’s no time to waste. After making sure my fellow defenders are all prepped and waiting, I ready a Spell through the Widen Metamagic bead on my wrist and wish I could use more than one Metamagic bead to modify a Spell. It’s possible to stack Metamagics when casting through Spell Cores, but ain’t no one figured out how to do the same when manually casting, which is disappointing considering I got eighteen Metamagic beads on the bracelet my mama made. I also wish I hadn’t left my Shield Bracer at home, or my dubsies hanging on the wall of the gun room, but if wishes were fishes, then ain’t no one would starve, so I get on with it and line up my shot. To those watching, I’m using a carbine with my naked eye to shoot at a moving target almost too small to be seen, but my Eagle Eye Spell has got more zoom than the 4x Scope on the 3-Line I lent to Sarah Jay. Taking a deep breath, I slowly exhale, gently squeeze the trigger, and grin as my target drops out of the sky while I work the lever.

My Ranger carbine ain’t whisper quiet, but the dull clang it emits ain’t got nothing on the thunderous bang which erupts from behind me. That’d be the unsilenced 3-Line I lent Sarah Jay, but I know better than to turn back for a gander. Instead, I note the second dead harpy falling out of the sky while lining up my next shot, and hold back a whistle of admiration when the 3-line lets loose again only moments after I pull the trigger again. Means Sarah Jay ain’t casting True Strike to guide her aim, since much like Spell Cores, people need time to recover between slinging Spells. I ain’t sure if she hits her second target though, since the Rangers stationed on the wall have starting shooting too, dropping Abby left, right and centre. That’s always been the gameplan, for the first shot to come from inside the town to draw the whole flock’s attention and keep them from scattering after flying past the walls. As the furious harpies zooms closer and come bearing down towards me, I pop off two more shots in quick succession, and then there’s no more time. Their furious screeches drown out the sirens as their shadows darken the streets, and my vision recedes automatically with less than a thought until I’m back to my regular 20/20 vision. Out in the middle of the road, I hold my position until I can see their dark, beady eyes and gnashing, yellowed teeth, before unleashing my readied Spell with a shout of, “Tela!”

My Spell’s target is not the harpy flock themselves, but the four steel crossarms sticking out from the reinforced concrete poles around me, poles upon which the wailing sirens are mounted. One moment, there is only empty air between the flock of harpies and me, and the next, there’s a mass of thick, sticky white webbing separating us at roof height. A web twenty-four meters wide to cover most of the street, and strong enough to only sag a bit as the flock crashes into it. The foremost harpies get stuck in the webbing, but they don’t struggle for long as their friends crash in behind them, causing an Abby pileup big enough to make a man wanna sing. Oh what I’d give to have my doorknockers here with me now, but I’ll have to settle with casting Blast manually. While my free Mage Hand feeds two rounds into the Repeater to top me off, I wiggle the fingers of my left hand and chant the words, “Primus – Fortis – Ruptis”, to unleash a hail of kinetic grapeshot that shreds the Web to pieces and does worse to the harpies overhead.

The flock’s fury shifts to pained and panicked howls as my nostrils fill with the sour stench of bleeding Abby. Ain’t a good smell, but ain’t nothing like it to put a grin on my face, one which fades real fast once the bodies start dropping and I set to scrambling away right quick.

My rustling jimmies screech a warning just in time to get me moving left instead of right, and I let out a hiss as an explosion of chilled air erupts where I would’ve been standing if I hadn’t gone with my gut. Without even bothering to track my target, I trust my instincts a second time and fire into the flock of hovering harpies, those latecomers who managed to avoid crashing into the web. One dies, and the rustling subsides just a bit, telling me I got the Spellslinging harpy which almost got me. Small consolation though, as there are still plenty about, all screeching mad at the Firstborn who done killed so many of their friends.

The initial, high-speed dive is the most dangerous aspect of a harpy attack, but now that I’ve seen that off, they’re only slightly more dangerous than goblins. Flying goblins, but even then that works against them, as they swoop towards me and slow their momentum while lining up their chicken feet to lash out and impale me, giving me plenty of time and warning to move out of their way. Awkward and ungainly, they lack the natural grace of most birds and got the brains to match, trying to spear me head on instead of just flying overhead and kicking down. The carbine serves me well as I beat a hasty retreat, clanging and clacking as I shoot and work the lever, picking my shots carefully to kill a harpy with each Bolt. My fellow defenders lend their efforts to the cause from their positions at the sides. No Blast Spells or Fireballs, since they’d risk hitting me or people across the street even if they knew the Spells, but a barrage of Bolts, Fire Orbs, and even a heavy barrel of water smashes into the flock and harpies drop like flies. There’s still a sizable number of them milling about, too many to take down in a single volley, but I’ve got their attention good and well. Ignoring the shooters hidden under the awnings, the harpies press forward and plunge towards me with dark talons extended and ugly expressions of glee, already imagining the taste of my blood as I dance through their flurry of attacks and intone, “Recumbere!’ to activate Misty Step.

A cloud of silvery mist appears around my boots and drags me straight back, sliding across the cobblestone floor like sharp skates over smooth ice. Ten meters crossed in the blink of an eye, so quick it almost looks like teleportation, and with none of the jerky start-stop you’d expect from moving so quick. Not much distance, but I can cast the Spell a second time right away through the Quicken Metamagic bead on my bracelet and buy myself twenty meters of breathing room.

Which was the plan, right up until I pass Errol on my way back, who for some fool reason thought the best way to help was by running into a pack of harpies, instead of shooting at them from afar. Rather than his rifle, Errol has the Squire in his left hand, and I can tell that ain’t his main hand, because he’s just holding the gun while swinging his length of rope with the other. Credit where it’s due, his rope is Spelled with Living Whip, and the first pass knocks a few harpies away. Problem is, it’s a piece of rope, which means now he don’t got enough momentum to bring it back around before the flock hits him. Nor does he panic and freeze up, ready to go down swinging, but I ain’t about to let him go down alone. Rather than Misty Step back a second time, I run forward and extend my left hand in front of Errol while channeling Aether through the Quicken Metamagic bead. Chanting faster than I’ve ever chanted in my life and praying no one was fool enough to come out into the street behind the flock, I shout, “Tertius – Fortis – Ruptis!”

The harpies erupt in ribbons of green-black ichor with wisps of arcane purple, their corpses riddled with holes as they drop to the cobblestone. A wave of sour, dying Abby hits me like a truck, but it don’t cheer me none this time around. Reeling from the stench and woozy aftereffects of rapid-fire Spellslinging, I grab Errol with my left hand and drag him back, though he don’t move easy. Eyes wide with a mixture of terror and excitement, he slaps me on the chest and whoops with glee, which I soon realize is his flavour of chanting and finger waggling. A warm, soothing energy erupts from within, not the searing heat of burning anger but the feverish tempest of fierce courage and heroic spirit. A readied Heroism Spell, unless I’ve missed my guess, which bolsters spirits and offers a modicum of protection in the form of a thin Ectoplasmic barrier, and I feel a genuine smile stretch across my face as we face off against the harpies together.

“Fighting retreat,” I shout, my Rattlesnake already in hand and spitting its sweet lullaby of death. The Toppling Bolts smash into harpies and send their cratered corpses back into the flock, buying us room with every shot. There still plenty of harpies flapping about, because while my upcasted Blast packs a real punch, it ain’t even close to a match for Fireball. Wounded, bleeding, and featherless harpies, but their flight ain’t entirely reliant on the wings, so they keep on coming without pause. Errol ain’t much of a shot, but the Squire forces him to pick his shots carefully. His ropework on the other hand is on a whole nother level as the braided twine comes to life in his hands, snapping at harpies that get too close and restraining them long enough for him to line up his gun.

“Yea!” The shout erupts from his throat as his Living Whip snags a diving harpy out of the air and drags it down to smash into the cobblestone by his feet. Lifting a big boot, he stomps down and splatters its head, only to pull his foot free from shoe and corpse both. “Come get some!” Ought to teach him to do up his laces, but he don’t miss a beat as he gives it his all and fires off a round into another harpy’s ugly face. “You like that?” He’s got spirit in spades, there’s no denying that, and my cheeks hurt from grinning so wide as we give Abby hell, fighting side by side on the streets of New Hope, hooting and hollering all the while. When my revolver clicks empty, I cast another First Order Blast while switching back to my freshly reloaded carbine, and continue guiding Errol back down the street the whole time.

As I fire off the last shot from my carbine and get ready to hightail it again, a line of blinding light cuts across the sky, followed by a peal of literal thunder. Smoking Abby corpses fall to the streets and quick as it began, the harpy attack comes to an end as a coordinated barrage of Spells and Aetherarms fire smashes into what’s left of the flock. Blinking repeated to get the spots out of eyes, I stay vigilant while reloading my carbine as the rapid cadence of hoofbeats drowns out everything else. The Rangers’ horses surge around Errol and me to form a protective circle around us, and my vision clears just in time to meet Uncle Teddy’s worried gaze with a cheeky grin I can’t contain. “Y’all are slipping,” I say, sagging with relief and giggling up a storm to show I don’t mean nothing by it. “Me and Errol almost had this all wrapped up before you got here.” The worry only intensifies in Uncle Teddy’s gaze, but there’s pride and joy in there as well, so he can’t help but smile and shake his head as the Rangers laugh along.

After asking after the others and making sure none of them were hurt, I turn to Errol and find he’s got that dazed look about him that most get after a fight. Ain’t nothing to do besides smack him on the chest to get him out of his head, which at least gets him blinking and focused on me. Unsure what to say, I waver between scolding him for running out, thanking him for his good intentions, or asking him what he think about the Firstborn now, but I settle for something else. “Tell you what,” I begin, and he meets my eyes with a confused stare, “Forget about the Big Smile. How about we get you a proper, heavy-duty whip instead? That way, next time you go running in to save someone’s bacon, you can really show Abby what’s what.”

It takes long seconds for my words to sink in, and longer for Errol to process them, but once he gets it, he matches my smile with one of his own and lets out a hearty laugh. “I’ll take it,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder and leaning on me for support while we head back to Anita’s. “You are one crazy, badass son of a gun, you know that?”

“Darn right I am,” I reply, giving Sarah Jay a tip of my hat as she watches us both saunter back with a smile, though her nerves are still taut and frayed from the fight. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Firstborn of the Frontier. All that comes with the territory.”