Firstborn of the Frontier

Contrary to the name, Pleasant Dunes is anything but.

Which sure is disappointing considering it looked mighty impressive on the way in. The pinkish-orange stone walls were what sold it, tall, curvy, and slinky, sort of like a slithering snake circling around on itself to enclose the town within. Dotted with rounded crenelations and circular murder-holes, the roughly smoothed details really bring the whole picture together, giving the man-made features a more natural look. Add in how the stone blends in well with the similarly coloured sands of the Coral Desert, and it can almost be mistaken for something natural, a rocky formation surrounded by rolling sand dunes on three sides with the Snake Fang mountain range for a backdrop. Throw in the smattering of purple shrubs and prickly greens dotting the dunes in all directions, and the whole town’s got more of an artsy look than any decent fortification got a right to. Why, with how the wind-blown sand’s been piling up at the base of the walls, you might even think the whole town rose fully formed out of the desert itself. Wouldn’t that be something? Shame that sorta magic ain’t possible, as it’d make life on the Frontier a lot easier, but even the Immortal Monarchs of the old world needed manpower to build their empires.

Now, Pleasant Dunes looks pretty as a spotted horse in a posey pasture, but that don’t get in the way of function. The parts of the wall that bulge out have got embrasures big enough for heavy weapons, with at least five stationary, hand-cranked gatling guns which I spotted on the way in. A real expensive piece of hardware those, though I’ve no idea how effective these particular ones are, as that depends largely on the blueprints, materials, and gunsmith. The ones the Rangers have will put at least ten-thousand Bolts downrange before it quits. Do it in a little over three minutes to boot, assuming they got an ammo belt long enough to last, but the heat’ll turn all ten barrels to slag and the whole thing to scrap. Burst fire will extend that lifespan by a bit, and I seen some gats rigged to some heavy-duty arcana-tech to cool the gun, a solution more expensive than building a second gatling.

Or pissing on it, which apparently works while cooking up an awful pungent steam…

Yea, crafting Bolt guns with a high rate of fire are tricksy to craft, because even though we got all the know-how, we’re coming up short on multiple fronts. Materials for example, because even our best steel don’t handle heat as well as some old world alloys, ones we ain’t got the supply or infrastructure to produce just yet. Then there’s the stress of stacking so many Metamagics on top of a Spell Core, which can cause the Core to crack and lead to an explosion if you keep pumping Aether through it. Usually the heat melts something vital in the gun and it stops shooting before that happens, but that ain’t a guarantee. Least the explosion ain’t a big one, just enough to send shards of superheated metal into anything standing close by, which is typically bad news for whoever operating the gun, but not so bad for everyone else.

Yea, there are a lot of shortcomings with gatling guns, but it warms my heart to see the humble Bolt Core pushed to its absolute limits by the ingenuity of the human mind. That gatling’s got much the same magic and Metamagic as what I got in my revolver, only dialed up to eleven thanks to the wonders of arcana-technology. If that ain’t something, then nothing is.

Whoever designed Pleasant Dunes wasn’t just thinking about the big guns either. They considered the human element of the town’s defenses too, with wide platforms over top the heavy weapon embrasures and plenty of cover on three sides. That’s where I’d pack the untrained townies if I were in command, free to rain Bolts down at Abby without getting shot back at too much. And if they do, well, better them then your trained soldiers stationed on the recessed bits further back. Not just to shelter them from Abby, as friendly fire ain’t as friendly as advertised. Carl and his boys don’t seem like half-bad sorts, but I’d sooner goose a goblin with my tongue than stand in front of them during a gunfight, and I reckon they’re better than your average townie.

They knew enough to keep their fingers off the trigger and not point their guns at me willy nilly, which is more than I can say for most. Hell, they might even know enough to adhere to strict lanes of fire and avoid accidentally shooting friendlies in the back, but I ain’t volunteering to test it.

The cornerstones of the town are the four round towers, and I ain’t saying that just because of where they’re located. Nice tall structures built right into the walls themselves without interrupting the clean, rippling pattern they got going on, with a roofed nest up high, where sharpshooters can gun down Abbys coming from any angle except straight above. Whether them Abbys be outside the walls or in, which tells me them towers mean business. That’s where the good folk who call this place home plan to make their last stands should their walls ever be breached. We built us some lookout posts using the same roofed-nest notion back in New Hope, on account of a pesky, persistent harpy issue we still dealing with, but they might as well be treehouses compared to the stone towers of Pleasant Dunes.

Course it ain’t perfect, because nothing ever is. Already mentioned their flimsy steel gate, but once Carl lets me and Cowie through, I spot their real gate, the one they use when they wanna keep Abby out. Aberrtin-reinforced steel, from the looks of it, or Darksteel as most call it, since the melding turns the metal matte black and ugly. Durable though, and heavy too, so I imagine it’d take more than four men to wrestle a nine-foot-tall gate into place, even with a track to guide it. Seems silly to have an expensive gate like that and no real way to use it when things go from pudding to poop right quick, but I ain’t about to tell Carl how to do his job.

A right lovely sight from the outside it is, but Pleasant Dunes’ pretty façade fades away like dust in the wind as soon as you step through that gate. Makes it tough to keep a smile on as Carl shows me the sights, my self-appointed guide as he were. Not that there’s much to show, as even he ain’t pleased by what he sees as we amble through a sea of patchwork tents and ramshackle lean-tos that look ready to fall over in the breeze.

“Company mining town,” Carl explains, as if that says it all, and sadly enough, it do. The walls, the towers, the guns, and guards, all a necessary expense to protect the townies from Abby while they lay their heads to rest. Things like shelter and beds? Why those are damn luxuries, so let the townies source those themselves. And if they ever grow sick of the terrible conditions and pay? Well, a fortress conveniently doubles a mighty fine prison too.

“What company?” I ask, even though I already know the answer, because I done my research. It never hurts to get people talking though. Learn a lot about a place from how townies complain, and I can tell Carl more townie than company man.

“Vanguard National.” Carl shrugs, and that says it all. Nothing good to say, so he don’t say it, because he’s afraid of what might happen if he did. We both ignore the awkward silence while I pretend to keep Cowie from rolling over any tents. There’s no roads inside town, just stretches of sand no one’s sleeping in, but Cowie knows his business better than I do. Course he’s also an understanding soul, so he only huffs a tiny bit and flicks his black ears when I make some noise about keeping the wagon straight. After a bit more walking, Carl points out a lane of buildings, as if I could miss them, seeing how they seem to be the only buildings inside town. “Saloon’s over there.”

Which of course does triple duty as the town’s inn and brothel too, with a bunch of gussied up gals in scandalous outfits standing outside on the porch. Nothing against these ladies, but if Tina were ever caught wearing her shorts that high, Aunty Ray would have her shovelling horse and cow patties for weeks. Ain’t proper to show that much leg, with or without tight hosiery, or so much shoulder and belly from wearing what amounts to a kerchief around their chests. Not saying they don’t look mighty fine, even if every last one of these ladies got more than twice my seventeen years, though I will say they looking mighty bored, tired, and sad whilst drinking and smoking on the saloon’s front porch.

Tearing my eyes away from the sights, I focus on the architecture instead, which is as disappointing as the rest of the town’s interior. The saloon’s a blocky, brick and mortar affair, with three floors, no glass in the windows, and no big sign to advertise. Screams ‘company’ saloon, one with no care for comfort or aesthetics once you’re inside their walls. No need to entice a crowd when you the only game in town, with the company paying miners to mine then clawing that pay back with high prices for girls, booze, and drugs. Then again, there’s something to be said for offering affordable vices. Keeps your workforce captive without needing to clap on any chains as addiction brings them back wanting more. We’ll see which mandate Vanguard National ascribes to soon enough, but I reckon it be the former. Drunks and druggies don’t make for good miners, who count handling unstable explosives, slinging shrapnel-shooting Shatter Spells, and the occasional Abby attack as part of the job description.

The neighbouring buildings are all similarly blocky structures too, each housing more company owned businesses I bet. A bank, a grocery, a general store, and some other essential services, but nothing else besides that I can see. No doubt because the company don’t look kindly on any competition or care for any useless frivolities, which is sad really. Town ain’t really a town without a touch of the non-essential, like a candy store or woman’s boutique to buy smelly candles and lady junk.

The only building that really matters sits two doors down and across the way, the one with the six-pointed star hanging over the door. Sherrif’s office, though I don’t see why a Sherrif’s star got six points, when a Ranger’s only got five. Sure, Sherrif is an important job, an elected townie official who keeps the peace and upholds the Accords, but the Rangers are the tip of the spear in the war against Abby. Seems deserving of a tad more importance than a fella whose job amounts to wrangling drunk most nights. Smart money says that Pleasant Dunes’ Sherrif is a company man too, one so crooked he could probably swallow nails and spit out corkscrews. Can’t stand crooked lawmen, perverting the very laws they supposed to uphold, but if anyone can point me towards the vipers’ nest, the Sheriff would be my best bet.

By now, me and Carl have picked up a bit of crowd after passing through town, since my wagon do stand out, a bulky, armoured, metallic beauty that ain’t never let me down. I been told wagon is something of a misnomer, and ox-drawn tank more appropriate, but Cowie is a bull, not an ox, and ‘tank’ don’t sound real friendly, and like I said, I try to be friendly whenever I can. Course, a name don’t hide what my wagon really is, especially not with my Big Stick up top. Don’t feel the need to either, because my wagon gets me where I’m going with all my pieces intact.

Outside the saloon, I set to unhitching Cowie, even though he can do it himself. Partly because most folk get spooked when they see it, and also because the work gives me time to quietly get a read on the general mood of the crowd. Subdued, in a word, miserable to be less polite, here mostly out of curiosity and a lack of anything better to do with their lives. Even if I were of a mind to trade, which I ain’t because that’d be stepping on company toes and ‘stealing’ company profits, these people don’t got nothing to barter with. It’s plain as day to see in their patchy, rough-spun clothes lacking any colour or embroidery, as well as the general state of malaise all about. Ain’t no kids running through the streets, no idle gossips hanging about, not even gamblers rolling dice in the shadows. Ain’t no pets, no instruments, no banners or decorations to be seen, no one working towards a better future or thinking past today.

Easy to see why too. The fine folks of Pleasant Dunes got nothing to spare for anything except surviving.

They a sad, sorry lot here in Pleasant Dunes, but at least they got all the colours represented. White, black, brown, yellow, and red, they all equally mistreated here in Pleasant Dunes. I know I ain’t supposed to identify people by colour, but I got no other way to do it. Can’t tell an American from a Métis or a Brit from a Frenchie unless I hear them speak, though I reckon that ain’t got nothing to do with colour neither. However you chop it up, the multi-cultural crowd here is mostly women and children, as I expect the men are all up in the mines or resting up for their shift. Same with all the older children most like, as anyone over ten and under twenty is conspicuously absent. Probably because some company man said that ten is old enough to work a twelve-hour shift and them kids ought to be grateful for the opportunity to boot.

Not a pretty picture, but it tells me Vanguard National is an equal opportunity exploiter. Their inhumanity ain’t about race or hatred, just cold, brutal, and downright inhumane business. Don’t much like company towns or company men. Uncle Teddy don’t like them much either, but nothing he can do about it. Not so long as the company men follow the Accords, and while I already know Vanguard National don’t care much for the laws, I ain’t laid eyes on nothing to prove it just yet, and I doubt I will while I’m here. That’s why companies rank so low in my books. Outlaws, well they break the law plain and simple, so you can go at them guns blazing. Company men, they break the law while no one’s looking, and cry innocent when folks come casting aspersions. Of course, when the chips are down and times get hard, they expect those same laws they disregarded to protect them from the consequences of their own actions. Hypocritical is what it is, and hanging better than they deserve, but the law is the law, and I ain’t no lawman.

Meaning I didn’t come here to set right company wrongs. The story of Pleasant Dunes is sad, but all too familiar out here on the Frontier, and I got other matters to attend to, like finding the outlaws hidden in this miserable town. After brushing Cowie’s fur, picking his hooves, and settling him in with feed and water, I slap on a cheery face and get back to business by first addressing the crowd. “Howdy folks. My name’s Howie Zhu, and the big furry fellow with his nose in the bucket is my driver Cowie. You’ll have to excuse his lackin’ manners, as he was raised in a barn.” The joke gets a small chuckle from the children, especially after Cowie voices his displeasure with a big sulky moo, and those smiles are precious indeed. A balm for the soul to make up for the ugliness inside Pleasant Dunes and bring some genuine cheer to my face.

Smile and the world smiles back. That’s what Uncle Raleigh used to say, and he was always smiling.

“Now as you folks can see,” I say, pointing at my flag, “I come delivering mail on behalf of the United Federal Postal Service. Before we get into it though, I got something to get off my chest.” Normally, I would pause here for dramatic effect, but the people of Pleasant Dunes got enough to worry about without me piling it on. “This here happens to be my first rodeo. Got sworn in last week as an independent contractor of the good old U F of A, then handed a stack of letters and a bunch of boxes too, but not before they slapped me with a big, dusty book of rules.” This time I do pause and make a bit of a face, which the kids love. “Afraid that means if I wanna keep the job, then I gotta do things by the book.”

Tapping a rainbow Tourmaline crystal embedded in the side of my wagon, I activate the Silent Image Spell Core to display the image stored inside and step aside so the crowd can read the projected list of names. That gets a real kick out of the kids, and surprise from some of the older folk too. Ain’t nothing too fancy, the bare basics really, but everyone here acting like they ain’t never seen arcana-tech before. Wonder what would happen if I showed them some of the real fancy tricks built into my wagon. “If your name is on the list,” I say, “Then it means I got mail for you, but I’ll be needing to check your papers and make sure the names match the faces before I can hand anything over. New policy, I reckon, or might just be because I’m new.” I expect a little grumbling, but the crowd just sort of accepts it without a fight. “It’s a hassle, I know, but it’s gotta be done, and I’m sorry for the trouble. If your name ain’t on the list, then I got no mail for you, though I’ll have free candies for anyone who wants some, kids or adults. For now, I’ll trouble you all to head out and spread the word, let everyone know to bring their papers, and I’ll be back in an hour or thereabouts after I eat and freshen up.”

Moving around to the back of my wagon, I grab two wine bottles of honey mead out the back and hold one out for Carl. “You drink?”

Rhetorical question, which he knows don’t need answering as he takes the bottle with a grin. He pops the cork, gives it a good sniff, then takes a big pull before coming up for air with a gasp. “Whooo-wee. That’s some good fizz. Tastes like peaches.”

“So I’m told, though I ain’t never tasted no peach before.” It never fails to amaze me how old timers keep forgetting us young’uns don’t know nothing about the old world first hand. “This here brew uses a fruit we call star melon over in New Hope. Don’t look like no star, just got patterns on it that do.” Which also don’t actually look like stars, just coloured in pentagrams, but it is what it is.

“Oh yea, I seen those before,” Carl says, before taking another big pull. “Pink and hard as rocks. If I’d known they were this good, I’d have cracked one open long ago.” Nodding at my still unopened bottle, Carl flashes a grin which shaves years off his pockmarked face and asks, “You ain’t gonna join a man for a drink?”

He ain’t a bad sort. Sure he called me a Qink, but there ain’t no real hate in him. It’s just a bad word to him, no different from any other vulgar insult he might use, only a little more specific. Makes a man feel a little bad about lying, seeing how I’m lying for personal gain. Don’t really need to see no papers to hand out mail, but I want to. Real easy to spot outlaws when you ask for papers. Those that got them and are dumb enough to use them while they got warrants out on their heads, well they deserve to get got. As for those living under an assumed name, they either won’t have papers or they’ll have fake ones, and I’ll have a suspect to take a closer look at. So I really shouldn’t feel bad about lying to Carl or the good people of Pleasant Dunes. Way I see it, I’m doing them a service, removing the criminal elements that gone and infiltrated their settlement. Besides, ain’t hurting no one having to show me their papers, and if that don’t work out, well, I got other avenues to explore.

Like talking to the Sherrif, though that’d mean cutting a crooked cop in on the bounty, so I’d really rather not.

To answer Carl’s question, I give him a sigh and shake of my head. “Can’t drink. Still seventeen, and on the job to boot. Gonna need a fresh head to look over them papers, make sure I don’t screw the pooch.” No idea why doinking a dog is synonymous with making a mistake, but English do be a curious language. “The new Postmaster General’s got a real hard on for rules,” I continue, playing the sympathy card, as I suspect Carl knows well enough what it’s like to work under a demanding boss. “Wants to crack down on fraud and such, except the only way he know how to do it is make it harder for his people to do their jobs. So I ain’t exactly allowed to solicitate, but if I was to gift you this second bottle here, and you was to share some with the proprietor of this here saloon, then no harm, no fowl.” Another oddity of English, as what do birds gotta do with making mistakes? “If he likes what I got, well, I happen to have sixty more I’m looking to unload at one American a pop. If not, then all’s well. I ain’t here to twist no arms.”

“A dollar a bottle?” Carl’s eyes go wide over what I would call a reasonable price, seeing how near and dear honey is, but selling mead ain’t the point. Getting a meeting with the proprietor is, as no one knows a town better than the man who handles the booze and girls.

“Asking price.” Giving him a conspiratorial wink, I lean in and whisper, “Always wanna let the customer bargain you down.”

“Ha. Crafty little fella ain’t ya?” Accepting the second bottle with a nod, Carl turns to head inside before thinking better of it. “What you gonna be doin’ then?”

Knew it. Carl didn’t tag along to guide me. He’s here to keep an eye on me, seeing how he made the call to let me in. “I’ll be right here, washing up.” Just to reassure him that I ain’t going nowhere, I hang my hat and duster onto a set of fold out hooks I installed on the side of my wagon for just this purpose, then get to work unbuckling my gunbelt.

“What, right here in the streets where anyone can see?” Carl has himself a chuckle and asks, “You planning on using the trough water too?”

The ladies hanging about the saloon titter and mosey on over for a gander, leaning over the banister to afford themselves a better view. Which in turn offers me a better view too, one I take in without any intention of partaking in their pleasant company. Flashing my pearly whites with a roguish wink, I say, “Sorry Carl, ladies, but this ain’t that kinda show. Nor would I waste good drinking water washing up in the desert.” My gun belt goes onto a hook too, and Carl takes a good long look at my three Aetherarms now that he can. Man’s got an eye for iron, and I’d love to talk shop, but I’ve a dire need to be free of the sand cluttering all the wrong places.

First things first, I dismiss the big Spell I had ready in case Carl and his boys got twitchy, because I can’t hold a readied Spell while casting another. As the Aether drains away and leaves me a little faint, I take a deep breath and focus on the Spell I want. Holding a closed fist palm-up in front of me, I open up my fingers like a blooming flower while chanting, “Obtestor – Aqua – Sphaera.”

Now, my Latin is terrible, and my pronunciation worse, but the magic ain’t in the words or language. Nor is it in the actions, though that’s not to say both are unnecessary. The cadence of the words and rhythm of the actions are a vital part of the Spellcasting process, just not the magical part. I could easily use Spanish, or French, even gibberish and interpretive dance to pair with it, but I don’t because Latin is how I was taught, and finger waggling is easier than dancing. As for the magic part, well, that already happened inside my head, which is one reason why I spend so much time there. The words and actions form a key to access the corresponding Spell Structure embedded within my memory. Once I make the gestures and speak the words, Aether courses through the Spell Structure which comes to life in my mind’s eye, a complex pattern of shifting lights and the trails they leave behind, like fireworks blossoming in the night’s sky to paint a three-dimensional object, one so vivid and dynamic it almost feels alive. More than a pattern of pretty sparkles, the Spell Structure is an arcane metaphysical engine, one I fixed into my memory years ago to spit out one Spell and one Spell only, and I marvel as I watch it at work. It’s more than the shape of the Spell Structure that matters, or the incalculable patterns within the lights, but also the flow of Aether, the pulse of the stream itself, and countless other variables the human mind struggles to define much less follow along, all adhering to the rhythm of a melody I can’t hear and timed to the heartbeat of a universe.

A whole lot of fuss just to conjure up a ball of fake water, but it’ll do in a pinch to rid me of my sand problem.

The sphere of not-water appears fully formed affixed to the palm of my hand, stagnant yet pliable. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and plunge my whole head into the cool and refreshing orb, which largely remains whole as it resists outside force to remain in the same shape. Makes it real easy to scrub the sand, sweat and grit outta my hair, which ain’t exactly long, but is still long enough to get in my eyes without my Stetson to contain it. Fake water it might be, it still feels mighty good against my sun-baked skin, and I gotta fight the urge to open my mouth for a drink.

“Holy shit.” As my head emerges from the water, I’m greeted by Carl’s wide-eyed stare once more, except it keeps getting wider. “You can Create Water?”

“Ha. No.” Shaking my head in denial, and to fling off the droplets of water, I dunk my goggles in to float about in the sphere before adding my kerchief to the mix too. “That Spell is out of my wheelhouse.” Actually isn’t, but the Spell to make real, drinkable water with magic ain’t called Create Water. It’s a First-Order Transmutation Spell called Condense Water, which works by drawing moisture out of the air. That don’t work too well out here in the arid desert, so it’s easier to say I can’t do it as opposed to explaining why I don’t care to try. Folks tend to get upset when they think you can solve their issues but flat out refuse to, and I’m in no mood to spend the next hour memorizing a Spell Structure I don’t use often, then two more filling a bucket one droplet at a time just to prove what I already know.

“This here,” I say, gesturing at the ball of water fixed to the palm of my hand, “Is a Conjuration Cantrip by the name of Water Sphere.” After retrieving my goggles and kerchief from within, I toss the dirty water aside, leaving a wet spot in the sand as I cast the Cantrip again. Chant a few words, waggle a few fingers, focus some thoughts, and a second ball of water appears over my hand, a process that don’t take more than three seconds. “Its not actually water, just Ectoplasm masquerading as water. Temporary matter made up of Aether, you know how it is. Rot your insides with Contagion if you drink it, but it works just fine for washing. Hands, clothes, dishes, whatever.” To prove the point, I smack myself in the chest with the aqueous orb and let the magic holding it together come apart, sending water cascading down my frontside to soak my blue button-up shirt and dark leather vest before making its way down to my wranglers and out my ankles. It’s an odd feeling, washing while fully dressed, but it beats the alternative of staying hot, uncomfortable, and dirty. “Spell won’t last more than a minute either, meaning I’ll be nice and dry soon as it ends.”

“Damn useful spell,” Carl remarks, and I can sense his hesitation as I Conjure up yet another Water Sphere.

I ain’t gonna make him ask though, so I speak soon as I’m finished casting. “It’s easy enough to learn, being a Cantrip and all. I’ll draw up the Spell Formula while I eat, then put it up for the town to see. Just gotta make sure everyone knows not to drink it, not unless they fixin’ to die real slow and painful like.”

Carl says nothing in reply, but his gratitude comes through loud and clear. Not that I deserve it. Ain’t like I came up with the Formula, as I’m just sharing what others taught me. Should be how everyone on the Frontier operates, but I can tell that ain’t how it is here in Pleasant Dunes. Curiosity satisfied, Carl heads into the saloon like a man on a mission, leaving me free to really go in on the scrubbing. The ladies stick around, watching with big smiles and making wolf whistles all the while, and after a lame attempt to fire back leads to more emotional damage, I accept that I am outnumbered and outgunned, so I surrender gracefully. I really ought to install some curtain rods on the wagon so I can have a little privacy in times like this, but there’s always more important work to be done. Then again, it’d also afford me a moment to do some private Spell slinging too, with no one being the wiser. Wouldn’t that be nice. My Mage Armour still got plenty of time before it fades away, and same goes for Ear and Insect Protection too, but there’s still some preparatory Spell slinging to be done before I head in for some food and drink.

Once my body is mostly free of sand, my clothes dry, and my dignity sorely wounded from the ladies’ enthusiastic catcalls, I throw my gun belt and duster back on. Then I turn around and fuss about with the clasp of my belt, grumbling all the while to hide a simple Spellcasting. It ain’t easy getting all the pieces in place without anyone seeing me fiddle with my Doorknockers, but I somehow make it work. That being said, the ladies are so distracting that I’m forced to rummage around the back of my wagon as an excuse to hide. Only way to make sure they don’t ruin my efforts to recast and re-ready the big Spell I don’t want to use, but want to have on hand just in case. Tiring that, since holding the Spell and then dismissing it is every bit as exhausting as just casting it, if not more, but at least my nooks and crannies are finally free of sand.

I probably should’ve waited instead of wasting a big Spell like that, but it’s too late for regrets.

All this might seem like a lot of effort just to meet a man and sell some mead, but that’s how it is out on the Frontier. Preparation took even longer before I rode up to Pleasant Dune’s front gate, because like I said, I’ve had worse welcomes. Most people think a Spellslinger’s greatest strength comes from slinging high Order Spells on the fly. Impressive as it might be to see Uncle Teddy slinging Fireballs and Lightning Beams on the battlefield, my daddy believed that a Spellcaster’s greatest strength lay in preparation. Make sense considering most Spells take about three seconds to cast, with some taking even longer, while I got a revolver that can shoot six rounds in less time and kill a man with each hit. As such, my daddy focused on Spells that gave him options in a fight, and utilized his revolver, the same one I now wear on my hip, to do most his killing.

As for me? I want the best of both worlds, to be a gunfighter and Spell slinger. Seems stranger to me that most don’t want the same, or at least ain’t bothered to put the effort in and try.

Feeling mighty refreshed after my horse bath and ready to take on the world, I put my rifle in the weapon’s safe under the driver’s seat before locking up. Won’t be needing it inside, and while I also won’t need my hat to protect me from the sun, that stays with me. Before plopping the Stenson back on my head, I take care of one last bit of prep work and make sure the medallion is facing forward. Piece of custom work I had made to order, a round, silver medallion with an embossed bull’s head that’s got the Qinese character of my family name, 朱, carved into its forehead and two big horns sticking out the sides. Zhu is technically my mama’s family name, which I bear on account of how my daddy couldn’t remember his to pass onto me. The Republic’s work that, as they took my daddy from his family when he was six and told him his family didn’t matter, so he just plum forgot the family name. From then on, he became a Son of the Republic, with nation as his father and mother both, and comrades-in-arms as siblings. They taught him how to fight and survive, forage and hunt, build and farm, but only the theory of magic. Did that for all of their ‘first generation of heroes’, indoctrinated, non-magical children they sent through a one-way Gate to a dangerous, Aberration infested world without a single Spell or weapon to protect them, only the knowledge to maybe figure out the important bits on their own.

See, carving out a Spell Structure in memory changes a man, connects them to the Immaterium in some way. Among many other things, it makes them significantly more expensive to transport through a Gate, so the Qin Republic decided they’d cut back on travel costs. Instead of sending a small number of powerful Spellcasters through to the untamed death world, they reckoned they’d roll the dice and send a much greater number of helpless children instead. Not to tame or conquer the Frontier, but to endure and procreate. A gamble made with the lives of countless children with the only attainable victory being one of sustained attrition.

Monstrous don’t even begin to cover it.

I don’t let none of these thoughts show as I bid Cowie be good and head on inside the saloon, a feat made easier by the ladies demonstrating their appreciation for letting them watch me wash. More whistles and a bit of pinching mostly, all harmless fun because they like seeing me blush. I doubt any of them are actually interested in having me for a customer, nor am I interested in propositioning them. Ain’t got nothing against ladies selling their bodies; the miners doing the same thing, just in a different way. Come right down to it, we all selling our bodies and our labour. From there, it just becomes a choice. How we sell ourselves and for how much, a deal we all gotta make. The thing is, I get the feeling that no one in Pleasant Dunes can just pick up and leave as they please, which changes the nature of the deal. When the choice is sell your body at company prices or die, well, that ain’t much of a choice at all, and I don’t take kindly to that.

Ain’t why I’m here though, so I best keep a level head, or at least as level as it gets.

The interior of the saloon, inn, and brothel combination only further strengthens my suspicions regarding this company town, as it’s even more dreary than expected. A smoky, dimly lit interior with square tables and square stools scattered about, all in varying states of disrepair without a single stitch of upholstery in sight. Ain’t no chandeliers about, no Aether lights or even candles, just a handful of plain old shade lamps illuminated by Light Cantrips which I bet someone’s gotta recast every hour or so. Probably a good thing, considering how messy it is in here. If the floor’s been swept since the day it got put in, then it sure don’t look it, and it most certainly don’t smell like it’s ever been mopped. Course, that don’t bother the five drunks scattered about, all nursing their cups and smoking their cigarettes in quiet solitude while leaving nothing for the bartender or waitress to do. Ignoring the shells, butts, and other detritus cracking underfoot, I amble past the stairs and over to the bar, where Carl waves me over to join him.

And his friends. Three of them, formidable men, all radiating that air of violence you sometimes see in folk who been chewed up and spit out by the Frontier. That don’t necessarily mean these men ain’t friendly, as there’s no sign they intend me any harm, but there’s something about the look of them that’s got my jimmies a rustling. My daddy put a lotta stock in his jimmies, though he called it his gut instinct. Said that even if you didn’t know what it was that got you spooked, you needed to trust your gut when it tells you something’s off. See, he believed there was more to the world than what your five senses could perceive, more than what your mind can comprehend really, but your gut would always steer you true. Uncle Teddy had a much wordier explanation, something about how a man might use Divination magics so much that sometimes the magic try to tell him things even without casting a Spell, things he ought to already know from what he already seen and heard. A Portent is the technical term, or a subconscious inkling of things to come, which to my ears sounds a lot like ‘gut instinct’ or ‘rustling jimmies’. Course, the Marshal’s an educated man, so he got a tendency to overcomplicate things, but he a good man who means well.

So what do I know for certain? Nothing besides there are three men here to greet me who I don’t like the look of, but something tells me that maybe I don’t gotta go searching for nests no more. Maybe, just maybe I done tripped over one without noticing, and a few of the thieving, murdering, rapist outlaws I been hunting have come out and presented themselves to me. If so, then with a little luck, I can handle my business here in Prosperity Dunes and be on my way back home to New Hope before lunch.

Yesterday wouldn’t be soon enough to set this soul-crushing place in my six, so I’m feeling mighty pleased at my good fortune and don’t even gotta work to put on a happy face as I head over to see what’s what.

Smile and the world smiles back. My uncle Raleigh was a wise man indeed, may his soul rest in peace.