1st of Thermidor, 1535

The conversations were lively today at the Tilted Flagon; the summer months always brought in the most customers. Music played. Food and drinks were coming out in quick succession. The inn’s doors flew open. Everyone stopped what they were doing. Several patrons shifted their attention towards a haggard man entering the establishment. Many looks were quizzical—others were more repulsed. Oleander paid everyone no mind as he limped towards the bar; he left a small trail of blood behind. Despite the man being covered in mud, bruises, and makeshift bandages, the blood came from the fresh boar meat he was carrying in a large potato sack.

“Alfie, mate, good to see you,” He said as he patted the young piano player on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint on his shirt.

Oleander had been looking forward to a stiff drink since midnight. He waved his hand at the barmaid, who produced a bottle of scotch from one of the cupboards. The glass was filled just as he took his seat. A gentleman to Oleander’s left pinched his nose, stood up and beelined out of the inn. The hunter downed his drink in a flash—his drooping eyes snapped open. The room slowly returned to its usual, noisy state.

He asked the young barmaid, “Ay love can you go get Joanie for me?” A few moments later, a blonde woman with an exhausted look on her face shuffled behind the bar.

Joanie remarked, “I knew it was you. I could smell you from across town. Just because your last name is Swine, doesn’t mean you have to live like one. Did you take care of the pigs already?”

“Of course. I’m a professional, aren’t I? I promised your dad a cheap price and fast results.” He swung the drenched potato sack onto the countertop splattering blood everywhere. The man on Oleander’s right suddenly snapped out of his entrancement with the barmaid’s cleavage.

“Ugh! Why?!” Joanie wiped all the red droplets off her face and dress, “Why did you bring this here? You know I’ll have to get someone to mop up all that blood.”

“I already gave most of it to your parents. This shite would’ve gone bad by the time I brought it home, so I figured you could use it here.”

Joanie asked, “Gods, how many pigs did you kill?” She whistled to grab the chef’s attention from the back and he was able to carry away the bloody sack.

Oleander said, “Enough to get about a hundred pounds of usable meat. Those pigs won’t be trampling your father’s cornfields anymore.”

“Good, I left the money with my parents. I take it, you got it already?”

Oleander patted one of the side pouches attached to his belt.

“Well, since you’re still here, what do you want?” Joanie asked.

“I wanted pork chops with my breakfast this morning…” Oleander remarked with an innocent smile to combat the growing scowl on Joanie’s face. “...and to see your lovely face.”

Joanie rolled her eyes and sighed. “The usual then?”

Oleander nodded and Joanie was quick to write down his order. The gentleman on Oleander’s right slid a few silver pieces across the bar and took his leave while wiping the blood off his sleeve.

“Hey, Joanie.”

Her eyes darted over to Oleander.

“How about you and me head on over to this new place in the—”

“—no.” She waved her hand, “I’ve told you before, I’m seeing someone else now.”

Oleander mocked, “The pipsqueak, Beauford—”

“—Bradford—”

“—regardless, what’s he got that I don’t?”

Joanie answered, “A house. An actual job.”

“I got a house—”

Joanie rolled her eyes and sternly remarked, “That shack in the middle of the fucking woods is no house.”

“You never gave it a chance—”

“—most normal people wouldn’t’ve given it a chance.”

Silence fell between them as Oleander’s breakfast was served—a plate topped with steaming hot pork chops, sunny-side-up eggs, and two slices of toasted rye bread. Oleander tore through his meal like a wild animal. The charred fat caps on the pork chops were the first to go. He dipped his toasts in the egg yolks before every bite.

“Would it kill you to use a fork and knife? I know your mother taught you manners at some point,” Joanie said as she tried to hide her disgust.

Once his plate was finished, Oleander had business to attend to, “Alright Joanie, any news pass through town?”

“Not since you last asked,” Joanie replied. She took out her rag and started wiping off the crumbs Oleander made.

“C’mon Joanie, anything? Anything at all? I’m dying here without work.”

“I know you are, but Blackburn Hollow hasn’t had any incidents since the city walls were expanded. The city guard was expanded too, I see plenty come in and out of here daily. Only people living outside the city would need help right now and we both know they’d all turn to the Red Wolves for help—”

“—yeah I know,” Oleander mumbled.

“You know you wouldn’t be struggling this much if you just swallowed your pride and went back to the Red Wolves—”

“—I can’t go back.”

“More like won’t,” Joanie mumbled under her breath.

“Look, have you heard anything at all? Maybe something is happening in Willowhurst or in Baines?”

“No monsters from what I’ve heard are over there. Why don’t you ask that little trash eating friend of yours…whatshisface.”

“Cormag? Last I spoke with him, he said he was busy looking into something. He never went into specifics.” Oleander’s tone became a bit more frantic, “Joanie, someone had to bend your ear at some point. Hell, at this point, I’d help out any poor Kassedian or Bemerog that asked for it!”

Joan shushed Oleander immediately. “Yell that a little louder next time so the whole town can hear,” she mocked the disgruntled monster hunter. She sighed. “Okay, I might have something. It doesn’t sound monster related, but it’ll give you something to do and stop you from bellyaching. Remember old man Donohue, the blacksmith that used to live near us when we were kids.”

“Yeah, Ole Gerard Donohue, yeah I remember, what happened to him?”

“Well a couple of nights ago, he came up here with his new apprentice. I think he was new at least. Anyway, I overheard them talking about a robbery at their smithy. Something about very specific things being taken but there were no signs of a break-in.”

Oleander gave Joanie his full attention, “Do you know what the robbers took?”

“I dunno, we were busier than usual that night so I couldn’t catch the entire conversation, but he runs a smithy so take a guess on what was taken.”

“Alright then, Donohue still lives in the Ember Quarter, right?”

“I think he might’ve been the only one that stayed after the attack.”

“Anything else?” Oleander asked.

“No, but they weren’t the only ones complaining about missing things. Over the past week a few other blacksmiths and carpenters grumbled about missing tools, but I only really know Donohue’s situation. Sounds like something a monster hunter would be interested in?”

“It’ll do for now; I’m not in a position to turn down work.” Oleander picked up his glass and walked out of the pub while finishing his whisky.

“Hey, hey! Bring that back!” Joanie yelled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll return it soon enough,” Oleander reassured her as he passed through the entrance to the Tilted Flagon.

Now feeling mildly refreshed, the monster hunter could enjoy the brisk winds of the midmorning day. It was only going to get warmer as the day went on. He hopped on his horse and set off. Blackburn Hollow wasn’t terribly difficult to traverse; the town kept a mostly square shape with four main roads leading from the center to the corners. The four main roads and the innermost streets at the center were the only brick roads. The central fixture of the city, the clocktower, could help even the most incompetant of travelers figure out their position within Blackburn Hollow. Following the burning of the Ember Quarter, the clock tower was refitted to become a lookout tower as well—which unfortunately cut off civilians from visiting the landmark.

Oleander hadn’t visited the Ember Quarter in years. He had flashes of the district before it was engulfed in flames. He could remember his path so vividly from his days of walking to and from school, but every building along the way was completely different. Donohue’s smithy stood as the only reminder of what had happened only nineteen years ago. The worn-out building had seen better days, but Donohue’s reputation for quality work would support his establishment come hell or dragon’s fire. Shortly after Oleander rode up, he gave the front door to the smithy several stern knocks.

The gruff blacksmith barely opened the door, “I’m sorry, I won’t be opening this morning.”

The monster hunter caught the door with his boot. “Mr. Donohue, it’s me, Oleander.”

“Ole…I’m sorry son, I don’t know anyone by that name.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alexander Swine, Joseph’s son.”

The blacksmith squinted his eyes and then perked up, “Oh, Alexander. I haven’t seen you in donkey’s ears.”

“I’ve been kept busy. Family farm and all that.”

“Well, it’s best to keep busy these days. An idle mind is the devil’s playground, especially ‘round here…or at least I think that’s how the saying goes.”

Oleander nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s right. Anyway, I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I heard that some bastard took a crack at your place. Can I help you out?”

The tired old man sighed. “I doubt you’d be of any more help than the police were but since you came all this way to check on me, I don’t see why you can’t take a look around. Oleander remembered that, in his youth, the blacksmith had a long mane of jet black hair but now it had grown completely white with patches of soot across it. Donohue led Oleander inside his humble establishment. The smithy opened into the shop with plenty of display cases and a large countertop.

“Three completed rifles were taken from these cases. No glass shattered. No broken locks. Just gone.”

Donohue brought Oleander behind the counter and into the smithy proper. On the right-hand side of the room was a giant storage room with an iron door with a big padlock on it. Once unlocked, he explained to Oleander how his organizational system worked for his incomplete projects, ingots, scrap, and tools.

“In this area right here is where my rifle components are—all my spare barrels, stocks, trigger guards, and bayonets were taken. I’d say enough for about…six functional rifles.” Donohue pointed to a crate filled with bullets, “About a handful was scooped out of there too. As you can see, this room doesn’t have a window; the only way in here is through this door.”

Donohue then pointed down to the floor of the smithy. “After a few days of forging, we get a small layer of soot and ash on the floor. There weren’t any boot prints on the floor—aside from mine and Matthew’s. The other windows were shut and locked, same with the doors. None of the neighbors heard a single thing that night.” Donohue wiped his brow with a dirty rag.

“What about your apprentice?” Oleander asked, “Where was he when this happened?”

“Matthew…I believe he left for the day. I took inventory that night; everything was in its place. The robbery had to have happened sometime between me going to sleep and Matthew arriving the next morning to open the shop.”

Oleander asked, “Who noticed the gun pieces were missing?”

“Matthew did. We’ve had to make more rifles recently since the city guard was expanded. We were going to start on a large order when he told me the pieces were missing.”

“Speaking of which, where is Matthew?”

“He took a couple of his friends with him to find whoever did this. I told him to consider it a loss since the police themselves didn’t have any leads. But you know how stubborn kids can be.”

“When was that?”

Donohue pondered for a moment, “He told me when we were shutting down the shop three days ago. He was supposed to be back this morning to help me open. We have to reforge a shite load of supplies now.”

“Give me a description, so I can keep an eye out for the lad.”

“He’s sixteen, lanky, a long mop of brown hair that really should be cut off or tied up when working.”

“Aye. I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else?

“Afraid not Alexander, that’s all I know about what happened. I’ve taken to sleeping with a rifle under my pillow just in case that thieving bastard tries to pick me off a second time.”

Donohue left Oleander to investigate. The monster hunter examined the storage room; he quickly noticed that the wall separating this room and the main smithy didn’t extend all the way up to the ceiling. He reasoned that it had to do with ventilation, but the gap was roughly a meter tall. The wall itself was about four meters tall. It wouldn’t be impossible to climb over. He shut the storage door and examined the full smithy.

“Alright, if the doors and windows are out of the question, then how do you get into a house undetected?” Oleander thought, “Think like a thief, how would I sneak in?” Oleander spotted the forge—it had a chimney reaching up to the roof. The space was too small for anyone to move through it. Even if something had, they would’ve kicked up charcoal and ash debris all over the floor and someone would’ve noticed that. Oleander took a step back, “I don’t think they came through the smithy.”

Crash! Oleander rushed through the building and into the section where Donohue lived. He burst into the kitchen, “Everything alright in here?” Oleander had his hand wrapped around his claymore’s hilt.

“I’m fine, I’m fine—just dropped a pan,” Donohue remarked as he used the kitchen table for support. Oleander scooped up the cast iron pan for the ailing blacksmith. “Thank you, Alexander. Haven’t been able to piece anything together?”

“Not really, I’m still looking around,” Oleander said.

“Well, make yourself at home then, I’m about to get breakfast going. Want anything?”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ve already eaten—”

Oleander’s attention was usurped by the large fireplace in the bedroom; the opening was larger than the forge in the smithy. At one hundred and ninety-five centimeters tall and one hundred and thirty-five kilos heavy, it was difficult for Oleander to fit his frame inside—but someone leaner could easily pass through.

Donohue asked, “What’re you up to in there?”

“I think your burglar might’ve come through here.”

“Nonsense,” Donohue said, “I sleep right over there. I would’ve heard them climb down. They would’ve stumbled on those logs in the fireplace.”

Oleander asked, “How tall is the chimney?”

“Five meters, give or take a couple of bits.”

“Well, it’s not crazy for some mad lad to climb down.”

“You’d break your leg dropping from that height.”

“I’d still give it a proper look.”

Oleander went outside and surveyed the outside building—he noticed that he could reach the lowest part of the roof without a ladder. He took a few steps back, rushed forward, and jumped. He caught the edge and hoisted himself up. He scaled the slope of the roof until he got to the base of the chimney. Something caught his eye—something black was spilling out from the top. Hugging the structure for stability, he placed each foot in between the bricks and shimmied up. Once at the perilous height, he plucked a small bundle of black fibers off the smokestack. “Hair?” Matthew had brown hair so that ruled him out of Oleander’s suspicions. As he fingered through the fibers, he noticed some of the dark colorations came off it. He wiped the fibers across his pants, and they returned to an ashy-gray color.

“Banshee hair? No, a banshee would’ve just phased through the walls—plus they can’t really hold things. Or at least, I don’t think they can. I’ll look into that later. Goblins can have gray hair. Devils can have hair that runs from black to white, could be from a devil. Dear gods, I hope it's not a devil.”

He made his back to solid ground and surveyed the immediate area. He worked under the assumption that the culprit could’ve been a devil without wings. He scoured the ground for singed grass or the lingering smells of sulfur. Nothing stood out except for a bunch of small pits in the ground. They were as deep as his pinkie fingernail. The space between them was odd; their pattern was that of wide-set footprints of some kind. He noticed the series of pits stopped just short of the lowest part of the roof. “What the hell? What kind of tracks are these?”

Oleander followed this new lead up to the nearest section of the city wall. Little specks of dirt went up and seemingly over the wall. Oleander lobbed his glass from the Tilted Flagon over the city wall to mark the spot for him to find on the other side. He rode his horse out through the nearest city gate and skirted the outer wall until he found a pile of glass shards. He took a whiff of his surroundings; he hoped for the lingering scent of sulfur or anything else associated with devils. He smelled nothing. It took a couple of minutes of grass tearing and crawling around to rediscover the tracks. They led northward into a nearby forest.

Oleander trekked through the densely packed oak, pine, and hawthorn trees; intermittent blackberry bushes clawed at his trousers as he focused on the path of odd tracks. The trail snaked in and around the trees; he would’ve lost it if he hadn’t discovered a small chunk of blue fabric caught in between some branches. It felt like cotton. “Devils don’t wear clothing,” Oleander pondered. The tracks led out of the trees and into a clearing. His expression dropped as he found four bodies strewn across the ground. They were all unresponsive.

Two of the bodies were covered in blood. Each of them had a long, but multiple thin gashes across their torsos. The third person unfortunately matched Matthew’s description. He had a single puncture wound—a direct strike to his heart. “Poor bastards,” Oleander thought, “It had to be a rapier that did all this damage.”

The fourth body was that of an older man, probably part of a bandit gang given his disheveled look. All three of the young men were picked clean of their weaponry and belongings. Oleander searched through the dead bandit’s pockets, his friends picked him clean too. Their bodies were mostly limp, there was slight resistance when he moved them. He wasn’t a professional, but his best guess was that these bodies were probably only a day old at most.

Rooting through the grass, Oleander discovered part of a human hand lying on the ground—someone apparently had their ring and pinky fingers sliced off with some of the connecting flesh. They didn’t belong to any of the four bodies. Moments later he spotted a faint bloody trail leading further into the forest.

The monster hunter barreled across the woods and into an abandoned campsite. The fire had been stamped out, but the wood was still warm. “They’re nearby.” Oleander turned over every stone in order to find a direction this bandit party went. A gunshot rang out. To the north. Oleander drew his claymore and charged towards the sound.

Another shot rang out.

“There! Just a bit further.”

Oleander saw in the distance a trio of bandits running out of a cave. They seemed more preoccupied about something behind them instead of the engine of destruction charging at them. One of them had a bandage wrapped around his hand, one had a rapier, and the other had a rifle. A smile curled on Oleander’s face. He erupted out of the foliage and swung his sword down at the man closest to him. The bandit reflexively blocked, but the force behind the claymore’s swing shattered the rapier’s blade after bending it into a ninety-degree angle. The claymore buried itself into the ground but Oleander rushed forward—his fist slamming into the man’s face. The monster hunter felt the pop of the man’s jaw dislocating; the bandit’s legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground, out like a light.

The other two bandits were completely thrown off by Oleander’s sudden assault. To Oleander’s left, the bandit drew a short sword while keeping his heavily bandaged hand at his side; the short sword’s crossguard was missing. To Oleander’s right, the other bandit had two swords affixed to his belt, but instead of wielding either of them, he chose to use his rifle like a club.

Oleander pondered, “He doesn’t have a holster. Is he out of ammunition?”

The smirking monster hunter reached into one of the pouches attached to his belt. The moment the two lowlifes rushed him, Oleander threw fine, blessed salt at them. The would-be gunslinger swung and missed by a mile. Oleander ripped the rifle out of the bandit’s hands and, in one fluid motion, crushed the stock broadside into the bandit’s head—he toppled over. He was out cold as well.

“Agh! Fight like a man!” The blinded swordsman roared as he flailed his sword about angrily. Oleander circled around the bandit’s flurry of offense. He swung his rifle into the back of the bandit's head. The bandit stumbled forward, dropping his sword. Now unarmed, Oleander wrapped his arms around the bandit’s neck and put him in a rear-naked choke. The man helplessly flailed his arms trying to hit the monster hunter, as Oleander tightened his grip and pulled back. Ten seconds and he was out.

Oleander gathered up the unconscious men, hogtied them, and then laid them beside the entrance to the cave. He searched through their pockets and knapsacks but he could only scrounge up a paltry sum of coins. He pocketed their gold. He reasoned that these murderers weren’t going to have time to spend any of their money. When he went to retrieve his claymore, Oleander noticed the tracks from earlier leading straight into the cave. “Well whatever I’m chasing, it was enough to send these bastards running,” he thought.

A clanging noise sounded from within the cave. Oleander sheathed his claymore, it wasn’t wide enough for him to swing inside anyway. With the choice of two short swords and a rifle, Oleander took the gun. It had a longer reach. Now equipped, he marched inside.

As he traveled, he kept passing by lit candles placed just out of reach. Something scurried off in the distance, the candlelight was too dim to make anything out. Something snapped. Oleander stopped. The scurrying stopped too. The monster hunter raised his rifle ready to attack. Silence. Oleander looked down and saw that he stepped on a tree branch.

He took a deep breath and trekked further. The way forward brightened which only worried Oleander—either he was walking into a surprise bandit stronghold or he may have discovered the secret lair of a devil. The cave then opened up into a larger space, but it was, unfortunately, a dead-end. All the light in the area converged on a small crafting table.

The missing gun components were sprawled across the makeshift workbench. A crude diagram was left among the various odds and ends; it illustrated a sturdier-looking gun with a barrel thicker than a rifle. “Now that’s a gun,” Oleander thought to himself. His hand brushed up against a small pile of fibers. They felt similar to the grayish ones Oleander found earlier, except these were completely white…and warmer. He then looked down at the floor—the bodies of dead rats, bats, and snakes were tangled in a sea of spider webs. “What level of hell did I just walk into?”

Something scuttled behind Oleander. The footsteps were faint, but nearby. He slowly inched his left hand towards one of the candles on the table. He swung around ready to strike. Nothing was there. He heard soft breathing. It’s here. Somewhere. But where? Oleander slowly raised his candle revealing his hidden target.

The figure let out a sharp, feminine scream and extended out her four arms. Fear washed over Oleander, not from the scare attempt, but from the appearance of this individual. Above him was a humanoid with a pale face, four piercing yellow eyes, large black fangs, and skinny black arms with three-fingered hands. She was standing on the ceiling—glaring right into Oleander’s soul. To Oleander’s surprise, she didn’t lunge at him. She appeared to be more shocked that Oleander didn’t scream and run in terror, so she froze in place, not really knowing what to do.

She tried to circle around Oleander, but he slowly mirrored her movement, maintaining constant eye contact with her. The spider woman made a quick lunge at Oleander, but he batted away two of her arms. She recoiled slightly, but their eye contact never faltered. The woman slowly retreated, putting her hands behind her back. Oleander moved one step forward for each step back she took. He’d seen regular-sized spiders and even tarantulas fight when he was a child, but this creature before him intrigued him in all the wrong ways.

After backing up enough, the woman tossed a wad of webbing at Oleander’s candle, snuffing it out. In that instance, Oleander’s vision went dark before it could adjust. The woman pounced. He managed to grab the woman where her arms connected to her shoulder. Her fangs were less than an inch away from digging into his neck. She struggled wildly in his grasp; her claws tore at his shirt.

Oleander’s only option was to throw her to the side, create some space between them, and then use his claymore. The woman proved to be much lighter than he expected as he ended up launching her across the room into the crafting table—breaking it in half. She curled up holding her head. Oleander unsheathed his claymore and readied himself for the spider’s next attack. All four of her eyes caught the residual candlelight from further down the cave glinting off the massive sword.

“If you wish to kill me then make it quick,” the woman coldly remarked. She was still curled up in fear.

She was wide open. Most of the monsters Oleander had encountered fought to the bitter end, but this woman was one of the few that surrendered. It was difficult to see with so little light, but Oleander could make out the trickling of blood going down the woman’s face. He ground his teeth in frustration. She’s surrendering—it doesn’t feel right to just stab her now. Oleander’s adrenaline was wearing off, the fun of the fight was well over now. He let out a sigh as he sheathed his claymore.

“I’m here for the blacksmith’s stolen goods. I expected devils, or goblins, or even banshee, but not…whatever you are.” Oleander kept his right hand on the claymore’s hilt and his left hand on his pouch of salt; she proved she was cunning so he worried that she could possibly be feigning a surrender.

“What are you? Are you an actual hybrid or some kind of devil creation?”

The woman uncovered her face. To her surprise, the monster hunter simply stood his ground. She said, “Ja, a devil creation. I use Spiderkin to describe myself.”

Another chill washed over Oleander. “What kind of devil fucks a giant spider?” The thought echoed across his mind until he had to strangle it into oblivion.

She asked, “Are you going to kill me?” The spiderkin picked herself off the ground—two of her hands still covered her head.

If he captured her, returned the missing gun parts to Donohue, and then turned her over to the police—she might actually be executed. Oleander reasoned that even looking the way she did, simply looking at the police funny would be grounds for execution. He also figured there would be a small reward for bringing the supplies back, there would be next to nothing for all the effort of trying to bring this Spiderkin back alive kicking and screaming.

“I’ve got a couple of questions and then I’ll make my decision.”

The spiderkin’s gaze shifted to the floor but she still nodded.

“Where did you come from?”

“Caligær.”

The name had appeared on a map once before. It was deep in the Scrublands—a region between Morrigan and the Bemerog country of Ostrogrod. Neither country claimed the land as during the last war the area was made unfit for sustaining any outposts, let alone cities. Although that hasn’t served as a complete deterrent to certain groups or species in this case.

“Why are you building guns? Are you smuggling human technology across the border?”

“I am building guns for personal reasons. I have no interest in smuggling anything nor do I have any interest in returning to Caligær.

“Are you affiliated—”

“—No. I am only with myself currently. I haven’t spoken to anyone in months.”

“Why?” Oleander contemplated, “Why are you all the way out here? Is something after you?”

“No, while I was forced to travel further into Morrigan than I anticipated, I chose to cross the border of my own volition.”

Oleander spent a moment pondering. She was a lonesome, wandering soul. He looked over the rifle he stole from the bandit. It appeared to have components that would be on other types of guns. The rifle had a larger stock to distribute force. The barrel was longer and had three indentations—probably for the spider’s other three hands while the fourth rested on the trigger. It was built for maximum stability, but uniquely for her. Despite the rifle being a mishmash of pieces, it was surprisingly well put together.

“That gun design, the one with a wider barrel. Can you actually make that?”

“It’s only conceptual, but if I had the time, tools, and resources, I could.”

“Can you only build guns? Could you, for example, forge swords, craft tools, and make horseshoes?”

“I could learn.”

Oleander paused for a minute or two. “Alright,” he said, “Here’s what we’re doing! I’m going back to town to return everything you stole from Donohue. I also have to report on the deaths of his apprentice and his two friends. I won’t mention you to the police. I’ll just say that the thief got away when I found their hiding spot. Once that’s taken care of—wait what else did you take? I know Donohue wasn’t the only person that had stuff stolen.”

“I didn’t take as much from everyone else. A couple of tools from one, some materials from another, an anvil—”

“—You carried an anvil all the way from Blackburn Hollow, up and over the city walls, to this little cave?”

“Yes.”

“Well, shit, that’s impressive.” Oleander looked over the supplies excluded from Donohue’s missing parts. He said, “Well, there isn’t much left. It really isn’t worth carrying the rest of this stuff around town. I’ll consider this payment for stopping the thief of Blackburn Hollow. Anyway, once all that’s taken care of, I’ve got a small homestead in the Patchwork Woods—it's called Fawksden. I can give you a place to stay as long as you make me weapons.”

“And…if I refuse?” Moira asked.

“I’ll hand you over to the police and they’ll give you your final choice: prison or death. Take my deal and all you have to do is make me weapons. You’re too talented to go to waste.”

“Talented,” the woman muttered to herself, “You believe so?”

Oleander held up the woman’s custom rifle, “You already showed me a glimpse.” He then pointed at the blueprint, “Show me what you can really do.”

The woman was quiet. Her two smaller eyes darted back and forth, she was clearly deliberating. It didn’t take long for her to slowly nod.

“I thank you, but I don’t even know who you are.”

The monster hunter introduced himself, “Name’s Oleander Swine.”

“I am Moira.”

As Moira stepped forward to shake Oleander’s hand, he could finally get a better look at her. She dressed like any other woman he’d find in town; she wore a white apron over her blue dress and they were both streaked with soot and covered in rips and tears. She stood roughly at one hundred and sixty-eight centimeters tall. His fear of her subsided and was left with only discomfort as he watched her arms move. Even though he couldn't see her legs, based on the prints she left behind, Moira must have legs that end at a single point. Four legs in all. While unnerved, he stood by his decision to give Moira an opportunity instead of a probable death sentence.

Oleander returned to town with most of the stolen material in his possession. He relinquished them to Donohue who was heartbroken over the loss of his protégé. Oleander assured the blacksmith that the bandits would get their due punishment as soon as the police came to collect them. Donohue provided the monster hunter with a small amount of compensation for his efforts; he also handed over the gun Moira had constructed to Oleander. He explained that it would be too much trouble to disassemble it for individual parts.

Oleander returned to the cave to find Moira. She gathered up her supplies and tools in an impromptu web knapsack, and she helped Oleander load the small anvil onto the horse’s saddlebags. The two left the outskirts of Blackburn Hollow and rode off to the Patchwork Woods.

“What brought you to Blackburn Hollow, specifically?” Oleander asked after the majority of their trip was silent.

Moira explained, "I kept getting chased out by the local populace. I hoped to find some solitude eventually, but that never happened. I've been around this area for about two weeks before those bandits intruded on me and then you barged in shortly after."

“Yeah, moving further into Morrigan isn’t the smartest idea. Lucky you ran into me and not the Red Wolves. Garrison is much less forgiving than me. Now, if you knew people would attack you, why did you go into town?”

“I needed something to occupy my time aside from eating and sleeping. I enjoy disassembling and reassembling things—to understand how things work. It’s how I prefer to spend my free time, but with each escape, I lost more of my tools. I eventually had nothing to keep me occupied. So I had to find stuff in town.”

“Why guns? Why would you be interested in guns if you can catch things with webs? Using a rifle to catch rats, bats, snakes, and anything else small seems like a waste.”

“I’d never hunt with them. You are right, most rifles and pistols would destroy some of my favorite meals. Honestly, I prefer them to still be alive when I catch them; warm blood is much more preferable. But my interest in guns...they don’t exist where I come from, or at least aren’t as readily available. How do I say this...I have disassembled clocks and steam engines before. I put them back in perfect working order, but I could never think of how to improve them. But guns…guns make the gears in my head turn. They are a puzzle I enjoy, that I understand, and that I feel I can fully expand upon.``

“Well you should be safe out here to do that,” Oleander assured Moira.

“May I ask, why not have the blacksmith craft your weapons and tools?”

“I respect Donohue’s work but he’s been making guns and swords for the police and city guard for years. He doesn’t make anything practical for monster hunters. I need things that are more—experimental. I see a lot of potential in that gun design you have.”

The two continued through the forest until they came across a small clearing populated by a rough but cozy cottage, a dilapidated barn that looked like it had been struck by lightning half a dozen times, and a heavily padlocked storage shed. On their approach, Moira noticed that each building had a ring drawn around it made of salt. Oleander must have reapplied the salt multiple times as the ground underneath the circle outline was completely dead. The width of the line was about two feet.

Oleander hopped off his horse and chose to carry all of Moira’s belongings by himself. He stepped on the line of salt and continued to his house. Moira stopped. She delicately extended one of her legs out from under her dress and tapped it against the salt. It stung, but the pain quickly subsided when she pulled away. She hurried back to Oleander’s side before he noticed her lagging behind. The monster hunter plucked a handful of white sage that grew around his home and brought it inside. Moira was surprised to see how prevalent the one plant was on his property, it surrounded all three buildings.

Moira asked, “Why do you live out here and not in town?”

“Well…I just got tired of living around other people. I felt the walls of the city were closing in on me.”

Moira nodded. “I’ve felt those feelings before as well.”

Oleander led Moira on a grand tour of his abode. The house contained four rooms: a bedroom, a kitchen, a small storage space, and a spare room not currently being used. He led her outside through the back door to a small, poorly tended to forge. Next to it was a broken anvil and some rusted tools.

“I tried my hand at forging. It’s an odd skill. It requires a lot of power and stamina, which I’ve got plenty of, but it also requires finesse and an eye for detail. Those two I don’t have. That’s why I’m giving this space to you. I can get you more tools and supplies depending on the project, but it’ll be limited by funds. Never forget this one point—I want practical weapons that are very effective on monsters.”

Moira circled the area examining everything she had to work with. The forge would have to be cleaned out and the old anvil would have to be melted down because it was useless in its current state.

“Thank you, Herr Swine.”