The Hero of Rookridge
I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders when the money finally came through from the barman. A part of me wanted to simply take it all, and tell the sisters to be grateful for the rescue, but another part of me doesn't condone thievery and finds magnanimity a good shield against gross evil morphs. Though I hadn't seen any versions of Sparrow driven bald by growing horns, Chicken Chaser definitely suffered to maintain his evil. For the sake of my hairline, I paid the sisters more than their father's due.
Which was nothing by the way, finders keepers, making it a pure saintly act. I may or may not have spent a bit of time looking for blonde hairs on my scalp after making that choice.
Full of happiness that the pair would leave my company in the morning, I stayed up late and played a few rounds of spinnerbox to pass the time. The game played like a portable slot machine, and ultimately I didn't win any money, but I also didn't lose any, at least not by the point our game was interrupted by the metal rap-rap-rap-rap-rap banging of the town's alarm, summoning the men of the town to combat a fire or to actual combat. I didn't know the exact cadences used here, but the menfolk hauling weapons as they ran outside clued me in on it.
And there was a fire burning.
Around the fires stood the men the Chainbreakers, or at least what was left of them. It may be hard to pull off scary when half your gang gets ganked by a nine year old in a sennight, but their silhouettes looked quite intimidating outlined in the orange glow of ruined homes. A number of men lay on the ground bleeding. My sharp eyes picked out signs of life from most of them, but a handful lay outright slain. The hands of these deplorables, when not holding guns or melee implements, wrapped around women and children. The hostages wept loudly for their homes and their menfolk.
The fighting men of the town came out to meet the foe, quite hesitantly and who can blame them, not all people are wired for combat. Hell, for some people even getting into an argument can prove too much. Guard Captain Lyle rode out from the manor on a fine chestnut horse, the creatures bulging muscles reminding me of just how incredible I look shirtless these days. The militia men quickly rallied around him, and both sides stared the other down.
"You made a mistake coming here, Ricky." Lyle shouted at the leader of the men, a tall and burly fellow with copper hair swept back and a goatee.
"A mistake, eh?" he spat, "I can't seem to take my cock out for a piss these days without someone ijit running up shouting about such and such being dead. What's a man to do when his gang members are getting bushwhacked every day? Huh, sit back and take it?"
"Run, ya dumb bastard!" Lyle yelled.
"Well fuck that!" Ricky shouted and I looked around the assembly.
"Hey, you with the blunderbuss." I called out to a man not to far from me.
"Me?" he took his hand off the gun to point at himself.
"Yes, you." I gestured for him to Follow me.
"Alright then." he answered.
I managed to find two more scattergun toting goons and explain to them that they'd hand me the guns on my command while we made way to the front of the procession, meanwhile Lyle and Ricky shouted expletives about each other and their mothers. You'd almost think them two friends enjoying some raunchy humor the way they elaborated and pantomimed and became more and more riled as they one upped each other. It wasn't until Lyle shook his ass and mimicked holding Ricky's mum's head to it for a bit o' tongue punching the fartbox that Ricky lost his cool for real.
"That's it! Their blood be on your foul head!" Ricky screamed but before he managed to order the execution of the hostages…
The laser circus lit up the night, and I'd set it to target as many as possible. In one shot, thirty men were wounded, and the floating balls of lights behind me indicated three more shots to go. The suddenness and queerness of my attack put the bandits into a state of shock, and the hostages watched in awe as the lead and magic curved around them to slam into the men holding them.
"NEXT!" I commanded at the top of my lungs.
I snatched a proffered blunderbuss and I guided my shot to the unwounded. Another barrage of icy blue arcing magic and now sixty men bore gunshot injuries before the fighting even truly began. Many men fired panicked shots, but with the distance between the two parties and the spots still clearing behind everyone's eyes from the beautiful light show carving through the cold night air, they all posed a greater risk to their own groups than to each other.
"NEXT!" I commanded again, uncaring of the stray shots firing.
I repeated the magic showing twice more, and now the over hundred men arrayed to terrorize the town this night bled from from bullet holes. Not exactly an ideal way to enter combat.
"Good evening gentlemen!" I greeted my terrified audience at the top of my lungs as I reloaded the blunderbuss in my hands, "Some of you may be thinking, I'm not too hurt. Let me disabuse you of that idea."
Four more Multi Arrow orbs of light ignited around me.
"My name is Jack Sparrow, and I have been hired to kill you all." I announced loudly then shot again.
"Fucking hell! Kill this magic fucker!" Ricky shouted as he bled from two holes in him.
In a feat of speed I managed to reload fired again into the brave men who sought to slay me, delaying their charge. Their blood roused, the militia men began firing at Ricky and his men in more that a panic as well. Much smoke filled the night sky, much lead flew, but few men actually hit anything made of flesh. The same cannot be said of my sixth barrage, and now the hundred or so men with a hundred and eighty bullet holes in them broke. They cut and run as Ricky screamed for the cowards to fight on. As they ran, I ran after them firing more Multi Arrow barrages. Many men fell to my economic and devastating attack.
They didn't make it far out of town before the last of them collapsed and the fighting men descended upon them, beating them to death as they bled out on the snow. They might not have had much stomach for a fight, but a mob is always good for a slaughter.
I returned to find Lyle stood over the body of his foe, his meat mallet of a cock in hand as he pissed on the ruins of Ricky's head.
"Hell of a showing, Mr. Sparrow." Lyle laughed and I assume he finished off with a few shakes and returned his pecker to his pants.
"You already had half the battle won with that excellent distraction, Captain Lyle." I acknowledged the man while keeping my eyes tilted up over his head.
No one will catch me doing some peter peeking.
Lyle laughed like I'd told him the funniest joke he'd ever heard, "Distraction eh? More like you got tired of Ricky's bullshit and pulled out the greatest showing of Will I've ever seen! That spell was something else! Most people I know who've tried the Will shit their pants trying to fling a fireball. You damn near turned a blunderbuss into a dragon. I'll never forget the sight of it."
"It's a hell of a spell." I agreed readily, "But Ricky and his men weren't exactly the toughest outlaws in Albion."
"Not even close." Lyle frowned, "Lotta bastards with some Hero blood in them think that just because they're a bit bigger and tougher than most everyone else, that they've the right to do and take whatever they want. Scum."
I've seen a few, Ricky and his lieutenants, the guy whose sword I took. They can take two or three times the punishment other men can take, and hit much harder. Too little power to be considered real Heroes, but strong enough to be a real menace to normal folk.
"Yer a real Hero, Mr. Sparrow. Not like them, and not like me." Lyle revealed his own unsurprising ancestry, "Like from the old days of legend."
"Yeah." I sounded, no point in denying it. Not with the way I've put my power on display since leaving Bowerstone.
As much as I might preach caution, I'm too much of an opportunist to sit on my ass and let things pass me by. Maybe I've gotten arrogant with the way my power exploded after getting into real combat day after day, but maybe I've just gotten that good. The rivers of blood I've shed seem to point to that, but really, I've just been killing a lot of losers. Bottom feeding still, just like when I was preying on rats and beetles. My body may be the size of a ripped teenager, and I've the mind of a man, but I'm still just a kid growing into his own.
If I can't hide from my enemies, if I'm already sliding on the ice, I might as well dance.
Around us the townsfolk gathered, coming down from the high of total victory and becoming aware once more of their own aches and pains and the losses of their neighbors. The looked a listless lot and Lyle through a fist up into the air and shouted:
"Give a cheer for Jack Sparrow: the Hero of Rookridge!" he commanded and the town found itself centered once again with an enthusiastic response.
"Hip hip hurray!"
"Hip hip hurray!"
"Hip hip hurray!"
Lyle tossed his tricorne into the air and shot his pistol into the night sky. Others followed suit, and soon enough, nobody could hear anything except the ringing in their ears and smell anything but rotten eggs. Such is victory in the age of black powder.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You can support me and my family at
ko-fi.com/jmanm
— Un nouveau chapitre arrive bientôt — Écrire un avis
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone