Better Armed
Being the roguish, adventure-bent and disarmingly handsome sort of bloke that I am, it stands to reason that sometimes I find things. Sometimes I steal things, too, but those are stories for another day.
I find ridiculous items in chests nobody has had any occasion to open for centuries, I find loose change in mine shafts, and, once, I found a pistol in a collapsed cave in Mistpeak Valley, doing its very best to look uninteresting.
It was a pretty thing, all gears and flamboyance, and of course I decided that it should be mine forever. A good thirty minutes were spent disentangling it from roots and rocks and bits of bone (the latter I was trying very hard not to think about) until it was free and sitting in its expectant new owner's hands.
I shook a bit of the old owner's hands off the barrel and held it up to the light.
Look at that brass.
I clutched it to my chest in a display I was rather glad nobody else was around to witness. Treasure-hunting is, on the whole, not pleasant. Really. It sounds like adventure and gold and jewels and going blade-to-blade with mysterious but fantastically attractive ladies, but in reality you're just an idiot slogging through waist-high mud alone hoping not to get a water-borne infection before you find a slightly shiny bit of rock that you can get a few bob for down at the market. But when treasure-hunting pays off, it pays gloriously.
I was jumping to mad, oxygen-starved conclusions, there, of course. Ben Finn is nothing if not thorough and practical, so when I calmed down and stopped twirling the gun around and accidentally bonking myself in the face with it, I drew up some plans.
First, I'd have to see what it was worth.
-
I stumbled into an unusually packed Bowerstone pawnbrokers early the next morning, making no attempt whatsoever to hide my loot, and presented it proudly to a dumpy-looking bloke with about five pairs of glasses on. He blinked at me for a few moments and then got to work, fingering a few of the pistol's bolts in a way I wasn't quite sure I was comfortable with. After a brief look, he set it back on the counter and I'm positive he took a sharp half-step backwards.
"Where'd you get this?"
I shrugged, arms folded. "I found it."
"Ah," he said, with the sort of tone that you might employ when delivering the news that your horse has just stood on someone's puppy. This was the point at which I started to become a bit suspicious, and I waved for him to continue.
"That's a Dragonstomper," he said frankly.
"What?"
"That's a Dragonstomper .48."
"What?"
"That's a-"
"No, I heard you." As had everyone else, apparently. Glancing over my shoulder I almost headbutted a few nosey patrons who had sidled up to the counter and were making an abysmal show of looking indifferent.
Lowering my voice to a whisper (not that it would make much difference at this point), I leaned in close. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," he replied, sounding a bit offended that I'd even consider questioning him.
I studied his face for a moment. Well, I say studied but it was more me looking at him and waiting for him to say 'Surprise! Just kidding. Had you going there, didn't I?' A little tug of panic had settled itself in my chest as I took in an altogether unexpected development, because you know what they say about Dragonstompers, don't you?
It's something along the lines of, 'good gods just hope you don't come across one because a certain someone will shoot you in the face'.
'A certain someone' had made no secret of his fascination with these particular firearms. They were very much his style- ostentatious to the point of obscenity, deadly, and extremely limited edition.
It was common knowledge that those foolish enough to fabricate tales of possessing such a pistol, or even merely suggesting that they knew where one might be hidden had an uncomfortable habit of disappearing. The newly-crowned monarch had briefly entertained searching for one- or so they'd told me whilst trying not to throw up on my shoulder during a particularly eventful night of drinking- but people with any degree of common sense and sobriety generally knew to steer clear.
And here I was, having stumbled arse-backwards into a Dragonstomper .48. Fantastic.
I picked it up gingerly, very aware of the people behind me and- had he always been so close? Shit, I'm sure there were a few more people here a minute ago- nodded a curt 'thank you' to the bloke who had made my life a lot more difficult. Then I did the thing I do best.
I bolted.
Drop it. Just drop it.
Right. Yes. This was the sensible thing to do, surely? Just drop the bloody thing and forget about it and live a life of blissful ignorance. Perhaps draw a map in ten years and sell it to some plucky adventurers for a few bits.
It was an unexpectedly fine day, but I wasn't concerned with that so much as cutting a path for myself through the throng of early-morning shoppers. The pistol- the Dragonstomper, might as well start recognising the catalyst to my own demise- was slung over my shoulder as I navigated the Market, my fingers wrapped tightly around the strap. With some difficulty and not nearly as much speed as I'd have liked, I managed to weave past the growing crowd who had gathered to see a pig dressed in a skirt and escaped into the back streets.
Rocketing around a corner, I reached for an appropriate digging tool. Unfortunately the only thing I could fumble out of my pocket was a spoon. Needs must, though, and so I found a bit of grass behind a ramshackle old cottage and began assaulting it. I was quick to discover why people tend to use shovels instead of spoons when digging- I wasn't so much creating a hole than flicking bits of mud and grass into my face. Panic does things to me.
My steady stream of expletives aimed at the offending pistol came to an abrupt halt when I heard footsteps and realised that someone was probably watching me make a tit of myself.
"I've been looking for you everywhere!"
I stood up quickly, legs astride my horticultural masterpiece and spoon raised threateningly. As it happened, I was not about to be dragged off somewhere terrible by a couple of mercenaries working out of my least favourite industrialist's pocket, because it was my mate Tick, who probably should've been busy guarding the extremely under-financed 'undesirables'' keep.
I concentrated really hard and could almost hear the cries of rejoicing criminals who had managed to get out of their cells by wishing really hard and blowing on the lock.
"What? Why?"
"You're the talk of the town, Finn!" He folded his arms and tried to supply this detail in a suave, knowledgeable way but Tick is a generally awkward creature and he'd obviously just been running so his delivery was a bit breathy. But that didn't really matter because I'd dropped my spoon and my stomach was firmly disagreeing with his words.
"Bollocks. No. Why?"
At this point I was hoping for the delectable misadventure that is misinformation to come to my aid. Bowerstone, and Albion by extension because we're a population of insufferable bastards, really enjoys an ample, life-destroying rumour. It's actually a bit uncomfortable if you think about it, but we do love a good natter, especially if the content is a really dirty bit of gossip about that one woman who looked at you a bit funny last Tuesday and oooh is it any wonder what with her running a brothel under her poor husband's nose? Of course, such rumours are hardly ever true- people lie when it suits them and others are just thick enough to mishear 'she's just founded a charity' as 'she's just run a travelling bard through seven times with a cutlass'. Perhaps someone had simply decided to extol my virtues to the town! I wouldn't blame them.
But then Tick said, "You've got a Dragonstomper, haven't you?" and I knew I was shit out of luck.
I'd just picked my spoon up but I threw it on the floor.
That's what sort of day it was.