Was a time when I'd wake up, pop out of bed, and be good to go for the day.

Lately, that's been a whole lot more difficult. Not because I'm getting old and out of shape. I'm 18 and in the prime of life, a first-rate specimen of human excellence minus one right hand. Physically, there ain't nothing stopping me from being bright and energetic as can be. Mentally and emotionally though? Feels like I got a thousand pounds dragging me down all the livelong day, and my baggage feels extra heavy this morning in particular.

Probably because of all the morally dubious actions and agreements which took place just yesterday. Could also be the fact that we done reached Ashbend, which is the end of the westward road as far as I'm concerned, and I didn't spot the gorgeous, purple-haired, honey-skinned girlie I was hoping to see. Hardly surprising considering I only made the one stop and regret doing that already, but what can you do? No one said hope had to be reasonable. You just gotta have it.

Between all the different shades of blue and grey, I ain't feeling all that up for a run even though Elodie is Primed and ready for it. Well, not exactly ready, as I step out of the cabin to find her dancing on deck with the kiccaws. As a kiccaw mind you, and it's adorable as all heck watching them all bounce and sway from side to side while facing one another beneath the morning sun. Stella and Terrance even throw a bob in between each step, while Frowny and Elodie puff up and sing to the skies saying whatever it is kiccaws do. A sight for sore eyes it is, one that could only be made sweeter if Cowie and Chrissy were here to share it with me. They ain't nowhere to be seen though, so they're probably still sleeping off yesterday's excitement inside the wagon with Astrid.

As for Gunnar, he done laid back down in his hammock to rest his eyes a bit more after his turn at watch, while Harald is up and at em before so much as brushing his teeth, washing his face, or combing his hair because he's kinda a slob like that. Never pegged him for one, as he usually looks neat and tidy as can be whenever I see him. Now I know that's thanks to Astrid and his mama most like, always reminding him to do this and that while helping him with the subtle things like straightening a collar or adjusting his robes so they fit on his lithe frame the right way.

I ain't about to baby him though, which is why I left him to read his books in peace. Much as I want to tear into him for doing things in exactly the wrong way even after I explicitly explained things as best I could, there ain't nothing to be gained from making him second guess his actions. Learned that the hard way with Errol, so no point coming down hard on Harald. Mostly because it wouldn't change a thing as he's being hard enough on himself. Our talk in jail was a rare moment of vulnerability where he showed me the man underneath it all. One I like a whole lot more than I care for Errol, with his holier-than-thou attitude and cocksure confidence that ain't at all deserved. Harald though? He made a mistake and he accepts it, and he took steps to keep it from happening again.

Asked me plenty on how he should've handled it, and how to avoid this sort of thing moving forward, so I gave him my checklist of things to watch for as well as general advice regarding the whole kitten kaboodle. Didn't have much to say about how to deal with the guilt or avoid conflict in general, and I saw him tossing and turning in his hammock a fair bit. Which is surprising considering he done been run out of town more times that I have, so it's a wonder that he's kept his kind and charitable heart. Wish people could see past his weird quirks and ruby red skin and know the good man underneath it all, but those who judge a man by the colour of his skin are bound to be blinded by it.

So I guess Harald is just gonna hafta thicken that skin up and get used to killing his way out of a jam. Doubt that's what he wants, as he ain't all about my kind of life. And that's fine. Some people are killers, others are guardians, and Harald's a guardian through and through.

Me? I'm a killer to the core, and I accept that, but it don't make the mornings any easier after the fact. Don't know what my daddy must think of me, looking down from Heaven and seeing his boy beat a deputy like a hunk of raw meat. I wanted to do worse, wanted to keep hitting him until he was coughing up blood then hit him some more until all the rage done been burned out of me, or he was dead and gone. One or the other, and it upsets me that I couldn't do neither. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't just take his head in my hands and force him to look me in the eyes while I put my thumbs through them for daring to look at Chrissy that way, for saying those things and no doubt imagining worse. Should've taken his tongue too, if only to keep him from doing it again or ratting me out.

Kept expecting Sheriff Beauregard to show up at one point or another to put me in cuffs again, and truth is, I still kinda am. Even feel like I almost deserve it, as I done stepped beyond the pale. Eugene deserved what he done got, deserved far worse in fact, but it shouldn't have come from me. Not the way it did at least, with help from the Manfredis who clearly tried to get me on camera committing a felony. I should've walked away the moment I seen them cameras, because at least then I'd have plausible deniability even if they show the video off. Claim I didn't know what was happening, and that I washed my hands of it all as soon as I could, and I didn't report it because who in their right mind would step on the Manfredis toes?

I didn't though. Walk away that is. Even knowing the Watchman tried to screw me, I went along with it, because I was just so angry. Still am if I'm being honest, because Eugene done got off light. Problem is, I ain't in the habit of leaving witnesses to crimes I commit. Prefer not to commit crimes in the first place, or at the very least not leave victims who can easily identify me. Ain't nothing for it though. I'm tired of having to cover my ass and step easy legally speaking, when everyone else who ain't Qin or an Innate gets off with a slap on the wrist. I guarantee you Sheriff Beauregard wouldn't have cared to investigate any complaints against his own deputies, none raised by me at least, as I doubt that sad sack of bald beardie got an ounce of virtue in him at all.

Might not seem like much, bugging an interrogation room to listen in on a criminal and his lawyer. Thing is, everyone is entitled to a fair trial, but how you supposed to get one if you can't trust that you can talk to your lawyer without anyone listening in? Ain't nothing worse than a bent lawman, because the moment they get found out, it justifies everything them criminals do because in their minds, they see it as everyone is same as them. Truth is, it's starting to feel that way, that everyone I run into is either crooked, bent, or just plain corrupt, and my love of my fellow man is wearing thin.

Which is why I brew up a super strong pot of coffee as a pick me up this morning. With my stove out of commission, I'm relegated to using the hotplate out on deck, and it don't boil water half as fast. That's why my coffee still ain't ready by the time Elodie is done dancing with the kiccaws and they all come a hopping over to see me. Reading the question in her round, birdy eyes, I shake my head with a smile and say, "Sorry Ella-dee. No run today." The sweet girl deflates to hear it, so I give her chin a little scritch and explain, "After yesterday, I don't think it's safe for us to split up, not while we're docked here. Soon as we're done breakfast, I want us out and underway so we can put all the bad juju behind us."

And get a head start on law enforcement should Eugene decide to press charges against me. Or worse, end up dead with all signs pointing in my direction. I didn't beat the man bad enough to kill him, and I don't expect the Manfredis to double cross me like that, not after we done come to an agreement. Still, it wouldn't be the first time I been blindsided by criminals, and I doubt it'd be the last. If they was reasonable and rational, they wouldn't be criminals, now would they? They'd be more akin to Ronald Jackson, working more or less within the boundaries of the law while gleaning support to make his extralegal activities wholly legal and above board. That was his end game after all, one that might well have come to pass if I hadn't taken him and his people out, with chemical explosives being traded far and wide as governments all around the Frontier make ready for the impending Watershed.

So I can't really rely on the likes of the Manfredis and their Serbian rivals to act reasonably and logically when it comes time to pay me for my work. I got a few ideas on how to make they play nice, but that'll have to wait until I got the packages in hand. For now, I content myself with playing with the kiccaws while waiting for my coffee to come to a boil so I can feel human again. Don't know what it is about a cup of hot coffee that makes for such a great pick me up, but my first sip of that hot, soothing sweetness is almost enough to make me forget the throbbing pain in my wrist from clenching a fist that don't exist all the livelong night.

My jaw don't hurt as much from grinding my teeth, but I underestimated how much damage I could do, so I'm gonna need to restock on pearl dust. To cut down on costs and cheer Elodie up, I say, "How about this? Once we underway, we'll wait until there ain't too many ships nearby, then you can hop into the water and swim alongside. Maybe even pick up a few seashells to bring aboard if you spot 'em. Sound good?" The green-eyed kiccaw hops about and flaps her nubby wings to say she like the sound of that, and I almost want to ask her to Wildshape here and now so I can know what sea lion fur feels like when it's dry. We're still docked though, so I hold off until breakfast is cooked and there's no sign of law enforcement or criminal elements coming in to take me down. Then and only then do I set off, heading due north along a fork in the Wayfarer that locals call the Mourning Run, on account of all the military ships carrying ashes down to Ashbend.

Just a sign of all the exciting prospects awaiting us up in the Deadlands, which is round about two days sailing away. Soon as we're underway however, Gunnar clumsily skates on over atop his Floating Disc, one he's finally figured out how to stabilize atop an unstable surface. "I just want to say," he begins, after glancing around to make sure we're not overheard as we skip across the waters. "Whatever it is you did to get them off the hook, you have my gratitude." Heaving a sigh, he looks me in the eyes not in a challenging way, but more a probing one. "Thing is, I couldn't even get a word in with someone I know, but you got them all out in less than six hours flat, so I gotta ask… how'd you do it?"

"You sure you wanna know?" I ask, and Gunnar grimaces, but nods. "I don't got no pull with the Rangers or law enforcement no more," I say with a shrug, "So… I had to go elsewhere. Or rather elsewhere came to me." Seeing the blood drain from Gunnar's face as he imagines the worst, I explain the long and short of it all in broad strokes without giving anything away, namely that I gotta pick up a package and deliver it intact to a certain criminal element. "No big deal," I conclude, even though Gunnar's looking like he's about a hair's breadth from hyperventilating. "Even if I get caught, it'll be me that goes down for it, so won't nothing spill over onto you or yours."

"No big deal?" Gunnar replies, before repeating himself with the emphasis on a whole bunch of different syllables. "No big deal!? That's a huge deal Howie! Especially considering you don't even know what you're gonna be smuggling. Seeing how they were willing to pay you big bucks to start with, I doubt it'll be something simple as prohibited contraband. This won't just be a slap on the wrist Howie, some fine you pay off and go about your day. There's stuff growing in the Deadlands that could get you twenty-five years if you're caught carrying it."

"Like what?" Tilting my head in curiosity, I ask, "Also, why do we call 'em bucks? Ain't no deer on them dollars, and I don't think there ever have been."

"Like highly controlled substances," Gunnar retorts, fighting to keep himself from yelling while giving off the same energy nonetheless. "Narcotics for one, or unstable Aetheric contaminants for another. Could also be restricted Magical materials, or just regulated resources like Q-Ace, or any number of very illegal and immoral things. This isn't a street brawl or bar fight some fancy lawyer can argue their way out of. The Federal Government will come down hard on anyone caught smuggling any of those things and a thousand more, because they have good reason to keep a lid on it."

Like maintaining their monopoly on Imbued and Augmented objects, leaving the rest of us with nothing but plain old arcana tech to play with. Yeah, sure, we can still make cool things like Skitterbots and shock gauntlets and all that, but for anything that's real Magical and will work independent of the creator, you need Q-Ace to make it. Ain't nothing magical about copper(II) acetate, or less formally cupric acetate. It's a naturally occurring chemical compound that's just copper and water that's been chemically bonded. Thing is, there ain't nothing better for bonding Magical Effects to physical objects, like say permanently affixing Endure Elements into my duster to keep the heat and cold from bothering me much.

Swords that cut through steel like butter. Armour that grants Resistance against Flame, Frost, Acid, or Electric damage. Boots that cast Levitate or Fly at will without a need to recharge. Bows that spit hot fire or a bracer that Conjures up an endless supply of darts or daggers to throw at your foes. These are some of the least powerful Imbued objects you can make with Q-Ace and mundane materials, so if you add magical materials into the mix, then you can make some real magical Artifacts without need for a Spell Core or Aether source, objects of mystical power from myths and legends.

Excalibur. The Rose of Versailles. The Golden Fleece. The Blade of Amaterasu. All Artifacts of great power that could do things technology cannot begin to replicate, not even with Spell Cores and the like. The Mindspire could be considered an Artifact, one of Proggie make, and the Arcane Grimoire I got in trade for the bodies of my daddy's killers probably counts too. While I'm none too clear on the details of these powerful artifacts, one thing is for sure. They're worlds apart from the pale imitation of magic we get from putting together circuits and running Aetheric power through them to create fridges and hotplates.

Problem is, cupric acetate that's been synthesized is no good. Don't matter if it's the same chemical compound down to the last molecule; you need the natural stuff to do anything with anything when it comes to Imbuements, and even Augmentations require some if you want to put lasting power into an object you create. The way I hear it, Q-Ace helps 'cement' the Spell's effect in place, keeping its connection to the Immaterium permanently open so it can draw Aether from it long after the Spell's initial casting. Sort of like what I do to maintain a Spell after the base duration has ended, except instead of having to actively Concentrate on keeping the flows going, the Q-Ace stabilizes things well enough to keep them moving without anyone having to do a thing.

So to sum things up, anything that has a magical effect without a power source has some cupric acetate in its construction. Not a lot, which is good because it's rare in nature, so rare and potent that a single grain was probably enough to make the necessary oil coating used to Augment a hundred-plus dusters just like mine. Which in and of itself was enough to make the duster and the treated leather needed to Mend it prohibitive expensive, but I ain't complaining seeing how it keeps me cool and warm regardless of the weather.

Doubt that's what's in the packages though. I do know the Puglianos were supposed to smuggle some stolen Q-Ace to the Manfredis before Froggy Matías intercepted the ship carrying it across to Riverrun. Might be this package I'm supposed to pick up is just another piece of the puzzle, some magical materials or something they want to get their hands on to make some powerful Artifact they think will give them an edge. Or more likely, a whole bunch of minor Artifacts, ones that'll do something conventional Spells can't. That'd be how you get the most value out of Q-Ace, but like I said, criminals can't always be expected to act rationally.

"Relax Gunnar," I say, because the man looks like he's about to have a conniption. "I didn't walk into this with both eyes shut. I know what I'm riskin', and I'll do what I can to mitigate those risks, but end of the day, I wasn't about to leave them in jail a second longer than necessary."

Don't think anyone's told him about the deputy's comments, so he ain't all that convinced. "Not for nothing Howie," he begins, running a hand over his bald plate and through the long and wispy strands of hair still left to him. "I appreciate what you've done, but you really don't think we could've beat the allegations in court? They were criminals after all, and I have my connections too."

"Maybe. Maybe not." I shrug. "Either way, I don't see no reason to risk it, not so far from home with a case that makes for great headlines. Not to mention with three Innates, it's guaranteed the AICC would've gotten involved if charges were pressed, and you never want that."

Gunnar knows it for true, and he heaves a long sigh while shaking his head. Not because of what I done, but because of how it is. He don't trust the Feds any more than I do, else he'd be living in New Hope with his family instead of letting all those hateful fundies chase him out. He wasn't the problem, nor was it his wife, daughter, or son. Having ruby red skin and ebony black horns ain't illegal, but issuing death threats most certainly is, and yet when them folks came calling for their deaths, all the bigwigs in charge treated Gunnar and his family like they was the problem. Wouldn't happen today, least I don't think it would, because Sheriff Patel is a stickler for the rules and won't stand for no threats being levied at anyone under his protection, but that won't change things much.

That's why Gunnar knows that sometimes, you gotta take matters in your own hands. Like how he done saved Mr. Thornwick from a life of slavery. He didn't go to the Feds for help, or if he did, they would've washed their hands of it and said there wasn't nothing they could do. Bad as slavery might be, there are more pressing matters to attend to closer to home, so most anything happening outside of Federal Territory is don't ask, don't tell as far as the government is concerned.

Hell, the only reason the Rangers sent a full Company and a bunch of boots to Pleasant Dunes was so they could secure that Proggie corpse, as it ain't often you can catch one on the move. Whole lot easier than getting at one who all dug in under dark, though considering it cost them a decorated Captain, I'd say the juice wasn't worth the squeeze.

Gunnar knows the deal, so he don't give me no grief for making a deal with the Manfredis, or with the Serbians since I ain't said as much. He probably rethinking his evaluation of me though, because as a bodyguard, I get the feeling I bring more trouble than I guard against. Then again, no one's been stupid enough to try and rob me just yet, which is when I'll really earn my pay. Been itching to give some of my upgrades a real try in combat conditions, because a new weapon ain't been properly tested until it's been battlefield tested.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

Alas, the criminal elements round these parts ain't all that interested in playing the part of target practice. I heard stories of pirates all along these waters hijacking cargo ships before disappearing with the goods, and I was hoping to see some of that first hand, but I ain't so much as seen a stool pigeon playing bait to draw us in for an ambush. Disappointing is what that is, but I suppose no action is better than too much. Then again, anyone lying in wait along the Mourning Run is liable to come face to face with a military convoy, heavily armed ones filled with no-nonsense soldiers as far as I can tell. No amount of smiles or waves can make them relax as we pass by, so I settle for a nod while keeping both hands in plain sight and well away from my guns as the trawlers filled with armed soldiers watch me like a hawk while we pass by.

Doubt most criminals are looking for that kind of heat. It would be profitable though, seeing how the military would be carrying valuable goods, not just in weapons, but those aforementioned highly controlled substances or restricted Magical materials. Or regular materials even, as the Deadlands do be a treasure trove of goodies if even the local flora are a bunch of low-grade magical plants.

Alas, the most exciting part of the day is watching Elodie propel herself through the clear waters with effortless ease, all too easily keeping up with the Longhorne Belle as we head north up the Mourning Run. So easily she keeps it up right until lunch, at which point she launches herself out of the water to land on deck and waddle about. Still don't know what dry sea lion fur feels like, but it's soft and velvety even when soaking wet, so I imagine it'd be amazing.

The rest of the day and the next pass by without incident, though Elodie do press me to go running in the morning. Even though she probably gets more exercise swimming, it's not about the activity to her. It's about the camaraderie, the shared effort as we move through the bush and explore new territory together as a tribe of three, just me, her, and Cowie. Four if you include Frowny, who Elodie brings along for no real reason than just because, and the big floofy sphere of a bird is not pleased to be separated from his flock. He doesn't go on a pecking tantrum either, which is good progress, but he does avoid me and Elodie both the rest of the day to show just how miffed he be.

On the third day after departing from Ashbend, we arrive at the end of the tributary about an hour after lunch and pull up in the ominously named Stillwater. Started out as a military outpost which I'm sure some soldier named as a joke, and the name stuck around so long it became official. The outpost walls are maybe three metres high at most, but made of sturdy clay brick rather than wood planks like Ashbend and Riverrun. Short, but serviceable, especially if them bricks be Augmented like the glow of Aether contained within suggested. Or maybe the walls were treated with something to dissuade Abby or maybe even specifically to keep Soulless out. Aside from the walls and a double Darksteel gate, the only other feature I can see is a look tower at each corner. Maybe six metres tall, but they ain't right at the corner. Instead, the tower sits further back, so it can not only see out into the distance, but into the walled compound too.

Because if the Soulless do get in, them lookouts might well have to turn their weapons on the inhabitants too.

A chilling reminder of what's at stake out in the Deadlands, and I stay on my best behaviour as I pull into port and hand Gunnar all my papers so he can do the talking. Don't gotta wait long, as there's a Ranger standing on deck with a full squad of guards behind him watching us close. The Ranger in charge don't wait for an invitation, or even for my boat to come to a full stop as he hops aboard and makes his threat assessment while I tie us off.

"Documentation and identification," he demands, in that bored, authoritative tone most soldiers pick up.

Already got our papers ready, and I hand them over with both hands like my daddy would've. The soldier appreciates it, but he keeps me front and centre while the others rummage for their own papers. Well, not Chrissy and Harald, but I got the former covered while Astrid has her brother's. As for Elodie, she hands her papers to me instead of the Ranger, as she's still feeling skittish of strangers and doubly so of strangers bearing badges. Not so for Chrissy, who sees the badge and waves sweetly. Gets her a brief smile from the grizzled Ranger in return, but then he's back to business as he looks over our papers.

"Purpose of your visit?" he asks.

"Research and business," Gunnar responds, which is a vague answer, but one the Ranger accepts with a non-committal grunt. Me, I'd've spun a whole yarn telling him I was here to hunt Abby and see the sights, but I suppose brevity do be the essence of wit.

"Entry Authorization?"

"We've made arrangements to receive Authorization here in Stillwater."

Again, the Ranger grunts, as he's busy matching faces to pictures and using the Cantrip to make sure our papers legit. Mine get a raised brow when he sees they was stamped by the Marshal himself, but then he realizes who I am and his gaze darkens a bit. "Thought you looked familiar," he says, and not in a good way. "You're the Firstborn."

By some miracle, I manage to hold my tongue and keep myself from saying something pithy. Like, "No, that's some other Qink who dress like a cowboy," or "Sure, but your mama calls me honey." I don't know why I'd say that. It just popped into my head, a knee-jerk reaction to mouth off because I can't take no pride in the moniker no more. Nowadays, being called the Firstborn ain't nothing but a stark reminder of all the ways I done failed my daddy, Uncle Teddy, and everyone else who had high hopes for me in the past.

So instead, I just say, "Some call me that, yeah."

Don't know what it is the Ranger sees in my reply, but it don't soften his gaze one bit. Once satisfied that our papers are in order, he hands our papers back to us one by one while reciting something with the cadence of practiced repetition. "Though Stillwater is a military compound run in joint operation by the Federal, British, Métis, and French governments, it is still considered Accorded Neutral Territory. As such, despite the military presence stationed here, no government including our own will assume responsibility for your safety within. Proceed at your own risk, and know that all goods and persons entering Stillwater are subject to search and possible seizure should they violate international law." Giving me a nod, and Chrissy one last, brief smile, the Ranger hops back over to the dock before bringing his squad away to inspect another ship.

That bit about international law got me feeling nervous, because it's not the same as Federal or Accorded law. Something could be wholly legal under both, but if it's illegal in Métis, British, and French territory, then there's a chance it's illegal under international law. I looked into it before I left, and saw that the list is mostly drugs and restricted materials that are illegal to start with, but I'm still a little nervous going in. Don't much care for rolling the dice, and I figure it's better to know now than find out after the fact, so I get to unpacking everything I intend to bring into the Deadlands.

Including all the extra guns. I got the tried-and-true Whumper Blastgun, with three spare compressors in case I cycle through enough shells to wear the original two down. Then there's my fancy Nanfoodle, looking all pretty and golden with it's all too expensive overpacked cartridges so it can deliver flaming hot death to Abby and save me the trouble of cremating corpses. I've also brung a Dragunov rifle out with me, one that's been heavily modified according to Mr. Kalthoff's notes which he passed along to me the last we spoke. Some of which are… legally grey, but he assured me that no one will notice before it starts shooting, and even the strictest inspections don't do test fires.

That's all on top of my everyday carry of course, which today means the Shortsword, the Model 10, two Judges, two Nagas, and my plinker of a Ranger Repeater. Astrid gets my sawn off Forzares and the clunky Squire which she don't much care for since it's much too big for her dainty hands. I ain't about to let her use my Model 10 though, because even though she can handle a gun well enough, it's still too early to give her a piece with the full suite of hard hitting Metamagicks and Penetrate to boot.

As for Gunnar? He got himself a pair of Lughors. Pistole Parabellum is the official name, and the weapon was designed by the Lughor company, one founded by Germanic Celts and is named for their God of Light, Lugh. The company did fine work in the Old World, and the Lughor saw service in both world wars. On the Prussian side of course, so the wrong side of history, but that ain't the gun's fault. It's a compact little semi-automatic that takes 9mm 10 Grain in a standard magazine that fits 9, or an extended one for up to 33. Can also take a stock and extended barrel for longer distance shooting, but at that point, I'd rather carry a carbine. The PP is a little prone to jamming, as the cartridge ejection mechanism is sub par, and it wears down quick given how fast it cycles through Bolts, ones which are missing Empower to keep it within the 10 Grain range so it don't hit the hardest. The accuracy is serviceable, the recoil manageable, and the price more than right, but there's one reason why I'll never be caught dead with a Lughor PP on my hip.

It's an ugly ass pistol.

Now, far as mechanisms go, an Aetherarm is pretty basic. All you need is a tube, a cut Core that fits inside said tube, a cartridge that seals off one end behind the Core, and a firing pin to set off the Aether inside the cartridge. You could literally put something together from scraps and fire off a few Bolts with it so long as you got the ammo, though I would be worried about losing a hand if the cartridge should slip or something. The Lughor PP takes that concept and just… leaves it there. The gun is a tube with a grip attached, and while all guns are technically the same when you strip off all the bells and whistles, the Lughor don't do nothing to try and pretty it up.

Now technically, you don't really need nothing else, as the Lughor got everything it needs to function. The magazine goes into the grip, which also houses all the necessary mechanisms to make the gun work. It's got a front sight, an 8-position tangent rear sight, a trigger guard, a textured grip, and even a safety, though I figure keeping my finger off the trigger be safety enough. So yeah, it's a serviceable weapon, but it's not just Plain Jane. It's bare bones, and can't no one call that pretty, not unless you some sick, twisted son of a bitch who gets off on skeletons.

Gunnar don't care though. He don't love guns like I do, so I overlook his sins while keeping my valid opinions to myself as I pack the wagon with everything I'm gonna need. Not just guns and ammo, though the latter do take up a fair bit of space, but also food and gear like Dewbane Charms and Sanctuary Stakes. Most of which done already been packed away already, but I go through it all before disembarking to make sure it's all there, and double check that I didn't pack anything that might get me in trouble.

Well… too much trouble at least. Pretty sure the Feds won't be none too happy about some of the new gear I'm packing, especially one piece in particular that I gotta detach and disassemble from the prow of the Longhorn Belle before stowing the pieces away in the wagon and secreting the Spell Core in amongst my other loose Spell Cores to hide it, but you know how it is. Better to ask forgiveness and all that, yadda yadda.

Once I've got all my stuff, it becomes a bit of a hassle getting the wagon off the ship, as I ain't ever done it while docked. I always rolled the wagon up onto the ship after I done ratcheted it out onto land, but Cowie knows his business and finagles the heavy wagon down the narrow gangplank and into a sharp ninety degree turn onto the dock with laughable ease. After rewarding him with treats and adding 'wider gangplank' to my mental list of things that need doing, I proceed to the gates and watch the guards on duty unpack everything I done just went through with none of the care or concern I put into packing it all away.

Which is just rude and puts me in a foul mood, especially when they inspect my person in much the same way. Ain't no back of the hand gently feeling for anything hidden under my clothes. No, they full on grab hold of my leg with both hands and run them up and down twice. Same goes for the rest of me, and the experience leaves me feeling mighty violated and angry enough to beat a man half to death should they try it on Chrissy or Elodie. Thankfully, they call for a lady guard who seems kind enough as she guides all three girls to a private room for their search, where Elodie's audible giggles keeps me from imagining the worst.

At least I didn't get a cavity search, which apparently is a thing they do sometimes when you leave. Almost makes me want to leave here and now just to smuggle my way in and avoid all this unpleasantness. Too late now, though my foul mood do be compounded by the fact that the guards ain't none too inclined to help me put things back where they found them once they done with their inspection, and even make snide comments about how I'm wasting their time. Jackasses. To make matters worse, once we roll on out of the customs inspection, Astrid finally sees fit to ask, "Hey, Howie. You know the Deadlands is a swampy marshland, right?"

"Yeah. Course. What about it?"

Astrid blinks. Then glances at my wagon, where Chrissy is seated with the kiccaws, then back at me. "Sooo," she drawls, her golden eyes sparkling with mirth as her tiny fangs protrude out from behind a suppressed smile, "How are you expecting to drive a wagon through it?"

…Shit. Fuck. God fucking damn it. "They got roads," I retort, feeling all sorts of foolish as my cheeks heat up. Glancing at Gunnar, I ask, "Right?"

He shrugs, but before I can have myself a meltdown, a full squad of Rangers march on over. The man in front is an unfamiliar face under regulation crew cut, but he got the double silver chevrons with a sword through it on his lapel to indicate his rank of Captain. Out of sheer habit, I snap to attention, but stop myself before saluting the broad-shouldered man with what looks like a permanent 5 o'clock shadow and a gnarly scar along his chiselled jawline. "Captain," I say by way of greeting, only to immediately regret it because you don't speak unless spoken to.

Least that's how it is with soldiers. I'm a civilian though, so I don't get no heat for it. There's still plenty to go around though, as the unknown Captain hits me with a withering glare that Aunty Ray would rate highly. Rather than meet his piercing gaze, I take my time studying the Captain in his worn shirt and dusty boots. They were clean this morning, but he done been out and about, and now he's back for official business. That's why he's currently wearing his pins, a Shield for Abjuration, Horn for Conjuration, and Heart for Enchantment. All in shiny, polished bronze to show they ain't used often, same as the bronze triangles on his lapel to mark him as a Magus.

Though I suspect he'd earn them all in silver as soon as the Frontier allows it, as he thrums with power that I can feel more than see with Detect Magic. It's on par with what I get from Aunty Ray, though less than Uncle Teddy at full tilt, so this Captain do be a heavy hitter in the magical department.

Otherwise, there ain't much to say. Looks looks to be of South American descent, though I can't say much more than that. His thick eyebrows and broad nose lend a powerful air to his appearance, one that is rather handsome if not for his fierce and savage demeanour as he bears down on me in presence and nothing more. One he lets sit heavy on my shoulders while I stand there and wonder what I done to deserve this sort of scrutiny. Eventually, he responds with, "Howie Zhu," a declaration more than a question, but I nod all the same. "By the authority vested in the Rangers by the United Federation of American States, your authorization to enter the Deadlands is summarily denied. You are hereby ordered to vacate Stillwater and turn back immediately, or you will be found in breach of containment."

Since being cordial is off the table, I figure there's no point in even trying. Before I respond, I relax my posture to rest my hands in front of my stomach while using Wildshape to get both hands working in case there's a fight. One Ranger to my right notices the magic flowing through me and alerts the rest without a word, but don't none of them look all that jumpy. As well they shouldn't, being tried and true Rangers who're stationed on the Deadlands, but even though I respect what they do, respect is a two-way street, and I ain't been shown none.

"Okay," I drawl, not as an agreement, but more a statement. "That was a real mouthful, so let's work through it one thing at a time. First off, I haven't made any application to the Federal Government for authorization to enter the Deadlands."

"And any application you do make will be denied," the Captain replies. "I'm just saving you the trouble of filling out the paperwork." Leaning in, he fixes his steely gaze on me and growls, "Go home son. Your place isn't here. It's out on the Eastern Front, where you can make a difference."

"Ah," I reply, as I connect the dots. "This is about that sham of a task force then. Already told the Alderman, I'll pass. Either it's a ruse so the Qin can slit my throat, or a ruse so they can turn American sentiment against me and drive me over to the Republic, which chances are, I'll get my throat slit. Terrible options both ways, so thanks, but no thanks." The Captain don't like hearing that, and the Rangers like it even less, but I ain't no sacrificial lamb. "Second," I continue, "This here be a military installation, but as the Ranger who looked over my papers stated, one still considered Accorded Neutral Territory despite being run by the joint forces of the Americans, the British, the French, and the Métis. So while I'm sure you have the authority to boot me out of Stillwater, I'm gonna hafta ask for some official documentation that says something to that effect." I ain't winning no points, but I don't need to, because they got no hold over me.

Which brings me to my last point, one I only feel comfortable making because I spy my backup coming in hot, a dark figure that's all sharp edges and pointy spikes. "Thirdly," I begin, drawing myself up to full height and matching the Captain's glare with one of my own as I let him see the Devil inside. "I ain't your son, Captain, and you ain't my daddy, so I'll kindly ask you to refrain from referring to me as such."

"Indeed," the dark figure responds, clinking softly with each step as he makes his way over with unhurried grace. Though not the tallest man in the world at five-foot eleven, he walks like a man who towers above the crowd, with head held high and eyes cast down. His pale, aristocratic features contrast so starkly with his dark armoured form, like a king holding court on the field of battle, an image reinforced by his crowned helm which frames his face in dark chitin and tops it with spikes in place of hair. Clad in multi-segmented armoured plate, the non-metallic armour adheres to him like a second skin, dragon skin covered in scales that shimmer in the sunlight. The gathering crowd and Rangers both part ways, the former to get out of his path, the latter to square up against him, because the mere presence of this courtly noble is enough to put a Ranger Strike Team and a Captain on edge.

"This young man's father was a far better man than you, Captain Herrera," Edward Elton declares, sounding all snooty and offended in the most charming way. "A plebian of low blood perhaps, but one of a select few Warriors who I genuinely believe could have taken my life without assistance or injury. You, on the other hand, would need at least a full Company, if not a second with a better, more effective Captain to command them."

Bringing out one hand from behind his back, Edward reveals what looks like a heavy knight's gauntlet with six-inch long razor-sharp talons in the place of finger protection, ones I know come straight out of his fingernails. As for the rest of his armour, that's affixed to his skin, because that ain't no suit of armour that fits like a glove. The whole kitten kaboodle is his Innate Brand, one that covers him from head to toe in satin black chitinous plate while leaving only his face bare. Even his hair is chitinous plate, slicked back spikes that look like hair with too much product yet is suave as can be.

This extensive, all-encompassing Brand is a mark of his strength, the result of a pedigree that boasts two bloodlines who each Attuned to seven unique Spell Cores. Meaning Edward Elton, the Frontier's current generation Jack the Ripper, has a bloodline containing the power of 14 different Spell Cores and all that entails. For comparison, Chrissy's bloodline has two, one from each parent, while Elodie also has two, one from her mama and one she ate later down the line. Harald and Astrid only have one, or even half of one if you factor in how Gunnar ain't an Innate, but when it comes to Spell Cores, one gets you a long way.

And 14? Well, Edward's grandaddy David Elton Attuned to his seventh Core during World War Two, and defected after returning home to learn that the Immortal Monarch of a King he served had died and his government was stepping in to take power over his appointed heir. Seeing this, David Elton destroyed vast swathes of London trying to escape with King George VI, as he was under the impression that the government rebels had overthrown the throne even though Georgie was rather happy to step down. Didn't end well for anyone involved, least of all George, as David did more damage to London in a single night than years of Prussian blitzkrieg bombing runs before finally giving up the ghost.

To his son, Edward's daddy Nigel, who never forgave his government for what they made him do and eventually went rogue too.

But not before having a child with another Seven-Core Innate. That's how we got Edward, who's got a whole lot of juice, and is all about the British Isles seeing how he didn't know his daddy or grandaddy all that well. Is likely far more powerful than either one to boot, possibly more powerful than any Spellslinger on the Frontier even, which is why Ranger Captain Herrera is on pins and needles watching Edward's taloned hand as he gently brushes the man aside. "Ta-ta. Off you go now," Edward says, dismissing the formidable Captain like one would shoo a marty. "I've come to greet my guest."

By now, I've got the biggest shit-eating grin stretched across my face, and Edward matches it as he places both hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down. "Howard, my good man!" he exclaims, gently pulling me in for a hug, and I confess, I get a little teary eyed to hear it even though that ain't my name. Don't stop me from wrapping my arms around his midsection and squeezing as hard as I can to make sure he can feel it through the armour. "Oh how you've grown. A fine, strapping young lad, with the refined features of nobility. It is so good to finally see you again, so very good."

"It's good to see you too Edward," I reply, and it really is. Been so long since we last met, but he ain't changed one bit, especially in the way he looks at me. Not with the sad regret I see is so many familiar eyes these days, or the fear and concern I get from most strangers. No, Edward's pale blue eyes are warm and full of love, a cherished uncle seeing his estranged nephew after so long.

Because while we ain't related by blood, we family all the same, and there ain't no two ways about it.

"Come now," he says, carefully slipping his arm around my shoulder while pivoting about to gesture at Stillwater and the Deadlands beyond. "Adventure awaits! I've planned for a rousing trip through the Deadlands, one all your friends are most welcome to –" Stopping mid-sentence as he turns to greet the rest of my group, Edward's eyes fix onto Frowny as he gasps and says, "Oh my word! A roundtail finch! A rare find indeed, here in the British Isles. The bird is native to east Asia and Australia you see, and with things how they are in that area of the world, the roundtail finch is an endangered species, one that…"

Edward goes on for a while spouting facts about kiccaws and making almost everything up as he goes, but I drink it all in with a smile. It's just one of his quirks, like how he refuses to use anything that might be construed as a nickname or acknowledge he ain't in Britain anymore. At least the bird thing is mostly harmless, and listening to him spout untrue facts makes me feel like I gone back in time to when I was but a boy, sitting out on the porch with all the adults and listening to them talk. Most them adults are gone or no longer talking to me, but with Edward, it's like nothing's changed, and I didn't know how much I needed that.

Much as I strive to be taken seriously as an adult, it feels good to be taken under someone's wing again, and don't no one got bigger wings than Edward Elton.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.