The Lady In Red Really Wants Me Dead

Episode 3: That One Time I Met A Giant Clad In Black Armor

"My dad always says you never trust a man in black armor. He's either a pretentious prick, or some madman trying to become Dark Lord this, or Dread Scourge that. And whatever you do, don't ask him if his sword has a name."

                                                                               Jack O, Halfling Detective

If someone had asked Jack O if he enjoyed his job, and he trusted them enough, he might have confessed that he did —in fact— find the most glowing joy in it, if only in sporadic moments.

This was one of them.

He stood over his open duffle bag, examining its contents: spare clothes, razor and shaving cream, a spare tobacco pouch. And the fun part: two dozen empty glass flasks, a few pounds of gunpowder, a box of small nails, a bottle of gun oil, six boxes of .22 bullets, twelve boxes of .600, Sting's combat armor and beak-sheath. Plus a satchel with two dozen throwing knives, for good measure.

Last, but not least, was Jack's very own .600 Pfeizandor Spellhammer revolver, engraved all along the extended barrel with a craftsmanship that would have made being shot by it almost artistic. Nestled in the cloth beside it, the phantom-clip had engravings to match. Just the sight of the two pieces brought back memories from the war.

The .600 was a large gun, even for tall-folk. On account not only of its ridiculous caliber, but also the internal adrimanthine engravings, which interfaced with the phantom-clip to work the Spellhammer magic. And it kicked like a centaur's mother, too. But this one was a special Black Fox issue, one of a kind, modified so a well enough trained halfling could use it two handed, like a rifle. It even came with a shoulder-strap and a fore-grip.

The sun was still rising, and since aristocrats were not famed for being early birds, Jack figured he still had some time. He decided it would be best spent preparing. Gunpowder and nails went into flasks, knives into pockets, bullets into chambers. He ran his fingers along the phantom-clip, sighing. He wasn't even sure why he had brought it along.

It had been almost two years since Jack had last been able to afford it. Aether-weavers didn't come cheap, especially when you asked them to recharge a Spellhammer phantom-clip. It might have come handy if things got really bad, but even if there was an aether-weaver in a fifty mile radius of this shithole, Jack was still broke. Too bad, his gun would only be a gun.

He left the clip in the duffle bag, and slung the Spellhammer revolver over his shoulder. Jack wasn't certain why, but something about this whole situation made him feel uneasy, like the whole world had become just one great gunbarrel, staring him right in the face.

This was it. This was the part he enjoyed. Feeling like everything, or anything, could tip over on his next step, and not even knowing why.

There was nothing quite like it. As he stood there, basking in it, someone knocked on the door.

"Come in."

"Mister O? The Baron will see you now."

Jack whistled for Sting. "Sure thing. We're almost ready." He whistled again, only to see that the damned bird was still sucking on a glass of sweetwater. It was the second just this morning. Jack gave the servant his most polite smile. "If you'll give me a second."

He stomped across the room, muttering under his breath. "You goddamned little... bird! Why do I even put up with you?! Might as well partner up with an actual drunk!"

Sting didn't even hear him, too busy guzzling down the water with a thousand twitches per minute. Jack snatched him off the edge of the glass just the same, then stuffed the dazed bird in his pocket.