Steel Melody

Chapter 1: Killjoy

A crispness in the air had spawned, one of freshly melted frost carried in a soft breeze, a warning that there was more heat to come. Already the frost which had once spread across everything cooling it to the touch was nothing more than mist in the air. The iron of Heartrik's pistol still felt cold in his grasp, and heavy too. Too heavy. He was a boy no older than the year needed for the task. He waited seated hunched beneath a roof of cloth dripped wet in the morning frost, clutching his gun in hand. Around him were placed his associates, comrades. Young men taller and more stoic than he and far more rugged and hardened for the task. They were a mercenary troupe, or should he say his mercenary troupe, for he himself was the son of the troupe master. He, Heartrik, who sat completely out of his element. All his life his father had trained him to fulfil this task. "Listen, obey, execute and reap riches' were the words he was raised on, and the same he found muttered around him. Once he had lived by different principles. These new words, the mercenary code, were not his words, nor his life, still were shoved into his throat, his life being made into theirs. He would live as a merc, and when he would inescapably meet death, the unmarked grave which held him would be the grave of a mercenary. He wanted none of it.

Whilst the others chatted in hushed whispers he stared deep into his iron, seeing beyond the metals and into its purpose. If he were to impress his father he would need to fire it at someone, maybe even kill them. A dogged voice sounded from the wagon's edge. The drapes were pulled back, revealing the man behind, standing tall and straight. A man in his late thirties. Small scars turned cracks speckled his cheeks, with copper wiring between. Their eyes were orange and hot enough to be named small suns within their skull's. Their brown hair was so dark it near matched their clothes, as deep as night, with black leather boots, gloves, waistcoat sewn in with silver chainmail, pants, torn chaps, coat and hat with a single scar breaking the leather planted thinly through the brim, a near deathly blow. Their clothes always looked greased in a disgusting way, as if heavy with sweat from a thousand tense encounters. They stepped forward, a tall and thin figure. They lacked clear muscle, but that only made their leanness more apart, and their crooked smile.

A gaunt voice came from them as they slowly stepped forward "Evening gents. And my boy." He said. His boots pressed heavily against the floor past his crew, one by one, until stopping. "Admiring your piece lad? Fine works of art aren't they? Even better when you see them get used." he said. Heartrik did not raise his head. A frown formed on the man's face. "Give us a moment." he implored his men in a stern, almost royal-sounding voice. "What's the matter boy?" he asked, now given the privilege of privacy. His voice turned sour and slow, and grated like iron and rust. He huffed "Iron fever again? Does it feel too heavy in your hands? Perhaps it's just too heavy for you boy. I fetched this one from a royal scout who slipped past the border, and was straying too close for comfort to our camp. You may find some use for it.". From his side the man removed a gun. It was silver and sleek in design, half the size of what Heartrik was at first holding. The man ushered it into his hand with a pleased look on his face. "I thought you might like it. It's much lighter, and suits your style. Quick and easy to use. You can tell me afterwards if you prefer it to your original piece." he said softly.

The smooth glossed steel ran between his fingers. Appearance wise he didn't take after his father, but he had the same deep brown hair and carried the same bright orange eyes ablaze with a flame

Heartrik's head peered up like a pup. "I ain't afraid. I'm more than ready. I won't make mistakes again, I swear." he said. Once he had been unsure, but now he knew he was.

His father's head moved to a tilt. "I know you ain't afraid boy. The dampeners in your neck will stop that." his father said, as his hand went against his neck. He was so tall, rising high above Heartrik, that he had no need to bend down. His fathers steely fingers ran along his spine. "You'll be alright, don't worry." His voice grated and peeled. It always made Heartiks stomach and eyes pinch unpleasantly. "I'll take care of you out there boy. I can't go having my boy die on the first big heist, it makes the troupe look poor, and me foolish. There is almost no chance this can go wrong, believe me. That convoy of corporate priks have no clue what they're up for. When our charges go off they'll be trapped between boulders the size of houses. Then smoke will come. And Then fire. And then we reap our rewards. Understand?" his father explained.