The summer sun hangs low in the sky causing a riot of colors through thick haze of the charcoal smoke produced by the foundries in the Industrielplatz. Oranges, yellows and purples can be seen, and long shadows are beginning to appear on all the sun shines upon. The filthy streets of the Neustadt begin to empty slowly as more of those poor workers and merchants begin to close up shop and move along to their homes. Less and less savory folks begin to drift through the streets and alleys. The time for doing legitimate business is rapidly coming to a close, and those skulking down the roads surrounding the Universitat are certainly not the type to have the right licenses or papers for the goods they deal in.
The walk across the campus of the Imperial Gunnery School is long for the grounds are rather large, and Torak the dwarven "gungineer" retired to the corner furthest from the admissions office. As usual, many of the officers and students sneered as Waldemar walked by, but they did so from a distance. What happened to Jarten Raus the son of Lord Heinrich Raus the at-the-time rumored lover of the Countess Emmanuelle von Liebwitz was well known around the campus. Few wished to chance the renowned aim of one as infamous as the expellee named Waldemar.
Pistol low slung on his hip balanced on the other side by some sort of hand weapon obscured by his coat, Waldemar walked the grounds doing his best to ignore the disdainful looks from the current students. A leather band looped over one shoulder diagonally across his chest with 3 holstered "Emmanuelle" pistols and a package tucked under one arm, he strides to the low door of Torak's workshop and steps inside.
"Aboot bloody time," a gnarled dwarf with a bushy unbraided beard spat out. "I been waitin' fer you ta sher up for weeks and weeks." Waldemar realizes the short figure isn't speaking to him, as the dwarf is peering down at what appears to be some type of short stubby pistol held in a vise on a workbench through some highly magnifying goggles. The pistol is fat and clunky looking and would be otherwise unremarkable with the exception that it has four barrels: two on top and two on bottom. Suddenly the dwarf looks up as the low door creaks slightly and Waldemar is treated to a disconsorting view of Torak's giant eyes through the goggles.
"Waldemar!" he exclaims. "You rascal! Yer back, yes, yes." He eyes the package under Waldemar's arm. "Is that it? C'mon now! Unwrap it fer me." He begins to dry wash his hands and lick his lips in anticipation.
At that moment, a series of high-pitched bells rang from the south and a hush descends on the city. The Iron Silence hangs in the air as the latest guns produced in the foundries are brought out to cool. Torak looks as if he's ready to burst as he waits out the silence while wringing his hands in a gesture for Waldemar to produce the item in the package.
Damage 2
Range 4/8
Reload 1 Full
Qualities Unreliable/Special Impact (only at point blank range which is within 1 yard)
Waldemar stands in the shop, wearing a combination of his old black Nuln uniform, darkened leather pants and boots, a large wide brimmed hat. He has a scarred yet not entirely ugly face. While young his skin already showed the creased tanned look of leather.
Producing the package, I place it on his workbench.
"This took some work gettin' ya know? The Border Princes are a ways off-- say...What's that yer workin' on Tor? Looks like a whole lotta mutilated hand waitin' to happen."
Torak doesn't even seem to hear Waldemar, as his trembling hands covered in burn scars from his work quickly tear open the package. Inside he finds several dried weedy looking plants. Grabbing them up he rushes to a cabinet and pulls out a bunch of papers seemingly at random. They quickly scatter all over the floor of the workshop and Waldemar sees a couple land too close to the forge's furnace. The edges begin to smolder.
"Yes, yes, now I kin test my theory..." Torak mumbles. He rummages through the cabinet, papers and strange weapon parts continuing to fall in a disarray on the ground at his feet. He pauses looking frustrated, his bushy beard poking out wild in all directions. He catches sight of the papers begin to smolder in the corner. They now have a small flame on them. "Ah-ha!" He grabs it up and rushes back to his workbench, the edge still aflame. Sweeping his hand across the bench, Torak knocks everything else to the floor, dislodging the stubby four-barreled gun in the process and it falls to the floor.
He spreads the burning document wide on the bench and pulls a charcoal pencil out from under (inside of?) his beard and begins to make marks and alterations to the paper. Waldemar realizes the weedy plants are now scattered on the floor as well, apparently forgotten as Torak works on his latest "burning" project.
I'm slightly agitated by the sight of hard work being recklessly tossed aside, but I know better. Torak does this time and time again. Truthfully, I would just like to get paid so I can relax before he sends me off again for something else for him to not use. I can never keep up with his eccentricities.
"Well, it looks like those were worth my neck getting. Now, if you don't mind, the coin? I think tonight should be a good one down at the tavern."
Torak looks up at the sound of Waldemar's voice. "Waldemar? Yer back! Ya has my package den?"
Before Waldemar can make a reply, Torak thrusts one finger into the air and says, "Wait. I 'member. We already be having this conversation." Just as suddenly, he notices his document's fiery predicament and proceeds to work up a nice gob of phlegm which he heartily issues on the paper spatting with a force to calm the tiny flicker of fire. Wiping it with his forearm, Torak casually pulls out a bag from under (inside of?) his wild beard. Hefting it, he seems to evaulate it then tosses it to Waldemar.
"Fifty Crowns as usual," Torak says nodding to himself. "Oh and I made you a new toy to try out. I call it the Quad." Picking up the four-barrelled snub, he breaks the breach and peers down the barrels. "Let me know if this works or if it turns out to be like the others." Snapping the barrels back into place with a deft flick of his wrist, he holds the Quad out to Waldemar, his eyes still giant and magnified through the goggles.
Glancing at the iron piece in Torak's hand, as useful as it would be to have a new form of the repeater pistol, a real leg up on my competition and any slug that got in my way, I had always like the trustworthy pistol in my holster. The smooth barrel firing the one shot necessary to do the job. With the opportunity to only squeeze off that first shot, it had taught me to aim, be precise.
"Oh and I suppose you expect me to take this out right now and fire a few rounds do ya? Have ya even shot it once yet? These fingers of mine are my lifeblood, and I don't plan on blowin 'em off in another attempt. Get one of the recruits runnin' about to do it!"
Waldemar snatches the coins out of his dwarven employer's dirty hand.
"Now, if you excuse me, I'm heading off to spend a little time in a bottle."
Torak blinks several times, an action which is greatly exaggerated by the magnifying goggles on his face.
"Eh? Ya dern't want ta try it?" he asks confusedly. "Boy, weren't that part of er o-rangement?" Torak shakes his head. "Feh, fine. The Quad might need mer work anyways." With that, Torak raises the Quad and aims it a dummy covered in plate mail in the corner of the workshop. A terrific roar issues from the Quad and a huge cloud of black smoke suddenly fills the room. Waldemar can hear Torak coughing horrendously.
Failing but only barely I begin to cough and wheeze.
Waldemar is unable to cover his mouth in time and in addition to coughing his eyes begin to water from the acrid smoke. Waldemar hears Torak tripping over something, cursing, and then the creak of the low door to the workshop being flung open. The air slowly clears and becomes breathable a few minutes later.
"Coo! Coo! Uh-heh! Heh!" Torak coughs. "Go, ya foo! But I 'spect you back. I get more werk fer ya!"
"Yeah yeah Tor, Sigmar almighty you almost killed us with that pocket volley-gun ya got there! I'm just heading out to the Keg, I'll see ya in the mornin!"
Walking off stashing my coins into the satchel, I make way to the Powder Keg, the Gunnery School's closest, and therefore most prominent bar and tavern. Sure, I know I'll see some faces from my days in school, but after a few drinks they won't matter. They know better than to cross me.
Entering, I walk straight to the bar. "Hey Hans, yeah, gimme a Double-Barrel and a Hochland Long Rifle. I'll be in the corner." Laying a few coins I head to my table.
The Powder Keg is packed this evening. Based on the number of non-cadets and their odd fashions, it would appear another graduation is coming up. There are a lot of traditions associated with the Powder Keg and it is often said that only those cadets who have tasted all the ales the Powder Keg has to offer ever go on to attain any reknown after graduation. This rumor is certainly not discouraged by Master Kunter Gulfson the dwarven proprietor of the establishment and yet another former professor of the IGS. This always causes a last mad rush to consume the various offerings in the week before a cadet is scheduled to receives his Pistol, the badge he will wear on his Imperial uniform.
As Waldemar approaches his table, three cadets are sitting there, their uniforms no longer buttoned and all three looking quite "shot" (a local euphemism which has a fairly obvious meaning). Their laughter subsides upon seeing him, and they cast glances between themselves. Two of them push back their chairs and stand up muttering about cast outs still getting preferential treatment. The third lingers in his seat and deliberately stares at Waldemar giving him a nasty look.
Staring right back, he says coolly, as if its almost a habit, "Well now, I know ya think yer the Emperor right about now, but you have two ways outta this mess. Face down in another pint, or face down in the gutter... breathing, if I'm feelin' generous." He tucks the right side of his coat back, showing the hilt of his pistol.
And it really was. Ever since he was expelled it seemed every few months as another up and comer in the school started to think he was a real hot shot he'd have to have his go at ol' Waldemar.
He didn't necessarily mean it, if at all possible he'd rather not have to waste a shot in this chump kid's forehead. But what had to be done had to be done.
Completely unaware that Waldemar considered human life so cheap he would shoot a teenage boy over his seat in the tavern, the cadet slowly stands up, gripping his wooden stein in one hand and using the other to prop himself up. The bleary, red-eyed look he gives Waldemar is filled with hate, and it is clear from the way he has trouble focuing on Waldemar that he is very drunk. His uniform is much disheveled and yet his sandy blond hair is only slightly out of place. Rather good looking despite his current state, the young man had a noble bearing, one which is only obtained from years of being told he was in a higher station than others.
After taking a moment to catch his swaying balance, the cadet raised his hand, pointing his finger right at Waldemar. His speech was slurred and difficult to make out in the noise of the bar, but Waldemar could make out its intent well enough.
"You think you're such hot s@&!, don't ya? Shooting my brother's best friend...he was almost like a brother himself to me!" The cadet sways a little, and one of the other cadet reaches out to give him a steadying hand. "I'm glad you got thrown out of the IGS. And I am sure that one day, I will get to watch you hang." He punctuates this last sentence by grabbing the ascot required on all cadet uniforms and lifting up.
WS:
Shooting his left fist out as fast as possible Waldemar catches the cadet right square in the jaw as his right hand grabs for the back of his head and smashes it into the table. He draws one of his Emanuelle's and levels it at the others, still glaring at the bleeding cadet on the floor.
"I told ya to leave."
"Travis!" One of the cadet's cronies exclaims. "Holy Sigmar! Damn, man, he didn't do nothing to you," he says to Waldemar. He is also slurring badly.
The noise in the Powder Keg drowns out most of the excitement and the mostly drunk patrons for the most part barely notice the exchange occurring here near the far wall. The other cadet either not as drunk as the others or sobered by adrenaline raises his hands chest high in a gesture of submission. Without taking his eyes off Waldemar or his Emmanuelle, he slowly reaches down and grabs one of the cadet called Travis' arms. Travis doesn't respond, the combination of alcohol and mild concussion preventing him from realizing he's unconscious.
"Help me with him," the steady eye cadet says to the horror-stricken friend. When he receives no response as he tries to lift the boneless Travis, he snaps, "Hey! Joden!" Hearing his name, Joden is broken out of the trance the sight of Waldemar's pistol put him in and helps the nameless cadet lift Travis and carry him off into the crowd. Waldemar can see the one sober cadet watching him as they lead Travis away and a very calculating look enters Nameless' eyes before he is obscured by the form of a heavyset waitress.
"One Double-Barrel and one Hochland Long Rifle," she says putting down a short fat glass full of a potent liquor and a stein frothing with beer. She glances at the two cadets carrying away their friend. "Isn't it a little early in the evening to already have casualties, Wald?"
"he's no casualty... Not yet." Taking a deep drink of beer he looks on as the cadets walk out.
"But if I had to guess, it won't be long."
Waldemar will attempt to drink the rest of his night in peace, a probability when he has laid down the law so early, and will retire, hoping for a nice solid night of sleep before Tor's next job. As he is about to head out he eyes the waitress.
"When you off?"
Smirking, he thinks to himself: "I can rest when I'm dead."