foone:

Your throwing knife embeds itself in the wall behind the wizard’s head, and he pulls a gun. Too late to get out of sight, he pulls the trigger, and you pray that it hurts.

You pray there’s blood. That you need healing soon, that you’ll be weak in that arm for months.

Because the alternative is so much worse. The last thing you want to happen when you go up against an artificer is that they shoot you with bullets that don’t hurt. That means they have a gun that shoots something besides pain and death. Something worse.

You collect all the clues you can once the battle is over, the wizard breaking a pendant of escape and warping out of the continent. Various blueprints written in eldrich runes that hurt your mundane eyes to even look at, books that whisper in the night, prototypes labeled ominous things you worry about.

You make it back home, mission partially successful, fearful that the townspeople might attack you on sight. Worried that your loved ones might not remember you. You visit another, friendlier wizard, to have them examine your collected evidence. They pour over the items, getting excited about new branches of science, magic, and magical science. You angrily cut them off, saying you’re not here for their PhD thesis, just tell you what that fucking gun did?

The light goes out of their eyes, but they pull up a final blueprint. Says here it’s the Gun of Cold. Odd, you reply. It didn’t feel cold when they shot you with it. You sneeze.

They offer you a handkerchief. No, not that kind of cold. Simon in the village makes some good chicken soup. You’ll need it, magic can’t cure this you know, but you’ll be better in a week or two.

Tags:

#One Hundred and One Magical Pistols #storytime #guns #illness tw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what #this post was queued because my to-reblog list is too long and I didn’t want to dump it on you all at once