Another story about another wanted bounty criminal NPC.
Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about Hawkins.
A bit of a shorter piece, but oh well. This is another multi-part one.
I readied my aim, lowering the flintlock held firmly in my hands and firing it. A loud bang sounded out, the bullet from my pistol hitting its mark once more. The harmless fabric projectile embedded itself into the target, before falling onto the wooden planks moments after. Someone clapped nearby, and as I turned around, a couple of the other warrior trainees had been watching my shot.
“Styrlaug, you’re so good at using that thing… How is it that your aim is always so accurate?”
“I don’t know, Gudmund… I guess I just practice a lot.”
As everyone dispersed back to their usual spots, I reloaded my flintlock with another mock bullet, aiming it again at the dummies used for practicing. While many Redwake citizens were decently knowledgeable in combat, only some became warriors, who worked to either defend the town from pirates or to help out on ship crews. However, most of these warriors were better in melee combat - whether it was with swords, greatswords, spears, rapiers, cutlasses, or just their bare hands. Few were skilled in ranged weapons, and even fewer with guns. Of course, this naturally led to people being quite interested in my skill.
Out of every thousand or so Redwake warriors, maybe twenty or thirty were skilled enough to use ranged weapons as their main weapons. While many attempted it, few were skilled enough to master the techniques. Many preferred to use the traditional Redwake blade - a short weapon, something of a cross between a dagger and a cutlass. It was forged from iron, and a common tool worn in the belts of Redwake warriors, especially ones on ship crews, as a sort of last resort if needed. Truth be told, I didn’t know the real name of it, but I heard it being called simply the Redwake blade by some foreigners before.
I was a bit of a foreigner myself, I suppose. While I had lived my whole life in Redwake, my father came from Sailor’s Lodge, and so unlike most Redwake citizens, I actually had a last name - Shelton. Still, though, at least I had a first name, Styrlaug, that wasn’t unordinary for a Redwake citizen. As the day ended, I put the training pistol back in its place, and I walked home, taking in the cool, salty breeze, brushing some of my long orange hair out of my face.
Several days later, I met a man in Redwake that didn’t look like he was from here, instead dressed more like some sort of sailor. Of course, I knew these kinds of people all too well - they were deckhands, looking for job opportunities, often from famous people throughout the War Seas. Most of the time though, they just waited for hours before eventually departing to a different island in hope of finding an available job. This one, however, was a little different. Most deckhands paid little attention to citizens of towns, but this one walked towards me as I was heading for another day of practicing with a flintlock. I took a couple of uncertain steps back, but he didn’t seem all to threatening.
He stopped as I began to back away, opening my mouth to speak. “Sorry to bother you, but do you know where the docks are? I forgot where they are, and I need to get on my ship to Ravenna.”
“Oh, they’re just this way. They’re not too far from here.” I pointed towards the docks, before turning back to him. “How long have you been standing here for?”
“A couple of hours, I’ve been here since yesterday but I stayed overnight at the Red Fin. Oh, by the way, have you seen any ship captains around? I’ve been looking for one…”
“Sorry, but no… I’d ask around once you get to the docks.”
“Well, thanks for your help anyways. I should get going now.”
The man rushed off to the docks, his brown hair waving in the wind. His grey pirate-like armor also made quite a few clanging noises as he ran, and he dropped a small piece of paper from his pocket. Its text was short, but provided pretty much everything about this man’s abilities, presumably some sort of informational pamphlet to show to potential employers. ‘Swanson, the Grave,’ it read. ‘Skilled in using multiple combat abilities, including Light Magic Thermo Fist, and Dual Swords, and has expertise in managing _________ on a ship.’ Some of the text was smudged beyond legibility, but still, I pocketed the card, as the man had already ran off too far for me to return it. Maybe it’d come in handy one day, or perhaps, more likely, it would just collect dust in my room.