So I'm back, kinda. (Patreon)

First things first. Hi all. Thanks for still being here even though I've been inactive.

Meant to come back sooner, but things took longer than expected. 2023 has not been kind. I don't wanna get into it. The important thing is that I'm already working on my next story, and I've got my first chapter here for you today.

A few issues though. One, it's a first draft of a first chapter I'm not entirely set on keeping. Mostly because the voice I went with for the MC. I love it, but it's exhausting to write, so if I do a few more chapters and hate it, I'd rather redo those chapters than write another 500 more in the same manner. Second, no idea when the next one will be done, or how I will share it. This first one is going public. Maybe a few more, then I'll stop that, because I haven't decided what I'm gonna do with the story regarding distribution. Probably Royal Road again, but not sure, because I've given it like zero thought. Also not sure if I'll release 3 chapters a week again, or keep them to myself for more careful edits before releasing in batches. Who knows.

Oh right. Most important thing. I don't have a title for the story yet. I have some ideas, but nothing concrete.

So uhh, yea. That should be it, though I'm probably forgetting something. Join me on Discord to discuss it, in the new story brainwashing channel.

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https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pITLLDDSYwNC0HfY2WJ6FAqsVt9NxXEOD7e1tPB1KIM/edit?usp=sharing

Arms out and to the sides.

That’s how I like to approach a town for the first time.

Not at my sides, mind you, as that puts my hands close to where folk keep their guns. It also puts them out of sight from anyone standing on the ground. Tends to make folk mighty nervous when strangers ride up looking ready to draw weapon or sling Spell, and I get it. Ain’t got nothing to do with me personally. I’m a right friendly looking sort, with a big smile and winning personality as Aunty Ray likes to say. No, it’s the Aetherarms they’re worried about, the rifle hanging behind me which they can see, and the three guns strapped to my belt which they can’t. The man riding up is just a finger for the trigger, which is why I keep my arms out and to the sides. Tells everyone whose watching that I ain’t lookin’ to shoot or sling.

Not just yet, and certainly not at any townie guards. Not unless I have to, but that ain’t for me to decide.

Was a time when I’d put my hands up instead. That almost never worked out well, and it took a lot of thinking to figure out why. Sends the wrong message see, one most folk don’t take kindly to. You show up in town with hands reaching for the skies, and it says, “Hi there. All y’all townies look like you fixing to murder me, so please don’t.” Downright prejudice is what it is, assuming someone’s gonna kill you just from how they look, even if there do be folk who look and be that way sometimes. Long as no Bolts are flying, then the least you can do is ask. If the answer is yes, they do intend to murder you, well then you can put your hands in the air, on your guns, or wherever you like.

It’s just good manners, I’d say, and Aunty Ray raised me right.

Course, hands in the air also says, “I’m scared and helpless”, which even if you are, isn’t the message you want to send. Especially if you walking up to someone fixing to murder you, which happens to me more often than I’d like. Again, that ain’t on me. You kick over enough vipers’ nests, then you bound to get bit every now and then. I do admit I’ve kicked more than my fair share of nests in my time, but not always because I go looking for them. Sometimes a nest don’t look like a nest. Sometimes, it look like a town and turns out to be a vipers’ nest, hidden all sneaky like. That’s why I approach new towns with arms out and to the sides. Best way I’ve found to go about it really. Makes it sorta look like you asking for a hug, all real friendly like. Puts people at ease, as much as you can when you ride up in an armoured wagon, strapped and loaded for Abby. Can’t blame a man for travelling armed though. There’s danger in them black hills and under these coral sands, and out on the white grassy plains beyond. The forests and mountains too, and don’t even get me started on what’s hiding in the lakes and oceans.

In a word: Abby. You best believe there’re Aberrations everywhere, except most times, they ain’t even half as dangerous as some folk can be.

Nah, the Frontier ain’t a friendly place, which is why I’m rolling up to the town of Pleasant Dunes at a slow and steady rate. A lovely looking fortified settlement with curvy stone walls and a flimsy swing gate, guarded by least four men I can see with much more than four guns between them. A surly-looking, suspicious bunch, peeking out from behind cover like they do. Least they ain’t peeking down the barrel of their rifles or priming their heavy, static guns, though all this caution still feels a mite rude. I got my arms out and to the sides, so why they all acting like I came charging in, firing Bolts off as I approached?

Course, I don’t let none of my ire show as my wagon comes to a creaking stop, but Cowie drags a hoof through the sand, huffing and puffing because he’s wants in. Could get in, if he really wanted to, punch right through Pleasant Dunes’ unanchored, swinging steel gate and keep right on going. A big, burly mass of bovine muscle he is, a might impressive beast even without the horns on, and there ain’t much out there than can stop him. Lucky for him, he cute and fluffy, so most folk think Cowie downright friendly, which he is. Polite too, as Aunty Ray taught him his manners just like she taught me, so he knows as well as I do that these folk just scared. He also know scared folk happen to also be the scariest folk, because when scared folk get spooked, they don’t think before they shoot. They just shoot, and me and Cowie ain’t in no mood to get shot.

So once again, from the top, just to make sure I ain’t left nothing out that might get me got. Arms out, and to the sides. Palms out, fingers to the sky. Chicago Doorknockers half out them holsters and ready to draw, if necessary. Metamagic bracelet on my left wrist. Aegis bracer left forearm, ready to activate if necessary. Last, but certainly not least, my brown Stetson atop my head, for looking good and looking sharp. That concludes the checklist, so now all I gotta do is sit still as can be, no finger waggling to be done, and keep a big toothy smile stretched across my face while Cowie bring our wagon right up to the gate.

All this hoopla just to show these surly, scared folk that they ain’t got nothing to be scared of. From me, at least. Plenty to be scared of, generally speaking. Gibbering goblins, hideous harpies, and behemoth bugs all feature prominently on that list, but it’s a long one that keeps getting longer as the years go by.

Like I said: Frontier ain’t a friendly place

Keeping a smile on ain’t easy either, not when there’s so many guns about, even if none of them are technically pointed directly at me. Smile’s important though, so I work extra hard to maintain it. Course, they can’t really see it on account of my kerchief being in the way. Need that to keep the grit outta my mouth, and my goggles to do the same for my eyes, but a smile is more teeth and eyes, as Aunty Ray likes to say. I ain’t saying she wrong, but I’m pretty sure she ain’t entirely right, at least not in so far as it applies to me. Now, her smiles are most certainly more than teeth and eyes. She got her smooth, milky skin and corn-silk hair to help sell the image, not to mention the other parts of her that a man might take the time to appreciate. I admit, Aunty Ray’s been more than like a mother to me, treats me as if I were one of her own, and I’ll fight anyone who dare disrespect her. That said, I cannot deny the fact that she’s the very picture of an all-American southern belle, which is why her smiles sure do go a long sight farther than mine ever will.

For example, if she were sitting here in my place, I’m pretty sure the gates would already be open and the men of Pleasant Dunes fighting to fetch her a drink. That’s before she starts flashing her pearly whites and batting them big blue eyes, mind you, or using any of her other charms, mundane and otherwise. Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting out here for a hot minute and no one’s made so much as a peep. No ‘how do you do’s or ‘what’s your business’es, not even a ‘we don’t take kindly to your type’. Just silent, suspicious stares while keeping their rifles at the ready.

Considering I’m a visitor to their fair town of Pleasant Dunes, it ain’t wrong to let them have the first word. Sets the mood for the conversation, whether it be friendly, professional, or downright hostile. Thing is, they’ve had plenty of time to tell me to turn away while I was approaching, and they didn’t. Except now that I’m here, they don’t look ready to welcome me in. This tells me they ain’t exactly against my presence here in town. They just waiting on someone to make the decision to let me in and take responsibility for it. Now, Aunty Ray would tell me that patience is the key in this here scenario, because it’s only polite to give people a chance to get all their ducks in a row before hurrying them along. Much as I’d like to wait it out however, it’s getting mighty hot out here under the ruby red sun, and I got coral sand stuffed into nooks and crannies I don’t like being made aware of. Three and a half days of riding through the desert will do that to a man, and I’m of a mind to be free of it.

So I very slowly and deliberately lower my goggles and kerchief, before using the same hand to lift my Stetson in greeting. “Howdy, y’all.” Their surprised expressions are expected, and same with the anger that follows, so I pay it no mind. “My name’s Howie Zhu, out of New Hope.” A bit of whispering goes on, too quiet to hear, but the narrowed eyes and curled lips ain’t reassuring. Could be because they think I’m too young to be travelling about on my own, though they don’t look or sound concerned for my safety. The Doorknockers come an extra half-inch out their holsters without anyone noticing, on account of them being behind my back and under my holster, but I only intend to draw and shoot if the townies shoot first. To ease the mood a bit, I put my arms back out and to the sides, with hat still in hand as I nod at my furry white bull of a partner. “This here is my driver, Cowie.” At the sound of his name, he bobs his snowy head to say hi, then opens his stunning green eyes and gives a big old moo. That usually gets a smile outta most folk, seeing how cute our rapport is. No smiles here today though, only hard stares and angry scowls. “How y’all doing this fine day?”

“Move along, Qink.” Finally, a man speaks. To throw out a racist slur, which ain’t promising, so the Doorknockers come out another half-inch. Still, an open dialogue is better than nothing, and I turn my smile to the man in question as he steps out from behind his cover to size me up. He a weathered and scarred settler of many years. Forty at least, with skin so leathery and pockmarked you could probably grate cheese on it. “We don’t take kindly to your type around here.”

Ha. There it is. I knew it was coming. “Now hold on a second,” I say, keeping my grin big and bright as always. “Let’s not get nasty. I’m here on business.” Turning my whole upper body to point towards the flag flying from the side of my wagon, I add, “U.F.P.S business.”

That gets them to really muttering for a bit, until Pockmark shushes them quiet. “You think we’re some kinda stupid?” Sorta, yea, but it’d be rude to say, so I keep quiet and wait for him to explain. “We just supposed to believe some Qink kid is working for the Postal Service just cause you flying an American flag?”

“No sir, which is why it’s a good thing I got the papers to prove it.” Offering a small shrug, I point at my left breast and ask, “May I?”

“Slowly.” Pockmark hefts his rifle to reinforce the point, a loud and nasty Snapdragon, so I give him the respect the gun deserves. First things first, I put my hat back on, which gives me time to hide my Doorknockers behind my back before I go and open the left side of my duster. To show them townies that the pocket I’m reaching for ain’t actually a holster. Any guard worth his water would already know that, but these ones do be suspect. Then, using only two fingers from my right hand, I reach in and slowly pull out my passport and employee documentation. Even so, they all tense up as the papers come out, like they expecting a derringer or grenade or something. Once Pockmark sees that my papers are in fact papers, he motions me over and says, “Alright now, get down here Qink. No funny business.”

There’s a set of hinged stairs I could lower to climb down from the wagon, but I get the feeling that I shouldn’t reach for anything these townies can’t see. Not a problem though, as I hop off the side Pockmark’s closest to. The metallic clink of my guns as my boots hit the sand reminds the old man that I’m still armed and dangerous, but its too late for him to tell me to put aside my guns. I just stride on over like I ain’t got a care in the world and poke my papers halfway through the bars. Not all the way through, as a man with his hand or arm stuck through a gate is mighty easy to grab and hold in place. Only had to make that mistake once to never try it again, and from the looks of things, Pockmark gets it.

To make things easier for him, I look away and give Cowie a reassuring pat on the neck, which he takes as permission to come in for a cuddle. Real glad he don’t have the horns on then, because he fierce with his affections, though this ain’t the place for hugs and kisses. From here on out, it’s a waiting game while I pretend not to notice Pockmark doing his little dance. It’s the same dance all men lacking confidence do when put in a similar position, the one where he tries not to look scared except he obviously is. He puffs his chest and straightens up to look tough, then ruins it by leaning back as he stretches his arm forward to take my papers. He wants to keep his distance, because he’s worried I’ll grab his rifle, a Snapdragon, and try something, though I don’t see why I would. He’s got two revolvers he could shoot me with, a pair of serviceable TEC-LS’s, and three friends with plenty more guns too. That’s scared folk for you though, never thinking clearly, so you never know what they gonna do until they do it. That’s why I keep still and silent, my smile never wavering or mocking, because again, scared folk be scary.

Course, I ain’t one to depend entirely on goodwill neither. Trust is good and all, but caution better, and their abundance of leads me to take more. While Pockmark and his buddies watch the papers in my right hand like hawks, they miss seeing that I got my left hand hidden between Cowie and me. This lets me waggle my fingers and draw Aether through a single bead on my Metamagic bracelet with no one being the wiser. That’s all I need to cast and ready a Silent Spell, eschewing Vocal components on a Spell so dangerous and recognizable that they’d shoot me dead if they knew I was casting it.

It’s not a Spell I intend to sling mind you, not any more than my guns, but again, it ain’t for me to decide.

At some point, Pockmark finally closes his fingers around my papers, and its tempting to toy with him a bit. Would be mighty stupid too, so I let him have them, and go back to standing with both arms out to the sides. My castings already done and the Spell readied, meaning so long as I keep it ready, I can sling it if and when I needs to. My Doorknockers too, but I probably won’t have to, considering the townies actually looking at my papers. Means they’re likely to respect the Accords, and in turn the legitimacy of the institutions that granted me said papers, namely the Rangers and the United Federation of America behind them. It’s a government of the old world, one we won’t be seeing for decades to come, but Pockmark was definitely an American before he passed through the Gate, and I bet most of his friends were too.

I mean c’mon. They’re white, loud, opinionated, and they love guns. That just screams ‘America’. Not saying all Americans are like that, nor is it a criticism of those who are. Most the people I love are white and American, and I love guns too. I’m just telling it how it is.

Looking as cordial as can be, I stand and wait while Pockmark flips through my papers, then choke down a sigh as he steps out of the shadows for a better look. Man knows his paperwork, I’ll give him that, angling my documents around in the light to check if they real, an illusion, or a conjuration. They’re real and legit, but Pockmark don’t wanna believe it, so he squints his eyes, mutters a little chant, and waggles his fingers over them to reveal the Affiliation Mark. A bronze, five-pointed Ranger Star reveals itself, and its essence signature will tell Pockmark that it was magicked into my papers by Theodore Ellis himself. On the passport and employee documentation both, mind you. Not everyone gets their personal papers Marked by the Marshal. I did cause he’s an old friend of my daddy’s. Taught me most everything I know about magic, and more than I can list about life to boot. That last bit ain’t written on my papers, but if it was, I bet it’d impress these guards something fierce. There ain’t nobody on this corner of the Frontier who don’t know the Rangers’ leading man west of the badlands, and not a single one would dare disrespect him.

Cause if someone did, then I’d find ‘em and kill ‘em. Or someone else would, since I’d be competing for the honour against every Ranger who ever served under the Marshal. Good men are in short supply here on the Frontier, and Theodore Ellis stands among the best of them. Plus, he’s pretty much my grandpappy in a lot of ways, though he’d box my ears and say he’s too young to be a grandpappy. Man’s practically fifty and still living in denial.

“Nah, this is bullshit.” There are a couple extra l’s stuffed in there, but not enough to take offense. Pockmark is just in denial is all. Can’t fathom why it’s the Marshal’s essence signature on my papers, but doesn’t bring it up because he don’t want to cast aspersions on the man’s honour. “Says here you was born in December of ’89. Bull-fucking-shit. Every man here knows that the Advent was April 29th of that same year. Leaves only eight months to December, and it’s a fact that every pregnant woman who passed through the Gate had a miscarriage. Even the seeds we carried through didn’t sprout.”

The mutters have turned to grumbles as Pockmark’s friends do the math for themselves, but I let my smile grow wider as I nod along. “You right. You absolutely right, and I’m glad you brung it up, because I love telling this story.” My arms come down, because you need your hands to tell a story properly, and the townies don’t think nothing of it. “So it’s the day of the Advent, right? April 29th, just like you said. My daddy, he was a Son of the Qin Republic then, and like you fine folk, he got himself a spot in the first wave of settlers. Now you was all there, but me, I can’t even imagine it. Marching through the streets of a big city on your way to the Gate. Ready to give up everything the old world had to offer. The horseless carts, the flying ships, the malls filled with stores that stock anything a man could ever need. All that, just gone, to start a new life on a new world. Don’t know where y’all found the courage for it, if I’m being honest, because I could never.”

That earns me a few smiles, as flattery will get you everywhere. More of Aunty Ray’s advice that works better for her than me, but it still works good enough.

“So my daddy, he walks through the Gate, nekkid as the day he born. Ends up a little north of here actually, right where the plains, desert, and mountains meet.” More smiles and a bit of chatter takes place as they discuss where that is. They know the area, they just don’t got a name for it, even know exactly how far it is. It's a true too. That is where the Gate spat my daddy out onto the Frontier. Usually, I lie about the actual location, make it somewhere local so it resonates with whoever listening. Again, Aunty Ray’s advice.

I wait until discussion dies down and I have their attention again before I continue my story. “He’s dizzy and nauseous from travelling to another world, but he finds his bearings right quick. He fixes himself up a grass skirt and a rope sling, then sets off to explore the Frontier with a few rocks in hand. Wouldn’t you know it, he finds himself the greatest treasure of all on the very first day: my beautiful mama herself.” Now even Pockmark’s got a smile and commenting about their luck, because every man here remembers how hard their first day was, dropped onto a new world all by their lonesome, with little more than their wits to go on. “They fall in love as people do, and set to building their new life together. Then, a few weeks later, they find out they got a baby on the way. Me. Celebrations all around, because they starting a family, so they work extra hard to make things ready. Months go by, and it’s almost New Year, but then my mama’s belly starts hurting something fierce.” My smile slips away, and it ain’t even a part of the act. “Complications leading to premature birth. That all we know. Didn’t have no fancy diagnostics you all had back in the old world. Don’t even know how premature I was, only that it was at least four weeks early, if not more, and it cost my mama her life.” I cost my mama her life. They hear the guilt in my voice, and they know it’s the truth, even if they don’t believe she would’ve seen it that way. They’re all quiet now, and I have more than their attention. I have their sympathy, because there’s not a man here who hasn’t lost someone themselves.

It's not a guess, or a read. Just common sense. It’s the Frontier; everyone’s lost someone at least once.

After taking a moment to swallow the lump in my throat, I rally with a sad, but proud smile. “My mama lived long enough to hold me, say my name, kiss me on the forehead, and tell me she loved me before she passed. That’s what my daddy said, and he wouldn’t lie about that.” Now is the perfect moment for me to take a deep breath, because it’s always good to leave your audience wanting more. Once they’ve waited long enough, I ask, “But then you all see the problem right? My daddy got himself a son, but no milk to feed me. It was just the two of them back, my mama and daddy alone on the Frontier with no one to rely on. They never planned for what might happen if my mama didn’t make it, didn’t expect the issue to come up. They just plain didn’t know any better.”

“Cause they was kids,” one of the guards says, and the heat in his words and quiver in his voice is telling. “Damned Qin Republic sent a buncha damn kids through the Gate, and they died like damned dogs.”

The others chime in with their agreement, and I nod along with, because I do agree wholeheartedly. “Indeed. The Qin Republic was downright reprehensible, and you won’t hear different from me.” Fact is, they might hear a whole lot worse, because familiarity do breed contempt, especially when you familiar with a bunch of dirty, low-down, rotten scoundrels with no regard for a human life.

This is why I love telling the story. Nothing brings people together like empathy and mutual hate.

Using the anger, I pour it into my story. “My parents, they was told they’d be heroes. First generation of a new world, but they wasn’t even seventeen, younger than I am now. Imagine it. Sixteen years and change, and one night, you become a daddy and a widower both. That’s how it was for my daddy, the love of his life dead, her body not yet cold, while his son living on borrowed time. Can’t stop to grieve or give mama a proper burial. No, my daddy knows what he gotta do and does it. He packs what he can, wraps me up real tight, and marches out in the dead of night. He don’t know where he going, only that there was a big plume of smoke to the south earlier that day, so he’s hoping against all hope that he’ll find someone willing and able to help. Didn’t have no horse or wagon, no radio or anything, just little baby me in one hand, and a single-shot Bolt musket in the other, one he’s gotta reload by pouring a paper packet of Aether down the barrel and jamming a stick down to prime it.”

Meeting the eyes of my now captive audience, I give them that look, the knowing look you give another man to show you know that they know how bad it is without crossing over into pity. “Y’all know these lands better than me, so you know it’s chock full of Abby. Is now and was then too, but somehow, someway, my daddy made it. Took him ten hours to track down the people who made that smoke. Just showed up before sunrise and walks right into a camp full of Americans, bloodied and exhausted but still alive. Wouldn’t you know it, the Americans had a pregnant woman with them, my Aunty Rachel, to whom I owe my life. You who else was there?”

This time, I look at Pockmark, who looks back until I glance at my papers in his hands. “No,” he says, his eyes going wide, and his friends follow suit when he asks, “Marshal Ellis?”

“Exactly. Though it was Captain Ellis back in those days. Leading a group of Rangers to escort a bunch of civilians south to the settlement he founded, New Hope.” This part’s not entirely true, just mostly. The truth is that this happened about five-hundred kilometres to the south, in a Ranger camp deep in the badlands right next to the Divide. That’s the only part I changed, because the whole story of how my parents got there would’ve taken too long to tell, and frankly, these townies might not believe it. “That smoke my daddy saw which led him to them? Ranger cooking fires set to render Abby corpses after an attack that morning. They was set to leave before that, but then the Marshal decides they could use a day of rest. If the Rangers hadn’t come under Aberration attack, my daddy never would’ve known they were there, never would’ve found my Aunty Rachel, and I never would’ve made it past my first day.” The guards join me for a chuckle over the long odds of all that, though in reality, the odds were a tiny bit longer.

Like how the camp had an active minefield as part of its defenses, which my daddy walked us right into, and how Uncle Raleigh had to mosey on in and lead us back out on account of daddy not knowing a lick of English.

There’s still a bit more to the story, which the others are happy to hear. “As you can probably guess, we followed the Marshal back to New Hope. We was the nineteenth family to join them there, but that wasn’t why Marshal Ellis Marked my passport himself. Said he wanted the honour of vouching for the firstborn son of the Frontier, his words, not mine.” Allowing myself to puff up a bit, I smile and present myself for inspection, arms out at my sides again, except this time it’s more ‘here I am’ and less ‘the walls are closing in’. “Likely true too. Ain’t met a kid older than me, and doubt I will. I’m probably the only child born on the Frontier in ‘89. That’s why it’s my callsign, Firstborn.” Stepping back with just the hint of a theatrical bow, I wrap the story up with a fresh start. “So allow me to introduce myself again. I’m Howie Zhu, Frontier born and Federation educated. Grew up in New Hope, where last week, I started my trial as a courier for the U.F.P.S, which is how I came to Pleasant Dunes to be standing before you fine gentlemen today.”

“Well shit,” Pockmark says, now grinning from ear to ear, as are the rest of the guards. “Ain’t that something? Name’s Carl. Good to meet ya Howie.”

“Likewise, Carl.” I match their smiles and ask the others their names, exchanging pleasantries now that we’re no longer strangers. When we’re all familiar, I meet Carl’s eyes and give him my best toothy smile. The trick is to not care if your teeth are touching. Just smile and let your face figure out where everything go. “So… y’all gonna let the Firstborn in to deliver your mail, or you gonna leave me out here to bake?”

They all have a good laugh before opening the gate. Which is great, because now I can get a cold drink, a hot meal, wash off all the sand from them nooks and crannies, and then maybe see about killing a man or five, long as I find the right men.

Like I said, I didn’t just come to deliver the mail. That’s a side gig, way to pick up a little extra scratch. What I’m really for is to find a viper’s nest, kick it over, then get out without getting bit. Or in other words, find the outlaws hiding in Pleasant Dunes, kill as many of them as I can, then leave without getting shot myself so I can collect the bounty on their heads.

It’s nothing personal really. Just another day on the Frontier. Bounty hunting ain’t much, but it’s honest work.
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And that's the first chapter. I have some failed prologue stuff, and other various worldbuilding google docs. It's on Discord and pinned in the new-story-brainstorming channel, so if you interested in that sorta stuff, or just wanna talk about the story, then head on over.

Thanks again, and hope you enjoyed it.