“Why do you want this thundermouth for kid, er, brother? No one uses an arcane thing like this.” The gunsmith said, looking over Nap’s drawings.
“Suffice to your query that I do. My money’s good enough, is it not?” the monk demanded. It was really his father’s money, but the less said about that, the better. Things had to be done. He was somehow certain of it.
Night time arrived. She slept on his small mattress. The dream began,
“you have a dream, a dream about a beautful woman, shes proud strong and determined, but as she strolls through the woodland glad, a dark figure, a monster a devil, a demon….. He stalks the women then jumps on her wrestling her to the ground forcing himself on her…. you find youself standing watching, you feel helpless then she see’s you and she calls out to you… but you look away and let the beast take her. You feel ashamed…
Then the demon is gone and you wonder over to the woman as she lays in a full of dark blood and you tell her over and over again you are sorry, and as you cradle her in your arms you ask what could you have done, and she replies, do not loose faith. The all around you horrific crab like creatures start digging up from the ground and surround you before jumping onto your body…. you wake up sweating with her last word repeating in your head.”*
The breshly smithed blunderbusses sat down, with their led shot ready to fire. Something had to be done first. He took his dager and holding it by the upper part of the blade, scraped a name on each piece of lead.
Why was he doing this? Another certitude.
By morning he paid too much for a perplexed but greedy gunsmith to make casting molds with the name embedded in it.
The stencil rolled india ink over the crates. “Church Blunderbus (REVISED): CLERICAL USE ONLY”
* Thanks Loki! (dream text by Loki Eliot)