I'm reasonably certain his man has the hots for me and that's bothering him.
Fuck where do I even begin? I don't know exactly how long I've been stuck in this world, maybe a dozen weeks. Last month, I was hanging out with some of the coolest (seemingly) adventurers in the whole world after waking up in a stone coffin, and then we get mixed up in some kind of huge battle and my dumb ass gets separated and captured. Shit is Crazy, it turns out those "Imperials" are more like what happens when the French have Dwarves and Elves under their thumb during the 1800's, and these Imperial fucks are anything but sympathetic to the plight of people with a sense of conscience. Or self-determination, actually, not that the Dwarves who declared independence are any better with their own king and nobility playing the games of the wealthy, but I'm not exactly an Empire-builder myself. Democracy was really cool growing up, it meant electricity, antibiotics, and pizza. God I miss pizza, you ever crave something so bad you dream about it in 4K?
[Author's Note: My actual husband lost track of who was in the scene because I bounce from topic to topic so quickly. It's an empty stable with a Nobleman (lovingly labeled Napoleon), the Captain, and four mooks whose jobs are to stand around. Ok hope that helps!]
Did you just say something? Ah. Forget it.
You might be wondering how I ended up tied up in a pretty swanky looking stable that actually has really good woodwork done; granpa's barn had all of these gaps between the planks he used to complain about. Having now slept overnight in a building with those kinds of gaps, I get it now. Properly sealed wooden structures are uncommon, the carpenters who put this one together knew how to fucking work wood (hot). So there was this big fucking battle yesterday, and we lost pretty hard and I had a very bad time pissing my pants with a crossbow bolt that landed in the side of my ribs. Before you ask I got better with the power of magic healing potions, no sepsis required, thank goodness for arcane healing. You know, watching Napoleonic warfare as someone being subjected to it isn't very fun, I think I'm sticking to mild skirmishes in the woods if I survive this. I'm not convinced this isn't some elaborate chance for a date, the man looking me up and down is wearing clothes that are easily part of a Fortnite season's premium battle pass. There's no other way to put it: gold trim thread, shiny too, starched collar, well ironed navy-blue jacket adorned in medals and that fucking Captain-Crunch looking ass hat. You'd think a person... or I guess human, would stick out like a sore thumb in this kind of apparel but the man's nearby retinue look dressed to the nines as well.
These guys are soldiers and they're wearing white pants. White. Pants. Who fucking wears WHITE pants!? Like dude, half the roads aren't fucking PAVED, it's obvious that half of the army looks like they shit themselves from all of the mud they churned up. Those boots are basically just missing 6 inches of heel to be slutty; all black leather that runs from ankle to knee, is it even practical to have boots THAT LONG!? Don't get me started on the stupid hats, half of these guys are dressed up like fucking nutcrackers. I haven't seen larping like this since attending a recreational Revolutionary War battle-performance run by some actually pretty cool nerds from the local rifle club. Half of them dressed up as Red Coats and it was pretty fucking educational to be honest. If it wasn't for the pretty sophisticated muskets these guys have (I don't know much about muskets, but these guys have paper cartridges they can muzzle-load with a ram-rod and that's pretty good if I remember the historical larper 101 on the subject), it'd be unthreatening and sort of cute.
"Miss, you've drifted off on me again.", he sternly speaks as he firmly grabs me by the jaw, yanking my head and gaze towards him.
"Huh? Oh sorry, you're boring me.", I spit that out without thinking, how in the fuck am I this stupid.
The man is like a recreation of a snobby Napoleon in his 20-somethings (shaves like shit too), squeezes my jaw hard enough it makes me hiss with pain. The guards nearby stand firmer, almost as-if they have an 11/10 setting, tensing nervously. There's a pause as one whispers into sire's ear. Nobleman piece of shit's face twists at whatever suggestion is passed, which makes me think he's never done one of these interrogations before.
"Captain, if you please, we're not to reduce ourselves to barbarities.", the whispering soldier groans as he is chastised, "Even for beastfolk such as this."
I almost want to crack an award winning smile, but there's a venom in his voice that tells me I might be about to have bamboo inserted under my finger nails or some shit. The anxiety about having my teeth yanked out or fingers cut off is genuinely somewhere in my mind but the volume is sort-of turned down, like my brain knows to stay cool. It's very weird to have men look at you in that 'oh my god is he horny' kind of way, and it feels like half of the guys I come across glance at me from the tits down. It's a new sensation, I wish I had any trans friends in this world because wow, it's disquieting and I really haven't been able to talk about it. I guess here in my mind is fine, since you're listening. Idunno, I'm convinced more that when we're done here one of these soldier boys is gonna try to rape me and I'm not sure if the having a cock thing will fly well because the rest of me doesn't look it.
"Listen carefully, girl, if it wasn't for the band you'd been seen with I'd have hung you with the other vermin we captured. That, and your peculiar firearm."
God he's sexist and checking me out, dude is definitely getting named Napoleon for being such a spoiled little shit. I register what we're on about. I suck shit at speedloading pump shotguns, always preferred my Mosin to my 870 on range days. It turns out when you're armed with a trench shotgun and can't swing a sword for shit, you need to be a lot better at moving and shooting than I am. I mean I also got shot with a fucking crossbow, but they have potions for that as it turns out, so I guess I'll just live with the memory of fucking losing my shit all alone in a muddy hole surrounded by Napoleon's Finest. These guys are definitely well trained soldiers, calm under pressure and able to do shit like "capture that one alive" because of arcane technologies that they'd throw sticks at.
"I'm offering you a chance to spill where it is from, who made it, and anything else in exchange for a free walk in whatever direction you pick. You'll have never been here in the eyes of our Lordship, and I will ensure you depart with enough coin and rations to make the trek to whatever townstead you desire."
Oh boy, here we go. I have to explain how the Shotgun isn't of this world. K'yan said it never looked the way it did to him before when we finally found the trunk of, alternate-universe me who's been dead for 200 years, and that makes sense. It probably would have been a blunderbus, but if a magical coat can change form, what're the odds there isn't a gun that can do that? I mean, I've tried to envision it as not-a-shotgun but that part seems to be pretty in stone. It's not just any shotgun. This is Grandpa's favorite antique that he passed to me, a Winchester Model 1897, 12 gauge. Every scratch on the surface of the receiver, every spot of impossible-to-remove brass smearing on the inside of the receiver, the weird fucking wobble in the pump I was never able to fix, and its trap door being a little sticky no matter how much solvent and frog lube I used... verbatim. Grandpa's Shotgun. His father used it in the Second World War, allegedly, it has 4 crude swastikas carved into the flat left-hand face of the receiver. So in theory, the spirit of nazi-killing is alive and well.
"It belongs in a museum." I deadpan, practically against my will. "I couldn't explain how to make it if I tried, it's a family heirloom."
The Nobleman's lip curls and his brow furrows. He's chewing on my response.
"How could that be, girl? It clearly is of Dwarven design from their most recent conferences. Surely, you don't expect me to fall for such a ruse."
"Do you have a moment to look closely at it? I can point out my idiot scratch from when in Sixth Grade I thought I could tap the stock pin out with a Philip's head screwdriver. It has four swastikas on the left-hand side of the receiver just above the lip, the pump wobbles when you work it back and the trap door sticks if it has more than two shells loaded. There's an edgy "this machine kills fascists" sticker on the edge of the buttstock. That's a vinyl sticker I got off of Etsy in like, 2017 after the whole Nazi protest up in Virginia. The Heat Shield is canted and bent out of shape because my dad ate shit with it down a rock face in Wyoming in 1987 on a hunting trip. Did you see the Bayonet? That shit is 18 inches long and is literally illegal in half of the states in the Union, you probably wouldn't want to get stuck by it because there's spots of rust I could never get free."
JFC I might as well give him my life's story. This is the kind of unprompted infodump my ex-husband makes fun of me for. Made. Made fun of me, I mean... there's a chance he ends up here right? God, everything's so fucking weird here. My Napoleon ass lookin' interrogator grumbles, and waves for one of his lackies to bring the muddy piece to him. He doesn't know what a swastika is so I have to point it out again, which is hard to do with my arms bound. They didn't tie my tail up though and it's prehensile, so I got to watch the boys in back shoot a nervous glance of realization at one-another. I gather rat people like me normally get killed on sight, I guess we're something of a nuisance; or people are just really racist and think we're big versions of the normal rats which are actually still around. Kind of mangy little fucks, no animal product testing around to have an industry of cute rat pets spring out of. Sort of explains the racism, I guess.
"Flights of fancy to explain the piece withstanding, girl, you've clearly enough knowledge of the arm to realize the dire situation you are in, no?"
"I mean, you dipshits are fucking using muzzle loaders and line tactics still, so I can't imagine the dysentery leaves many award-winning engineers alive in your neck of the woods. If you even have a fucking education system. Ya'll at least know diseases aren't bad air, right?"
The soldiers look quizzically, the nobleman's face actually lights up, as if dawning on a new realization.
"It's a Drake Republic piece.", he whispers, as if he's gotten a Eureka moment out of me. "No wonder the make is so foreign. You must tell me, how does a dirty little vermin like you obtain top of the line armament from one of the most isolated and defensive nations of Kobolds, hmm?"
Huh. So there's a hyper-sophisticated kobold faction in the world, that's sort of cool, maybe I called it by fearing the presence of Tucker's Kobolds after-all. I think there's a way to twist this if I lie on the spot, but I don't know SHIT about Kobolds because the one I met, La'tal, was fucking autistic as shit and apparently a slave in the Imperial Alliance's territory for most of his life. I don't have much to work with. I'll just tell them the truth, it's stupid enough to pass as a lie or a half-truth if they really read into it.
"I found it in a box of possessions belonging to my past life, if you really must know. I'm an Immortal who walked behind the Curtain and the Fates traded my place with a version of myself. If you've any magical items, you can take my top off and see it for yourself."
OW. He fucking slapped me! What am I, a w- oh. No yeah this is making sense.
"Detestable little filth, your lewd provocations will not spare you rightful punishment." He grimaces, rubbing his hand which definitely hasn't struck another person in a long time (his palm is beet red). Parts of my jaw and cheek start to swell as he mutters covertly with the 'captain', it hurts in a distant kind of way, like not all that bad.
There's a yelp outside, a quiet gargling, the two men are conversing quietly and with deliberation as my ears perk up and swivel, searching for the noise. It's faint, but I can smell the blood and the shitting-yourself part of people dying, man fuck this nose sometimes. That's gotta be like four dudes, what gives? A pause, two more bodies, gentle dragging. It's just within my perception roll, I guess, and a moment later there's a rap at the door. One of the guards turns to answer, but Napoleon tuts at him, turning to answer the door himself. He has a nervous energy about him, like he can't wait to get himself out of this situation where he's putting on a high-intensity act of "cruel but fair" to make his soldiers act the part. I can make out some faint muttering under his breath, not enough to understand but enough that I can sort of pick up on his tone. He's a bit scared of me. The door raps a second time, he hurries his step into almost a half-jog, his body language screams 'I would do anything to get out of here right now', but he stiffens it up as he reaches the person-sized door at the side of the stable.
He opens the door gingerly, I can make out from the pen I've been tied up in that whoever is introducing themselves, Napoleon recognizes. He trips over himself to let the cloaked man in, as if he's nervous because the boss has shown up. I can smell the blood dripping from the cloaked guy's... blades? No one inside but me knows what just happened, I try not to let on but now my heart is fucking pounding. It gets worse. This guy looks EXACTLY like my Ex-Husband, but with a quiet intensity I've never seen my Ex have; it's hard not to be scared and aroused at the same time, like... damn. If he'd ever killed a handful of men to rescue me like a Damsel in Distress, I think I might have had all the excitement in my life needed to quit drinking. I'm starting to wonder if maybe there's a chance he somehow got here, but I've found out a few things about my situation thanks to those bird sisters that make me think that no way in hell did my Ex end up here. If I'm in hell like I still sort of think I am, he's here to fuck with me more than anything.
The carbon-copy of my ex-husband turned Altair from Assassins Creed strides directly over to me like he knows the place. It's a matter-of-fact, push past the snot-nosed brat kind of walk that screams 'don't second guess me'. Napoleon sheepishly closes the door and attempts to explain that interrogations are under way, calling him Lord something every few stammering sentences. So pecking order of Nobility is in effect, in some manner. I feel like I'm about to be at the center of an ATF-E sting operation turned shoot-out, thank goodness there aren't any Gnolls or Dogs nearby for this to have shot. I'd hate to find myself in the center of an interrogation that turns into Ruby Ridge or Waco.
"So, this is the one I've heard about after all. How did you sleep? Have you been fed?", his tone is soft and even, concerned sounding, his body language melts from tense to relaxed.
"M'lord, surely the vermin's state is sufficient to extract-"
My doppleganger Ex-husband spins and decks Napoleon so quickly it startles the poker-faced veteran soldiers. The silver-spoon sucking man-child thuds to the floor unceremoniously, he doesn't get back up and already from where I'm sitting I can make out that he's got the kind of black eye that made everyone in my 3rd grade class call me the impolite version of Raccoon for having. Florida public education, a fine microcosm of the South in the 1990's, am I right fellow gamers? The John Wick of this fucking universe scratches his magnificent beard, looking me over closely as he drops to a knee, a courtesy, because I'm pretty fucking short and god he's just as tall, maybe taller than my Ex. His sleeves roll up a little, revealing scarred but toned forearms and huge, leathery hands the likes of which I could only dream about when married to a fellow office worker. The cut of his jaw is masculine, but not too masculine, he's like a version of my Ex that had all of his best features cranked to 11, and my conceptual pussy is absolutely wet.
"Did... he strike you? Truth be told, I expected better out of him.", he stood and turned before I could answer, dismissing the guards to 'carry away the idiot'.
I can faintly make out that other people are busy outside, dragging bodies away perhaps? Like, what are playing here fucking Kobolds and Kaverns?! How did these other pukes not notice the murdering, unless maybe I have super-hearing and super-smell. I was already wondering if that was the case but now it seems like I'm maybe right about this. I have a sort of tingle up my spine that says we're about to have a moment, and I need to be ready to fight, like the narrative my life has gone on is about to become an action scene. It's like this tension of action radiating or something, I've skipped a few pages in the book and know this chapter ends with the line "I actually managed to speed-reload a shotgun for once".
"We're under orders to ensure the vermin is dealt with, M'lord. General's orders.", my 11/10 Ex looks surprised, but not concerned. His hands fidget beneath his cloak, as if grabbing at his belt for the bird he's about to flip them for getting in the way of his business with me.
"Ah I see, so the King has a keen interest in her?"
"Yes M'lord. She's a Redcoat, you should know what we have to do."
"Ah... of course. Captain, a word?"
The captain is tense, his body language says "take one more step and it'll be my honor to kick your ass", the soldiers around him all ready their sabers.
"You can have your word from right where you are standing, Longbelt."
"Ah, that obvious?", he grins with the kind of deadly edge a man who just killed six people (maybe seven with Napoleon) would flash when about to do it again, "Captain Seeker, I was hoping you wouldn't have to get mixed in with Court drama, your wife would make a poor widow at her age."
"Huey, lad, you've no idea what kind of fire you're going to set off if you let that vermin walk."
"No Morgan, I have no idea. But have you?"
Captain Morgan Seeker draws his blade. It radiates a hot glow. Holy shit is that dude wielding a fucking +1 Flaming Longsword?! Like actually!? He points the now visibly on fire blade at Huey Longbelt (gentleman thief? that's hot), who at the moment is standing with his hands on his hips still. Five bucks and a slice of Pepperoni Pizza says he's about to throw knives, you willing to shake on that?
"Last chance, Huey. Walk. Away.", the other soldiers have this guy cornered.
Most people fight like real people in this world so he's like, actually pretty fucked. I mean those Redcoat types are literally magic but they make my whiskers tingle when I'm in the same room and I didn't notice that with ol' Huey. He screams "face character with a high strength score", not total mastermind spy.
"Alright, alright,", he throws his hands up, "You got me fair and square."
Huey keeps his hands up high and steps forward, the guards totally encircle him. What the fuck is he doing!?
"A question, Captain, before you gut me, if you would entertain the notion."
"Really, Huey, after all we've been through, titles and favors?"
"Yes. Would you believe that my father plans to do more than purge the rats? That he stares daggers at every Elf and Dwarf in his court? What would your esteemed parents think of that?"
Holy shit. The captain is a fucking half elf. Hes got the ears! No wonder he's so tall and thin, actually. Huh, the whole Napoleonic outfit really threw me off.
"That's treasonous to accuse anyone of your Father's status of, Huey, you know damn well-"
Like a thin wire from Final Destination, the man's throat slices open with narry a faint glimmer, his blood gushing forth and spilling as he gargles. The head topples off cleanly, which kind of makes me scream like the girl that I am. The other guards adjust, turning as the illusion of Huey surrendering ripples out of existence, the real man is twirling a duo of black-dripping blades. He whispers something, and the room is pitch fucking black a second later, my whiskers are fucking burning.
There's clattering, gargling, three thuds, the sound of someone fumbling with the door before they let out a cut-short yelp-scream. The lights come back on like a veil is lifted, and I'm fucking tied up against a post fucking shaking with adrenaline as Huey wipes his blades off on a rag.
"G-gee bill, h-how come your mom l-lets you h-h-have tw-two b-b-b-blades!", I stammer out unconfidently. Not sure why my brain went there.
"Heh, haven't heard that one before. I was serious earlier, did they hurt you in any manner other than the bruise?", he crouched down again, I reflexively flinched as he reached towards me, and he pulls back.
"Sorry. Um. I'm going to untie you, okay?"
"O-okay.", god I can barely breathe and I'm seeing fucking stars, he can hear me wheezing, I mean shit I can hear me wheezing.
He unties me. Despite all of the brain signals telling me to run I feel so weak and light headed I just collapse to the floor. He catches me. It's gentle, his warmth and light touch are emphasized by his cloak swinging around. I'm not naked, but even with long sleeves and fur, I feel cold and my fear-shivering and hyperventilating are probably not helping. He holds me for a while, gently telling me to concentrate on breathing, and after a while the emotional weight of the last two days hits. I don't know who the fuck he is, or why he's saving me in particular, but he looks like the man I loved, sounds like the man I loved, and talks like the man I loved, and I clutch him tightly, bury my stupid rodent face in his chest, and fucking bawl my goddamn eyes out. I'm in shock, maybe? I don't know, this whole being a girl thing is hard enough on its own without shit being absolutely bonkers. By the time I can compose myself enough to talk, there's a lingering sharpness in my chest and my whiskers are still sort of burning. The dude's definitely magic but hides it well, I guess.
"Let's start over, my name is Huey Longbelt, I'm officially a Lord. It is granted by title thanks to my father, I'm the favorite bastard child of the High King of the Imperial Alliance, and word of my treason has spread a little farther than I expected.", he pats my head gently, breaking the long hug we were locked in.
God I really am a damsel right now, that's sexist, universe.
"Uh, I'm Z. Like, just the letter. I'm not from around here.", I lay that out like it was fed to me. If she could hear it, Maccaw would probably be proud. "Why are you after an idiot like me?"
"An insane religious cult my father belongs to, if you'd believe that. There's a self-proclaimed prophet who said to hunt the rat woman from another time. The idiot I laid out with my fist had no idea, but my childhood friend I beheaded did. I overheard your explanation of the gun and based on how Morgan and his men reacted, he was about the kill that idiot manchild I knocked out. He's a little puke from a lesser house, didn't need to know what the fuss was about, they'd kill him for it. Poor kid's gonna remember tonight for the rest of his life, but I'm sure they'll spirit him away to a war college so he doesn't talk."
"So... what I'm the one insane ratgirl with a shotgun rambling about being Isekai'd?", I mean it makes too much sense not to be a plotpoint here, but really that's bullshit and lazy writing.
"Izzy-what?", he shakes his head, "Nevermind, you can explain later, we'll need to get out of here and in a hurry. I've used up some of my better tricks tonight, and they ain't cheap."
"Wait, you used magical items, like, one time use items?"
"Yeah. They're not expensive for me, but I have connections and they're not in this hovel of a fortress. Gather your things, I need to signal to my sellswords things are going to-plan before they wander off thinking I've died and won't pay out."
"Right, okay. They were nice enough to bring my shit in, I don't know what half of it does but it came with the shotgun and the clothes.", Huey helps me to my feet. He's not checking me out, at least, enough to tell. His expression is soft and caring, like somehow he knows we're a thing or something, or maybe he just likes me. I think I could like him.
I gather my things. Some of it is stuff I can use if shit happens, like the infinite box of shotgun shells. Most of it is unidentified, like I have a compass but it doesn't point North which is odd, I'm half convinced Bethesda programmed it with Skyrim Logic because it tends to point to important people I need to talk to. I've got a journal I do not like touching because it makes me have Schizophrenic episodes when I open it to a blank page. There's some vials of piss-colored liquid labeled "unfuck my shit" and those I'm told are basically a Phoenix-Down, the labels are in my handwriting that I didn't write. I have a cleaning kit in a little satchel for my shotgun that I recognize all the parts to, and "Zenia's Big Book of Exotic Firearms", which I swear fucking has Wikipedia-tier tutorials on how to make ammunition and guns inside of it. Like, for fun I looked up the H&K MP5 and it has a page! It also warns that the gun is near-impossible to make with the machining the world has available. A rat-girl can dream, right?
I put my little backpack on, my belt with the infinite shotgun ammo box (in a satchel), the armlet that holds the Phoenix-Downs, and grab granpa's shotgun. The fur on my neck stands on end as I open the chamber and feed it a shell, then sliding the wobbly pump forward and load 5 more shells into the magazine tube. They're brass shells with a paper cap, like what you'd see in the old army manuals and a few videos on Youtube. It's a bit unreal, but here I am doing it. I never owned brass shells, Granpa's shotgun handled modern stuff just fine long as it wasn't too high pressure. It took a lot of talking to old fucks at the range to learn how to take care of the piece and make sure it survived me. Granpa left over the home-loads he fired out of it in those nice red plastic shells, I read online a long time ago that the chambers don't always take modern 2 3/4ths shells, but granpa seemed to have that sorted out. It really is an antique though, and whatever this one is, it is clearly magical.
This thing punches clean through armor like no one's business, and I can't imagine the steel plate people wear here is bullet proof, but I guess I wouldn't know any better if that steel was hard enough to deflect buckshot, but I remember Demolition Ranch once shot a shitty suit of armor someone made probably not for actual HEMA and it didn't fare so great. At any rate, if it ain't magic armor it probably ain't surviving whatever this thing spits out. I kind of wonder if I can learn about that, I don't know, the first guy I shot with it did not have a good time. I guess today, we find out if the Bayonet will ever be useful. I stick it on the front of granpa's shotgun, feeling a bit silly because I'm about to shoot at some guys who are lightly armored with breastplates at best, which will certainly stop the revolutionary sword-lookin ass bayonet.
"Fascinating. No wonder they were so interested. How many cartridges did you put in that thing?"
"Five, plus one in the chamber. You should see this thing if I have a reason to slamfire it, it might make you reconsider going against whatever cult is trying to kill me.", where is this Marvel-ass dialogue coming from?!
"Well now that I've seen you for myself, it'll take a Hydra popping out of the end of your gun for me to have second thoughts.", he smirks. That was a flirt.
"Well, you did get to see my ugly cry, Idunno, play your cards right and you might get to see me naked, o' chivalrous knight", that was on purpose.
Huey's face turns several shades of red as he nervously looks away.
"That's forward for a woman, if you'll pardon me a brief fluster."
Hah. I'm kind of getting off on this. Oh my god, I'm getting off on this. Like, I was just fucking terrified for my goddamn life like ten minutes ago. There's a spring in my step and a twitch in my tail, how does my brain have room to be crushing like a school girl after all that!? I'll get over it, play along with how I feel if I can.
"Well, I'm not all woman down there, not to disappoint you."
"You're... a mix?"
"Something like that, boy parts where the girl parts go, if that makes sense."
"I see. If you'll pardon the expression, beggars and choosers."
Oh my god he's into it. Or, into me. But like, actually. My heart is fluttering and my face feels warm, now I can't look at him either.
"Let's secure our lives first, and our loins later, Miss Z.", we both shoot each other a knowing and mutually flustered glance. That was nice. I hope I can keep him.
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