Changes, edits, and a massive teaser for a coming chapter · 6:06pm Jun 6th, 2018
The bed of the wagon was strewn with the cold, remorseless instruments of death. While guns were a major power, a force to be reckoned with, a greater power existed, and that was brass. Industry birthed brass, and brass empowered guns. While there was something both effective and even charming with black powder firearms, brass made rapid reloads possible. Neatly prepackaged perfection, everything a shootist needed was housed in brass.
Blackbird brokered in brass; she was a banker, a merchant, as such she plied her trade with the exchange of brass and lead. Like a banker’s pen, each of her guns were polished to perfection and they gleamed with fresh oil, which she now wore like some exotic perfume. Each brass shell represented a transaction waiting to be finalised, with the ideal exchange medium being one bullet spent for one soul acquired—one shot, one kill. Her face had the calm austerity of an accountant sitting down to balance the books, only these ledgers belonged to Death herself, and Blackbird was her bank agent. What terrible industry existed in the world; what dreadful alchemy turned brass into naked souls, bereft of body.
The companions, killers all, prepared to ply their trade. Motte and Bailey also dealt in brass, though in different ways. Both were combat engineers, each with specialised skill sets. Motte turned brass into fiery blooms of absolute destruction through the intricate magic of mathematics, and it might be argued that no finer artillerist existed, save for Bailey, his counterpart. They were the same pony, afterall, twin souls mirrored in different bodies. The mortar shell, now modified, was ready to be dropped.
In the bed of the wagon, there was enough firepower to start a revolution, and that might just be the outcome of tonight’s raid. Dim, smoking his pipe, had a relaxed coolness about him, and he watched with casual interest as others worked with brass. Though a wizard, he did not dismiss his companions’ means to deal and distribute death. While he might have done so at one time, he had since grown to respect Blackbird—as well as the others. Though tight-lipped about the subject, he saw them as equals, at least when it came down to the dirty business of killing.
“Dim…”
“Blackbird?”
“I need something from you.”
“What’s that, Blackbird?”
“Reassurance. I need you to promise me that you won’t be in direct danger tonight.”
This was met with silence.
“Dim, don’t do this to me.”
A sigh happened and Dim’s small, slight torso heaved.
“Come on, this is hard on me. Don’t make it worse. For once, don’t be an asshole.”
“I won’t be in the thick of the fighting. I’ll be striking from unseen places. My hat should serve as a worthwhile distraction, it has grown quite magical from constant contact and will act as a lure. Distance is a detriment though. My magic’s potency diminishes with distance. Which is why I’ll be trying a few new things tonight to minimise my exposure to danger.”
“All those words and not one promise.”
“I can’t promise I’ll stay safe. Things can go wrong. Misfortune happens. I do have a plan to neutralise most risks to myself and I’ll be trying some of the new spells that I have learned.”
“I suppose that is the best I can get from you.” After a moment, with a sigh, she added, “What new spell have you learned to keep yourself safe? Is there some way you can reassure me? Otherwise, my head won’t be in this fight. I have to know that your safe.”
Motte and Bailey exchanged a glance.
“One of the new spells I learned is The War Maiden’s Emotional Ravager.” There was a dramatic pause to allow the name to sink in and an almost playful sneer graced Dim’s lips. “It creates a spirit of torment, a ravager of magical construction. It leaps into a mind, feeds upon the animus, gathers every bit of guilt, every dirty secret, every horrible, rotten thing, every secret shame, and causes a severe emotional reaction to these things. Then, stronger for having fed, it leaps to a new mind, bringing with it the secret knowledge of the first, and the damage becomes two-fold. The new target learns of every horrible thing that the first have done, as the spirit feeds upon their animus as well. Strengthened even more, the spirit goes off in search of new victims, gaining potency with each leap, and the crowd devolves into animalistic violence if all goes well.”
Blackbird, like the others, now wore a horrified blank stare.
“My family ridiculed this spell…” Dim shook his head from side to side. “Said it was worthless, because it didn’t cause direct harm. My own mother frowned upon it, said it was a waste of time. She said there was no sense burning it into the mind, because it was a frivolous expenditure of energy. My mother is foolish… she is stupid and weak minded. She only understands brute force and perceives subtlety as weakness. Once I release this spirit of torment tonight, I should be much, much safer, because everypony will be busy trying to kill one another for the horrible secrets and terrible acts they learn. The secret knowledge will drive them mad. If I am somehow discovered, I will be the least of their concerns.”
Motte shivered so hard that his teeth clattered together and then, with a blasting snort, he recovered himself. Holding his quad-barreled shotgun, he said, “I am reminded that the Darks are terrible ponies… even if you have one of them on your side or work for one.”
“So says the pony who modified the Nightmare Express and is plotting the brutal slaughter of bandits.”
“Touché.” Motte bowed his head. “At least this is being done for the right reasons.”
“And you get paid?” Dim asked.
“Of course. I don’t do what I do for free. Eerie pays me well and I sleep pretty good at night. I don’t mind doing awful things if it makes the world better, and everything that Eerie has asked me to do has made the world better in some way. Though I don’t always agree with Eerie’s methods, I trust her.”
This gave Dim pause for consideration.
“I’ve killed before.” There was an unsteady waver to Blackbird’s voice, a vulnerable tremour that made her companions turn to look at her. “It was always… defensively? Well, except for that one time when it was an accident and I made that pony’s head explode. But that’s beside the point. This time, I’m about to be the aggressor. I’m about to show up at a fort where creatures are minding their own business and I’m gonna murderise them to death. I don’t know how I feel. Really, I don’t know how I should feel. All I can do is keep reminding myself that I’m killing them before they can do something real bad to the city of Gasconeigh.”
“Blackbird, we have a chance to stop something bad from happening. We have to strengthen our resolve and do what is necessary. You’ve seen the peasants around here. We’ve stayed with them… broke bread with them. Eaten their food and benefited from their hospitality. We owe them. If we don’t fight for them, who will?”
“You’re right.” Blackbird closed her eyes and a profound change overcame her face. “It doesn’t make it any easier, but you’re right. We owe them whatever we can give them.” Grim acceptance could now be seen, and when she opened her eyes, they were flinty-glinty, like a cat preparing for a pounce.
In silence, Dim retreated into his own thoughts, thinking about what he owed others.
If you go back to the previous post, you can see the original text, the first few chapters. These have been touched up a bit, edited, and changed. This is an involved process that takes time. The dialogue has been added and some flavour text has been added. Most of the body of the first half of the chapter has been finished, but it will require a few more editing passes I think before the actual release.
I just thought I'd give a glimpse into the writing process.
Meanwhile, in the Harmonyverse AU
The bed of the wagon was strewn with the cold, remorseless instruments of death. While instruments were a major power, a force to be reckoned with, a greater power existed, and that was brass. Industry birthed brass, and brass empowered instruments. While there was something both effective and even charming with woodwinds or percussion, brass made rapid notes possible. Neatly prepackaged perfection, everything a deadly orchestra conductor needed was housed in brass.
Bandstand brokered in brass; she was a banker, a merchant, as such she plied her trade with the exchange of brass and wind. Like a banker’s pen, each of her instruments were polished to perfection and they gleamed with fresh valve oil, which she now wore like some exotic perfume. Each brass tube or coil represented a transaction waiting to be finalized, with the ideal exchange medium being one note spent for one soul acquired—one breath, one kill. Her face had the calm austerity of an accountant sitting down to balance the books, only these ledgers belonged to Death herself, and Bandstand was her bank agent. What terrible industry existed in the world; what dreadful alchemy turned brass into naked notes, bereft of melody.
4877703
Brass and wind, eh? Behold, the flatulent flautist.
4877709 'ware the tubaist who plays from that end...
4877715
Odd coincidence: every tuba player that I have known in life has been a devourer of sauerkraut and Germanic sausages of various kinds. When I lived in Leavenworth Washington, my next door neighbor played in a polka band and supplied the 'oompa'.
It was impossible to tell from whence the tuba noises originated.