Monster Hunter: The Fourth Bullet, Part 1
This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol.
Vic checked the map. “Shit.”
The southern wetlands were not the best mapped areas in the Borderlands. The marshes and soggy soil kept most people away, and there were plenty of monsters who hunted and scavenged in the land. Fewer places were less hospitable; it was too easy to lose your way only to find yourself drawn down to a watery grave by a misplaced foot. Add to this the fact that the wetlands were more likely than others to shift and change, and maps were difficult to make and rarely useful for any length of time.
Ironically, there were many reasons for Hunters to visit the wetlands; herbs of all kinds grew here, special ingredients of an arcane nature. Roots and barks, fresh leaves and buds from flowers, even certain kinds of mud were useful. It took a keen eye and a sharp mind to harvest the rarest, and a few were known only to the Monster Hunters. The chance of collecting these herbs alone was reason enough to risk a muddy grave.
Of course, there used to be people whose job it was to forage for the vital and rare ingredients, people who knew the land and its treacheries. Now, there was only Vic, and she was having a hard time of it.
Vic walked slowly thorough the reeds, testing each soft patch of soil with her rifle-butt. Her father’s map showed landmarks with good places to forage, but no paths or connections. It was likely they weren’t even in the same place anymore, but she had nothing else to go on. Landmarks were a Monster Hunter’s best friend; sketched maps and folk tales were all well and good, but when you were looking for a particular lake in a land of lakes…
Vic heaved a sigh as she pulled her small telescope from her bag. She needed to get the lay of the land again…something about the wetlands made even walking in a straight line nearly impossible.
As if on cue, Vic yelped as the ground sank beneath her feet. She tipped into the marshy water, the splash echoing across the quiet wetlands. Cursing, she pulled herself up to a crouch, listening.
The wetlands had been disturbed. The sounds of birds were quieter, more tentative. The gentle lapping of water in the light breeze was soft. For a moment, those sounds were all that Vic could hear.
Then, ever so gently, the lilting call of a muttered song drifted through the tall grasses. Vic cursed to herself. It was behind her.
The sound of a dress brushing against the grass cut through the song, as the gentle voice became a wail. “Children,” the voice cried, “my children…poisonous vipers, you poor things…where are you? Where are you now, but sleeping beneath the waters…”
Vic tried not to move. Her yelp may have roused the ghostly woman, but she could not have seen her yet.
“It wasn’t your fault,” the weeping grew louder as the woman drew closer, her ranting voice drifting in and out of wretched grief and biting bile. “It was his, vile monster to put you inside me. He poisoned me with his sticky venom, forced you upon me, and rent my body apart. I had to, poor children, poor innocent children. I had to tuck you in bed every night, kiss your heads, and then go back to share his bed. I had to keep you safe but oh, how I hated him! He destroyed everything. I had nothing, not even you. I could see him in you, in your eyes, your mouths, your hair, your innocent faces. I couldn’t let him poison you too, you innocent monsters!”
The rustling stopped. The lilting song began again, right over Vic’s head. She forced her hand to stay still, to keep from drawing her knife or hatchet. Her rifle was still slung over her shoulder, but the ghostly woman was too close. If she moved to defend herself…
At last the rustling began to move again, drifting further away. Vic felt her muscles relax in relief as the ghost returned to her haunting search.
“Children, where are you? I must find you and tuck you back into the water, where you will sleep in peace, and he won’t be able to touch you…my children…my children…”
At last the voice faded away. Vic waited a few more minutes to be sure before slowly standing from her watery crouch. The ghost was gone and the wetlands had returned to their former peaceful state. Collecting herself, Vic checked her supplies to make sure the muddy water hadn’t ruined anything.
She bit off a curse as she realized she had been holding her telescope when she fell. She ran her hand through the water where she had fallen, but the mud was thick and she didn’t want to risk exciting any of the monsters of the wetlands again. Damn, she grimaced. Where would she get another one?
Heaving a sigh, Vic stood up. Well, she had gathered quite a few ingredients already. Not a lot, but if the ghostly women were about, it would be safer to move on rather than risk their further ire.
Vic looked to the north; the dry dunes were where she was headed next. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she could guess; she had three bullets already and they were calling to each other. She knew the closest bullet was somewhere to the north, and the sandy dunes of the eastern side of the desert pulled at her.
“Right,” she muttered, glancing back at the way the ghost woman had gone. “Onward I go.”
The desert dunes were a comparatively simple place among the many Borderlands. Living things avoided the sand and death that covered the region, leaving only the wandering souls and dead bodies that plagued the world like flies; but the dead were easy enough to avoid, and a sharp eye and a clean bullet could end a fight before it began. Practiced Hunters rarely had anything to fear when it came to the desert edges. More dangerous were the wily spirits who danced among the dunes. They had their own ways, and rare was the person who could escape their interest unscathed.
Vic, on the other hand, had other ideas.
The way was tiring, annoying, and largely uneventful. Without her telescope, she was reduced to blindly wandering, hoping to catch sight of some notable landmark she could use. As it was, it took almost a full week before she found a tall dune with a spattering of thin shrubs and ironwood trees. Gratefully, Vic hoisted her pack off her back and sat down in the meager shade. She could spare a moment to catch her breath.
The air burned in her lungs and the wind provided no comfort. A lizard climbed the tree behind her, while off in the distance a faint moan of the ghosts and skeletons of the past drifted through the heat as they wandered hungrily across the dunes.
In a way, it was beautiful.
Vic reached into her bag and pulled out a small roll of leather. Laying it out on the sand, she pulled out three thin metal rods and pressed their edges together. A silver coin, a single feather, and three grains of wheat were all laid out at the edges of the tiny triangle. After a moment of thought, Vic began to speak.
The words were old, ancient, spoken with a strange mixture of words that sounded almost like one language, then another. Vic spoke the last words and laid her hand on the silver coin…
The feather blew away in the wind.
Vic sighed and sat back against the tree. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the wind began to twist and spin around her, blowing her hair and tugging at her hat. She waited patiently while the sands began to lift off the dunes and dance about like a shimmering cloud of insects.
When she was certain she was no longer alone, she spoke. “I greet you, spirit of wind.”
“I?” the words came from everywhere at once. “Such an interesting concept you humans have created. And who is this ‘I’ who greets? What is your name?”
Vic stared at the swirling sand. “Tell me your name first.”
“Name?” the giggling air spun around Vic like a tidal eddy. “What name could we have? You humans are all the same, you need to cut everything up into little pieces and labels.”
Vic sucked at a tooth. “I can’t deny that.”
“The you of today is not the you of tomorrow,” the elemental purred. “You aren’t even the you of last minute. Are we the wind, or are we waves? Is the storm the rain or the clouds? The river flows through the world and it’s never the same water, so what use is a name?”
“It matters to some people,” Vic muttered. “Some things.”
“Why try?” the giggling grew louder. “The wind doesn’t try, the waves don’t want, the earth craves nothing, the fire simply is. We all simply are, and so too must you be, if you wish to kill Old Splitfoot.”
Vic liked her lips. “You’ve heard?”
The air spirit lighted about, at once on Vic’s shoulder, on her head, and in the branches of the tree. “All the Borderlands have heard of the brave Hunter who seeks the devil’s death. Not a minor task you’ve undertaken, have you, girl? Or should we say boy?”
Vic felt blood rising in her face. “That’s none of your business, sprite. I want to bargain.”