Monster Hunter

There were few people in the world who remembered the old tales of the Borderlands before Old Splitfoot staked his claim: legends of forests free of monsters, deserts without the wailing dead, and plains full of fresh water and dancing deer, sleeping fieldmice and singing birds.

The true telling of it was kept by the Grand Order of Monster Hunters, in books and journals held as sacred, to be protected above all else. It was a holy memory — there was a time before Old Splitfoot.

Now, the plains were dangerous.

The worst danger of the plains was their lure of ease. The plains weren’t full of the hungry earth of the swamps, nor the trecherous cliffs of the mountains. The plains could seduce even the wisest and most experienced into lowering their guard just long enough to become the hunted instead of the hunter.

These plains held no such allure.

Vic sat quietly, staring over the cold and empty expanse. Even in the harshest lands, there were sounds of a twisted nature. Birds howled over still winds while emaciated deer and coyotes picked through rattling twigs. There was life, of a sort, among the dead.

Lakeside was a quiet town. Only a few families, fewer children. Times were hard for the folk of Lakeside, but they had always been so. Even the eldest Hunters had never known Lakeside to be full of anything but struggle and hard living; even before Old Splitfoot had staked his claim.

But the people were kind and helpful. Wary, of course, but open with their hearts and hands. They gave often and took little, though few had anything to give.

There was one tavern, and it wasn’t a good one. Lakeside could scarce afford to stock their larders with food or drink from other towns, and the local still was the only source of moonshine. The owner of the tavern, Petra, tried her best to keep the barrels stocked, but she could only do so much.

But every little bit helped, so Vic pushed the tavern doors open on their rusty hinges.

The tavern was empty. Dust covered the tables.

Immediately, Vic was on her guard. She hadn’t seen anyone on her way into town, but that wasn’t unusual. Not seeing anyone in the tavern, that was…worrying.

Vic unslung her rifle and slowly walked into the tavern. A gentle noise from the rear caused her to pause before lifting the rifle slowly to her shoulder.

“Here’s the last of it,” Petra grunted as she set the large sack of salt on the bar.

Vic glanced up as she finished filling her last casing. “Good. That’ll be plenty. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not getting much use for it now,” she shrugged. “Besides, no one’s comin’ in again if you don’t lick this problem right quick.”

Vic sealed the cartridge with a wad of paper. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to promise I’ll win. Never fought a dry-one before.”

“What’s that?”

Vic sighed as she slipped two prepared cartridges into Petra’s shotgun. “The deserts, the windy places of the Borderlands…they do something to the dead, but they can do something to the living too. You get thirsty, even if you have water. You start losing things; your self, your skin, your thoughts…eventually, all that’s left is hate.”

“And…its a disease?”

“No,” Vic sighted down the shotgun before handing it to Petra. She reached across to the bag of salt and hoisted it onto her shoulder. “Dry-ones are just like you and me, only Old Splitfoot got into their heads. The disease is him, making that hate real. Who’s still healthy?”

Vic shoved the corpse hard, pushing herself away from the teeth and claws. She rolled back on the ground, coming up into a crouch, knife at the ready. Her heart was beating like mad. Her conscious mind was in a panic. How could he be here?

A second explosion rang out. The dry-one tipped forward, barely standing upright as its chest exploded outward. Vic threw herself backwards, covering her face from flying bone and skin.

When the echoes vanished, Vic opened her eyes.

The dry-one was there, hanging in the air like a poorly hung suit. It’s chest was all but gone, bits of rock salt sizzling on the dry bone. The legs stood straight, one still gamely hanging on to half its hip, which dangled like a rusty shop sign. The other wobbled uncertainly with its thigh splintered into pieces. One of the monster’s arms had vanished in the dust, while the other arm floated with pieces of shoulder-bone beneath the hobbled skull.

The flames still burned.

“Ah,” the voice hissed, frighteningly calm. “You always break my favorite toys.” The blue flame gazed at the withered fingers before turning back to the circle. “But not you, this time. Someone else? Someone you’ve protected…Someone you care about.”

This story was made using the solo RPG: Monster Hunter, by La esquina del rol. Based on the Firelights system, this pamphlet RPG is about the Borderlands, and the last Monster Hunter who has the Scattergun of Destiny. They must find the Six Legendary Bullets to banish The Evil One and restore the Borderlands. The following is a list of the card-draws, rolls, and actions taken during play that resulted in the transcribed narrative: