Editing Flint StoneWood (section)

===The Journey===

Flint spends little time on goodbyes. Those experienced in the desert help pack the right supplies for the journey on a seasoned pack mule. A short, but sturdy desert mount is saddled and ready. Inspector Firehammer prepares young StoneWood for dealing with the Gnomish guards upon arrival at [[Ferrodyne]].

"Present them in the order I have prepared. The guards will hold your firearms until your identity and purpose has been verified. That will take at least 2 days. From there you will meet with my cousin Bristolmyor Squib, Commander of the 1st infantry rifle division. He will be wearing an over-sized red one on his tunic. Hand him this scroll and let him take over from that point. And I will tell you this much. Your cargo is precious. Our latest prototypes in rifle technology. Repeaters! Better than our crossbows."

Flint takes the inspector’s documents, tucks them away in a safe location, and steals away to his room for a final night resting on a real bed.

Sleep does not come easily. Instead, he studies the maps for a while, uneasy with the idea of all that open space. To relax, he examines the inspectors generous gifts, making notes in his journal on the design of the military pistol’s firing chamber. With weary eyes, he makes note of the ammunition. The thin, reinforced paper wrapped around the projectile concerns him. Too fragile. If only it were made of something stronger. He jots down some thoughts, sets down his quill, and heads for the comfort of his feather bed.

Before dawn, Flint sets out on his Journey. He has never been outside the walls of Haven, and seeing the vastness before him, he shudders. His observant eyes note the stonework along the gates, then to the hidden pathway leading beyond the protective wards of the city. Funny, he thinks to himself, I expected more of those nutter [[druid]]s maintaining the wards. His mount follows the path, mule in tow, and step-by-step, Flint StoneWood leaves Haven for what he believes is the last time. Only the Gods would know his fate now.

The first 3 days pass uneventfully other than the occasional lighting up of the King of Smoke’s parting gift, leaf-wrapped smoke weed. His mount was steady in stride, and Flint had time to rest his weary backside walking. At night, by the light of his small campfire, he continues to study the ammunition design, making meticulous notes even Inspector Firehammer would be proud of. 

By the end of the first week, the first sign of life emerged. A wild pack of dogs picked up the scent of his mule and began following, carefully at first. They hung back beyond the light of his fire, their eyes glowing  faintly. Flint tossed a few errant rocks, rarely hitting the mark. 

For the next 2 days, the pack became increasingly daring, approaching perhaps more out of desperate hunger, than malice. On the 3rd day of the 2nd week, a new dog joined the pack. Bigger and meaner, it had the looks of  evil. Upon its arrival, the other member of the pack reorganized and began approaching Flint in groups of 3 from opposite directions. One set would dart in nipping at the mule. When Flint turned towards them, the other group dashed towards his mount. At first, no injuries were noted, except for the one dog that caught a solid hoof in the ribs from the mule. It struggled to regain its feet, only to be dragged down and consumed by its brethren for food. The testing continued on until the sun eased down.  The pack eased off to rest, and Flint found sanctuary with a rocky outcropping of good stone. Once the fire was built, he moved a few stones to create a perimeter to protect his animals and establish a bottle-neck should the pack get daring at night. They did not.

Instead they made their big move in the morning after Flint had broken camp. Five dogs broke off from the main group and disappeared over a small hill. The rest with the leader followed Flint and started the game from the day prior. Flint spurred his mount and started to pick up the pace. He was slowed by the stubbornness of the mule, and was tempted to unload his remaining supplies to make a run for safety. By his read of the map, a main trade route was only a hard days ride off, 2-3 at his current pace. Judging by the renewed intensity of the pack’s engagement, 2-3 days might be too long. 

He approached a small rise bordered by high rocks, and suddenly faced the five dogs that had broken away earlier. Trapped!

The 2 small attack groups charged together this time, abandoning the subtle game of distraction. They were desperate for a quick kill and big meal. The leader hung back, growling out what Flint could only assume were commands. One dog leapt for Flint’s arm with an open snout, and tasted the blunt steel of a well-placed hammer strike. The mule caught another unlucky dog with a hoof, crushing more hunger weakened ribs. The remaining four circled back and re-organized. Flint felt a tug at the reins and turned his attention forward. The lead five dogs had attacked and latched on to the front legs of his mount and were attempting to drag it down. Flint swung low with his hammer, and caught one in the shoulder, but it was not enough. He felt the mount’s weight shift, let go of the reins, and kicked free of the saddle to prevent being trapped. 

The end came quickly for the poor beast, as canine teeth found the soft part of the throat. For a moment the pack was distracted by the blood, and descended on the kill. Enraged, Flint grabbed a mongrel by the neck and swung it until he heard a snap. His chest heaving, Flint let out his battle cry and let loose with his hammer. Driven by rage, his hammer crashed into the pack around his fallen mount. Taken by surprise from his fury, 2 more dogs fell silent. The remaining 2 backed off and joined up with the other 4 and regrouped with the leader. 

Flint caught his breath and waited for the final charge. But the leader was more wary, having seen half his pack dropped in under a minute. From the saddle bag of his fallen stead, Flint’s eye caught the bundled mass of leather. The dogs watched. Slowly he stepped to the saddle bag and picked up its contents. The dogs had been witness to swords, bows, and of course hammers, but not gnomish technology. Under their watchful eyes, plotting the kill, Flint strapped on the holster and felt the weight at his hip. 

Still watching.
 
He grabbed the shotgun, opened the breach, and slid a cartridge in place. Muscles tensed as paws dug into the sand. The young dwarf let his Hammer drop to the ground. That was the signal. The remaining pack members leapt up and formed a semi-circle on approach. The leader broke free from his spot and rushed in for the kill. Flint stood his ground. He pulled the butt of the shotgun in tight leveled the sights at the raging mass of fur and fangs, and remembered to breath like the inspector taught him. 10 feet out, the huge dog launched into the air at its target. Flint’s eyes tracked a moment as his finger gently squeezed. Thunder roared across the plain followed by the sharp yelp of surprise and pain from the dire-dog. It landed in a heap next to the fallen mount. Not waiting to reload the shotgun, Flint dropped it and drew the pistol at his side. The pack did not approach. Flint leveled the barrel at the beast’s head and squeezed again. It was over. 

Turning tail, the pack fled back into the wilderness, leaving Flint alone with the mule. The beast was unfazed by the gun blast. Apparently the inspector had trained it well. Not wanting to delay his journey much longer, Flint lashed a few pieces of old wood into a makeshift sled and tied it off on the mule. He gathered the remaining possessions off his dead mount, and set off again for the main trade route towards Ferrodyne. For the remainder of the trip, Flint walked, or rode on the mule, both guns loaded and ready, smoke weed stick smoldering between his chapped lips. No one attempted to piss off the dwarf until he reached the main gate of the Gnomish city.

To be Continued  . . .