>>6120865welcome back!Feeling antsy, you follow the Asterite across the deck. You have been on boats before, but they have only ever been the small vessels and dirges around the Mar da Candéa, short boats good for catching fish and braving the still waters of the inland sea. The wood beneath your boots feel much more solid, even imposing. The lines of cannon peeking from the ship’s sides remind you that this may be a diplomatic mission, but this ship comes from the Throne… and some of the mariners are carrying muskets.
Muskets…
# # # # # #
“Master, I hate it.”
“That makes two of us. But you’ll have to learn. Now aim it, use the ironsight — like you’d aim a crossbow.”
The foreign item feels unfamiliar in your hands. Heavy against your shoulder where you keep it still, and the mixture of polished wood and metal give it a manufactured look that reeked of merchants craft. Your stomach coils as you obey Master’s instructions and aim it at the plank of wood he pulled up, fifty paces ahead.
“Now pull the trigger.”
You do as he says, your finger hesitating just a moment, then a bang, the musket’s kickback pushing it into your shoulder — the white smoke coming out of its mouth, and the impact carving a single hole in the plank.
You set the musket down and check the inside, the hollow pipe from where you pushed down the bullet, like Master instructed you. It smells like sulphur and dust and burnt paper. You scrunch your nose up in disgust.
“Thoughts?” He asks.
“It’s crude.” You set it against a nearby tree, trying to distance yourself from the thing. “And slow. Archers have better fire rate. Why is the Holy Land even worried about these?”
“Because an archer — or a Knight — has to train all her life to hone her skills. But a peasant with bad knees can pick this up in a heartbeat and blow your jaw off,” he scoffs. “Back when I was your age, Frigéian muskets couldn’t hit the broad side of a house a hundred feet ahead. This is the first time you used one and tore a nice hole through that plank, didn’t you?”
“I— I have received training, Master. Under you.”
“Frigéians are also receiving training.” He picks the musket up, weighing it in his hands. “Skill cannot stop bullets. If you ever face men armed with these, there is only one thing you can hold on to.” He sets the musket, sideways, against his knee.
“And that would be?” But you already knew the answer. You just wanted Master to say it.
“Faith,” he replies, snapping the musket in a burst of splintered wood and groaning metal.
[cont.]
