[Killing Fey Filled Regrets] [Fantasy] [Videogame] [Shooter] [PG-10] [Blood]

Killing Fey Filled Regrets
Written by J. J. Bartel
Fantasy, Videogame, Shooter, Fey, PG-10, Blood

I squeezed the trigger. My rifle shot a white streaking bullet that pierced through the Katzenveit’s red cap. White light poured out the wound, eye sockets, mouth, and ears. If that thing had brains, they were sizzling mush now. The body dropped to the ground and turned to charcoal dust, leaving behind a skin fragment and a cap. It was a clear view from our small hill. Yes, our hill. 

“Man, we live in a weird world, Paul,” Alleck said behind me. 

I rolled my eyes, “It’s Mr. Voltz to you.”

Pulling the lever up, then pulling it back. The cartridge popped out, making a tiny ding when it hit the ground. A new one clicked into place. I pushed the lever forward and down.  

“You don’t call me Mr. Troll.” 

“Only for basic decency.” Looking down the rifle sights into the shallow valley below, there was a group that a fool would call panicked children. If children were hairy like goats, wearing red caps dyed red in their victim’s blood. Only a fool would call them children.  

“Man, wolves, or children, the rumors were right. You always go for the head,” Alleck interrupted. He patted my back. Twice. The nerve. I pull the trigger. The bullet penetrates, white light pours out, and the body drops, now nothing more than charcoal dust. The dwindling group looks all around. 

“Why not take the big one in the middle?” The interruption asks. 

“Katzenveits travel in packs like wolfs. As long as the leader is around, they will stay close,” all the while getting back into the rhythm of loading, pulling, popping, clicking, pushing, firing my rifle, all before the previous ejected cartridge fell to the ground. As the cartridge bounces in the grass, the fired bullet pierces another cap, another burst of white light, and another one dead. I stare down at the sights. Aim—one to the right. Squeeze the trigger. Bullet streak. Finally, my flow-”

“Ah, and we need as many as possible. Good thinking.” Alleck My hands freeze. I breathe. He pats my back. Twice. As if I’m stressed—the nerve. 

“Remind me why I don’t just shoot you and return to my stouts?” 

“Third time asking won’t change the answer. It’s 4-piece per cap you turn in, and each one has a chance to drop a Black Fey Bullet per kill, one of the few kinds you don’t have in your collection.” 

“It’s a full silver for these white bullets and 2-piece to restock, so a loss of three.” 

“Even if you go back, all these undead fey are pulling humans out of their graves, making all sorts of zombies. They are eating all the merchants that trade the beer. If you are going to be stout-less, might as well make some money.”  

He drones on and I don’t have to turn around to know that he explains too much, all with that grin. That smug assurance pours out of him like blood from gut-shot. What matters is the flow. Three left. As he bleeds smugness, I pull. Pop. Click. Push. Aim. Squeeze. Streak. Light. Drop. Two left. The pair notices where the sound is coming from. Pop. Click. Their long ears twitch. Push. Aim. Hairy fingers point at us. They open their mouths. Squeeze. Streak. Body drops. The leader screams a mix of hiss and grunting gags. Without a group it’s afraid. Black and brown matted hair melts into the body. Arms warp into flat wing bits. Legs split apart from two to eight. Attenae come from the cap. It stuck its tongue out, stretched out, and curled in on itself. The Katzenveit shrinks to the size of a moth, bigger than my hand, with a brown-black body and wings with a dried blood-red head. It flits away, heading into the forest. I pull the gun to my shoulder. 

“-and remember that if we somehow kill a death-touched Fey Lord, it’s 100 gold! Not gold pieces, whole gold coins. Huh? Why are you moving?”  

“Our pack-less leader will have to go into the forest. Two choices. Either gather stragglers or fight and win against another leader. We follow the moth after you wiggle your fingers, boy.” 

“Is that what you’re calling my A+ Ather magic?” He asked, reaching for several sacks. 

“Based on what I know of scholastic types, B- at best.”

“I will have you know that I would be at the top of the class!” Alleck began to use his fingertips to trace the energy within his body made circles, curves, and swirls, a strong breeze came. It looked like a carpet of wind, the edges lined with a faint purple, like a cloth bookmark.That wind picked up each hat and put them in Alleck’s various sacks one after another. 

Something seemed off so I had to ask, “Would?”

Alleck shrugged his shoulders, “Betrayal. What else could stop me?” He opened another sack by his side and nimbly lifted the drops and my used shells into the sack. 

“Whatever boy,” I said, already walking towards the moth in the distance. Some fools may want the conversation to continue, but I am no fool. I just need the flow. Stouts, sniping, it doesn’t matter. I just want to get the good flow-

“What would you know of betrayal?” Alleck interrupted behind me. 

“Yours. You were in the tavern for hours but waited until my second stout to bring up that contract.” 

“What, drunk after two?” 

“You were hoping for that. Scholarly types, drunk after two. If you had an honest contract for me, you would have come with paper and stout in hand.”  

“Well, school taught me that if clever enough, one can get away with betrayal. In the runes and relationships, honesty won’t always win. Sometimes you must mix the runs and not let your friends or teachers mix the drinks. Now, to the present, I get 11 hats, turn them all in for credit, and they will have to let me graduate. So let’s hop to it!” 

I sigh to myself. He pats my back. I walk faster. 

“What, afraid of kindness too?” he teased—the nerve.  

“The target has been circling the same area. It encountered a new group. We need to get to the top of that hill.” 

His face changed, his whole demeanor becoming more tense. Once in a while he can take things seriously. We got to the back of the hill, dropped to hands and knees and crawled up to the top, where I flung my good rifle over my back and into a stable position. The tag-along had enough sense to get to my side. The red-headed, black-bodied moth was flitting about a new pack. It began to dart amongst them and fell to the ground. Quickly, it turned back to itself and began sputtering and hissing at the pack. 

“Alright, start blasting those child monsters and call it good.” The welp said. 

“Something’s very wrong.” 

“Can it be solved by shooting at it?” 

I elbow his side, “Katzenveits are normally up to your knees. Leaders rarely come up to the waist.”

“So?” 

“Take a hard look at the group in front of us. You tell me which one is the leader.” 

“Sure, I just pick the tallest …” His voice dies out, and in my peripheral vision, I can see confusion giving way to fear, the emotion more open on his face than a flesh wound.  

He looked at me and said, “They are all the same size. So all of them are leaders?” 

“Former leaders.” 

Alleck looks at me and back at the group, “Undead get bigger or denser as they get stronger, so what is strong enough to lead the leaders?” 

A terrible hiss came from the monsters by the forest’s edge. Our target began fighting the others, wounding one deep in the chest. The loser cried out, gurgling on its greenish-black blood. From the forest came a new monster. It was like a red cap leader, but darker in color and mood, and worst of all, when dealing with any fey, older. A fast form, flung by its own wind, smashed into our target, killing it instantly. This much larger creature grabbed our target’s hat and head in one hand and ripped it off the neck. Monstrous fluid bubbled from the neck wound like a poorly sealed cartridge dropped in a stout. 

“That’s the leader, a Death-Touched Fey Lord?” 

“If that, we would be dead. It’s almost worse.”

“Worse, what could be worse than a lord-strong monster?” 

“See the scar?” 

“The nasty one on its eye?” 

“It’s not just an Altere Ather Scrat, it’s my Altere Ather Scrat, a nasty fey of the ather, riding the wind and ripping the heads off with a breeze.” 

While the more enormous beast was nibbling on our target, Alleck’s face lit up remembering facts from tomes. “Oh yes, I remember reading about them. Some fey are known as spirits, Scrats, for their shapeshifting trickery. So we got a cannibal undead?” 

I growled, “Worse. That Fey killed my previous, better, partner. It ambushed us three years ago. I blinked and he lost his head. His runic winds took out an eye. Spitful even in death.” Remembering his personality made me smile.    

“So we kill it and take revenge for your buddy?” 

“No. If it’s leading a pack that large of Katzenveits, it will use them as meat shields and run when the first one dies. I must focus fire on it, irritate it, and then swap between the leader and pack members. Killing a horde is not easy with a single shot.” 

“So what do I do?” 

“Stay out of the way, and try not to die.” 

“But I came from the High Ather College. I know more than wind. I won’t let you go this alone. Alone is how bully groups get you.” 

The pipsqueak kept squeaking on, but it didn’t matter. I go into my shooting flow. A streak strikes the Scrat in the mouth. It falls back, sputtering blood and spit. There is one to the far side. One bullet and it dies. Then another. Then the third. The fourth one drops dead before the Altere Ather Scrat gets up, screaming, a strange mangled purple energy radiates out. I drop another one instead of shooting the Scrat again. 

That was my mistake. 

It’s purpleish wind touches me. Its eyes light up in fury, pointing and hissing at our position. The Katzenveits start running. I aim for the Scrat, the other eye, and pull the trigger. It grabbed a nearby Katzenveit and held it up. The bullet killed the meat shield. It is now running with them up to me. I tried to keep switching between the pack and my friend’s murderer, but there were too many. The Scrat and seven of its lackeys were up my hill in moments. A sniper like me does not do well in a close combat horde. I want to take one more out in memory of my partner in stouts. 

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw fingers move. Multiple thin, faint winds lined with purple energy wrapped around several Katzenveit’s necks. A smooth squeeze beheaded four. 

“Kid, no!” I screamed out. He sent out another blast of wind, trying to kill the rest, and that’s a mistake. The Scrat grabbed one of its own, then started running on top of his runic wind to be upon him instantly. I desperately tried to shoot it, but he flung the last one my way. The Altere Ather Scrat was almost upon him. In this moment, I knew the kid’s dead. 

Until I saw the pibsqueak’s other hand. 

While one hand called wind, the other moved erratically, jaggedly, like a cartridge misfire. First there was yellow, orange, then a red flame came from the hand and burned the wind. That purple-red windy fire wrapped around the fey. Even from a distance I could smell the burning flesh like gunpowder, rotting pine wood, and spoiled stouts. It rolled around the ground, howling and sputtering. 

The boy screamed, “Take your revenge!” The nerve. No need to tell me twice. Instinct already made my hand load the bullet. I aimed, smiled, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet broke a tooth and smashed into its brain. I kept reloading and firing, even after the monster’s body stopped moving, even after the monster’s head became more pale ammo than malicious flesh. The boy went to my side and patted me on the back—the nerve. I looked at him, really looked at him and realized that he had, no, always had a sharpness to his eyes, that could give anyone a papercut. 

“Thanks, Alleck. I guess you are a B+ student.” 

“I was the top of my class for cosmic studies. Air, light, fire, the works. And now, with 11 caps, I can graduate! Though, if I don’t take a shower before then, they might not let me past the gates.” 

“In my long experience of frequent betrayal, if they expected you to fight monsters this far above your grade, they won’t let you graduate.” I spat on the Scrat, its body fading away into ash and flickering light. His exuberance was quickly muted. 

I sighed and said, “So, in between stouts, I will be shooting. A sniper and collector combo, we can charge way more for our services.” 

“That sounds awesome, Paul.” 

“It’s still Mr. Voltz to you, Alleck.”

 

References of German Nature:
Paul means humble.
Voltz means wolf.
Alleck means warrior.
Troll means strong but also simpleton.
Katzenveit – sounds like kat-zen-fight – Red-capped hairy wood elf spirit that often transforms into butterflies for long-distance travel. A variation of Scrat, Waltschrat – sounds like Walt-scrat.
Ather- sounds like A-ter – refers to ether, an ancient concept of outer space including air, fire, and other stuff.
Ältere – A-ta-her, german for elder