Dungeon Sniper

Three rapid shots. The eager ones to get home got punished for their recklessness.

I aimed for the hearts, not the heads, for two reasons. One was that I feared if I missed, the arrows would fly out of the hut and land on the ground outside. The minetown was small, but its inhabitants did not seem too fond of sleep. I would not say that there was a crowd gathered outside, but it seemed as if there was at least one passerby in the vicinity—almost always heading toward the only pub in town.

The other reason, along the same line of reasoning, was to let them fall within the hut and not outside. The impact of the arrow on the head would make them fall backward and might even make them stagger outside the hut. At least an arrow to the c.h.e.s.t would divide the exerted force across the body and maintain the balance long enough for a Dwarf to either fall forward or bump into one another before collapsing onto the floor.

There was one adjustment I had to make, however: the broad shoulders of the Dwarves did not give me a clear shot to the heart on the third Dwarf behind the two in the front. So I had to shoot him in the head, expecting the last Dwarf nearest to the door would catch the backward falling Dwarf.

[Perk gained: Miner's Shoulders]

[Perk gained: Longevity]

[Skill gained: Iron Smith - Level A]

Two Dwarves crumbled the second after they were shot in the c.h.e.s.t. The limp Dwarf with the arrow sticking out his forehead was held awkwardly by the only Dwarf—it was Gimford—standing by the door, too shocked to let out a single noise come out of his agape mouth.

"Close the door, if you want to live," I said, already having nocked the fourth arrow and aiming straight at Gimford.

Gimford looked down at his fallen friends, then to the one held by his hands, let the dead body slip onto the floor with a start, and finally looked back at me, or at the unwavering point of the arrow that was only ten feet away from his face.

Gimford turned suddenly towards the door, showing his back at me, so I promptly fired the arrow on his leg. He fell, letting out a pained yell, but not before I leaped forward—courtesy of Horizontal Leaper Skill—and closed the door shut to Gimford's grimacing face.

"Too bad the whole town's drunk to hear you scream like a little girl back there," I said, kicking Gimford in the face—courtesy of Hyper Hind Legs—and knocking him over on his back.

Gimford sat up grabbing a bloody nose. His eyes were fearful, and despairing, at facing yet again the same, unmoving tip of the arrow following everywhere he turned his head.

"Don't give up already. At least put up a fight, for your life," I jeered, pleased and disgusted at the same time to see such a defeated foe.

"Why bother? I just saw you take them out in less than a second," Gimford stared at his three, still friends and looked away to the dark in the corner.

"So you're scared and would rather die than avenge their deaths?"

"I don't like fighting. I never did," grumbled Gimford, his eyes fixed on the arrow rather than me.

"But you love catching runaway Humans? Throw them a little dusty pouch and knock them out so you can drink beer off selling them?"

"Are you going to kill me or not?"

"In a minute. First, where's the blade?"

"At the pub, obviously."

I shot another arrow to the other leg. Gimford almost jumped in surprise and pain, followed by a frustrated yell and subsequent groaning.

"Be more specific," I said, knocking another arrow casually.

"The bartender, Mikahlic, has a stash of pawned goods just beneath the bar."

"Does your bar serve drinks to Humans?"

"Only if they're chained," scoffed Gimford, so I fired another arrow to his foot.

"Damn it, Human! How am I ever going to walk now?" cursed Gimford.

"How would you be walking when you're dead? You're not getting out of this hut alive, Gimmy."

Gimford's face turned pale, but he dared not say anything in fear of getting shot again.

Just as I was deciding whether to shoot him in the head or the heart, Gimford asked abruptly.

"You plan on getting that Orcish blade back?"

"Right after this arrow pierces through your brain, yes."

"Wait. Maybe I can help," Gimford raised his hands desperately.

"What, you have a good Skill stored in your head? Now shut up so I feel less bad about shooting a crippled coward."

"What's that about a skill in my head? I don't know what that means," frowned Gimford quizzically.

"You're not supposed to know. Good bye, Gimmy, it was 'not' a p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e meeting you."

"No, wait! Wait!" shouted Gimford, flailing and dragging himself across the floor by the arms in a pitiful attempt to live for another second.

"It's okay. It will be over in a second. Your friends will tell you the same thing, when you meet them... wherever you hairy pigs end up afterlife."

"In the arms of Benedikt the Benevolent."

"Whatever. You ready? I'm going for the head, so you may want to close your eyes. Not because it's better for you to not see the arrow coming your way—you can't see it anyway because it's too fast—but sometimes the eyes pop out from the pressure. Trust me, it's not a pretty sight. For me."

Yeah, I did not mention earlier because I did not want to be too graphic, but some of the headshot-ed Goblins had their eyes fall out of the sockets, or worse had them dangling by mucus-looking, muscle tissue... it was gross, all in all.

"How are you going to get your sword back? Are you going to kill everyone at the pub?" asked Gimford hurriedly.

"Seems like that's the only way, doesn't it?" I shrugged, my shoulder muscles taut with holding back the arrow for an extended time. The new Perk, Miner's Shoulders, allowed me to extend the time of drawing up arrows in a still position. Aside from the short flings at Gimford's legs and foot, I had yet to test if the Perk would give me an added damage, when my fully-bent, power-packed arrow went through the pathetic Dwarf's head.

"Please, just hear me out. You can kill me if you don't like the idea, but first listen to what I have to say," pleaded Gimford.

"I'm really not feeling—"

But Gimford cut me off and began to spew out his words fervently.

"How about you carry me to the pub? That way you don't have to kill anyone, or get hurt by anyone. We will get in there, get the blade, and get out, just like that. Now, I will tell others that I hurt my legs over a fight here, because everyone knows Carnelo is an ass—"

"You know what, he did seem like an a.s.s. I mean, that conversation with his mother? Unbelievable."

"Yes, Carnelo's the worst... 'was.' Anyway, we go back there, pay Mikahlic the money so you can have your sword back, I get to live because of my help, no one gets hurt, no one gets to die, everyone's happy and alive."

"Everyone, except for your friends," I nodded to the three corpses on the floor.

"Friends? Please, 'coworkers.' I hardly knew them, let alone liked them," frowned Gimford in faux exasperation before looking up at me with hopeful, expectant eyes.

And I stared back at them just before cl.i.c.k.i.n.g the tongue disapprovingly.

"There's one problem though," I shook my head.

"What is it? We can always make adjustments," beamed Gimford.

He was still smiling when the arrow shot past through the head and its tip protruded out of the head on the other side. The impact alone created the momentum that made the sitting Dwarf fall on his back, backflip completely while rolling on the floor, and land on his face, with a popped-out eyeball hanging by the side.

[Skill gained: Pouch Thrower]

"The problem is that your plan sucks."

.

.

.

Gimford was no fighter, as he said it himself. But did that mean the other Dwarves did not like to fight as well? If so, was it just the characteristic of this particular minetown or all of Dwarves?

Regardless of how bellicose the Dwarves were, the lack of weapons in this small town was a huge disappointment. I had left the hut with four dead Dwarves and broke into a few other empty huts in search of stocking up on arrows and other weapons, but all of the houses had basic house tools, such as silverware and small knives for cooking, and lots and lots of pickaxes and woodcutters. I seriously considered arming myself just with the sheer amount of pickaxes of various sizes and appearances.

But, in the end, I gathered some more arrows, plain, iron-tipped ones presumably used for hunting, and came across a sturdy bow that was unfortunately too small for me to use. So I stuck with Bowie the Hunting Bow that I had been carrying for some time now.

Gear:

Leather Jacket - in name only, just a bloody rag at this point

Ripped Pants - the perfect matching set with the jacket

Bowie

Quiver - 20 arrows

Kitchen Knife - Dwarven made, so that had to account for something

I named the kitchen knife that had freed me from the cuffs 'Kitty.' Welcome to my humble inventory, Kitty, and the line of nondescript but handy sidearm weaponry. I hoped Kitty would outlive the short lives its predecessors, Daggy and Cruedy, enjoyed before shattering into pieces or snapping into half, respectively.

The pub was located at the dead center of the small town. I remembered passing it on the way I was being carried to Gimford and company's cozy little hut.

As I mentioned, this town did not seem to like sleeping at all. Most of the huts were empty, but not abandoned, meaning the residents were away from their homes most of the time. I had to sneak from hut to hut, bush to bush to avoid a ubiquitous pedestrian on my way. The Dwarves traveled in only two directions, as it seemed. One was towards and from the entrance to the mine, and the other was the pub. After a prolonged observation, I figured that the Dwarves worked in shifts at the mine, and those relieved of duty would head directly to the pub. Nobody was sleeping at his hut. The night was too young, and the beer too tempting for the Dwarf race.

Lucky me, I thought. Half of the town's population was stuck inside the mine while the other half was gathered inside the pub, drunk, crowded, and unexpecting. This was just like any other night for them. Not even the most s.e.n.s.i.t.i.v.e and clairvoyant Dwarf would have predicted a certain kidnapped, robbed, and humiliated Human became very angry and motivated tonight, so much that he was willing to annihilate half of the town's population to get his talking sword and sense of dignity back. As much as it sounded random and improbable, it was happening. Oh, yes.

I skulked towards the pub. I had been wondering what the name of the pub was for some time, and when I got close to it, I saw that it had a sign, only I could not read the Dwarf language. But the picture drawn beneath the squiggly line gave me some hints. It was a crude drawing of a pickaxe inside a glass, in a fashion not unlike the little umbrella decoration in some c.o.c.ktail drinks. I stared at the drawing for some time, but it was clear that I would never learn its name by staring at it any longer.

I walked around the pub and checked the west entrance and parallel exit to the east on the other side of the building. It was a simple, rectangular one-floor shop, with just enough space to contain fifty or so individuals at once. I peeked at the window to see that around forty Dwarves were drinking and talking merrily inside. The happy, round faces smiled and laughed without a worry in this world, and it almost felt like it was time for Christmas watching the bearded, fat Dwarven faces in their colorful attire.

But I promised I would not be fooled anymore. I had my decision, and I would hesitate at the cost of my own life. No more daydreaming in the middle of a road or a foreign town. No more hoping that I was going to make friends in this world. Who was I kidding? I had one friend before, and that one friend poisoned me to death for some—well, a lot of—money. And certainly no more c.o.c.kiness. Always doubt, be on alert, and have the first strike. That was my motto from now on.

I had seen the callous looks on the Dwarves when they saw me being carried away and paraded through the town. They were the same greedy, cruel members of the Dwarf race. To them, Humans meant money to pay off a night's drink. I was sure the moment I entered the pub, there would be some drunk, reckless goons trying to capture me and sell me away.

There was only one way to find out.

I walked towards the entrance and opened the door. The warm air and loud noises of the pub greeted me. It was all very uncomfortable, especially in consideration of what was about to happen. I said I was going to f.u.c.k them all, sure. But it would take some time for me to really enjoy the process. As sociopathic as that sounded, that was the goal.

A few Dwarves near the entrance noticed me first and stared at me with mild surprise. The silence was contagious and soon the entire pub was staring at the Human by the entrance. All eighty eyes, curious, beady eyes about to turn greedy.

I cleared my throat.

"Disclaimer. I'm not a runaway slave, and if you try to capture me and sell me away as one, you will regret for your lives, if you have one left after tonight, that is."

I looked around the blinking faces. Some of the more formidable looking ones stood up from the table and stretched their short necks threateningly.

"Proposal. Ladies, and some gentlemen, I cannot tell which from which, and those who do not like to see either blood on them or their blood on me, they should all leave now, for their own good."

"We've got a crazy stray in the house," guffawed one of the drunk Dwarves, breaking the silence.

No one moved or left. I quickly counted the heads. Thirty-six Dwarves still in their seats, smirking at me.

"Isn't that the runaway that Carnelo and the gang caught this evening?" a voice called out from the crowd.

"Yeah, and Carnelo and the gang are dead," I answered before anyone could.

The laughter died down. A more serious silence took over.

"How so?"

"I killed them," I said.

Stools fell over and the Dwarves stood up with haste, and heat.

"This one's not just crazy. He's dangerous."

"Someone go check Carenlo's. See if it's true."

"And don't come back. You just might live. Don't push your luck, buddy," I called out to the back of the Dwarf hurrying out through the exit.

The other Dwarves had gathered around me, the closest one not even five feet away from where I stood.

"What do the brokers pay these days for a male stray? Anybody know?" asked the biggest Dwarf who stepped forward, spitting at my feet.

"Not sure. One-hundred-fifty gold?" said a voice from the back.

"And for a crazy, beaten-to-a-pulp one?" the large Dwarf cracked his knuckles.

"Brokers don't accept damaged goods, Grangar. Remember last time with that little girl? Barely over ten, normally a premium good, but she was missing half of her teeth by the time we turned her in. Two rounds of beer and the money ran out, so how much is that?"

"Too 'much' of teeth left, if you ask me. Imagine what those sick Elves would have paid for a toothless slave?"

The Dwarves laughed, some of them imitating a perverted, mocking motion of moving their heads back and forth as if giving heads.

There. Something extra to make my blood boil from the inside. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and opened them again for the last speech, the declaration of yet another lone man's war.

"Ultimatum. I have twenty arrows. There's thirty-six of you. Now, that doesn't mean I'm going to spare the sixteen just because you won't be facing the ceiling with arrows sticking out between the eyes. What I'm going to do is, I'm going to cut the rest of you into little Dwarf salamis, but only after the arrows run out. So, I'm being generous here, if you run now, I will not pursue."

"Look, crazy Human, I don't know what you heard about us here at Minetown. We may not be soldiers, but we are strong. We mine for living, and we crush rocks so big that make your head look like a pebble next to them. And we turn them into dust, with our b.a.r.e hands, in our sleep even," growled Grangar as he took another step in my direction.

"This place is literally called 'Minetown?' That's boring. What's the name of this pub, then?" I asked, mildly amused.

"Pick X Drink," answered Grangar.

"Clever. That's more like it."

"What are you doing, Human? Stalling for time? Realizing you made a mistake too late? Looking for a chance to bail?"

"If you really want to know, I've been picturing thirty-six tombstones with the place of deaths inscribed below. You don't have to tell me your names though, because I don't care."

"Perhaps you didn't run away. Your masters kicked you out because you're so nutty."

"Well, I have bosses, not masters, and yes, I was kicked out of their office to do one job. That is, to find some 'bugs,' fix them while at it."

"Fix them on, like what, needles for your masters to look at?"

"You wouldn't understand even if I told you," I sighed.

"Either way, it sounds like the job for a slave," scoffed Grangar, picking a stool and crashing it onto the floor so now he was grabbing a makeshift club with splintery ends and hanging nails.

"Or a god."

"Sure, but enough talking, Human. Let's dance," Gragar swung his stool-club menacingly. The other Dwarves inched closer, some with proper weapons like knives and—yes, of course—pickaxes while others grabbed other bar-fight classics like the upside-down glass bottles and splintered mop handles.

I glanced up and took in the lamp hanging by the ceiling.

A moth was idly flying, heedless of the 'neath's rioting.

I took out the arrow and shot at the lamp's chainring.

The lamp fell and shattered, and the light had gone missing.

The moth's dance was over, but mine was just starting.

And I had thirty-six partners waiting for some dirty dancing.

Bloody and dirty, and none alive to see the ending—

But me, standing alone, soaked in blood, by the morning.

DK, drop the beat.