"BANG" a gunshot rips through the air as a Cloud of Smoke plumes out of a reproduction of a Springfield 1861 Rifle, the Minié ball hits the deadcenter of the target.
A muscular silhouette steps out of the Smoke with a satisfied smile on his face. The 2 meter tall man is called Paul Striker the maker of this beautiful rifle and the owner of the Striker Gunshop. His rough and scarred hand meticulously wipes away any residual gunpowder before putting the Rifle away in a Custom wooden box.
A tiny tear comes out of his green eye and flows down his cheek falling into his long red beard, it is always emotional for Paul when a new Gun is finished and ready for his customer.
"Another beautiful rifle doomed to end on a stand in someones living room!" Paul says to himself, he despises this part of his job. It might be the viking lineage in his blood but everyone in his family was obsessed with crafting and wielding weapons, his father and Grandfather were genius blacksmiths and Paul lost himself in his job as a Gunsmith. They all had a deep rooted pride in their craft and the weapons they created. And the one thing that they all hated was their weapons being used as some kind of artwork and just laying around instead of being used.
But in the modern world it was just a dream to create weapons and see them used regularly and Paul understood, he didn´t want to see his weapons being used to kill people but he just didn´t want them to lie around an be forgotten. And he also had bills to pay, so he reluctantly sells his treasured creations in hope that atleast some of his customers use them on a shooting range and aprecciate his work.
"Well time to wrap up for today." Paul thought to himself as he removed his leather apron, he walked into the bathroom and took off his beige linen shirt. He threw water in his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror, he saw himself in his green Eyes that sparkled with life, his skin tough as bark and a fire red beard braided and decorated with golden and bronze rings,the hair cut short on the side ending in a short braid that runs down to his neck. His upper body while muscular riddled with scars he received while sparring with his father with sharp swords.
A glint of happiness sparkling on his face as Paul put on a new shirt as he walked towards his treasure hoard, he typed in the combination and opened the thick steel door and entered his gun storage at the back of the house. No matter how often Paul enters this room he's still as amazed as everyone else would be.
A gigantic amount of weapons sparkles with a metalic glint, hundreds of rifles, pistols and machinguns several swords and axes even one or two cannons could be seen in the corner. All of them crafted by hand from Paul, all well maintained and ready to be used.
"Which beautie shall we take today?" Paul whispers while he walks through the rifle area inspecting some here and there. As always the decision is difficult, he owns guns from all eras in all kinds of shapes and sizes, all crafted by himself and every gun gets used atleast once a year.
Slowly but surely the table in the center of the room gets filled with guns Paul will be firing today, first a M14, then a M1911, a Mg0815 he also takes some historic weapons like an arquebus and a small hand cannon. Next Paul sorted the needed blackpowder and smokeless gunpowder and the bullets. He prepared the brass casings and powderloads as needed and filled the machinegun belt with preloaded cartridges.
Paul then spent two hours shooting his chosen guns using all the prepared ammunition, next he spent another hour cleaning and maintaining his weapons. He cleaned them thoroughly to prevent corosion as especially traditional blackpowder is corosive and damaging to the weapons if not cleaned properly. After cleaning Paul applied some oil to his guns and put them back in his gun room, he closed the door and started to walk to his kitchen.
He made himself a quick dinner and wanted to go to bed when he suddenly heard a strange sound coming from his living room. At first he thought that it must have been the neighbours cat again that sneaked himself into his house, but something still urged him to check it out.
"Hello?" Paul called "Is someone there?" Paul didn´t expect an answer to his call but a loud noise rang through his home, it sounded like someone stumbled and dropped something heavy. Adrenaline flowed through Pauls veins as he rushed downstairs to his living room and found a burglar in his home.
The Burglar wearing shabby clothes mostly dark colors and earthen tones, filled with holes didn´t really look intimidating especially in comparison to the two meter tall modern Viking riddled with scars and full of muscles. But Paul wasn´t prepared at all for a fight and just stood frozen in the doorframe still trying to comprehend the situation.
The burglar charged with a drug-fueled courage towards Paul sloppily waving around a dirty knife he pulled out of his equally dirty pants. Only in the last moment Paul snapped out of his trance barely trying to evade the attack of his opponent. The knife still grazed his arm and a slight stream of blood started pouring out of his arm. Paul and the burglar circled eachother, Paul still stayed back and kept evading all attacks, he had no choice, his opponent is armed and Paul is unarmed, he was at a disadvantage.
But Paul wasn´t without a plan, slowly but surely he managed to position himself near the fireplace and after the criminal attacked once again Paul managed to grab the small hatchet he kept at the fireplace to chop kindling. Now the playing field was evened and Paul wasn´t forced into the defensive anymore.
But Paul still tried to scare the criminal off as he didn´t want to kill, he also hoped that the commotion alarmed his neighbours so that they call the police. But the criminal forced Paul to act, so he steeled himself and also started attacking. A disgusting crunch could be heard as Pauls hatched buried itself into the shoulder of the burglar and blood dyed the ground and the clothes of the burglar in glistening red.
Suddenly the criminal unhindered by his wound attacked Paul in a frenzy, like a berzerker he stabbed and slashed at Paul feeling no pain. Paul was caught off guard because he didn't expect his opponent to just ignore this devastating wound. He was caught on the wrong foot and frantically tried to evade which he managed to do. He only felt a slight twitch on his chest before he could find his bearing and started fighting back again.
Soon the fight was over, the criminal just didn´t have a chance against a Paul that aimed to end the fight by killing his opponent. Paul stared down on the corpse of the criminal breathing heaviely, he felt terrible. As the rush of the battle slowly faded Paul fell powerless to his knees, he felt weak and he felt as he has to throw up. At first Paul thought that it was the adrenaline and the shock that made him feel that way but he felt colder and colder.
Paul tried to stand up but strength left his body and he fell backwards against the wall leaving him to sit on the ground. Now Paul knew that something was wrong he looked down and checked himself, with horror he discovered the big puddle of blood gathering below him. And soon he started feeling the pain emanating from his chest but before he could really understand how bad he was wounded he started throwing up blood.
After Paul threw up he finally saw the big gashing wound on his chest gushing blood sapping his strength away. He knew that he could only wait for death his consciousness was fading and his vision periodically faded to black. Paul started seeing things, at first it was memories, days he spent with his father and grandfather in the forge, the first time he held a gun. He also saw his dead wife on their wedding day, but something felt off. Somehow his wife looked different than he remembered and why did she have wings and armor?
With this fought his consciousness faded completely as he felt a slight tug on his back as everything turned black.
But some endings are just beginnings...