Clarke led me to a small tent beside his own. The discrepancy in size made me wonder at the old man's ego, but when I looked inside, I saw that it was a workshop. Meanwhile, my own was just a cot and a pack and pair of rough chairs. Luxury, by my measure.

  I sat down and checked my face with a hand mirror I had been lent.

  Holy hell.

  I looked bad. Real bad. My right cheek was nearly gone, a flap of skin hanging loose, the bone visible beneath. It hurt, sure. But, well not as bad as it ought. The real problem was that there was still sand trapped in my growing skin.

  I knew it would heal, but I didn't want a face full of grit.

  So I got my knife. And I began to pick.

  "Ow motherfuckin'-"

  "Is this a bad time?" came a little voice from behind my back.

  "It's always a bad time for stinkin' lizards what throw themselves onto folks," I hissed, then I gestured to the other chair, "sit. Hand over them goods."

  The red scaled girl, Xoxoctic, a name I could not spell with a gun to my head, dropped a sack of banknotes on the table. Then, a slender, green vial.

  Well... Maybe I wasn't so mad. That was a lot of bread and cheddar. Big mulah. And that vial...

  "Why's it green?"

  Elixirs were red. At least the kind brewed by honest Maidens of the Apothecary. Everyone knew that.

  "What? You're worried about the color?” She asked, “Shouldn’t you be more worried about your, well, your face? What's left?"

  I gave her a hell hound's hateful glare.

  "My face, little miss, is a work in progress. It’ll grow back just as sure as manabears shit in the woods. Your color here,” I said flickin’ the deeply suspicious vial, “could damn well be a matter of life and death. I ain’t an educated man-”

  “Obviously.”

  “-but I don’t trust any magic I can’t figure at a glance. You go drinkin' oddly colored potions and you'll turned into a newt. Or worse, impotent.”

  It was well known that witches and their spawn loved turnin’ Chantry fearin’ men impotent. It wasn’t true, my granny was a witch and never cursed a soul, but it was still known.

  "Its green because, I made it with a few different ingredients. The recipe is from back home," she said jabbing a clawed finger to the skies.

  "You from one of them flesh cities?" I asked, curious enough to forget I was tryin’ to get mad.

  "Uh huh. I was Pure Stock. Fated to please the gods.” she sneer the words, “Decided against it and made the jump."

  I whistled. Again, didn't know shit, but that sounded mighty impressive.

  "Well fine, I'll keep it on me then," I said tucking the vial into a leather case on my belt, "this makes us even, I guess. Better thank your pappy, Professor Clarke, he has a way about him. Knows how to make peace easy, because normally a stunt like yours gets a person shot... Speakin' of," I held out a hand, "believe you said something about swiping my pistol to?"

  Her scaled lips parted, vertical pupils open a hair, I could almost smell the lie comin', "well, about that..."

  "Hand it over you red little bastard," I snarled, "I been real patient but I need that gone. My scatter got a little banged up," and by that I mean it was some kind of fucked after my drop from the cove loft. Some mechanism had been jammed and the breech wouldn't open right.

  I still had a spare pistol, but one gun was hardly enough.

  "Um," the little reptile shifted her feet, and I saw her tail twitch. Must be uncomfortable threading through the chair like that. Made me ponder questions of her anatomy that weren't much proper.

  "Spit it out. You better not'a lost my-"

  "I'm working on it," she said with a huff, "I felt really, really bad about all of this. Though I could smooth things over between us by improving your weapon. That, and I didn't want you to shoot me if I just gave it back right after."

  Clever girl.

  "So... What're you doin' to it?" I asked, suddenly interested.

  I'd never gotten an education in, well, much of anything. But I had always had an interest and appreciation for gunsmithin' and particle artifice. Somethin' was real alluring about turning regular steel into a magical implement of death. A mundane pistol just didn't pack the same punch.

  "I can show you, if you swear to be less of a dick."

  I scratched some sand out the scabrous mess that was the left side of my face.

  Well, what's a little maimin' between new friends? I'd be working close with this lot for at least a week. Forgive, but don't you ever forget.

  "Deal."

  "Good. Follow me."

  We crossed the short space between my tent and Clarke's.

  He busy eyebrow and caterpillar mustache poked out, cold blue eyes studied me, hard, "Ah, Xoxoctic, I see you've already gone and begun to make amends. Good. And thank you, Mister Roche. I was quite worried that you and that pig would have my best student on a spit before the day was out."

  "Nah, I ain't one for cannibalism, and I only feed evil bastards to my pig." He laughed.

  It wasn't a joke. Never was.

  "Just going to show Mister Roche my experiments into artifice, Professor Clarke. I think he will enjoy what I have been working on for his pistol," she said, smiling.

  The old man frowned.

  "You have him compensate him if he doesn't. Next time, ask before you swipe a Crusader's pistol,” Clarke gave me quick look when he said that, but I could figure quiet why, “They're very particular about them, and for good reason. Many are family heirlooms or enchanted."

  I shrugged, "Lifted mine off a dead man. No sentiment, just utility. And I can't say I blame anyone for disarming me while I was out. I would'a done the same. But I'm curious to see what she's done."

  Clarke gave a curt nod and gestured for the two of us to continue.

  I tipped my hat.

  Sho-Sho-ta... Sho-Sha... Sho, shorty.

  That's it! Fits too. Damn them Outcast names was a mouthful.

  Shorty, led me round through the collection of tents. A few more folk popped out of field workshops and alchemy labs to say hi. Most looked at me a bit like stray dog with foam and blood on his muzzle, but a few were just happy to have a gun hand in camp.

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  I was shown around a small kitchen and a storage tent, a few dig sites and a latrine.

  We arrived at Shorty tent, placed right up against the great carved cliff. A few steps down was boarded and sealed entrance carved into the ancient structure itself.

  She jerked a thumb at the ominous little hole, "That's the entrance to the dig, sealed awaiting your arrival from the guild. The Professor will probably take us in tomorrow, assuming your face is fixed by then."

  "I'll be fine," I said, then gestured to her tent, "but for now, let's have a look at what you done to my shooter."

  She pulled back the flap and revealed a small, but well-equipped workshop. Emphasis on small. The place was sized for a halfling, which tracked. Shorty was a few scales away from being them folk's kin.

  On the table was my pistol, laid out in parts. She'd cleaned it all good, could see the sheen of a little too much oil, but what drew my eyes was the tendrils of mana that bled from a series of new runes.

  My arcane eye focused hard on the pistol. barrel. Somethin' in me read the inscription, despite knowing nothing of the magical tongue.

  "Dragon's Breath?" I asked in absent awe. Even a fool could recognize good magic, with a little help from a mutant's eye.

  "Oh?" she looked at me hard, "you can read that?"

  I shrugged, "Sorta," I pressed a finger to the scar just below my too-green eye, "this un's special, see."

  Her gaze was a mixture of curiosity, wonder, and envy.

  "Your Patron? Didn't think humans like mutation from... Things other than the Gods."

  Ooops. Too honest Roche. Just cause she's technically a girl doesn't mean you ought to go spilling your black guts.

  "We're here to talk about my gun, Shorty. Focus on the task at hand."

  "Shorty?" her eyes narrowed and a low hiss escaped her throat.

  Oops again.

  "Uh, well, I just, it's like, I ain't heard much of the Outcast tongue so..."

  Her lips tightened, then a flash of realization saved me from a, very much deserved, smack, "Oh. You can't say Xoxoctic right, so you call me Shorty?"

  "Um, yeah. Figured it was disrespectful to butcher your name." Which was kind of true. Never mind I was just too lazy to learn.

  "Right, well," she let out a sigh, "call me that, then. I guess. As long as it's not a joke about my height. I'm really sensitive about that."

  "Okay," I muttered and fished out a crumbled smoke, "now, explain why you done carved Draconic onto my gun?"

  She nodded and went into a long-winded explanation about the intricacies of magical artifice.

  My eyes glazed right over.

  I couldn't follow a damn thing she was sayin' about the technical aspects of her work, but in the end, it boiled down to this: that fuckin' shot fire now. Well, technically it was an arcane flame, which was a touch different, didn't burn wood as well as lifeforce and mana, and it was blue. But still.

  "-now this does mean a significant increase in lifeforce cost. I don't know how your Path has affected your mana pool, but you'll be lucky to shoot twice, or maybe even just once."

  "Once," I growled, "or twice? You turned my six-shooter into a single shot?"

  "No!" she said, raising her claws, "No, it'll still handle the usual number of mundane rounds. It's just if you activate the runes to enhance the shot that it will take a chunk out of you. I'm working on cost reduction while preserving the integrity of the rune matrix, but there are limits to the thaumaturgical techniques and adapting my own cultures-"

  "Shut up," I said and grabbed up the gun, "follow me."

  I strode out the tent, and pulled a handful of dusty rounds from a jacket pocket.

  "Wait! I haven't-"

  "Tested it? I mean to fix that right now," I snapped the cylinder open and struggled a little to fast load the shots. My hands, my arms, they'd grown a little more cooperative each day, but I wasn't quite back to perfect form. I'd need to do some more dexterity drills with each tendril before I felt confident in myself again.

  After a few fumbles I managed to load the gun and snapped it shut.

  Shorty kept fast on my heels as I left the tents behind.

  Moxie caught sight of us from the deep hole she'd dug and gave a greeting snort. Then an unhappy squeel as she put a beady eye on the red-scaled mischief maker.

  The girl jump.

  "Oh my gods. Why do you ride a razorback hog anyway? You know those things are man-eaters, right?"

  I shrugged, "She was there. I like pigs. And she certainly is," I muttered as I drew a bead on a distant cactus. It was big and ugly, and I was tired of lookin'.

  Boom. The muzzle flashed and the pistol bucked in my hand.

  I put a clean round right through an unsightly arm. The plant slumped a little, and I could only hope it was in pain.

  "Normal works. How do I do the flames?"

  Shorty blinked and dug fingers into her small ears, "What?" she hissed.

  I repeated my question, a little louder.

  "Oh, well, you have to channel mana into the rune itself. You can either assign an activation word, which I recommend, it's safer, or do it by touch. But that's a bit slower."

  "Activation word," I scoffed, "so folk can hear me and get out the way? No thanks."

  I holstered the gun, then drew again with a whip and flourish.

  Nearly dropped the damn thing.

  This time, I extended a finger, pushing it long thanks to the tendrils that made my arms up. I barely touch the runes and poured my mana in. Magic came slow, but it came. I felt something in me flow, and the runes lit up bright red.

  It felt like I'd just walked the desert for a full day. She wasn't exaggerating the cost.

  Boom! This time, a gout of blue flame burst from the muzzle and I damn near got knocked on my ass.

  That recoil was fuckin' wild.

  "Whoo! Wee!" I yipped as that son-a-bitch cactus ignited-

  Then exploded.

  Fire and green pulp rained down. A few embers even fell on Shorty and me.

  "My ears..." she whined, "And that's why you have an activation word."

  I didn't hear her.

  I didn't hear much since I got my first gun. Since the day I first felt that thrill of firepower in my hands.

  "Good work, little red," I said, and holstered my smoking iron, "You're a real artist. Now I got one more for ya to fix."

  “How did you even reach the runes to use physical activation?” she asked, I ignored.

  I moseyed on to Moxie. Shorty stopped, maybe in wonder, maybe just in fear of my noble steed.

  But when I drew my scatter gun from it's saddle holster, all hesitation seemed to evaporate.

  "Gods," said little red as she pattered on up. Moxie gaze a disapproving snort but was too comfortable to maul anyone just then, "is that a genuine Mark Four Scattergun? Nickel plated, darkwood frame, pistol grip for maximum portability?"

  I nodded, and she moved to take it from me. I drew it back before greedy claws could take my best gun.

  "Give it to me," she whined, and made a grabby gesture with both claws, "I can fix the busted breech. And look! This rune is scratched. That thing isn't even functioning anymore. I can repair it and reduce the cost. Please, please let me fix it!"

  Oh my. What is this? Leverage, I think.

  I love making friends, but I really like making debts.

  "Alright, I might," I said, playing it cool, letting her rest just one claw on the polished stock, "but uh, I'm need some assurance if I let you touch my best gun. I know you didn't mean nothin' on the road, and that's the past, but this here's my money maker. She come to me in a arcane locked case on a cursed beach. I need to know she'll come back to me, better than ever."

  Shorty gave me a hard look, "You're serious?"

  "I'm serious."

  "You know this will benefit you far more than me. The firearm is fancy, but currently inoperable. If you're worried I'll damage it, don't be. You've already fucked it up enough. Listen Mister Roche, I can see that this is important to you, and that you have no idea how to go about repairing it. Either trust me for free, or don't."

  Well. Shit.

  Here I thought the little dragon didn't have no fangs. Wrong again Lorcan. Wrong again.

  Seemed she wasn't above some hard bargaining now and again. That earned her some respect from me.

  "Fine, fine," I said and handed over my precious scattergun, "but you get it done soon. If ya'll want me going into some dark and spooky tomb, I need a shooter for close range."

  She nodded, and held the gun like it was precious, I respected that too, "I have nothing else to do right now. If you want, you come and watch me work. I'll even answer questions if you can ask them intelligibly."

  I replayed the last few minutes, and wondered, had I just played myself?

  I think so.

  "Fuck it," I said and pulled out a smoke, "lead the way. Can I interest you in some ghostleaf, little lady?"

  She held the shotgun tight with one hand and frowned at me, "Smoking is bad for your health."

  I shrugged and lit a match, "Yeah, and so is gettin' shot at. So I'm still smokin'."

  "You're exactly what we expected, Mister Roche," She sighed, "Please try to be more than a gun-toting, booze-drinking, cigar-chewing buffoon on this expedition."

  "You forgot tom-cattin' and pig-ridin'" I helpfully corrected.

  She gave me a withering stare, "Just don't try 'tom-catting' with Miss Yollotli. She eats boys like you alive."

  "Not sure what that means," I said, suddenly a touch nervous, "but I am suddenly very intrigued..."

  And just like that, I did make a friend.

  Not one I'd have picked, but you what they say.

  You can pick your nose, you can pick your pig’s nose, but a good friend?

  That's something the world picks for you.