Ozzy stalked his way back into the wagon momentarily rousing Emil who glared at him before closing his eyes again, his message clear. This was a spot for sleeping people. So he made his way back to the top deck. Maybe he could get one of the fishermen to engage him.

  Spoiler alert, they were not only unwilling to be near him, but even less willing to be near him. The only exception was the fishing expeditions renowned creep, fish talker Norman.

  “You’re up early stranger.” Norman pushed his way through the fleeing fisherman with a rod and tackle in hand, an easy smile across his face.

  “Didn’t sleep much.” Ozzy shrugged, both bothered at the sudden flight of fishermen, and relieved that Norman had stayed to chat.

  “I get that, hard to sleep in a new place I bet. Not to mention on a swamp wagon.” He leaned over conspiratorially as he dropped his gear against the decks railing. “Whenever we get a new batch of fishermen they spend their first trip all green and grey.” His eyes shined as he looked out over the swamp.

  Despite himself, Ozzy felt a smile crawl its way onto his face. “I’m glad I’m not in their shoes, I’ve never gotten sick on a boat before but I’ve seen it plenty, looks miserable.”

  The smile on Norman’s face was briefly replaced by a look of confusion. “Why would you be in their shoes?”

  Ozzy chuckled. “It’s a saying from my world, means putting yourself in their situation.”

  “Ah I see,” Norman nodded as if it made perfect sense, but nonetheless changed the subject. “You ever fish back on that world of yours?”

  “I may have dabbled in it here and there.” Ozzy shrugged, but his cheery expression had morphed into a full faced grin.

  “Now here’s a man I can relate to!” Norman clapped Ozzy on the shoulder before yelling over his shoulder for another rod which was promptly dropped off by one of the skittish fishermen.

  “I’m guessing you know your way around the tackle and line?” Norman asked, already in the process of setting up his own tackle.

  “Yeah I’ve got it.” Ozzy followed suit and busied himself tying a rather large lure to his line.

  “Going for something big then?”

  “Going for whatever decides to bite really, I’m just hoping the only things able to bite this thing are huge.”

  The morning passed quickly as a pile of fish began to slowly pile higher and higher behind Ozzy and Norman. They caught so many fish that by the time breakfast came around they had move them off of the deck into the swamp wagons storage or risk some of their catch from sliding back off into the water.

  Breakfast was when Emil decided to finally grace the wagon with his presence though a cloud seemed to hang over him and he hardly so much as spoke to anyone outside of a curt thank you for his food. Even the well cooked meal of fish and biscuits couldn’t seem to pull him out of his funk and he said little more before returning to his spot inside of the wagon. He’d apparently found out that Ozzy had used both shards and was upset with him for whatever reason he’d refused to share the night prior.

  Thing was though, Ozzy felt great about his decision, now even more so. His late night meeting with Fauga had been incredibly frustrating with how little he’d gleamed in terms of relevant information. It did tell him however that there was some funky fight in the classic good and evil fashion. It was especially obvious with how vague and ominous Fauga had been. Not to mention him saying to get stronger, which he had already helped with by blessing him…

  Ozzy facepalmed, he had completely forgotten to check his watch notifications. Without missing another beat Ozzy willed his watches holographic screen up to his notifications.

  Congratulations! You have been recognized by the Prime of one of your absorbed core’s concepts. Fauga Lord of Powder and God of Guns has seen fit to bestow upon you a blessing.

  Blessing: Touch of The Maker, low level blessing. Touch of The Maker modifies: Furry Scavenger, Furry Scavenger will now add additional bonus loot in the form of ammunition for your various firearms.

  Notice: You have been granted a low level blessing. Blessings can be empowered by Prime Concepts at their discretion and pleasure.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Now that was something, and Ozzy couldn’t help but wondered if he was getting some carrot before Fauga decided to use the stick. Fauga had said they’d be seeing each other again and it was entirely possible that he intended to leverage the blessing at their next meeting. Though he supposed Fauga hadn’t even mentioned the blessing until after Ozzy had said no to working as his envoy of death or whatever.

  Leaning forward onto his knees Ozzy sighed. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call a people person and he had little to no faith in his ability to judge the motives and manipulations of a God. Hell, he wouldn’t trust himself to judge Emil if it was for anything more complicated than whether he was upset, the man wasn’t exactly subtle. Needless to say, he felt out of his depth, it was a serious blessing that all he had to worry about at the moment was not snagging his hook, at least for the time being.

  By the time Ozzy was catching what was probably his hundredth fish he and Norman were best buds. There was just something universally sacred about fishing with someone you’d never met before, and if you weren’t buddies by the end of it there was no chance you’d ever be.

  They had talked about earth, Norman had talked about his home way east of “The Great Swamp” as Norman called it, in a little sleepy seaside village. Ozzy had talked to him about his cabin and love of Alaska, he’d even talked to him about his mom. They just talked the day away, sharing stories and of course, different fishing techniques. It was probably the single greatest information transfer the fishing world had ever seen, Jeremy Wade would have shed genuine tears of joy.

  In fact they had such a good time shooting the can and telling stories that they stayed out until the sun started setting. Right up until the final rays of light made their final stretch across the swamp.

  Leaning against the railing Norman took a swig of a particularly foul smelling brew, supposedly it was a local style of Fishermans moonshine. It smelt more like a fisherman had died in the brew but hey, judging by the way Norman was smiling and laughing it was doing a pretty good job.

  “You know man, when you came out of that brush fighting all of those murk rats I thought you were gonna rob us.” Norman slurred

  “Whatever man, you wouldn’t have to worry about me taking your booze at least.” Ozzy shook his head at as the fisherman slowly devolved with his booze.

  “Listen.. You’re just jealous I’ve got a drink and-”

  Their conversation was interrupted what sounded like a steak slapping against the side of the boat.

  “Ughh?” Norman let out a confused noise that came out as a wheeze giggle before a soberness came over him.

  Watching in real time ozzy saw Norman’s gaze sharpen as he whipped around and began scanning the swamp. The sun had already set and they were left with only the barest traces of dusk. It would have been easier to see in the dark and with the contrasting low light every shadow stretched, turning them into dark voids completely unwilling to offer up their contents. It was almost how Ozzy missed the feathered shaft sprouting out of Norman’s back.

  In an instant everything slowed as he realized what had just happened. Norman had been shot. Someone out in the darkness had shot him, and they were still out there. He had to move, but he couldn’t just leave Norman, and for some reason the fisherman was looking out over the swamp like whoever’d shot him owed him money. Ozzy blanched, they probably owed him a kidney too, based on where the arrow stuck.

  As Ozzy began to move there was a second meaty thwack and Norman stumbled. Things seemed to catch up with him now as he stared down at the dark wood and tar black feathers that sprouted out of his chest. He was getting shot, and like a moron he was looking out into the swamp for whoever was shooting at him.

  Finally seemingly back in reality Norman stumbled back into Ozzy, who snatched the falling fisherman and dragged him to the ground. A third arrow thudded into the wood of the wagon, flying through the space where he had just been.

  Norman was gasping on the ground next to Ozzy, and in an impressive display of stupidity and bravado ripped the arrow out of his chest and screamed. “RAIDERS”.

  It was like a starting gun had gone off, and Ozzy heard scrambling from the inside of the swamp wagon and muffled voices as the crew responded. Then mercifully, one of the fishermen sent a flair up into the night sky which hung brilliantly over the wagon like their own personal sun, revealing their foes in the darkness.

  Arrayed in an arc around the side of the swamp wagon he and normal had just been facing out towards were the hundred meanest, scraggliest, and downright most menacing group of humans he’d ever laid eyes on, and he’d once walked under a San Francisco underpass.

  They had an assortment of weapons that could only be described as savage, worn edges, stained clubs, chipped swords, and of course, dark tipped arrows hanging from sleek black bows. Now cast in light they seemed to cringe away from the flare, the archers most of all, who shielded their eyes from the floating ball of roiling arcane flame.

  “Shh shhhh” Norman gagged and spluttered, coughing up a ball of bloody spit. “shoot them.” His whispered plea struck Ozzy like a sledgehammer. Each face in the darkness stood out like a beacon to him as he recalled what Fauga had told him not even a full day ago. “I need a gunman.”

  The world might as well have stood still, and he knew to the core of his bones in that very moment, it was them, or it was him.

  As Ozzy rose to a knee a figure passed him in a flash. Wreathed in red energies Emil leapt out off of the platform launching himself into the swamp. He landed hard on the closest of the encroaching raiders, driving a blade deep into the mans chest and slashing the blade out sideways. Just like that he was onto one of the archers, divorcing the mans head and neck in a blurringly fast strike.

  Despite the suddenness and brutality of Emil’s entrance the bandits weren’t hosting their first bayou bash and they quickly organized themselves, their archers drawing back their short black bows as they prepared to fire on the wagons only defender. They had played this song and dance a hundred times and they’d never lost. There was just one thing they hadn’t counted on however, this wagon had two defenders.

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