Question for Mr. Werewolf when you have time to get around to it: why the long guns? Is your shot as bad as the Major's?
Oh, these thingsâŚ
hans thought back to the day he even got these guns, looking down and inspecting them as the machinery clicked and settled with the twist of his wrists. Herr Major once saw Hans firing many a set of arms from the stock in their barracks. As expected, the werewolf wore the same demure expression as each shot rang in beautifully deafening symphony at the target. All perfect shots.
âOooohohoh! Absolutely splendid show, mein dear Captain~!â Max ushered his entrance with a sing-song praise of his brilliant new specimen. He always liked to imagine the scene around his precious toys as they demonstrated their capabilities. Oh, the bodies that filled the mind of that portly madman were ones very few could sleep to; it happened to be the only suitable lullaby for someone as twisted as the MajorâŚ
âZhough I notice⌠you seem⌠bored.â
Ja. Exceptionally so. Captain realized as his body grew stronger by the day with such rigorous training emboldening the already impressive lycan physique he had, modern weaponry felt hollow. Why bother with a bullet what a pair of claws can do just as well? Childâs play.
âPerhaps zhere is a vay ve can remedy zhis. I see youâve an eye for zhe mauser. Quite a fun one! Compact, fast, zhe vorks! But⌠simple.â In that same breath, an almost disgustingly long rectangular lockbox was placed upon the table that housed many of the ammunition Hans had run through that day. It was a fine oak polished to an egregious shine, decorated with a fine filigree border that resembled leaves encroaching upon the center. The delicate click of the latches echoed in the range that undeniably brought intrigue to GĂźnsche. âZhey say zhis kind of artistry is a vaste. But vhen I see a veapon such a zhis, judged by itâs supposed âimpracticalityâ? I zhink of an ancient proverb passed down to many of my generationâŚâ
It was then that Hans glimpsed them. A bulkier set of mausers, definitely meant for a higher caliber. But mein got, those barrels. Almost embarrassingly long as the red velvet interior nested them finely in the case. It took a lot to bring any sort of expression to Hansâ face; this was one of those moments. And it was one of bewilderment. That very moment was when a finger snapped, and a door opened with shambling footsteps. A man, a fellow soldier, tied up behind his back and blindfolded. He was in too much smoldering fear to speak up at this point, and chose to simple scramble through to find some form of exit as his moans of desperation bounced off the rocky brick walls. And major got close, speaking the very phrase that lingered in the moment.
âUnter Blinden ist der Einäugige KĂśnigâŚâ
Without much hesitation, fearing to consequences of rejection, Hans lifted the unwieldy firearm in his firm grip and aimed. The man was an annoying targetâ his futile shambling only amplifying the unexpected difficulty of steadying such an awkward gun. Every second that passed, he knew a fire was mustering in Herr Major; it disgusted him, as if Captain was feeding some shameless and carnal fetish for Montanaâs bloodlust until the shot finally rang.
And soon it did. The man lay lifeless on the floor, and Major calmly smiled with raised brows and a gesturing hand, inviting the Captain to observe his handiwork.
âOoof. Armes ding⌠scraped zhe side of his head. Sure, his brains are finely splattered on zhe ground. But sloppy. Zhe art must be perfected. Keep at it, one-eyed king. You may understand zhat pistolâs beauty just yet!â As he left, Hans had to admit something to himself that bore some truth. Major was right: This gun is an art form. Sure, he missed the mark by a few inches, but it challenged him. Finally, a human instrument that met the standard of his skill and need to refine. And of course, the intimidation factor alone made the many years of weilding these dual Mausers a small victory to draw. So yes, in the beginning, Hans was a terrible shot.
At first.
