It has been ages since I last wrote something and this.. an odd one, but I did it. I finished something for a change. This is set in the Warmachine setting by Privateer Press, a verse that has really drawn me in ever since I got burned out by
40k and its gak. Anyway, this is a story where a Widowmaker tells a curious child about a rather traumatic and unsettling moment in her life, inspired by the Widowmaker Kapitan mini that I use as a solo. Apologies for it being rather dark and nasty.
Also, sorry if this is weird to read, I like to think that this is all told by the character herself, not some rip-roaring tale of high adventure and whatnot. Chances are this will more or less be the background for a future Iron Kingdoms roleplaying character, seeing as they start out with quite a set of skills, feats and history to boot.
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Memories of a Widowmaker
My story? What makes you think I have a story to share with you? You want to know about my eyepatch? Ha, you kids have some nerve these days! Do you bother all strangers that come down this road? What do you offer in return? A place by the fire and a hot meal? I must be getting old, it does sound tempting child. Very well, show me to the fire place and you will have your tale. I should warn you though, mine is not one of happiness and joy, you have been warned.
My name is Nataliya Verochka, twenty-nine winters old, hailing from the northern reaches of our motherland, born into a poor Kossite family made up of hunters and woodsmen living in the village of Neva, I doubt it can be found on any map. I lost both parents before I reached adulthood: My mother perished giving birth to me and my father, who raised me as best he could, died during the hunt of a bear on the eve of my sixteenth year. With no family left to keep me from leaving, I enlisted with the Winter Guard, first with blunderbuss, but soon moved on to the Rifle Corps after showing skill with ranged weapons. During my time there I have fought against bandits, religious zealots, creatures from the forests. During one of our exercises I came to the attention of an old man, a retired marksman. He claimed to see in me the patience, grace and skill of a great hunter, smiling as I confirmed to him my origins. He sponsored my marksmanship trials, though they were hardly necessary after they found out that the old man, a local legend, was backing me. I traded in the my mass-produced rifle for a hand crafted precision rifle. I spent so much time with that weapon that a common joke was that I had foregone all male contact in favour of my rifle. Many an enemy of the nation fell to my rifle: Pompous Cygnar officers trying to rally their men, overzealous firebrand preachers, upstart trolls, fey folk from the forests, even our own were not safe from my rifle as I delivered mercy to the captured, the wounded beyond our reach, those too weak to fight for a worthy cause.
While my work did not bring me happiness, for who does when you slay people through a telescope, often seeing their last moments before they perish, it did bring me satisfaction of a job done and a job done right. Pride even. Though taking pride in killing is a bad trait, I was always filled with a sense of pride when they came to us with a tough task. Either had to kill someone or scout out ahead, something people tend to forget when looking at us. We are also the eyes and ears of the army, in which case a non-violent encounter can sometimes save even more lives than a shot in the night.
I guess there is no point in skirting this part of my life, for it has marked me in more than one way. Let me tell you about how I lost my eye.
My last operation as part of a unit was.. problematic. Perhaps a bit of an understatement, but that's what it was. We were tasked with taking out an officer of ours, a man who had fallen into enemy hands and as luck would have it, was held in a forward camp belonging to the enemy. The plan was simple: I would work my way forward and take the shot, the rest would provide covering fire for me as I withdrew. A textbook operation really, we had everything to our advantage: Dense woodland to provide us with ample cover, the base built on an open stretch of land at the foot of the hill, we had a good view overlooking the site. What more could a marksman ask for?
I had worked my way forward, inch by inch, slowly getting into the position from which I had the best vantage point and shot at the stockade. When I was in position I did what I always did: I waited, lying still, unmoving except for the gentle rise and fall of my chest as I slowly breathed. I saw movement by the stockade and in between the blue uniforms there was a flash of crimson.
A shot rang out.
Silently cursing I kept my eyes on the camp, the shot came from behind and was the tell-tale report of a precision rifle, followed by another. Then, the bark of a mud dog trench gun, a horrible weapon that shoots grape shot instead of regular bullets. It would appear that one of my comrades had opened fire upon discovery by the enemy. Why? Perhaps those trice damned mud dogs were conducting operations of their own, forcing my squad to break silence and open fire. My target was still in the open, his guards unable to decide what to do. Sensing a chance I took the shot and made to run, but I was assaulted by a trio of mud dogs and much to my shame, taken prisoner by a most vengeful foe known for their brutality. I wish I was prepared for what lay in store for me. Upon induction we were certainly warned about the fate of captured marksmen: Death. If lucky, a swift one.
But more often than not, it was a painful one at the end of a rope or through torture, often without any form of trial.
I was dragged in, trying to remain stoic, but that was soon beaten out of me as a group of mud dogs went to work on me. I had to endure a savage beating and the horror of having an eye gouged out with a trench knife, I am not ashamed to admit that it broke me and that I screamed out in pain for mercy. As they leaned in to remove my other eye I remember hearing a single shot ringing out as an angry officer stepped in, kicking and shoving the mud dogs aside, bellowing at them to stop acting like savages. He had me thrown into the stockade where I lay brokenly in a haze of pain and pure terror as time lost its meaning on me. Our training had prepared us for a great deal of things, but this? The horror of seeing a knife go into one eye, having it cut out and stomped under a boot.. I sometimes wake up screaming into the night, for it still haunts me in my dreams.
After a while, minutes? Hours? A day? I don't know, but the officer came to me with a doctors bag, telling me that the camp surgeon would not see to me, refusing to help someone who had possibly killed many of his comrades. He apologised as he poured a cleaning solution into my bleeding socket, sending me into a fit of pained screams that made me weep once more. Shock, terror, anger. It all came flooding out in one torrent of tears. I must have looked like a sorry mess in my torn uniform, my face a bloodied and bruised mass. He took hold of me in a tight hug, whispering that he was sorry as he held me tightly. This took me by surprise! An enemy not just apologizing for the behaviour of his men, but also trying to comfort me? He left, only to return later with water, bread and fresh bandages, telling me that this would be my last meal, for in the morning I would be hung in the courtyard, though it would be a swift death, the drop would be a long one, snapping my neck in an instant. He left, again saying that he was sorry. I couldn't fathom why he did this. Why feed someone who is about to die? Why apologize to the enemy? Why?
To me at least, it doesn't matter one bit, now does it?
That morning I was paraded out with my hands tied to my back, marched up the scaffold in the middle of the camp with a rifle at my back. I gave the crowd what I hoped was a defiant look, showing them that I was not afraid of dying. I spotted the officer to the side, a sad look on his face, his eyes red, like he had wept. An odd gesture, tears for me? A murderer of his men? It did not make any sense.
The rope was put around me neck and a priest prayed for me, surprised to see me mouth the prayers along with him, probably thinking that we had forgotten all about faith and the gods as we rebuilt our country. He took a step back, nodded to the executioner and closed his eyes, not wanting to see me die. I did likewise, closing my one good eye as I felt the floor drop away and I prepared for the afterlife. They say your life flashes through your mind, giving you a final chance to review that what you have done.
I saw nothing as the rope fastened around my throat and the life was slowly squeezed from me. I had dropped only a bit, not the whole way. It would be death by stangulation, no swift death for me. I was expecting cheering, cat calls, clapping as I choked to death, tears stinging my eye, my lungs burning as I desperately kicked around. I wanted to scream, cry, beg for a swifter demise. Anything but this! Everything faded. Vision to black, the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart and my own strained gasps for breath.
I thought I heard a shot ring out, followed by the mass shouting of the crowd going into a panic.
I felt myself drop an inch, but the rope still held. More distant shots rang out and I heard the pounding of something on wood followed by something heavy slamming into me, painfully pulling the noose tighter around my neck. Then, just like that, the rope stopped holding me and I fell to the ground, something heavy landing on top of me with a colourful curse. I do not know how long it took me to regain my senses, but when I did I saw through the tears and the coughing that it was the officer, his face pale and his hands smeared with blood, fastening the belt from his coat around his right leg, the knee a bleeding ruin. Had he come to my rescue? Why? He saw me coughing and wheezing, clawed his way over to me and cut the rope binding my hands together. Only one thing crossed my mind at that moment..
Why you fool?
Why did he go through all of this trouble for me? Before I could find my voice he asked me if I could run, I nodded, he told me to run like hell and never look back.
So I ran, through the enemy troops milling about in confusion, through the rifle rounds impacting around me, past the confused mud dogs firing their weapons into the hills, making straight for our side. I must have been blessed or had the gods watch over me as I made my way to the hill unscathed, smashing into the arms of a kid, no older than seventeen I'd guess, who nearly shot me with his blunderbuss. He was probably expecting a mud dog, not a bloodied and scared woman running towards him. I doubt I would have felt a load of rock salt slam into me after what I have been through. His shock quickly turned to elation as he guided me up the hill, shouting to his comrades that he had me.
We fell back, past the corpses of my former squad, who were hung from trees like the hares I used to hunt with my father: Naked, as if skinned, nailed there with spikes through the arms. The mud dogs added a touch of their own to the scene with a sign around the neck of each man stating "MURDERER" in big letters. Someone made to remove them from the tree, but the Winter Guard officer in charge barked an order to get a move on, she was obviously not keen on joining the corpses hanging there.
The massive effort put into my escape, which I was bluntly told was an assault force tasked with taking out our original target, was the combined effort of two Guard platoons supported by mortars and a rifleman squad. I was the hero of the day after they found out that I had killed our target despite the squad being compromised, quickly changing the official "assault order" into that of a "rescue mission" by the higher ups for propaganda purposes. Back in the motherland I was nursed back to full health, treated like a hero for not only fulfilling my orders, but also surviving cruel captivity. Many a general and kayazy wanted to see me, congratulate me, be seen with me. It disgusted me to no end to be used like that.
I wanted to return to the field of battle, to the hunt, something my commander was reluctant to oblige me to. I had only one request: I would work alone, free from other souls and if possible, free from meddling officers who knew nothing of my way of fighting wars. I am a hunter, not a glorified poster child. But they could not deny me. If the hero wanted to fight, then by the empress she would fight! Whilst recovering I also received my replacement rifle, the very rifle here by my side, from the hands of its maker. My previous rifle had been smashed, slammed against a tree as I was taken away by the enemy, a shame really, as it was a good rifle. The replacement, a finely crafted Liberator rifle from the Vanar workshops, more than made up for its loss. As before, I spent most of my time with the rifle, getting to know it like two lovers might learn about each other. This might sound weird or even disturbing, but it pays to know your tools of the trade through and through.
It has been several winters since that day and many things have fallen under my aim: Officers, zealots, monsters, fey folk, even warjacks are not safe from me. It has been months since I last fired my rifle though, I have spent most of my time trekking north, keeping to myself for the most part.
Why am I here instead of stalking the enemy in the south? I want to go home, if only for a bit. I do not know why. I have never been the sentimental type, nor did the urge to revisit my roots ever come upon me. Until now. I do not know what I will do when I get home. Maybe I'll stay a while. Or maybe I'll shrug and trek back south to the wars we always seem to fight with our neighbours.
There, that is my tale. Why so sad child? Didn't I warn you that this tale of mine would be devoid of happiness and joy? Just remember, this happened to me, not to you. Now, I recall you promised me some food.
