Falken Killed the Deputy
A little thing I wrote compulsively after making a D&D character, less of a story, more of me trying to flesh him out in my head. Falken is based around a class that I homebrewed.
“...Father. May I speak with you?”
The burnt, scarred bear looks up from the deck of cards he is idly shuffling to see a haggard fox with dusty, dirty fur, his wide-brimmed hat held to his chest.
The bear stops idly shuffling his cards and pockets them, “Yes. What do you need?”
“I um… I have a confession to make.”
The bear nods, standing up, and looking about to the surrounding bar. “Yes. But let’s do this someplace else. A bar is hardly a place for a confession.” He says, stepping out. “Or a priest,” he adds under his breath.
The fox follows beside the bear, his eyes unable to divert from the priest’s scarred visage. The left half of his face is covered in a thick burn scar, layered over with numerous other scars, his teeth and the inside of his mouth visible through the side of his snout.
Falken leads the fox to the churchyard, and behind it to the small graveyard. The fox looks about nervously and turns to the priest.
“So… what do you need to… confess?”
“I… dug up a grave. In this graveyard.” His ears lower as he puts his hat back on, and he gestures to a grave nearby, the grave dirt freshly overturned. “I dug up the body of Mrs. Whitestone. Stole some of her jewelry.”
“Why?” Falken asks, side-eyeing the grave.
“To… to pay a tithe. The sheriff asks for funds if we are to be protected.”
Falken lets out a distasteful huff, his fist clenching.
“You are forgiven,” He says tersely as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bundle of bills.
“Here.”
The fox gives him a shocked look. “A-are you sure?”
Falken nods, and the fox eagerly takes it. “Thank you father, thank you.” He dashes away, holding his hat to his head.
Falken sighs and sits down on the church steps, glaring out into town, the fading light of dusk cast over the buildings. “I’ve only been in the area for a few days… and I’ve heard so much about you, Sheriff Hedgerow. So much tragedy and hatred.” He stands up straight, dusting off his clothes. He tightens the buckle of his collar, and undoes his cuffs.
“I think tonight is the night something needs to happen.”
He walks back into town, returning to the bar, finding an empty table in the corner, pulling the deck of cards from his pocket and beginning to shuffle them idly, looking about, scanning the room. He spots a coyote sitting at the bar, wearing some rather official looking clothing, a revolver at his waist. A wide-brimmed hat sits on the bar beside him, a small deputy’s badge embedded into it.
Falken keeps his eyes trained on the coyote and keeps shuffling, foot softly tapping on the wooden floor. The coyote remains for most of the night, getting progressively more and more drunk. The bartender is quickly tending to his needs, ears down nervously, not even asking for payment as the deputy asks for more and more extravagant and expensive drinks.
Falken keeps staring, shuffling his cards faster. He watches the deputy leave. He stops shuffling the cards, and slips them back into his pocket.
He follows the deputy back to his home. A thin blade forms in his hand, and he holds it with the flat edge to the inside of his arm.
Sheriff Hedgerow approaches the door to his deputy’s home, sighing. “Stupid sonuvabitch. Get drunk all you want, just don’t come in late. We need to get some fucking tithes today and I need the damn backup.”
He sees the front door hanging open, one of the hinges broken. He freezes, and his hand drifts to his revolver. “Sain?”
He steps in. The house is clean, though a trail of dirty footprints lead deeper inside, back to Sain’s room. Hedgerow draws his gun and carefully pushes the door open.
Tied to his bedposts, dead and brutalized, is the deputy. His jaw has been torn away, his neck coated in his blood. His chest has been sliced and torn, his ribs opened like a viscera-strewn cabinet. His eyes have been torn out, and his teeth removed bloodily. Written on the wall, in blood, is a small phrase.
I killed the deputy. And I’ll kill you too.
The sheriff turns on his heel and doubles over, the bile rising in his throat. He covers his mouth, feeling his throat pulse. He fights against the urge to vomit and stumbles out of the house, rushing towards his office. He rushes past an alleyway, and a heavy club collides with the back of his head.
Falken jabs a poker into the campfire as the sheriff wakes up, bound to a wooden pole. One of his arms is tied against a plank of wood, straightened out. The sheriff looks about in a panic registering the absolute nothing that surrounds them, clouded by the night.
“What the hell? Where am I?”
“Several hour’s trek from town. No one’s gonna hear you.”
“What the hell do you want from me? Money? Vengeance? If you want to get revenge, just shoot me and get it over with!”
Falken looks at him. “No. That’s not vengeance.”
“What?”
“A gun isn’t vengeance, sheriff.”
He glares at the bear, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He laughs deeply, darkly. “A gun is a mercy that you don’t deserve, Hedgerow. A bullet would be irreparable in how much mercy it gives. A gun is not vengeance or revenge. A gun is karma.”
He looks at Falken incredulously.
“Karma is a mere exchange of woes. A life for a life, an eye for an eye, an injustice for an injustice,” he replies, “but I’m not a weapon of karma. I’m a weapon of vengeance.” He draws the poker out of the fire, its twisting metal length glowing red hot.
Hedgerow pulls at the bindings, eyes widening.
“Vengeance cannot be dealt with a loaded gun, as vengeance must not be merciful. It must be dealt with steel in hand. A bullet is too swift, too instant. You pull the trigger once, and the deed is done.” he says, still staring at the fire. “A gun cannot bleed a man dry. A gun cannot be used to painstakingly remove claws or teeth. But a blade can. A nice hunk of cold steel can.”
He snaps his fingers, and a set of pliers form in his hands. He shoves the poker back into the fire and gets up, approaching the sheriff. The sheriff tries to break from the ropes as they burn at his wrist and ankles.
Falken shoves a gloved hand into the sheriff’s mouth, grabs one of his fangs with the pliers, and tears it out. The sheriff screams in agony as blood begins to pool in his mouth.
The priest steps away and tosses the tooth into the fire, sitting back down on the ground. “Vengeance must be drawn out. If the receiving party would prefer what you’re doing to them over an alternative, then it’s not vengeance.”
“Are you trying to fucking teach me?”
“No. I’m merely reminding myself,” Falken replies. “That measures must be taken. That I cannot take the easy way out in burning the rot out of the world.”
He draws the poker out of the fire. “Now, I’ve got a little question for you.”
“What?” The sheriff asks, shrinking back against the pole.
“Do you have a family?”
“N…no.”
“Good. You get to die without worry. You’re unneeded.”
The sheriff begins to pull at his binds harshly, and the ropes dig into his flesh. Falken grabs the poker, and a long, thin blade forms in his other hand.
Screams ring into the night.