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POV of Gunsmith of the Graf

Sigmarzeit-2-18,2491 IC

"Come on, come on, don't stop! We need to keep producing. How's the rifling on those muskets coming along?" I asked the group of smiths handling the hardest part of the process.

"It's going well, sir," one of them replied, barely pausing for a second before rushing back to work.

There was too much to do. Our patron, Graf Albrecht, had suddenly decided to expand his armed forces to an incredible degree, which meant we had to increase weapon production to levels never before seen. We worked longer shifts, had new facilities, and even quintupled the workforce. And yet the problems remained: many of the newcomers were migrants from other provinces, apprentices rather than masters, and they needed to be taught the basics before they could stop being a hindrance.

The process wasn't simple. The Graf's gunpowder was stronger than usual, which meant every weapon had to be reinforced. The musket barrels had to be tough, or else they risked exploding in the soldier's hands. Even with those complications, we were producing nearly fifty muskets a day. And still, it wasn't enough: not only did we need to arm the new recruits, we also had to replace the worn-out and damaged pieces from training.

"Come on, drill harder! We need more barrels ready for rifling as soon as possible," I urged the smiths, who sweated over the hand drills, boring through the steel brought from the forges.

"Barrels, barrels," shouted another, hauling several freshly cooled pieces.

"On that table, quickly," I ordered while keeping the workflow organized.

It was a lot of effort, but who could complain? I hadn't even finished my studies at the University, yet I had my own weapons workshop, a generous patron who always met our requests, a home for my family, and protection from the militias. More than most could dream of.

Of course, I wasn't the Graf's favorite—that place belonged to Mathias. Lately, he'd stopped focusing on regular work and instead devoted himself to designing new weapons, inspired by models from other provinces, like Hochland and even Nuln. He had even managed, through less-than-legal contacts, to get his hands on a repeating handgun. The craftsmanship was clearly mass-produced, not artisanal, but the design was ingenious. Ingenious enough that it inspired Mathias to create his own version.

And Rutger, the Marienburg merchant, had somehow acquired a Leon Todmeister's Fantabulously Far-reaching Harquebus of Unforeseeable and Unperceived Bereavement—a weapon nearly impossible to find outside Hochland. For some reason, we now had one, and Mathias used it to copy its magnifying lens system.

When the Graf saw his blueprints, he was thrilled. He gave Mathias even more ideas, and since then my colleague had locked himself in his workshop, leaving only to eat or use the latrine. He had become possessed by his work.

Thus, the management of our shared workshop fell to me, though I didn't see it as a burden. We just divided the tasks as always. Still, I'd soon have to request an assistant from the University of Altdorf, because rumors said we would compete in a contest to arm the state regiments. If we won, what we were doing now would be child's play compared to what came next.

Smiths remained scarce in the region, but the Graf had a reputation for hiring anyone with even minimal experience. And with good reason: thanks to his new water-powered hammer forges, even apprentices could produce quality weapons and armor.

The days went by with the Graf visiting us several times, checking the flow of production and asking what we needed to keep up the pace. Weapon crates piled up in ever greater numbers, ready for their first shipment—though none of us knew where.

And then, one day, Mathias finally came out of his workshop. As usual, he had that nervous air about him, but this time he was pushing something that forced him outside.

It was a kind of mini-cannon—though calling it "mini" was unfair. It had multiple barrels, much larger than the repeating handgun we had received as a reference. At a glance, it was clear it couldn't be operated by a single man. Yet Mathias glowed with pride.

"What is that?" I asked, stepping closer with genuine curiosity.

"A creation I've been working on thanks to the Graf's suggestions. He kept coming with ideas about the firing system, and he promised me something fascinating," Mathias replied, his voice trembling but joyful.

"What did he promise you? I don't understand the mechanism," I said, leaning over the machine to examine it.

"The Graf, with help from some dwarven alchemists, created a system that ignites the powder with a single strike—no spark needed. So when you turn the crank, each barrel aligns and fires instantly."

"A single strike? No spark at all?" I asked in astonishment.

"Yes. If it works as they say… we have in our hands a weapon capable of protecting the Empire like never before," Mathias added with a wide smile.

"Well… looks like it's finished," said the Graf at that moment, appearing behind us. We quickly raised our heads and gave a slight bow.

"Yes, my lord…" Mathias stammered nervously.

"All ready for testing?" the Graf asked.

"Just waiting for what you promised, then it will be operational, sir," I added, stepping forward to cover for my friend.

"Very well. I've prepared a testing field for this great day," said the Graf with a smile, hefting the prototype onto his shoulder with surprising ease.

We followed him to one of the military camps surrounding the city—since there were no walls, troops were always needed to keep watch. We arrived at a shooting range where several musketeers were practicing their aim.

"These are cartridges with mercury fulminate—a compound that ignites on impact," explained the Graf, showing us a steel box filled with paper cartridges topped with bullets.

The prototype was set onto a metal harness with wheels, almost as if it had been tailor-made for it. Mathias hurried to adjust a few pieces, and then the Graf placed the ammunition box into the upper slot.

"Before using it, cover your mouths and noses with this. Mercury fulminate is dangerous to inhale, though in the open air it won't be as harmful. Still, caution never hurts," he said, handing us damp cloths with small black stones embedded in them.

"Ah, almost forgot—ear protection," he added, showing us a bit of hardened wax for our ears.

We did as he instructed. I approached the weapon and grabbed the crank. As soon as I turned it, a deafening roar shook the field. The projectile smashed straight into a steel breastplate set before us, bending it violently.

The Graf gestured for me to continue. I turned the crank again, and four more shots rang out one after another. Then the weapon jammed.

"Hmm… looks like there's a fault in the sixth barrel. Mathias, can you fix it?" said the Graf, crouching down to inspect it.

Mathias took a file and calmly worked on shortening the piece that was slightly longer than the others. We tried again, and this time every barrel fired without issue.

"Excellent. Here's more ammunition. Each barrel can fire at least twice," said the Graf, handing over another box. This time, he took the crank himself. With force, he spun it quickly, unleashing the entire volley in a matter of seconds.

"It works…" said the Graf, his face spreading into a wide smile.

Mathias smiled too, though he quickly moved to check the barrels, ensuring everything was still in order.

"Seems we've got a fine creation on our hands…" I said, still impressed.

"Yes, but the fulminate is a problem. It's too sensitive—one small knock could set it off. For now, it would only be viable in defensive positions, since transporting it poses a huge risk. We'll need to find a way to make it safer," the Graf mused.

"Do you need more of them built?" I asked.

"As many as possible, along with every musket you can turn out. We have an order… one that will make me a very, very rich man. Perhaps the richest in the world," the Graf concluded, his eyes gleaming with ambition.

Our work continued without pause. Mathias, back among us again, smeared his hands with soot and oil as he tirelessly joined us in producing more weapons. The musket orders seemed endless; nearly double what we already delivered was needed to meet the Graf's growing army demands. Day after day we filled crate after crate, stacking them to the ceiling in the warehouses. From time to time, we also had to deliver another of those new repeating machines, which the Graf stored away like war treasures—though there was always one kept ready to be dispatched.

Time passed, and outside the workshop, the only news that reached us were the trials of heretics dragged in weekly by the witch hunters. Nothing interfered with our routine. Until the news arrived that changed everything: the first dwarven train had left the station and reached Reinsfeld.

What we saw was incredible. Dozens of wagons loaded with iron, coal, tin, and other ores—all purchased directly from the dawi by the Graf. The convoy thundered into the city, and in an instant several of the sealed transport cars were exchanged with admirable efficiency.

That day, Reinsfeld celebrated like never before. Food was given freely in the plazas—meat, fresh bread, and vegetables from the latest harvest—all paid for from the Graf's own purse. Beer and liquor flowed from hand to hand, and the entire city became a single voice of jubilation. The witch hunters, with their stern glares, watched over it all, but even their presence was swallowed by the merriment.

The next day, the celebrations gave way once again to our reality. We were tasked with loading entire wagons with weapons: crate after crate of muskets, ammunition, powder, and even a few cannons. The trains departed for Marienburg filled nearly to the brim, roaring over the new tracks that stretched farther than the eye could see.

And when they were gone—laden with iron and gunpowder—we returned to the monotony of our workshop, sweating over anvils and drills, fulfilling the duty that had made us so indispensable. Endless work, yes—but also a safe life, well-paid, with a future few in the Empire could ever hope to dream of.

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POV of member of the Directorate

Sigmarzeit-20,2491 IC

The atmosphere in the city was unbearable. The train—damned thing—had been built with twin tracks, straight into Suiddock. Thousands of people gathered around the area. Many were those displaced by the works: whole families torn from their homes because those cursed tracks had cut straight through old districts, entire neighborhoods wiped off the map. It was deeply unpopular. And yet, the elites of Marienburg were all there, smiling in their finest silks, waiting for the train's first journey. No one wanted to be left behind in this new way of shipping goods into the Empire.

The Directorate had summoned all its members as well. Jaan—that cunning dog—was about to prove just how far his influence could reach inside the Empire. And us? We were left to clap like fools.

The air was tense: shouts of protest mixed with the murmur of merchants and wizards. And then the sound reached us. First, the shrill whistle of steam, then the metallic behemoth rolled into the city, dragging an endless chain of wagons. Railway workers hurried to open and unload them.

The crowd erupted into cheers. Applause, ovations, celebrations of dwarven genius. Each one of those damned rich men was already counting their future profits, imagining how much gold would fill their coffers thanks to this deal. And then we saw him.

The young Graf. The same man who had been an enemy of the city, who had humiliated us time and again. He climbed atop the train, clad—of all things—in full dwarven armor.

"Rejoice, citizens of Marienburg!" he cried, his voice booming, fist raised high. "Today you are finally bound to the Empire by this marvel of dawi engineering!"

But in that very instant… something happened. Several wizards began coughing violently, clutching their throats, choking as if invisible hands were strangling them. Panic erupted at once.

"Today this farce of secession ends!" thundered the Graf. "You will return to the fold of DEUS SIGMAR!"

Suddenly, the train's wagons yawned open like the jaws of a monster. They weren't carrying goods at all—inside were cannons aimed straight at us, and Imperial soldiers leaping down in perfect formation, ready to strike.

"Remember—no dawi deaths!" roared the Graf, fists clenched. And at that signal, the cannons thundered.

The blast shook me to my very soul. I felt the shrapnel strike my chest, my breath stolen as I fell backward. The world became smoke, fire, and screams. I heard merchants pleading for their lives, women shrieking in the chaos of the stampede, and above it all—the ceaseless roar of gunfire.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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