A seedy bar, with something of a western flavor, sawdust on the floor, most things made of wood, large parts of the bar actively outdoors with the line between in/out simply blurred. At times, the roof simply ceases to be, and the night sky twinkles down into this courtyard/bar lit by strung lanterns.
Me: "They're coming soon."
He: "Who?"
"The fucking Spanish."
"So? We have plenty of guns."
"No we don't, not anymore. All our guns, our worlds, they're being extinguished. If they land one man with a gun here, that's the end of the last."
"... Jesus."
"We have to get ready for them, if we want to defend ourselves and all the other... French?"
I know that we're French, but the confidence lessens greatly. Flailing around the barstool I find that all my neighbors are wearing patches of Old Glory. Perhaps I was wrong.
The night comes, we are embattled. The time period seems extremely confused. We are clustered amongst a small network of rickety, incomplete wooden fences about 5' tall. Several prepared rifles line the walls.
Suddenly the battle begins. Bullets, perhaps arrows, fly through the air, piercing the flame-licked darkness of a time before electricity. Men covered in armor crackling with lightning mow down over 18th century golddiggers in an orgy of violence. Behind me, a half-gnome/half-demon looking like whatever Lunar's Jessica is vomits magma to defend her children while a nobleman with a blazing sword demands that his comrades write sonnets mid-war of his exploits. A woman chases me, promising violence, until her last attack expended leaves me standing, and all I can do is reveal the last hammer that I still hold in my dirt-caked hands.
She dies by my hands.
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