I managed to win the game, and as it will no doubt become obvious, I like making narratives to go with the games I play. As such, here are the final moments of that Som'er vs. Sonnia battle;
Som'er dove behind the pile of red rocks, cursing as he landed on one of the bullet wounds he had just taken from the man in a wide brimmed hat. The day had been good so far, but just as it looked like things could be wrapped up and his boys could get on their way, things got messy.
They'd been wandering through a arid canyon, when they'd seen them; five figures casting long shadow in the noon sun. Three were hunched, covered in thick robes, and had glowing eyes that spoke of power Som'er didn't really want to test. A tall woman smoking a cigarette stood over them, and a trail-beaten man had quickly retreated to cover. Adjusting his hat, Som'er had told his boys to "Git up around dem ruks and flank e'em out eer!" This had worked for the Robed men, who had been filled with lead from a couple of lucky shots. Som'er himself had turned one into (strangely electrified) red mist, and Bub Walkens had filled another with shot. Of Course, he'd also filled himself with shot in the process, but no matter.
After a rabid piglet had managed to rip out the last Stalker's throat, it was just the lady and her man. She'd managed to rain fire down on Som'er and his boys, and He'd already taken one bullet that he still couldn't work out; It had seemed to bend around corner as if it here a skeeter thirsty for blood and fire. Witch or not, the woman had slumped to the ground under an excessive amount of gun fire had been pointed her way.
Now, it was Som'er, Wally and Jenkins against the man in the wide brimmed hat. He seemed determined to end Som'er's life (no doubt as Som'er's hat was bigger and he wanted it for himself), but Som'er had unceremoniously removed himself from the line of fire as quickly as possible. Wally and Jenkins had rushed him in that breif pause as the man cursed, proceeding to pelt him with fists, rocks, and more than a few inventive curse words. They wouldn't last long, but they had tied him up. Chuckling, and chomping on his cigar, Som'er creeped around the other side of the outcropping.
As he whirled around the corner, he saw the man; Samuel Hopkins, renowned Witch Hunter of the Guild, was in a bad situation. He'd managed to trap one gremlin under his boot, but that had'nt stopped the crazed gremlin from biting nearly through the man's boot-soles. At the same time, he was furiously trying to prevent the other gremlin from stabbing his eye's out with a rusty pen knife while his hands wrapped around its neck, the gremlin starting to turn a sickly shade of purple.
Som'er paused for a moment. He wanted to do something; the two Gremlins would no doubt be dead in seconds at the hand's of Hopkins, and he couldn't get to both of them in time. One would have to die. Time seemed to slow as memories of boat rides, moonshine and cookouts filled his head. Jenkins and Wally hadn't been his favorites, but they had been loyal.
Or had they? Hell, were they even his friends?! Snapping out of an odd moment of emotions, Som'er squinted his beady eyes, smiled and said,
"Eh, Y'all got cousins"
Lowering his boomstick, the gun roared, scarring the entire area with pellets, nails, and embers. Wally, about to loose consciousness on account of being nearly chocked to death, was liquefied. He has probably saved Hopkins life, as his small body took the brunt of the shrapnel pointed at the man's chest. Hopkin's was still sent flying and smashed into the hard sun-bleached earth, bleeding from hundreds of cuts and wounds, and loosing consciousness almost immediately.
Jenkins was less fortunate, and Hopkins had, quite literally, been blown out of his boots. The large, steel toed boot was still planted firmly on his throat, stuck in place due to inconvenient placement of a rock and scraggly root, and as Som'er Teeth Jones walked forward, Jenkins gave a stuttering squeal before dying.
Chuckling, Som'er shoulder his gun, turning eastward. Behind him a lone piglet trotted out of the valley sniffing Hopkins curiously before rushing to catch up with its master. Noting the piglet, Jones muttered with a grin,
"Luuks lyke ool the bacon is myne tunite!"
