Sells the following items:
|Flintlock Musket x1||500||Two Handed Gun.|
|Flintlock Pistol x1||350||One Handed Gun.|
|Musket Balls x10||75||Needed to shoot a gun.|
|Gunpowder x.05kg||15||Needed to shoot a gun.|
|Powder Horn x1||500||Convenient for holding Gunpowder, but not necessary.|
Flint was born in the backwoods of unsettled Pennsylvania, a son to a bear hunter. He was a peaceful child, often absorbed in writing poetry and songs about flowers and doves, an activity which often led to vicious and painful beatings at the hand of his father who was insistent on not raising a doe of a boy. But one day, while setting bait on a pit trap for a bear, Flint’s father fell in and was impaled on the spikes below. Flint found his father's corpse in the woods and soon-after wrote a sonnet on the topic of Freedom.
Years passed and Flint continued to be the sensitive, caring individual that his father hated. He abhorred violence and lived the life of a vegan, eating only what he could raise from the soil. He married a wife who genuinely appreciated his ability to listen and empathize. He fathered two young girls with whom he would drink imaginary tea from imaginary cups. He owned a pet dog small enough to fit in his wife's hand bag. He was happy.
One day, while out picking daisies, his daughters were mauled by wolves. He watched the whole event unfold and was helpless to save them, standing by and yelling, waving sticks until the wolves departed with full bellies. Even as they left though, he understood this to be a test of his convictions. He let the wolves go and took his children into his arms to bury them in the field behind his house.
The process took some time and when it was finished the sun had long since set. Heading into the house with a heavy heart, he lit a lamp and sat in his favorite chair. He almost didn't give the thump in the bedroom a second thought, but when he saw a hulking, savage man walk out, he sat in a state of shock. The wicked face grinned behind a wild beard and the man strode past, calm as could be, out the front door.
Flint ran to the bedroom to find his wife murdered, the knife still sticking straight out of her chest. The horrors of his reality sunk into him like hot lead down his gullet as his bespoiled, once perfect wife lay dead in his arms. Still, the fought back the urge for revenge upon the man who had done this. It was not his place to wish violence. So, taking the woman he loved, he brought her out back and buried her next to their daughters, weeping quietly.
While shoveling the last of the dirty onto his wife’s grave, he heard the familiar yipping of his dog, Chowder, followed by the loudest roar he had ever heard. He spun around to see Chowder and a bear locked in mortal combat. Despite being a fraction of the bear’s size and weight, chowder, viciously bit at the beast’s neck, unwilling to be shaken off as he single-handedly defended the homestead and his master from the beast.
To this day, Flint does not remember grabbing his father’s old hunting musket from where it had ever been displayed on the mantel. He does not remember loading it. He does not remember pulling the trigger at point-blank range as the monstrosity stood over the bloody corpse of Chowder.
Flint’s story is a reminder of the harsh realities of the wilderness and that, despite our willpower, sometimes our hand is forced to make violence lest we lose all we hold dear.