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[WP] A Time Traveler Went Back to 1400 AD Europe with an Assault Rifle, and used it to obtain power. He has lived like a Baron for 40 years. The gun's internals have been broken for the last 30 years.
“Dood aan de baron!”
Geoff sat atop the simple wooden throne at the head of his grand hall, trademark M4 loosely clutched in in his right hand, the symbol of his ironclad power. On a normal day, this might have been the time of afternoon he would entertain an open audience made from his subjects. A rueful smirk slithered across Geoff’s features. He supposed by the strictest definitions, that was still the case.
The chants were getting louder.
It had only been a matter of time. Between the sickness and drought, his people were suffering. They needed someone to blame. Geoff, and his station, represented the status quo.
It was a good run. His waist had grown. His family had flourished. His beard had turned grey. It had sure as shit beaten the hell out of life as a sanitation worker from Buffalo. At least here, he had made history. He had LIVED history. Not many could say that.
“Time to go,” Geoff muttered, clambering to his feet and letting out a groan as he straightened his back.
The first of the mob made it through the door, pitchforks, clubs, and torches at the ready. An inadvertent snort escaped Geoff’s face; if his situation hadn’t been so dire, the cliché scene might have been comical.
The leader of the mob hesitated, fear flashing over his face as Geoff leveled the barrel of his weapon at the man’s head. The chanting hushed to a low murmur and Geoff couldn’t help himself.
“There’s no way this old hunk of rust still works, right?” the baron said in a tongue only he could understand. “You want to see me gone so bad, all you've gotta do is ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky?’.” Geoff aimed down the sights, relaxing his breathing and thumbing a small red switch on the side of the lethal tool of war. “Well, do ya, punk?”
The mob, to their credit, were committed to their cause. Without hesitation, they surged forwards, a violent wave of humanity.
Geoff sighed internally. At least where he was going, he wouldn’t have to worry about his peers not getting his references. But the thought was a cold comfort.
In a single deft maneuver, Geoff flipped the weapon in his hands and pressed the cold, unforgiving barrel to the underside of his chin. His subjects skidded to a halt at the foot of the dais, baffled for the second time in as many minutes. Geoff gave them a final grandfatherly wink and pulled the trigger.
The world went away.
Baron Geoff of the Low Geofflands, long may he reign, stood in the entryway of his studio apartment in Buffalo, New York, tears rapidly blurring his vision. It was not good to be home.
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[WP] You're a powerful dragon that lived next to a small kingdom. For centuries you ignored humanity and lived alone in a cave, and the humans also avoided you. As the kingdom fell to invaders, a dying soldier approaches you with the infant princess, begging you to take care of her.
What did I know about raising a baby?
Fuck all, that’s what. I hadn’t even laid a clutch of my own yet. Not in this neighborhood.
I couldn’t blame Geoff. Not really. The town guardsman had stumbled to the mouth of my cave, riddled with centaur arrows, explained the situation, and promptly died on my doorstep. I paused, mid-stride, the implication of that thought hanging in the forefront of my brain. Son of a cerberus, I’d have to get rid of the body before it started to smell. First the sewage infrastructure, even though he knew full-well that I lived in this swamp, and now this? Inconsiderate to the end, that Geoff.
I shook it off. One thing at a time. Refocusing on my task and tucking my wings a little tighter against my back, I stepped down the cavernous corridor and came to the chamber I had been searching for: my hoard.
I picked through the mountain of silver, gold, platinum knickknacks until I found my prize somewhere towards the back. Gingerly gripping the tiny golden rod between two claws, I blearily shambled back towards the entrance where Geoff had ruined my early-spring hibernation. The little golden scepter was practically falling apart, but that suited my purposes just fine. The symbol of ultimate kingly power, encrusted with blood-red rubies, made a tinny rattling noise every time I so much as jostled it. Perfect.
“Here,” I rumbled in draconic, tossing the rod at the feet of this fleshy, wide-eyed monkey. “Entertain yourself while I figure this out.”
It didn’t even look at the golden treasure on the ground in front of it. It just started to scream.
I winced, internally weighing the merits of melting the little creature and being done with its incessant shrieking and constant appetite and other stupid mammalian needs. Black dragons such as myself weren’t blessed with the ability to belch fire like our crimson and gold comrades, but we could spit a mean gout of acid. I’d have to make sure the deed was done far enough away from the tapestries so that I wouldn’t...
Any thoughts of squashing the little bug came to a screeching halt when I noticed a glint around its neck. A pendant. Bearing a crest. The same crest as that on the scepter.
It was in that instant the plan... THE plan... first started to form.