These stories first appeared in Hunt's Book of Weapons, an in-game collection of found documents curated by an unknown researcher. They are replicated here in their original format. This means that many of the stories are not presented chronologically, or in one grouping, and it is left to the reader to put together the puzzle pieces and determine to what extent they contain fact, fiction, or fable.

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Cavalry Saber

CALVARY SABER. (See also, BLADED WEAPONS) The modern light cavalry saber was developed in 1861 for the United States Cavalry. Although at roughly 40 inches in length and 2 pounds in weight, the cavalry saber is both shorter and lighter than its predecessor, many preferred this model due to its superior balance and ease of use. Designed for use during battle on horseback, the momentum created by a blow dealt from atop a galloping horse makes up for the weapon's light mass. Through the late 19th century, the saber gradually found itself becoming obsolete. Amusingly, it found a new lease of life when re-purposed for agricultural work.

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Unpublished manuscript, "Bad As They Seem"
Author: Hayden Collins
Undated
Bleached paper, typewritten, 8.5x11 in

-14-
The lantern signal came, as it must, in the night, for only the darkness can carry the light. Jos had come to trust another Hunter—unprecedented, dangerous, but perhaps, now, necessary—as Fin had become other, her trances a wall between them. Jos and Allison met in an abandoned building just inside of the dead zone, where they shared the burden of memory in that dimly lit confessional.

Where the leg had been maimed, and everything beneath the knee removed, the scar was rocky and deep, a canyon of dead flesh. Surrounding it like constellations were the pock marks of shrapnel's fury. Allison had not expected to keep the leg, in fact, had lost most of it. But a strange extrusion had begun to regrow shortly after the hasty operation, and it had healed under the careful watch of her traveling companion. She could walk on it now.
Another scar ran from knee to groin, where a saber's blow had nearly halved the leg at the hip. She still limped, though the injuries no longer slowed her pace. A large red birth mark stamped the leg as well: mark of the devil her mother had called it, had called her. Many would've put a child down the well for less, but they needed her on the farm.

Now the calloused hand of the young blacksmith followed the line of the canyon to its source, and the scar bearer wept, for the first time, to think of the leg, the one lost and the one gained, wept to know life with the intensity of one who constantly walked with the reaper. Such a lonely companion he was. Not like this. Nothing like this.

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Journal of John Hayward
Received from: Ted Hayward (deceased)
Bleached, unlined paper, leather bound, 9in. x 11in.

Sinan was always good at two things. Arms and poetry. That's why we called him the Gun Poet in the first place. The staccato rhythm of his two pistols was the most reassuring thing you could hear on a hunt. But that was the first time I saw him handling a blade. If poetry can be expressed in motion, this certainly was it. Sinan held my sword delicately, almost cradling it with his arms. He turned it around, raised it, and focused on something I couldn't see. He squinted his eyes and looked closer. Then he started nodding to himself, seemingly satisfied with the results of his investigation.

He told me it was a fine weapon. That I should be proud.

To me, it's just a sword, a longer knife I use if I run out of ammunition. But Sinan wanted to know who made it and got pretty thoughtful when I told him it had been made in a factory, with hundreds of others just like it. I told him I'd named it Sparrow.

That was the day we began training with the blade. He's not the most patient of teachers. But I can't complain. I got myself into this situation. I'm not very good at it, even though I have a sword with a name. Give me a Caldwell and I'll shoot the wings off a fly. But this? I don't get it.

Sinan told me I fight like a dairy farmer. Crude for a poet.

As I'm getting better at fencing, Sinan's lessons have gotten stranger. I feel like whatever I choose to do is wrong. He keeps telling me I fight like a farmer. Guess he doesn't know the kind of farmers we have around here. But it is true that I'm not much for hand to hand combat. Call me a coward, but I'd rather pick off my enemies from afar. Sinan is philosophical about murder. Don't understand it. Murder is murder. Starts with a bullet, ends in a coffin. He says I need to respect my weapon. He says my weapon wants to kill. That I have to let it do what it was made for. That I have to "let the sparrow sing." I don't know about any of that. I think he might have been threatening me. I think it's about time I looked for a new teacher.

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