The Cooper’s Casket

The Cooper's Casket is a series of lore-related stories published on Hunt: Showdown official web page

Preface
Writing can be a labyrinthine process. While writing the lore for Hunt: Showdown over the last few years of development, we've ended up with a number of pieces that, for one reason or another, won't make it into the game. The reasons that a piece of writing might need to be cut from the in-game library are multi-fold: maybe there was another piece that ultimately did the job better, maybe something was cut (our lore entries are all tied to specific game unlocks, so cut one, and you might find you have an orphaned piece of writing on your hand), or maybe we just ran out of space. Over the next few months we'd like to share a few of those cut pieces or lore with you: short stories that are peripheral to the lore's main threads, atmosphere pieces, and outtakes. If you want to discuss, feel free to stop by the Hunt loreDiscord channel to say hello.

-hawthorne&hearn

Part 1
The Papers of Hayden Collins

Filed under, “Miscellaneous"

Story draft?

Undated

1/3

My head aches, oh how it aches. I can see no light from within this narrow prison, and have no idea how long I was unconscious or where I am now. Wooden walls close tightly around me, and my knees pulled up to my chest, I can barely breath. Not even an arm's span apart, lie those sloping walls.

I sit in a bath of fine acrid powder—black powder if I am correct. What cruel irony of fate. I am a cooper, and when Filmore asked me to make three barrels far larger than our standard, I did not suspect that he meant to close me inside of one. I imagine my apprentices share this fate, though I pray that I am wrong.

The thousand injuries of Filmore I had borne as best I could, but to be shut into a prison of my own making ventured injury to insult. I have never given him cause to doubt my good will. I should have doubted his. Perhaps, with a fist, I could break open the barrel's corked opening and manage an escape.

My nose fills with dust each time I inhale. I choke and cough and must remind myself to remain calm. Escape, if a possibility at all, will require a clear, calm mind. Yet I know all too well how well these walls are fastened together, what it would take to break them apart. I cannot lift my arm to the cork. It is pinned to my side by the boards I so carefully fit together.

Part 2
The Papers of Hayden Collins

Filed under, “Miscellaneous"

Story draft?

Undated

2/3

It weren't my first job, and I'll be damned if it were my last. As if damnin' were a thing to stop a man killin' demons. That's math don't right add up. That kinda thing either gonna make you holy or damn you right from the start. I reckon religion's a sham anyway. They's always after your wallet. This God you speak of, I says, last time I was in a church, he ain't gotta interest in my wallet, I say. His son turned over them tables in the market, ain't he? Preacher give me the eye at that, shook the collection plate and eyed me right righteous like. I figured my welcome worn out. No bother replacin' it. Ain't nothing righteous in a God wantsta rob me, no.

Part 3
The Papers of Hayden Collins

Filed under, “Miscellaneous”

Story draft?

Undated

3/3

He would build his own casket, thinking all the time that it would be an instrument of life, not death.

I had hired him to cooper one year previous, and he made good, sturdy barrels, standard powder kegs mostly, for those were most in demand of my customers. He knew nothing of the true nature of his task, only that I was in need of three large barrels, quick-as.

The thousand injuries of the cooper I had borne as best I could; but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. I am not a petty man, though you perhaps have already chiseled the moniker upon my grave, a grave you are already digging for me as you judge, judge, judge, as you slip the noose around my neck in your mind as you read my confession. But I did not make threats, no! At length I would be avenged. A wrong left unreprised overtakes its repriser. It is equally foolish when that man fails to make his purpose and intention felt.

You could not call me friendly, though neither could you call me mean.