<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Dusk<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Jaelyn<br/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ab/Stagecoach.png)</div><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/The_preacher.png)</div><br/>The only thing which burned in the fire was ordinary brush, small tinder, dead woods likely gathered from some distance away.  Little fingernail sized chips of ghost rock had begun to be used all throughout Lost Angels – so common that seeing a fire giving off the pale, greenish light of ghost rock was far more common than the oranges and blues of a more ordinary blaze.  Now the strange preacher stood in the halo of that fire, and yet the driver seemed unable to see him – only to hear that booming voice, and though it was Scripture he quoted, the words clearly unnerved the driver.<br/><br/>The driver gave a growl when she yanked her arm away, and for a moment Jaelyn had the impression he intended to grab her by her hair and haul her back to his side.  There was something bestial and terrified in him, something antagonized and enraged, and in the firelight his skin looked a sickly, mottled grey.<br/><br/>The driver hissed.  “I can't see him at all,” he snapped.  “This is no Christian... he's a warlock!  Exodus, 22:18.  Thou shalt not suffer a witch - “  His hand closed around the young martyr's arm, squeezing it tight again, yanking her back to his side.  His hand trembled where it held the gun, and his eyes kept searching the area in front of the camp, his gun leveled.  “ - Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”<br/><br/>The priest nodded softly to her statement.<br/><br/>“There had been,” he agreed.  “You have been deceived.”<br/><br/>He was stepping carefully, now, black boots moving to keep from crunching the sand and gravel beneath his feet.  He jumped to the side as the river once again jerked and fired.  The bullet nearly caught his shoulder, and then he threw himself forward.  The wooden cross was carried in hand, and he pressed the tiny symbol up against the hand of the driver.<br/><br/>There was a sizzle, and a crackle of smoke, the flesh bubbling and popping where the cross touched, and the driver screamed.  For a moment, the man who held her arm was no man at all – she could see mottled grey flash, an empty eye socket that revealed a red glow where an eye should have been, and lips that had rotted from over teeth.  Long, yellow nails scratched at her arm as the driver flailed,, and the priest kept coming at him, gripping the undead<em>things</em>neck, and bearing him back to the ground.  The cross he pressed against the creature's forehead, and the driver's body arched, an unholy scream coming from him.<br/><br/>“RELEASE HIM, DEMON!” shouted the priest, continuing to press the cross to the monstrosity's forehead.<em>“Deus, cui próprium est miseréri semper et párcere: súscipe deprecatiónem nostram; ut hunc fámulum tuum, quem (hanc fámulam tuam, quam) delictórum caténa constríngit, miserátio tuæ pietátis cleménter absólvat.”</em><br/><br/>[OOC:  The Latin is the beginning of a rite of exorcism.]