Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Small Groups =&gt; Topic started by: Ciosa on 08-03-2013, 00:47:08</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 00:47:08</strong>
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				<hr><div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><hr><br><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size: 18pt;" class="bbc_size">Out of Town</span></strong></div><br><div align="center">This thread is for any roleplaying which occurs outside the town, proper.&nbsp; This will include the Sioux Union's settlement, Black Jack's Lair, aboard the <em>Typhoon</em> or at any location listed below or eventually added by the GM.&nbsp; Please use the Tagging Header listed below.</div><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Doomtown Tagging Header</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div class="codeheader">Code: <a href="javascript:void(0);" onclick="return smfSelectText(this);" class="codeoperation">[Select]</a></div><pre style="margin: 0; padding: 0;"><code class="bbc_code">[hr]<br>[floatleft][IMG height=200 padding=8]&lt;Link to your character's picture&gt;[/IMG][/floatleft] <br>[b]Name:[/b] <br>[b]Faction:[/b] (Unknown, or the associated faction rank.&nbsp; If faction rank is less than three, it is not required to note.)<br>[b]Date:[/b]<br>[b]Time of Day:[/b] (morning, noon, afternoon.&nbsp; Please avoid precise timing.)<br>[b]Location:[/b] <br>[b]Tagged:[/b] <br>[hr] </code></pre></div></div>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 00:47:33</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr> <br><br>Deputy Nate Hunter wheeled his horse to a stop, frowning at the forward camp, shielding his eyes from the sun for a moment with his hand.&nbsp; The horse wheeled, skittish, at the sight of so many tents, so many people milling, hauling picks and shovels, the clatter of metal as the rail continued to extend south, inch by inch.&nbsp; He frowned to himself, the sunlight reflecting off the tin badge which held no power here.&nbsp; These were Kang's men, but a bounty was a bounty, and a murder in Gomorra demanded an accounting.<br><br>Still, the notion of being surrounded by hundreds of Chinamen made him a bit nervous.&nbsp; He'd learned quickly how much the orientals of Sodom closed ranks no matter what questions were being asked.&nbsp; He slid down off the horse, self consciously touching the Peacemaker at his side.&nbsp; For a moment, his gaze slid to the shotgun still strapped to the saddle.<br><br>No.&nbsp; Too much.&nbsp; The enforcers that surrounded them camps likely wouldn't appreciate a swaggering entry. Nate had managed to get far further with politeness.&nbsp; He plucked at his duster, a bead of sweat already forming on his brow, and stepped forward towards the camp, wondering if the sword and pistol wielding enforcers were meant to keep folks out - or in.&nbsp; <br><br>He looked over the guards, approaching one, catching a small flash of a book stuck into the man's back pocket.&nbsp; He bowed his head in quick greeting, giving his best grin, a corner of his mouth arching to make the goatee look nominally rakish.<br><br>"My name's Nathan Hunter, I'm a Senior Deputy out of Gomorra.&nbsp; I was hoping to have a word with the camp's foreman, sir."<br><br>He bowed his head again, only to be met with an inscrutable gaze.&nbsp; <br><br>Nate gave a small smile.&nbsp; "Now, unless you're using that copy of the <em>Manchester Man</em> in your back pocket as toilet tissue, I imagine you understand every word I'm saying.&nbsp; I promise, I won't haul anyone out your camp without your boss's say so, but I imagine you and he can line your pockets off the bounty on this man, and my only concern is seeing him brought to justice.&nbsp; There's a seventy dollar reward.&nbsp; Split two ways, that goes pretty far in the casinos in Gomorra."<br><br>The guard cocked his head, amused.<br><br>"Follow," he said tersely.&nbsp; "Mr. Senior Deputy."<br><br>Nate gave another small smile, and a nod.&nbsp; "A pleasure, Mister..."<br><br>The man shot him a gaze that suggested Nate had best temper off any further inquiry.&nbsp; "Rooster."<br><br>Nate pursed his lips.&nbsp; That didn't sound like any Chinese name he'd ever heard, and his puzzlement showed on his features.&nbsp; The guard grabbed his crotch.&nbsp; "Big Rooster."<br><br>Nate blinked, but held the amusement and any inappropriate comments in check.&nbsp; "After you, Mr. Rooster."<br><br>He adjusted his jacket, shaking off the sensation he was descending into the lion's den.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 00:54:37</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://www.kidcyber.com.au/IMAGES/goldrushchinese_jupiter.jpg)</div>Marguerite trod slowly through the labor camp, her back straight but her frame compressed by her heavy load.&nbsp; She was dressed in dirty gray trousers cinched at the waist and baggy along the legs, the hems tied just under the knee.&nbsp; The smock she wore was dark, a brown that was almost black and it was as loose as the trousers.&nbsp; Hair as black as any Asian's was tied up in a bun and tucked under a broad-brimmed hat.&nbsp; At five-eight she was taller than most here, but from any distance she seemed another of the countless coolies working in this camp, a yoke balanced along the line of her shoulders supported four large buckets filled with fresh water.&nbsp; Or water as fresh as any available in this horrid place.&nbsp; Here a woman was expected to earn her keep and no matter how well a woman pleased a man, or men, that involved productive labor.<br><br>There were few women in the camp, and she was perhaps the only white woman.&nbsp; She had seen no other white women, and at first the Chinese women shunned her.&nbsp; But she worked as hard as any of them - she hauled water and she cooked for the men in her tent and she did their laundry, scrubbing out the grime of hard work against rocks alongside the other women doing the same. She kept her mouth shut and her oddly pale green-brown occidental eyes open and she learned from the women.&nbsp; She never complained and she was quick to lend aid to any in need.&nbsp; She'd won the women over even before the men, and many of them she counted as friend.&nbsp; She learned from the men too, and always displayed appropriate diffidence, never looking a man in the eye outside the tent.<br><br>So, with head bowed and back straight, she hauled fifty pounds of water through the camp, her bare white feet crunching along the gravelly track leading from the well to her tent, currently the center of her world.&nbsp; It was a good tent, clean and well-maintained - tidy and organized and with amenities few others in the camp enjoyed - the fruits of her men's labor.&nbsp; She'd been traded around the camp at first, most Chinese seeing little value in a white woman.&nbsp; But word spread - she was quick of wit, entertaining both in and out of bed, and she worked without complaint.&nbsp; So eventually she found herself where she planned weeks ago - in a tent shared by four of the guards.&nbsp; Men with weapons, power, status, and more wealth than common laborers.&nbsp; Men with more status than any except the foreman, and men that ate well even when the supply wagons were late, and that shared their meals with their whore.<br><br>For that was what she was - a whore bought and paid for by four small, brutal yellow men.&nbsp; Not that she had opportunity to name her own price, or ever received direct payment for sexual favors - but not one of these men considered her more than an object to satisfy their needs - their base lusts certainly, but also other social and physical needs.&nbsp; Like fetching the water, and getting their dinner cooked before they returned from their shift - which she wasn't going to do if she dawdled.<br><br>She'd grown expert at scanning the camp with her head bowed, at avoiding eye contact but still knowing who was around her.&nbsp; So she saw the horse long before she approached the tent, and she noted the white man almost as quickly.&nbsp; Rooster was taking him toward the central tents - where the foreman lived in a shack surrounded by the tents of higher-status men like the guards.&nbsp; Like the tent she now called home.&nbsp; She didn't look at the white man, nor at Rooster, though as one of the men in her tent she could have met his eyes - at least in private.&nbsp; She sighed.&nbsp; Rooster was so proud of his...&nbsp; endowment.&nbsp; But he was actually the least skillful or pleasant of her cohabits, and the most mean.&nbsp; Almost, he was the strongest, but like everyone else in the tent he deferred to the solid, stolid Tom Phay.&nbsp; Tom - a name that was almost English, expect for the intonation and inflection.&nbsp; Tom, a man she could truly respect.&nbsp; She didn't see him near by - but with a white man visiting the camp he was sure to show up soon.&nbsp; Tom liked to know what was going on.&nbsp; Strong and clever both, that one.<br><br>&nbsp;She turned her face away from the white man as she passed close, hoping her attire and the jet black of her hair were disguise enough to ward away his attention.&nbsp; She could have circled wider, but her load was heavy and she was almost at the tent, why walk 50 paces when she was only a dozen away?
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 00:58:57</strong>
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				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr> Nate's posture was photograph-perfect as he strode through the camp.&nbsp; He had a gentleman's confidence but none of the trepidation of a soft man of the East Coast.&nbsp; The gun sat on his hip like an extension of himself, but there was a certain awareness of it most men didn't have – he was every conscious to the responsibility of it, to the obligation of the star that shone on his chest, and he walked with bold confidence he didn't entirely feel.&nbsp; He was a good head taller than most of the men here, and even the towering orientals only stood nose to nose with the occidental.&nbsp; He'd still held a bit of baby fat himself when he first came from Harvard, but years as a deputy in the harshness of the west had cut him as lean as any of the workers here.&nbsp; But over the lean, powerful muscle of his body were keenly intelligent eyes, eyes that noted weapons and swords and pistols, the affected disinterest of guards who watched him closely.<br><br>He might well have missed the taller woman In the plain clothes, but for a momentary adjustment of the yoke on her shoulders.&nbsp; When a sleeve slipped down over the pale flesh of her forearm, he caught the flash of ivory amidst a sea of cinnamon skin, and he paused in his tracks, dark eyes following the trail of the woman who picked her way through the crowd.&nbsp; He watched her intently, noting the bare feet and the small flash of pale skin around her muddied ankles – and the slight curve to her spine, straighter where other women more accustomed to a life of hard labor stooped.<br>&nbsp;<br>“She's not for sale,” said Rooster, brusquely.&nbsp; &nbsp;He snapped the words, and Nate's gaze swung back around.&nbsp; <em>For sale</em>.&nbsp; Like the whole damn world hadn't gone crazy enough already because people were being put up for auction.&nbsp; His jaw tightened, muscles clenching and unclenching, and a baleful kind of hatred glowed in his eyes.&nbsp; It was only a moment, and yet Rooster's hand slipped down to the pistol at his side.&nbsp; &nbsp;Nate felt the crackle of tension in the air, the sudden shift as armed guards shifted their attention towards the occidental outsider.<br><br>He cracked that smile, hiding the fury in his eyes.&nbsp; His hand never drifted towards his hip, and he gave an easy laugh.&nbsp; <br><br>“Not for sale?&nbsp; Do I look like I'm made of money?”&nbsp; He shook his head.&nbsp; “I was just considering how much I'd care to <em>rent</em>.”&nbsp; He glanced back at the disappearing woman, painting his best approximation of the mayor's randy smile on his face.&nbsp; He slipped a golden double eagle from his pocket – a $20 coin of solid gold, and flashed it up into the air.&nbsp; “C'mon Big Rooster.&nbsp; You don't mind if I take a turn at the till, do ya?”<br><br>He swallowed back the small amount of bile that surged at the thought.&nbsp; “Give us ten minutes alone, and we can get back to padding your pockets.”<br><br>The coin was a week of Rooster's salary, and Nate watched as the man's eyes followed it.&nbsp; It was real vegetables in the tasteless noodles, a bath and four nights stay a decent hotel in Gomorra.&nbsp; Warm beds and pretty occidental women waiting on Big Rooster hand and foot.&nbsp; He flicked the coin over with a twist of his thumb, and watched as Rooster snatched it from the air.&nbsp; Kang's lowly minions were paid far better than those who served to turn the Iron Dragon into a functioning railroad, but they were far from well compensated.&nbsp; <br><br>He watched another oriental in a fancy bowler hat slip closer to Rooster, the two guards conferring for a moment.&nbsp; "You go ahead, Mr. Senior Deputy.&nbsp; We make special exception.&nbsp; One time for you."<br><br>Tom laughed to Rooster, speaking in Cantonese.&nbsp; "[One time?&nbsp; For her?&nbsp; She is like rice grains.&nbsp; You can't have just one."&nbsp; Big Rooster gave a chuckle.&nbsp; "[Of course not.&nbsp; Next time, we charge him forty."
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:00:58</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She felt his eyes on her even with her back turned.&nbsp; What was he looking at?&nbsp; In these clothes she didn't present much to see.&nbsp; Still, audience or not she had chores to finish.&nbsp; With a nimble twist of pelvis and back she turned sideways to push the yoke through the slit-like tent entrance, side-stepping into the temporary structure with the heavy load.&nbsp; The move put her in profile to the watching trio and for a brief moment the curves of her womanly form shown through the loose garb.&nbsp; Not that it was intentional - one simply couldn't strut while side-stepping with a fifty pound load.&nbsp; Not unless you were very good.<br><br>She didn't remain in the tent very long.&nbsp; Just long enough to stow the water and fetch a tiny pellet of ghost-rock and a brick of noodles.&nbsp; One thing - here near the Maze there was always fuel.&nbsp; The tiny sliver of ghostly rock was no bigger than the ragged nail of her pinky, but was enough to bring several gallons to a rolling boil.&nbsp; Noodles again.&nbsp; Maybe rice tomorrow.&nbsp; But noodles today, flavored with shavings off a strip of jerky of unknown origin and a diced pepper with an aggressive bite.&nbsp; She stepped outside and squatted with a smooth flowing grace, her body flowing naturally into an indifferent lotus next to the fire pit.&nbsp; She seemed to ignore her audience as she hummed an old French ballroom tune and set about laying the fire, setting the pot, and preparing their dinner.<br><br>And while most of her attention was indeed focused on her task, she was far from unaware of the attention she drew from the tall stranger and her tent mates.&nbsp; She never looked up at them directly and the brim of her coolie hat hid her face, but her quick eyes saw everything they did to just under shoulder height.&nbsp; She could read body language, and she saw Big Rooster's trousers tent up as his ridiculous endowment stirred - they were talking about her then.&nbsp; She almost smirked but instead kept her expression a passable imitation of and inscrutable Oriental stare.&nbsp; She saw the money change hands and she...&nbsp; A year ago, even a few months ago, the transaction would have horrified her.&nbsp; Now, she felt more disappointment than disgust.&nbsp; So it was like that.<br><br>She expected nothing less from the Big Rooster, but Tom - she'd been grooming Tom, working on him as she attempted to build a bond between them.&nbsp; She wanted him to care for her enough to take her away from this place, and she thought she was succeeding.&nbsp; She used subtle, oblique references to things like Big Rooster's size or Kwan's amazing comic skill to dig at his ego and build jealous tension between the guards that thought they owned her because they had her contract.&nbsp; And she thought it was working.&nbsp; Each time she serviced one of the others, she made a point to glance toward Tom briefly, her expressive eyes making a silent plea.&nbsp; Always subtle, and always very discrete - she was sure none of the other's had noticed.&nbsp; But Tom had, and she thought that he glowered with jealousy each time she served one of the others.&nbsp; Only... how jealous could he be, if he could sell her to another?&nbsp; <br><br>It was like Sarge all over again.&nbsp; Sarge had really cared for her, told her so many times and in many ways - with both word and action.&nbsp; And, she had noticed, he couldn't watch when she walked away with another man.&nbsp; But despite those feelings or any regrets he might have, he still kept&nbsp; selling her body when the price was right.&nbsp; But not one of those men ever hurt her.&nbsp; Sarge made sure of that.&nbsp; He was there immediately if she needed him, defending her life and limb if not her honor.&nbsp; And now Tom was doing the same.&nbsp; At least to a point.&nbsp; She wondered if he'd defend her if needed?<br><br>It all made no matter - because this white man wore a star, and his carriage intrigued her.&nbsp; He stood like a proud man, and a brave man, and nothing in his demeanor showed aught of fear.&nbsp; Caution, yes - she could tell he was tense.&nbsp; Tense and ready and aware of the danger of being a white man alone in this camp.&nbsp; But that didn't keep him from coming here.&nbsp; Why was he here?&nbsp; Presumably, to do his job.&nbsp; Slavery was illegal - had he heard the Chinese had a white woman captive?&nbsp; Had he come to rescue her?&nbsp; Well, the contract she signed would foil that plan.&nbsp; She wasn't sure how the coolie labor laws worked, but she was sure that technically every man and woman in this camp was here voluntarily.&nbsp; And that included her.&nbsp; Why had she signed that contract? At the time it seemed prudent.&nbsp; It gave her certain rights and a kind of status, if a very low status.&nbsp; It was better than being held captive by uncertainty.&nbsp; <br><br>Her mind whirled - working Tom was a long-term project, one she was sure would succeed eventually - but it was several months away from fruition.&nbsp; This man.. this law man... there had to be a way she could leverage his presence and his interest into a quicker escape from this dreary life of labor and abuse.&nbsp; Though she was going to miss Big Rooster's rooster - he was a vicious, mean little man and he was so inordinately proud of that huge dick that he didn't think he needed anything else to please a woman.&nbsp; And so until recently he hadn't had any technique to speak of and their sex had been a painful, awkward thing.&nbsp; But he was learning, and she thought he could learn to be not only good, but great.&nbsp; He certainly had the equipment for it.<br><br>She'd miss Tom too, and the others.&nbsp; Each for a different reason.&nbsp; And she knew nothing about this white man except he was brave, and from the stiffness in his posture when he looked at her, he was angry.&nbsp; He went straighter and more tense when he looked at her - she could tell he was looking without seeing his face.&nbsp; He was angry she was here - and while the Chinamen thought they knew his interest in her, she was not so sure his intentions were amorous.&nbsp; There was nothing of desire in the way he moved, just well controlled rage.&nbsp; Maybe she could use his rage to...&nbsp; She was ashamed of herself even thinking that way, but a girl had to survive, and survival out here in the West meant you did what you had to.<br><br>She had dinner set by the time the men stopped talking and the white man approached.&nbsp; Water and noodle and the scant admixtures sat in the pot and the ghost rock was ready to light.&nbsp; Only she couldn't light it.&nbsp; Back East, they kept a fire banked, ready to re-ignite with added fuel.&nbsp; You couldn't do that when your whole fire was a chip of ghost-rock.&nbsp; You had to re-light it every time.&nbsp; Usually, there was a fire going somewhere, and the women borrowed a flame from each other.&nbsp; Or one of the men would use a precious match or one of the expert girls would use flint and steel - it was amazingly difficult to light ghost-rock from only a spark.&nbsp; But with the men watching her, she couldn't walk away to find the flame.<br><br>So she made the best of it.&nbsp; He was walking up to her, and just before he stopped she glanced up, her porcelain pale features perfect in every way, the subtle rose of her pert lips lovely even in her emotionless impassive glance.&nbsp; &nbsp;Her eyes, however - her eyes were greenish, a hazel more brown than anything, a light color that suited her pale features perfectly.&nbsp; Hazel-brown, or green, or gray - it was hard to tell, and it was hard to look away.&nbsp; The face that looked up at him was so starkly beautiful that even without a smile her gaze had nearly the impact of a bullet to the heart.&nbsp; Her features were blank, but her eyes laughed at him as she spoke.&nbsp; <strong>"Howdy cowboy.&nbsp; Got a light?"</strong>&nbsp; Her voice was every bit as lovely as her face.&nbsp; Smooth and pleasant, the contralto was just deep enough to hint at husky, and her accent was of the East and of the not-so-deep South.<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:03:22</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>She was too far distant for him see much more than a suggestive silhouette, but for all his bravado in the face of Rooster and Tom, even the suggestion that there might be little modesty beneath the shift made him avert his eyes by virtue of well-trained manners.&nbsp; He sent a glance over his shoulder towards Rooster and Tom, waiting for a quick dismissal that suggested he could go and take advantage of his time now.&nbsp; He gave a broad smile, doing his best to feign the eagerness of a hungry john.&nbsp; He had little practice at it, though he'd been to enough brothels and saloons that he could adopt a reasonable facsimile.&nbsp; <br><br>He had only a tiny window into the tent, enough to see her bending towards the firepit and preparing food.&nbsp; She'd adopted enough mannerisms that it would have been easy enough to mistake her for any of the other laborers – the attire nearly rendered her so sexless that if it hadn't been for something hypnotic in the sway of her hips, he couldn't have been certain he would have allowed his eyes to be drawn to her.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>He forced his gaze away from the intriguing occidental woman, forcing his eyes around to the camp adjacent to them.&nbsp; He watched guards, noting the porous areas where they looked half-asleep or bored with inactivity – the men who kept vigilant and the men who were more curious about the tall white man in their midst.&nbsp; He noted the laborers who discreetly studied him and the ones who studiously ignored him.&nbsp; There was too much activity in the camp, too much business to even dare some sort of half-cocked rescue during the day.&nbsp; It would be nightfall, and impossible without her consent, her cooperation.&nbsp; But already a plan was forming in his mind – he noted the locations of gunpowder storage, of ghostrock.&nbsp; &nbsp;He resisted the urge to reassure himself by touching the gun at his side.&nbsp; He was just a horny john, looking for a piece of white meat to satisfy his urges.&nbsp; <br><br>He knelt down at the entryway to the tent, lifting a flap slightly, balancing on the balls of his feet to keep from slipping his suit into the hard mud.&nbsp; He was hardly afraid of getting a little dirty, but a certain sense of propriety when calling on a lady simply couldn't be erased.&nbsp; Not that Nate Hunter had called on many ladies – but an upbringing in New York had at least grounded him in a protocol of presentable appearance.&nbsp; He looked up then, eyes tracing over her face, her eyes that seemed to shiver through different colors as the dim light of the tents interior.&nbsp; He let out a breath, shocked at just how beautiful the woman before him was.&nbsp; The aristocratic features, the composure – though the merriment in her eyes as she spoke brought a genuine smile to his face.&nbsp; He basked in it, fot a moment, speechless and awed, trying to imagine what god-awful circumstances could have conspired to entrap her in this distant, western hell.<br><br>Her words didn't register, at first, and he blinked and forced himself to look away from the eyes, the long lines of her neck.&nbsp; His eyes never even down down the front of the sack that seemed to pass for attire.&nbsp; The genuine smile set in a thinner line as he remembered his purpose here.&nbsp; He finally gave a small nod, reaching into his pocket for a matchbook, and striking it.&nbsp; He held it over the little scrap of fuel, letting the flame catch the vapors instead of the rock itself – a good way to lose a finger, even with a piece so small – and then quickly pulled the match away as it flared to life and cast the inside of the tent in a sickly glow.<br><br>Only a moment later did he realize that everyone outside the thin tent would be able to see their two shadows sitting in hunched conversation.&nbsp; “The guards think I'm in here to … have my way with you,” he explained, his voice soft.&nbsp; “Ten minutes.&nbsp; I – came to speak to you, but I'll need to convince them that we're... engaged, or else they'll be suspicious.”&nbsp; He licked his lips,, a faint blush coloring his cheeks in the sickly glow of the camp.&nbsp; “On my honor as a gentleman, I promise I have no untoward intentions to you,” he swore, his voice pitched low but fervent.&nbsp; &nbsp;There was still the flavor of rage in his voice, the ire at her circumstance.s&nbsp; Her voice had an Eastern accent to match his own, though the fast-talking New Yorker had faded a bit with life on the open west.<br><br>“If you could... lay back?” he asked.&nbsp; “And I'll... lay on you.&nbsp; Do you speak... French?&nbsp; Latin?”&nbsp; There was a tight nervousness in his tone.&nbsp; Truthfully, the prospect of a guns-blazing rescue made him less nervous than being alone in the company of a beautiful woman.&nbsp; He glanced towards the tent's flaps, hoping the ears straining to hear them would not understand either of the dialects he was familiar with.&nbsp; &nbsp;He moved forward, ready to lie over her if she was willing to go along with his suggestion.&nbsp; He didn't make a move to strip off a scrap of clothing, confident they could feign the act without the need to strip her of the dignity of her clothing.&nbsp; It had been a long time since he'd been so close to a woman, close enough to smell her beneath the dirty clothes and the sweat of her day's labors.&nbsp; He took a breath that came out ragged, crawling on hands and knees towards her, grateful for the thin cover of blankets to keep the cold and dirt of the hard-packed floor at bay.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:04:52</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://yesiroleplay.webs.com/images/224687468879257848_C81DL1zF_bw3.jpg)</div>Was her French accent so noticeable?&nbsp; She thought she spoke pretty ordinary American.&nbsp; But then most people with any pretense at being gentile spoke at least a smattering of the Language of Diplomacy.&nbsp; Hints from his accent and mannerisms suggested that this lawman came from good family back East, so of course he'd have a bit of French.&nbsp; Her features never twitched from their stoic inscrutable expression, but somehow the shadow of a smile shone through the dead expression as she listened to his suggestions.&nbsp; Like a school boy on a first date - or a young gentleman asking his crush for a dance at a debutante ball.&nbsp; <strong>"French is fine, if you like." </strong>&nbsp; She assured him, undoing the five toggle-like pegs sewn down one side of the placket of her smock, unthreading them one-by-one from the loops sewn into the opposite plait.&nbsp; She started at the collar, and the rough tunic fell a little more apart with each undone fastener.&nbsp; The skin under the rough fabric was as silken smooth as her lovely face, and even paler.&nbsp; She had two of the crude buttons undone before he quite realized what she was doing, and the expanse of female flesh revealed was mostly down the strip from throat to sternum, but the inner curves of the heavy globes at each side were clear to his view. His slow crawl forward nearly put his nose into the cleft between those globes.<br><br><strong>"This isn't a debutante ball, and my virtue isn't in need of the protection of your honor." </strong>&nbsp; She told him, <strong>"It's well past any need of protection."</strong>&nbsp; She assured him with no great bitterness.&nbsp; She made a nod of her head toward the wall of the tent, where her silhouette clearly mimed her actions, hands to breast in their steady movement down her torso.&nbsp; The act of pulling the undone top up over her head would be clearly visible to any watching the side of the tent.&nbsp; <span style="font-size: 8pt;" class="bbc_size"><strong>"Only the top." </strong></span>&nbsp; She told him in a lowered voice that wouldn't carry past his ear.&nbsp; <span style="font-size: 8pt;" class="bbc_size"><strong>"I can fake wiggling free of the trousers, but they could tell if I didn't take my top off." </strong></span>&nbsp; She was torn.&nbsp; Not much over a year ago she was exactly what she'd told him she wasn't, a chaste debutante depending on the honor of gentlemen.&nbsp; Now... well, she might no longer be chaste, but she didn't want to lose this man's respect - and oddly - he seemed to be treating her with respect.&nbsp; The deep placket loose - she grabbed up the rough fabric hanging at waist level, made a lift of about half-a-foot - not enough to pull the low-hanging hem past the waistline of her trousers, but enough to telegraph her intention to pull the tunic all the way up and over her head.&nbsp; And then she paused, giving him time to object or react or at least get used to the idea of what was about to happen.&nbsp; She didn't want to throw him into a panic or startle him into an awkward set of objections.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:07:07</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He gave a relieved nod when she mentioned being able to speak French – it wasn't a matter of her accent; he'd only heard a sentence and he was no expert in dialectic inflections.&nbsp; He'd simply proffered the only two languages he felt reasonably fluent in.&nbsp; He wasn't certain if the dead, stoic expression was more heart breaking or the shadow of a smile, but he resolved to help her if it meant calling in every Law Dog and Armed Volunteer from here to the Devil's Armpit.&nbsp; His gaze slipped from her eyes as her fingers threaded down to the pegs at the side of the smock, then back up to her eyes by force of will.&nbsp; Simply because the situation demanded a breach of protocol didn't afford him the right to take advantage of it, much as the swelling in his suit slacks begged to differ.&nbsp; He swallowed hard as those milky curves bared themselves in the periphery of his vision, forcing his gaze from falling to admire them.&nbsp; His mind idled iver the notion of letting his mouth walk across her sternum for 'show,' but he couldn't bring himself to put upon her as the violence of the west seemed to so clearly have already.&nbsp; <br><br>He frowned at her words, dark eyebrows furrowing on his brow.&nbsp; She had a point, but it was a painful reminder that she'd already been done wrong on her trip out from the East.&nbsp; He swallowed his rage, knowing she wasn't accountable for it.&nbsp; Perhaps it was naivete on his part, but the aristocracy in her features, the gentleness in her voice had him quite certain she wasn't hear of her own choosing.<br><br>He nodded, and swallowed at her explanation.&nbsp; The prospect of laying upon her while she was quite topless made his mouth go dry, and his limited command of French was perversely grateful he didn't have to muster an answer right away.&nbsp; He saw her telegraph her motions, the pause of hesitation, and realized he was very much not acting the part to an outside observer.&nbsp; He slipped trembling hands forward, to the hem of her shirt, lifting it up and off the rest of the way like a confident john about to seize his prize.&nbsp; It was only then when he realized there was no way an outside observer could tell if his eyes were open.&nbsp; While he couldn't look away as courtesy would demand, he could at least force his eyes closed from the tantalizing vision.&nbsp; He slid a hand up her silken side, past her arm, up her shoulder, murmuring an apology as he did, until his fingers caught her neck.&nbsp; Then he pulled her forward, whispering into her ear, his mouth close enough to her neck to look as if he might be planting rough kisses upon it, but lost in the tangle of dark hair, instead.<br><br>He remembered his French, belatedly.&nbsp; “[My apologies,]” he murmured.&nbsp; “[For everything that's happened to you.]”&nbsp; &nbsp;His mouth trembled slightly, ever tempted to lower to kiss her silken skin, and trusting her to pull him towards her when it was an appropriate time to lay across her.&nbsp; His manhood twitched at the prospect, but he fought back his own animal urges, a man of genteel nature and propriety no matter the temptation.&nbsp; <br><br>“[I will do everything I can to free you,]” he assured.&nbsp; “[But I've little to offer in negotiation.&nbsp; When I return, it will be in the eve, at the darkest hour.&nbsp; Will you be able to slip out in the night?&nbsp; I have a distraction in mind.]”<br><br>By the divine, she did smell good.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:10:14</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://m.cdn.blog.hu/sz/szexcsatakanno/image/Triszt%C3%A1n7/Steamy-Cowgirl-Position-Variations-IV-9486.jpg)</div>She lifted her arms high up over and behind her head and arched her back as he pulled up the dirty smock, the silhouette of her perfect breasts stood stark on the side of the tent before he finally untangled her arms from the garment and moved in on her, his face buried into the nape of her neck just below the ear.&nbsp; Thick strands of jet black hair filled his mouth, brushing his lips as he made his whispered apologies.&nbsp; <strong>"[Don't apologize.]"</strong>&nbsp; She scolded, her voice more melodious and somehow more sultry as she spoke her flawless French.&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"[You had nothing to do with it.]"</strong>&nbsp; She embraced him lightly, deft fingers trailing along the side of his neck and down the slope of his shoulders and along his arms before finally finding the buttons along the front of his shirt.<br><br>Whispering her reply.&nbsp; She didn't bother to hide her slight level of surprise.&nbsp; <strong>"[Aren't you a lawman?]"</strong>&nbsp; She asked.&nbsp; <strong>"[I signed a contract when I first came here - wouldn't it be your job to return me here if I violate the contract?]"</strong>&nbsp; She deftly undid his collar, and then the front of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders with a vigorous jerk and push that sent badly suppressed Chinese whispers echoing into the enclosure.&nbsp; She'd made that move before, and those outside recognized it.<br><br>Despite her objection, she considered the implications of his proposal - her nights were every bit as busy as her days, and she was never alone at night.&nbsp; But if she was with Po... Po was a bit older than the others, and... well, he wasn't really interested in her.&nbsp; His real interest was Rooster.&nbsp; Not that he knew it himself, or would ever reveal those feelings even if he realized he had them.&nbsp; She didn't see why everyone failed to notice the way his stared at the big cock, but such an interest was even more harshly viewed among the Chinese than it was by Americans.&nbsp; So Po.&nbsp; He'd fuck her of course, but he'd finish fast and then go to sleep.&nbsp; So if it was Po's turn, then the marshal's plan could work.&nbsp; <strong>"[Not most nights.]"</strong>&nbsp; She finally answered his question.&nbsp; <strong>"[Two nights from now I could.]"</strong><br><br>Once she had the shirt off his shoulders and halfway down his arms she shoved him back, straddling him in the process.&nbsp; Sitting atop him, her lovely silhouette again fell across the canvas of the tent - full globes wobbled as she arched her back and rolled her shoulders to thrust her slender ribcage and its heavy burden forward, the nipples atop those shapely mounds so firmly erect the nubs stood out in the profile painted against the canvas. Throwing herself forward from the deep back-arch, she fell along his body, her soft tits mashing into his hard chest as she appeared to devour the man under her, her face buried against his rough jaw.&nbsp; <br><br>She continued to speak as she nibbled along his jawline.&nbsp; <strong>"[Are you sure you want to do this?]"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, small white teeth nipping playfully at his ear, pulling at the lobe until it elastically freed itself from her toothy grasp.&nbsp; Still in her trousers, she ground her sex into his pelvis, dry humping him with a vigor that sent her slender frame aquiver and a-wobble.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:18:13</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He wrinkled his nose as she mentioned that she could have walked away.&nbsp; It would have been easy to suggest she simply lie, but Nathan had a higher regard for the truth, even if the caress of her words and the nearness of her body made it well nigh impossible to focus.&nbsp; Emotional duress would be hard enough to prove.&nbsp; There was some answer that was eluding him, some twist of the law that he knew was just out of reach.&nbsp; It was impossible to think with her smell, with the intimate flicker of the light, the warmth of her body pressing so near.&nbsp; His mind was rattling over legal clauses, remembering state provisions.&nbsp; The majority of his experience was with criminal law, and business contracts were outside his purview.&nbsp; He licked his lips, eyes still squinched close, his mouth dry.&nbsp; The tips of his carefully trimmed moustache quivered while he tried to force his mind to work.<br><br><em>"Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude,..</em><br><br>He groaned and his hips responded in kind as she ground against him.&nbsp; He could all but imagine the feel of her parting around him, of being buried in her wetness, and legal provisions seemed to swim in his mind, coming in waves and then dancing out of reach of his normally agile mind.&nbsp; He was picturing far more than just this woman fucking him – his mind swam with the notion of wrapping an arm around her, holding her tight while they drifted to bed, of kissing her deeply, passionately.&nbsp; The eroticism of seeing her press down upon him, of feeling her smooth skin sliding over the dark hair of his chest, the fiery trails of sensation left by her nipples grinding against his chest, the veiled promise of her heat and the dampness of moisture, the friction of cloth against his girth.&nbsp; He was a well-endowed man – not a match for Rooster's length, to be sure, but his equal in girth, and all he could think of was tearing open those pants and yanking down his own and plunging into her.&nbsp; <em>THINK, NATE!</em><br><br><em>...except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted...</em><br><br>Then she was pushing herself up, just enough that the dizzying vision of her face, the supine curve of her torso, the full breasts that teased now instead of grinding against him.&nbsp; There was something deliciously wanton in her eyes, a need that called to him, and he grit his teeth, tasting copper from the earlier bite of his own cheek.&nbsp; It was a ploy, a stage-play, and he would not violate this woman in return for her rescue.&nbsp; <br><br><em>...shall exist within the United States...</em><br><br>He blinked at the name, the recognition of it clear in his eyes.&nbsp; <em>Good god,</em> he chided himself.&nbsp; He was dry-humping a married woman and enjoying himself.&nbsp; Self-loathing swept through him, and he slid fingers into her hair,&nbsp; He'd met her husband at the court, looking so woebegone, his eyes red from late nights drowning his sorrows.&nbsp; He remembered something about a claim, but little else, the bereft man trying to make something of his wreckage of his life in Gomorra, and he was ready to fill the inside of his own trousers with seed at the coaxing of her body.&nbsp; He bit his lip, forcing pain and clarity once more.<br><br><em>...or any place subject to their jurisdiction." </em><br><br>The answer hit him like a brick to the face, an his eyes widened.&nbsp; He slid fingers into her hair, pulling her close, leaning as if to kiss her.&nbsp; He stopped just short, letting out an entirely unfeigned groan – though it didn't signal his release.&nbsp; It was merely the effort of moving while he was still tense with arousal.&nbsp; His whiskered mouth hung fractions of an inch from hers, his breath on her lips.&nbsp; <br><br>“Nathan Hunt,” he whispered to her.&nbsp; “My name is Nathan Hunt.&nbsp; Did you commit a crime?&nbsp; When you signed your contract – had you committed a crime?”&nbsp; His words were whispered, tense, and while he strained to move, to rub himself harder against her, the tense lean gave every indication he was busy loosing himself inside of.&nbsp; But dark eyes were keen with intensity, burning into hers, his breath playing over her lips.&nbsp; He could return to the other questions in a moment.&nbsp; In truth, he was so close to the edge it was a wonder he could even think at all.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:20:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She considered.&nbsp; <strong>"Coercition..."</strong>&nbsp; The French word for duress was perfectly understandable even if he didn't know a word of the language.&nbsp; <strong>"Non.&nbsp; [I was... perhaps it was my best option to not starve or freeze, but I could have walked away.]" </strong>&nbsp; And she'd been crying at the time.&nbsp; Sarge had left her.&nbsp; Walked off, never, she suspected to return.&nbsp; He wasn't happy about it, she could tell didn't want to leave her, but his choices were to leave or to fight and die.&nbsp; She thought maybe he would have fought - if his death could have saved her.&nbsp; But it wouldn't help her if he died, and they both knew it.&nbsp; So he left her alone with a gang of Chinese coolies, and they shared her for weeks before the supervisor found out about her and forced them to sell her, making her sign the contract as part of the exchange.&nbsp; Oddly, the supervisor never touched her - he barely looked at her in fact.&nbsp; But he did vend her contract, and she ended up in the guard's tent.&nbsp; Rooster normally couldn't have afforded her - but he'd just returned to camp after winning big at one of the Gomorra casinos, and he blew most of his winnings on her contract.&nbsp; Though the whole tent put money into the pot, more than half came from the Big Cock.<br><br>Making sure the supervisor found out about her at just the right time was one of her proudest moments.&nbsp; She was a woman alone and helpless in a camp full of vicious little men who spoke an alien language.&nbsp; And she'd learned enough about the men and about how things worked and enough of their language that she got sold into exactly the tent she wanted.&nbsp; All without ever revealing she was directing any of the moves.&nbsp; But those plans, while something to be proud of if you looked at them in a skewed way, those plans were now useless.&nbsp; This man arrived and with him came a new plan. A better plan.&nbsp; The were fucking now in all but reality - their healthy, hearty bodies grinding into each other in rapid and complex rhythm, her hot sex grinding along his length through both of their trousers.&nbsp; It would be so easy to undo the string holding up her pants - to undo his belt and the fasteners of his trousers... So easy...&nbsp; Yet, he'd feel bad about it even though she could give him the ride of his life.<br><br><strong>"[Two days.]"</strong>&nbsp; She agreed as she pushed herself off his chest while continuing the sway and grind riding him now while upright.&nbsp; Her hands pressed hard into his shoulders, slender arms snaked forward as she worked her flexible magic with torso and shoulder and pelvis, her heavy mounds just elastic enough to slightly defy gravity as they slapped against her ribs, the undercurves skimming over his broad chest. <br><br><strong>"Marguerite Tuerny"</strong>&nbsp; She replied, her name the same of course no matter what language she spoke.&nbsp; <strong>"Late of Baltimore."</strong>&nbsp; She wondered if he had heard of her - her father after all was at times very rich indeed, a real player in Westward development with his investments and&nbsp; patronage of explorers, inventors, and prospectors.&nbsp; &nbsp;And though he probably wasn't old enough to remember&nbsp; - her parent's romance was big news in the Social Section of every paper from Boston to Charleston - the French Princess and the Rail Tycoon.&nbsp; And of course, even without all that, she was supposedly a property owner in Gomorra - a town that was near enough to the camp that workers sometimes went there to blow off steam or buy luxuries at prices below Company rates.&nbsp; <strong>"Are you from Gomorra?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked in return. <strong>"What brings you to Iron Dragon Construction Camp Gǒu?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked.&nbsp; <strong>"Mister..."</strong>&nbsp; She let the title hang as an implied question.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:35:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He wrinkled his nose as she mentioned that she could have walked away.&nbsp; It would have been easy to suggest she simply lie, but Nathan had a higher regard for the truth, even if the caress of her words and the nearness of her body made it well nigh impossible to focus.&nbsp; Emotional duress would be hard enough to prove.&nbsp; There was some answer that was eluding him, some twist of the law that he knew was just out of reach.&nbsp; It was impossible to think with her smell, with the intimate flicker of the light, the warmth of her body pressing so near.&nbsp; His mind was rattling over legal clauses, remembering state provisions.&nbsp; The majority of his experience was with criminal law, and business contracts were outside his purview.&nbsp; He licked his lips, eyes still squinched close, his mouth dry.&nbsp; The tips of his carefully trimmed moustache quivered while he tried to force his mind to work.<br><br><em>"Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude,..</em><br><br>He groaned and his hips responded in kind as she ground against him.&nbsp; He could all but imagine the feel of her parting around him, of being buried in her wetness, and legal provisions seemed to swim in his mind, coming in waves and then dancing out of reach of his normally agile mind.&nbsp; He was picturing far more than just this woman fucking him – his mind swam with the notion of wrapping an arm around her, holding her tight while they drifted to bed, of kissing her deeply, passionately.&nbsp; The eroticism of seeing her press down upon him, of feeling her smooth skin sliding over the dark hair of his chest, the fiery trails of sensation left by her nipples grinding against his chest, the veiled promise of her heat and the dampness of moisture, the friction of cloth against his girth.&nbsp; He was a well-endowed man – not a match for Rooster's length, to be sure, but his equal in girth, and all he could think of was tearing open those pants and yanking down his own and plunging into her.&nbsp; <em>THINK, NATE!</em><br><br><em>...except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted...</em><br><br>Then she was pushing herself up, just enough that the dizzying vision of her face, the supine curve of her torso, the full breasts that teased now instead of grinding against him.&nbsp; There was something deliciously wanton in her eyes, a need that called to him, and he grit his teeth, tasting copper from the earlier bite of his own cheek.&nbsp; It was a ploy, a stage-play, and he would not violate this woman in return for her rescue.&nbsp; <br><br><em>...shall exist within the United States...</em><br><br>He blinked at the name, the recognition of it clear in his eyes.&nbsp; <em>Good god,</em> he chided himself.&nbsp; He was dry-humping a married woman and enjoying himself.&nbsp; Self-loathing swept through him, and he slid fingers into her hair,&nbsp; He'd met her husband at the court, looking so woebegone, his eyes red from late nights drowning his sorrows.&nbsp; He remembered something about a claim, but little else.&nbsp; The bereft widow trying to make something of his wreckage of his life in Gomorra, certain of his wife's demise, and Nathan was ready to fill the inside of his own trousers with seed at the coaxing of her body.&nbsp; He bit his lip, forcing pain and clarity once more.<br><br><em>...or any place subject to their jurisdiction." </em><br><br>The answer hit him like a brick to the face, an his eyes widened.&nbsp; He slid fingers into her hair, pulling her close, leaning as if to kiss her.&nbsp; He stopped just short, letting out an entirely unfeigned groan – though it didn't signal his release.&nbsp; It was merely the effort of moving while he was still tense with arousal.&nbsp; His whiskered mouth hung fractions of an inch from her lips,.&nbsp; He could all but taste her, and it would take only an infinitesimal&nbsp; &nbsp;lean to cover her mouth his.&nbsp; &nbsp;He resisted the urge by the barest of margins, trying to force the memory of her stricken husband back into his mind.<br><br>“Nathan Hunt,” he whispered to her.&nbsp; “[My name is Nathan Hunt.&nbsp; Did you commit a crime?&nbsp; When you signed your contract – had you committed a crime?]”&nbsp; His words were whispered, tense, and he strained to keep himself from rubbing any further against her.,&nbsp; He leaned up, feigning the seize and tension of muscle that came with climax.&nbsp; He hadn't reached release, but his body shivered with want badly enough that it would be impossible to tell the difference.&nbsp; His arms had tightened around her in a desperate attempt to keep her from moving any further.&nbsp; His&nbsp; dark eyes were keen with intensity, burning into hers, his breath playing over her lips.&nbsp; He could return to the other questions in a moment. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:37:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://yesiroleplay.webs.com/images/x-art_silvie_morning_to_remember-5-sml.jpg)</div>She saw the recognition in his eyes, and the horror.&nbsp; Just what had he heard about her?&nbsp; She wondered as she ceased her gyrations, panting slightly from earlier effort.&nbsp; <strong>"[A crime?]"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, her pretty face twisted in a frown of thought - thoughts jumping between that look she'd seen on his face and his question.&nbsp; She'd never committed a crime in her life.&nbsp; She blushed then.&nbsp; Well, except that carnal relations between a white woman and a black man was apparently illegal in Deseret, but only for the black man.&nbsp; And prostitution.&nbsp; Her body had been sold over and over again, though she herself had never been proffered nor accepted payment.&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"[In California?]"</strong>&nbsp; She asked.&nbsp; <strong>"[No, I think not.&nbsp; Unless it's prostitution to perform after a man sells you to another man?&nbsp; I've never been paid.]"</strong><br><br>The tiny but intense flame under the pot flickered - meaning it would go out in only a second or two.&nbsp; <strong>"[How long?]"</strong>&nbsp; She asked.&nbsp; <strong>"[For how long did you buy me?]"</strong>&nbsp; She slipped free of his grasp and dismounted. lifting a leg sheathed in canvas-like cotton over him until she knelt beside rather than atop his half-nude body.&nbsp; <strong>"[They might come in, and besides - you can't let them see you like this...]"</strong>&nbsp; She explained&nbsp; as she undid his belt and pants - indicating his throbbing erection.&nbsp; <strong>"[We have to take care of it quickly.]"</strong>&nbsp; Rapidly, she spread open his trousers and her quick dexterous hand fished in under the waist of his underwear to find and grip his thick shaft.&nbsp; <br><br>Expertly, she stroked the turgid beast, pumping from base to head in swift even strokes.&nbsp; As she pumped she pulled - using her other hand to completely free his manhood from his clothing.&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"[I see you're close...]"</strong> She gave him a grin, turning her classically beautiful face to him as she knelt and pumped - the vigor of the action making her bare tits bounce and wobble in dangerous circular and semi-circular patterns.&nbsp; Her face, so aristocratic and lovely in its pale perfection, twisted into a smile that transformed it into the beatific - she nearly glowed with an angelic halo. Which, in reality was an affect from gas-offs from the burning ghost-rock, but the perception remained.&nbsp; <strong>"[We can't have you making a mess.]"</strong>&nbsp; She teased, and she leaned quickly in, going down on him like a hawk on a defenseless mouse. <br><br>Her small fist still clenched around his lower shaft, pumping and squeezing and massaging the stiff flesh.&nbsp; And her mouth- the mouth so pert and rosebud soft and so apparently delicate - her mouth engulfed his throbbing dick-head, cheek and tooth and tongue - especially, delightfully, and expertly her tongue. probed and prodded, licked and slathered, twisted and explored every surface of his bulbous growth.&nbsp; Her soft lips seemed hard now, wrapped tightly around his shaft far down from the bulging head, sealed tight as her healthy lungs sucked at his flesh.&nbsp; White, perfect teeth scraped as her clever pink tongue whirled slow and fast, circular and irregular - exploring every bit of his flesh with expert insistence.&nbsp; The hard-pointed tip traced an outline around the base of his head, hooking in to catch the lip under the helmet - and then her tongue flattened - cupping the entire head in a tastebud-rough wet blanket.&nbsp; And her soft far cheek bulged when her pretty head bobbed - the clear outline of his throbbing dick tracing along her inner cheek.&nbsp; <br><br>And her hands never ceased their efforts - gripping and pumping his lower shaft, tweaking, pinching, and pulling at his balls.&nbsp; She seemed determined to suck his life away, pulling it by pure suction out from his throbbing dick.&nbsp; No matter his protests or his questions - she made no answer.&nbsp; It was after all, not polite to talk with one's mouth full.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:40:01</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>“<strong>[A crime,]</strong>” he agreed, giving a small groan, grateful for the moment for the cessation of movement and the bare chance it afforded at regaining his composure.&nbsp; <strong>“[No, that's... not illegal in California.&nbsp; You have to have been... tried... found guilty...]” </strong> He shook his head, finding it impossible to explain at the moment.&nbsp; <strong>“[Contract's...not lawful.&nbsp; Trust me,]”</strong> he said a hand stroking up and down her bare side to reassure her.&nbsp; For a moment he simply reveled in her, in the beauty of her breasts as they swayed, while she took in a breath, in the momentary cessation of the activities which had him straining so hard against his trousers.&nbsp; The memory of her poor husband was slipping with the tiny sheen of sweat in the valley of her breasts, and he lifted a hand to cup, to gently caress one heavy mound. <br>&nbsp;<br>He blinked at the question, flushing a with shame.&nbsp; <strong>“[Uh... Twenty dollars,]”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; Despite his profession, he meticulously avoided the brothels.&nbsp; In Gomorra it would have bought him a beautiful woman for the evening and part of the morning.&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>“[I mean... ten minutes.]”</strong>&nbsp; He gave another small groan when she dismounted, his trousers tenting as though they might burst the fastenings on their own at any moment.&nbsp; He started to sit up, presuming his explanation of the time had brought it to an end.&nbsp; Then her hands moved confidently over his trousers, freeing him, his hips giving a small jerk as her hand slipped within the waist and wrapped around him.&nbsp; <em>Take care of ...</em>&nbsp; He blinked and his eyes widened.&nbsp; <strong>”No, you don't have to … </strong>”<br><br>He felt crude for enjoying the touch of her fingers, the stroke of her hand, the sight of her breasts bobbling in the gas light.&nbsp; He licked his lips, the awaiting husband drifting to the far corners of his mind.&nbsp; He was just having the thought of the mess he might make himself, moving to turn on his side in the hopes that it would at least cover the floor instead of his suit.&nbsp; Then her mouth descended, and he gave another syllableless protest, reaching a hand to stop her until her angelic mouth wrapped around the crown of his cock.&nbsp; He gasped again, unaware of the titters of Chinese outside the tent, the amused speculation that she must like him indeed to try to finish him off twice in ten minutes.&nbsp; &nbsp;He gave another groan, low and deep and throaty, the hand which had been bound to stop her instead sliding over her neck, tangling in her hiar.&nbsp; There was a brief tightening of fingers, as if he meant to seize control and slam the thick shaft to the back of her throat, but again restraint compelled him.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“God in heaven,”</strong> he groaned aloud, praying to a deity, though perhaps part of him would much rather be supplicating to the goddess on her knees in front of him.&nbsp; He did his best to keep his temperament, to abide by gentlemanly conduct, but there was a certain truth to the core ideas of the laws of manners and breeding – an acknowledgment by Victorian philosophy that beneath even the most civilized of men was a primal savage.&nbsp; <br><br><div class="floatright">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3q9jdqfFs1qbujxso1_400.jpg)</div>She'd coaxed the tiger from it's den, and when his hand suddenly tightened on her neck, when she felt a surprisingly strong hand take hold of her neck, He took a measured breath, slow and controlled, then his hips thrust upward, forcing more of it into her mouth than just the tantalizing work her expert tongue did on his cockhead.&nbsp; He groaned again, though this time it sounded more a growl of desire, a savage beast that had finally beaten back the bars of its civilized prison.&nbsp; When he was spent,, the beast could be brought sulking back into prison, ensconced by guilt and obligation.&nbsp; But in the moment, there was only the savage hunger hidden deep below the surface, too long repressed, and his shaft stroked in and out of her mouth, his hand tight on her neck keeping her in place while he worked to sate himself.&nbsp; &nbsp; She would have him – bound by her body, drawn by his arousal and wrapped around a finger.&nbsp; <br><br>He pulled the head free from her skillful lips, the light of the fire snuffing out.&nbsp; Quick, agile hands rolled her back onto the bedding, a hand yanking her canvas pantaloons up her thighs.&nbsp; He covered her with his body, his weight sinking into her, that whiskered mouth covering hers with a kiss that was rough and hungry.&nbsp; He didn't align himself expertly – his hand was shaking with desire, but he gripped his shaft, the fat crown slapping over her little tiny pearl of pleasure before finding the warm wet it sought.&nbsp; He shoved into her, ramming into her in the darkness, his hips beginning to rut like the most common of animals.&nbsp; <br><br>“Margeurite,” he growled in her ear, her wicked wiles undoing the last semblance of self control.&nbsp; A hand slipped to her cheek, a smal, gentle touch as a finger drifted over her mouth while he rode her in the darkness, his shaft buried inside of her.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:41:01</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright"> (http://saucysw.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/08/naked-backbend.jpg)</div>She swallowed his length without hesitation when he forced himself down her throat. She displayed no hint of a gag or resistance as she gulped down every inch he forced on her, and she kept right on sucking as she did so.&nbsp; She was happy to see the tiger she'd unleashed - glad to see the gentleman was also a man.&nbsp; Her delicate chin beat against his balls, and she got ready to suck him dry.&nbsp; And then he pulled himself free.&nbsp; When he pulled away against the suction of her hot mouth and the grip of both her hands, she expected a mess to follow - a mess, most likely to be spewn over her face and across her bare tits.&nbsp; <br><br>But he surprised her.&nbsp; Instead of spewing the contents of his loaded balls, he shoved her back and tore down her pants.&nbsp; Still on her knees, she was now laying back spread for him, open and receptive.&nbsp; And she received him quickly and well.&nbsp; Her hot sex was moist, almost feverishly hot, and snug against his invading girth.&nbsp; Slick membrane parted for him, embraced him, sucked at his raging manhood.&nbsp; Moaning wordlessly, she arched her pert bottom up off her heels and ground herself into his urgent thrusts.&nbsp; Slippery ridges and flexible sheathes of elastic muscle embraced him, pulling at his thick dick, sucking at it, milking it as she pressed the back of her arms and hands into the ground beside her thrown-back head. Bucking up into him, flexing and grinding, she took him - she took all of him. Feminine groans and squeals punctuated her breathless panting as their bodies joined.&nbsp; <br><br>Abruptly, they were interrupted by a blast of sunlight - Tom was at the flap of the tent the sun blazing in behind him.&nbsp; "<strong>Ten minute."</strong>&nbsp; He proclaimed loudly.&nbsp; <strong>"You stop now."</strong><br><br>The Big Rooster was right behind him, and the smaller man grabbed up one of the water pails she had so laboriously hauled from the well.&nbsp; <strong>"Time up!"</strong>&nbsp; He declared vehemently before throwing the water into and through Nate's face - chilling and soaking their panting bodies.&nbsp; <strong>"You go!&nbsp; Get out my woman!&nbsp; Out my tent!"</strong>&nbsp; He ordered harshly.<br><br>She was neither of mind or position to stop, but she did slow her flexing, clenching and grinding response to his thrusts.&nbsp; She gave him a vague, tired smile.&nbsp; <strong>"Sorry Cowboy."</strong>&nbsp; She murmured in her sultry, soothing voice.&nbsp; <strong>"Maybe we can finish next time."</strong>&nbsp; She lay there passively as she waited for him to finish and dismount.&nbsp; Nate.. that was his name.&nbsp; She hadn't had a chance to answer when he growled her name.&nbsp; It had taken her a moment to remember his, and then they were interrupted.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:43:20</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 1, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>It was Perdition itself to pull free from her mouth, but hot desire had seized hold and freed the beast within.&nbsp; Her eagerness to take him only further igniting his ardor.&nbsp; The darkness only made the sensations of her mouth all the more intense, making the blood pulse through his girth, his scrotum tense with unspent seed.&nbsp; The little noises of suction and gasped breath between thrusts only drove him madder, until finally he couldn't stand the thought of another moment not spent between her thighs.&nbsp; <br><br>The sinking into her pussy's embrace was only finer than his imagination.&nbsp; He'd been with only one woman in his time, a sickly New York woman he'd married and watched die slowly from consumption.&nbsp; They'd had a few happy months together, years prior, and he'd not lain with a woman since.&nbsp; Margeurite's needy pussy was night and day from the woman who'd endured his touched with grit teeth, whimpering with every thrust.&nbsp; She seemed to encourage every hard thrust, coaxing each harder than the last, making his masculinity feel needed, craved, not a thing to repulse and detest.&nbsp; He was on edge, nearly past the point of no return, each thrust bearing her flexing hips and full breasts back down under his weight and his savagery.&nbsp; He kissed her, over and again, his mouth as savage and hungry as the sex which gripped and milked him, making his own small pants and heated growls.<br><br>He ignored the words of the man, continuing to ride her hard, his own release so close his every muscle, every nerve was taught the agoniy of near release.&nbsp; A lock of hair dangled against her nose, and his breath played hot over her skin with each furious grunt.&nbsp; Then his entire body tensed with the splash of cold water.&nbsp; In the slim illumination through the tent flaps, cold rage sparkled in his eyes.&nbsp; He went still, but every muscle was taut, tense, a tiger ready to spring.&nbsp; <br><br>That tired smile softened the rage, though.&nbsp; There was something heartbreaking in it, a reminder how little better than these men he was.&nbsp; He closed his eyes, the desire to put bullets in the head of both these men blunted by the need to see her to a better life, whatever that might be.&nbsp; He was perfectly happy to throw his life away in the defense of a woman – but if all she received was beatings and more violations by virtue of such a loss, it was not an exchange he was willing to make.&nbsp; He offered a silent, gentle kiss on her cheek, a promise.&nbsp; Then he gently extricated himself from her heated clench, and pushed himself to his feet.&nbsp; He offered a smile to Tom that was all teeth, slipping his wet cock away, his hand brushing the reassurance at his side.<br><br>“Ma'am,” he offered to her, tipping his head.&nbsp; He returned the forced smile to Rooster, stepping out of the tent, his every muscle still rigid with unspent tension.&nbsp; <br><br><hr><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:45:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>There'd been talk of the white man, after he left.&nbsp; Word of how short his meeting with the foreman had been, and Rooster in a foul mood when his promised bounty had vaporized.&nbsp; He'd stared sullenly at his dinner and growled through the day, making promises to take the deputy's dick as a trophy if he ever returned.&nbsp; He'd been shaken – there'd been some confrontation between Rooster and Tom and Nate that had left the two inscrutable men shaken, but for once they didn't take out their irritation on her.&nbsp; <br><br>Over the next two days, chaos spread slowly through the camp.&nbsp; It started with the disappearance of a barrel of ghost-rock, set aside for the train when it was to arrive.&nbsp; Then there was a body, found in the morning – one of the guards, strayed too far from the camp.&nbsp; Guards were dispatched through the day, and night, searching for signs of a traitor from within.&nbsp; There wasn't another sign of Nate Hunter, and the guard's whispers turned to the killer who's tracks had gone undiscovered.&nbsp; <br><br>Search parties had begun to circle the camp at night, and the ghost rock and gunpowder was moved away from the edge of the track, placed under a pair of guards.&nbsp; Laborers found away from the camp after dusk were hauled before the foreman and questioned – cruelly.&nbsp; A silent tension spread through the camp, and another body was found midday.&nbsp; Knives had done the work in both cases, and tents were opened, searched, seeking a blade to match the one that had left the killing cuts on the guards who'd strayed too far.<br><br><em>Two nights later... midnight</em><br><br>The cacophony of explosion ripped through the camp, the bright green flash of green ghost rock burning illuminating the night.&nbsp; The sound of gunpowder followed it moments later, a second explosion that shook the tent, and in a moment every guard and laborer in the camp was on their feet, tearing open the doors of their tents, racing into the green-lit night.&nbsp; The crack of gunfire rang through the night, then again, the rails looking like a twisted black snake that wound through the dying prairie.&nbsp; <br><br>Soot and dust was thrown high on the wind, most of the guards and laborers walking out into a storm of dirt and debris that made it impossible to see.&nbsp; <br><br><div align="center">(http://i261.photobucket.com/albums/ii49/vanessasacco/explosion-atomique.jpg)</div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 01:58:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://yesiroleplay.webs.com/images/4f2dd84e83fac.jpg)</div>The campaign of terror plaguing the construction camp succeeded almost too well.&nbsp; The guards had been put on alert, pulling double shifts and completely disrupting their schedule.&nbsp; This may have been a good thing.&nbsp; This should have been a good thing, as all four of her tent-mates were officially on duty when the explosion occurred.&nbsp; Only one of those men - a vicious yellow runt with a ridiculously large cock, was thinking with that dick.<br><br>So Marguerite found herself on all fours when the explosion went off, her wonderfully formed body taking brutal abuse from ten and three quarters inches of rock solid yellow dick.&nbsp; She didn't seem to mind.<br><br>Big Cock - as his name more accurately translated even though he insisted on introducing himself to English-speakers as Rooster - knelt behind her naked body, the full length of his wrist-thick yellow cock rammed into the white girl's rear.&nbsp; The little man was stronger than he seemed, and very energetic.&nbsp; His big hanging balls kept slapping heavily into her gaping pussy, stretched wide and loose and to wet-glistening depth from the savage pounding Big Cock had delivered over the last hour.&nbsp; &nbsp;The little shit was finally learning how to use the endowment god had granted, and Marguerite was shivering and shuddering all up and down her slender porcelain form.&nbsp; <br><br>Her pretty face twisted into a mask of agony as she rode out another wave of pleasure so intense it burned.&nbsp; The cocky little sonovabitch had given her orgasm.&nbsp; Again.&nbsp; It had started out so ordinary - the horny yellow toad sneaking into the tent for a quickie - like he did so many times before.&nbsp; She'd been getting herself ready to flee, pulling together the few coins hidden about the tent and donning her clothes.&nbsp; So preoccupied was he with not getting caught leaving his post, he failed to notice she was dressed when he arrived.&nbsp; After her first start of alarm and the aftermath when he failed to notice anything out of the ordinary, she felt mostly a vague annoyance at his reckless but predicable intrusion - but there was over an hour left before midnight, and she had plenty of time to lay back, let him get his dick wet, fake her own pleasure, and send him on his way, cock-sure and happy.&nbsp; <br><br>Only the damned yellow Chink had been listening when she taught him technique - especially since his ego was bruised by her white visitor.&nbsp; He still went in rough, but then he'd settled in and started to fuck her.&nbsp; Not the spastic uncontrolled rut that was all he could normally manage, but fucking her in a deep, powerful, penetrating way - his thick member scraping along her most sensitive spots - his thrusts pushing every nub and button and his controlled withdrawals leaving her aching to be refilled.&nbsp; Ten minutes: That was the limit of his stamina.&nbsp; But it was a miserable night and he didn't want to go back out into the dark, so he slowed down and he controlled himself - and he outlasted his best performance by doubling it, then tripling it.&nbsp; And her body responded to him... orgasmic waves rocked her body for the first time under his domain.&nbsp; She came hard, and then she came again, and she kept coming in shuddering, trembling waves that left her exhausted and euphoric.&nbsp; Half an hour, and then he released inside her.&nbsp; <br><br>She had lost track of time, and thought she'd missed the midnight window, the distraction - whatever it was to be - unnoticed in her shockingly intense multiple orgasms.&nbsp; But after he pulled free she noted the shadows hanging across the tent - everything out there seemed normal - no distraction had upset the tense calm of the camp.&nbsp; Good, she had time then, if she could get Big Cock to leave.&nbsp; His long thick dick lay across her thigh, flaccid and spent and wet with their fluids, and she complimented him on his performance.&nbsp; This time, for the first time, with complete sincerity.&nbsp; The cocky little bastard was positively glowing with pride and smug satisfaction, an attitude he often displayed.&nbsp; Only amplified now to a level of insufferable arrogance.&nbsp; Insufferable that is, except that he had earned the right to gloat.&nbsp; He had earned it truly and well, and she let him know it with lavish praise and anything but feigned admiration.<br><br><strong>"You pretty good too."</strong>&nbsp; He allowed with condescending grace.&nbsp; <strong>"You get me hard, maybe I fuck you again."</strong>&nbsp; She stared at him in shock mixed with awe and wonder.&nbsp; Big Cock always lost interest after he got his rocks off - he was about there most lazy Chinaman you might meet.&nbsp; <strong>"You suck my dick.&nbsp; Make me hard now."</strong>&nbsp; He ordered, pushing her face down into his crotch.<br><br>She didn't have time for this.&nbsp; She had to get him out of here and make her way to the edge of camp...&nbsp; But his cock, even limp and spent, was so thick and juicy and...&nbsp; She licked her lips as she eyed the curled fall of his thick limp shaft, scowling at the evil, seductive monster as it lay quiescent for the moment.&nbsp; He was probably more interested in staying inside out of the elements and away from work than in really giving her another go.&nbsp; But... <br><br>But a girl could always try!&nbsp; She decided gamely, and perhaps more than a little foolishly&nbsp; Leaning in, she used her hands and her tongue and her body and her clever, inventive mind to get that big dick hard again.&nbsp; And surprisingly her efforts paid off.&nbsp; &nbsp;She winced again as a particularly savage thrust into her tight bottom shoved her face-first into the dirt floor of the tent - paid off in spades!<br><br>First she got him half-erect, barely hard enough for penetration, and then she'd mounted up, riding him reverse-cowgirl - and while she bounced he swelled and expanded and he pushed her forward and he drilled her from behind, making her orgasm in a brand new series of multiple racking waves.&nbsp; And when it should have been over -&nbsp; when he should have shot himself into her gaping-open, sloppy-stretched pussy, he had pulled himself free and brutally drilled into her tight anus.<br><br>Even if Nate walked in right now and shot Big Cock dead, she wasn't sure she could leave - she was wet and sweaty and exhausted and sore and her knees felt like rubber, her legs barely able to support her even on all fours.&nbsp; she was already exploding before the camp shook under the dual blast of ghost rock and gun powder.<br><br><strong>"[What the hell?]"</strong>&nbsp; Big Cock demanded in his native tongue, looking at the green and orange fireballs blazing through the wall of the tent.&nbsp; One thing about the Rooster, he might be lazy and he wasn't that bright, and he was a vicious little sod, but he was no coward.&nbsp; <strong>"[You stay here.]"</strong>&nbsp; He instructed, again in Cantonese.&nbsp; Slapping her bare, lily-white ass hard enough to leave a bright-red imprint, and probably a bruise on the morrow, he rocked back off her, pulling his stiff cock free of her reluctant ass.&nbsp; Standing by rocking back on heels and the up with a shove into the small of her back to steady himself, he hastily laced his pants, grabbed his weapons, and ran out into the burning night.<br><br>Well... shit.&nbsp; She thought, couldn't the attack have waited for an hour, or maybe two hours?&nbsp; She sighed, and despite her disheveled appearance and the sticky half-dried sweat and semen covering her bare body,&nbsp; she forced herself up and dressed herself with surprising speed.&nbsp; Grabbing the tiny money pouch and still buttoning her tunic top closed, she slipped from the tent and ran for a nearby gully - the route she'd chosen to escape the camp.&nbsp; The light of multiple fires cast conflicting, dancing shadows across the night, and she almost didn't see the black gaping hole of the gully mouth before she nearly fell into it.&nbsp; <br><br>Scrambling down, tearing her pants at the knee in the process, she scuttled away from the burning camp - like a rat deserting a sinking ship.&nbsp; What now?&nbsp; She wondered?&nbsp; The Lawman hadn't said any more than to be ready at midnight, and to slip out into the night.&nbsp; Well, she was out of camp and in the night.&nbsp; She hoped she hadn't made a mistake, trusting the lawman and leaving the security of the Chinamen's tent.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:00:03</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Midnight<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>The explosion of gunpowder left cacophony in its wake, but it was the ghost-rock which burned great plumes of green up into the sky.&nbsp; A hundred times hotter than coal, there was little way to stop a large ghost fire once it had been lit – the surrounding fires could be fought, but they'd be fought for hours, as the deadly fuel threw off howling smoke.&nbsp; Skeletons and horrific faces seem to dance in the plumes of smoke that lit the sky, and the light made shadows leap and thrash.&nbsp; Every brush seemed to become a leering horror, every cactus a hidden monstrosity.&nbsp; <br><br>Behind her, the shouted Cantonese continued unabated as workers and laborers did their utmost to fight the fires, but it would be long into the early hours of morning before they had any success in letting the ghostrock burn itself out.&nbsp; All they could do in the meantime was contain it, and it would take most of the camp to have any success at that.&nbsp; <br><hr>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:00:57</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>Nathan watched from the hidden recess he'd spied on the camp from over the last two days.&nbsp; He'd run out of water yesterday, but managed to fill his canteens when he'd skulked through the camp, and the knife wound he'd gotten from his efforts a day and a half ago still ached in his side.&nbsp; He'd set the fuse beneath the adobe structure – once the foreman's office, before being converted into ghost rock storage – a day and a half ago.&nbsp; The guard's body had been the one who discovered him loosely burying the fuse as best he could.&nbsp; He'd kept from crying out when he'd been stabbed, then wrestled the man's blade from him before plunging it into his heart.&nbsp; It had been true agony to drag the man away from the camp, and even with the hard-packed earth leaving few tracks, the paranoid Chinamen had discovered it just hours after he'd hidden the body away.&nbsp; <br><br>He'd limped back to his recess and settled in – he had a powerful eyeglass given as a gift by Chairman Hardinger, and he'd spent much of that first day determining exactly where her tent was, the rotation schedules of the guards, deciding when would be the best time to risk as little loss of life as possible.&nbsp; He'd spent two days in a crevice so small he'd had to wedge himself in, his side aching from the blade, the sun beating down as he did his best to carefully ration the meager water he'd taken with him.&nbsp; Ergo dank most of it – his horse was a loyal friend, and he knew the steed would need its own strength to carry them back to Gomorra.&nbsp; He'd been gone for three days, and by the time they returned it would no doubt be a week.&nbsp; He could smile to himself whenever he pictured the grouse on J.P.'s face.<br><br>He was not looking forward to the lecture he was going to get about risking Kang's wrath over an ivory skinned socialite.&nbsp; J.P. didn't share his regard for the fairer sex, but after the beastly manner in which he'd forced himself on her after a promise to save her – he'd throw his own life to the Maze Dragons if it offered a scrap of redemption.<br><br>He'd worked enough security himself to know that when ghost rock went missing how they'd secure it, and the only building with solid walls had been the logical choice.&nbsp; He'd drawn off the two guards with gunfire and then lit the fuse, running as best his injury allowed in the opposite direction and trusting in the noise and chaos to cover his escape.&nbsp; Providence had been with him, and he'd felt a pang of relief that he hadn't had to take a second life to secure the woman's release.<br><br>He had no idea what had taken the life of the second man.&nbsp; He was a stranger to the rampant paranoia of the work camp, although he knew every one of the men who worked Kang's camps had gotten a death sentence of some kind from the Qin Empire of China.&nbsp; Kang's noble status in China had allowed him the choice to take them in bondage, instead – and most had taken the long trip overseas over a public beheading.&nbsp; <br><br>He watched the tent through the looking glass, groaning to himself while he waited for her to emerge.&nbsp; Then she was out, scurrying for all she was worth, and he blew a breath of relief, noting Rooster emerge from the other side and go running towards the flames.&nbsp; She moved fast – he was surprised how quickly she could run, and winced at the sight of her bare feet, the gentlemanly part of him concerned for cacti and sharp rocks.<br><br>He shook his head at his own foolishness.&nbsp; The woman'd endured unknown horrors, and he was worried for the state of her soles.&nbsp; He gave a quick, sharp whistle, puling himself up and out of the recess.&nbsp; Ergo&nbsp; came running towards the sound of the whistle, and he pulled himself up into the saddle, gritting his teeth through a flare of agony as he strained the wound at his side.&nbsp; He rode down the hill towards the gully, the black mare and his own dark clothes casting long shadows.&nbsp; The horse ran lightly, a shadow passing through other dancing shadows, as he rode down hard on the damsel.&nbsp; <br><br>He came up behind her as she ran, the horse's hooves making good time to outpace the eerie light of the ghost-rock fires.&nbsp; &nbsp;He called her name, his voice hoarse and parched from lack of water, then cleared his throat and tried again.<br><strong><br>“Margeurite!”</strong>&nbsp; <br><br>He kept the horse at a gallop, leaning low in the saddle and extending an arm.&nbsp; He balanced on one stirrup and then swooped her up, biting back an unmanly gasp of pain in his side as he hauled her up, swinging her onto the saddle behind him, the horse's powerful flanks setting a harder pace as he urged it onward.&nbsp; &nbsp;He stole a glance over his shoulder at her -disheveled and dirty, clearly the victim of another round of baleful abuse, his eyes softening at the sight of her.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:02:48</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Marguerite_Tuerny01.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://yesiroleplay.webs.com/images/emvds.jpg)</div>It was a nightmare. The twisted horror of a nearly familiar face danced in a plume of greenish-black smoke, the agonized eyes seeming to watch her.&nbsp; They seemed to bore into her very soul.&nbsp; Her headlong flight stopped in mid-step, and her pretty face twisted into a horrified mask as she stared.&nbsp; Rooted for the moment, images of fair green fields and&nbsp; charred corpses filled her mind.&nbsp; Oh no.&nbsp; Not again.&nbsp; The nightmares had nearly gone away - only on a bad night did she wake with the horror of her parent's death fresh in her mind.&nbsp; Why was this... this couldn't be happening.&nbsp; She closed her eyes, banishing the image of her father's blistered face, only to see it in color, rather an in greenish shadow.&nbsp; <br><br>Opening her eyes, she turned away and ran, pursued by her father calling her name - his voice choked by pain and smoke.&nbsp; He called her again, more loudly, and she fled.&nbsp; Running from the horror as fast as she was able, she registered the sound of hoof beats only belatedly.&nbsp; Not many horses in the labor camp, not even the supervisor had one.&nbsp; Pack mules aplenty, but a mule galloped at a different beat from a horse...&nbsp; She turned her head, glancing back over her shoulder despite the faces leering down from the roiling green smoke.&nbsp; A horseman, riding right toward her like one of the four harbingers of the apocalypse.<br><br>It was the outline of his hat against the glowing green clouds beyond that queued her - it was the lawman, galloping up to...&nbsp; <strong>"Yeeek!"</strong>&nbsp; She squealed in a girlish voice of horror relieved mingled with grateful delight.&nbsp; He swooped her up and she threw herself up behind him with great grace if little strength.&nbsp; Riding astride!&nbsp; How completely un-ladylike!&nbsp; And uncomfortable, to say the least.&nbsp; Her tender bottom and over-fucked sex shied from the abrupt contact, but she gritted her teeth and clenched her thighs and held on to the lawman with all her meager might. She managed a weak smile when he glanced back at her, hiding both the horror she still felt at nightmares awoken and the pain of her landing astride the powerful beast they rode.&nbsp; <strong>"Thank you."</strong> She yelled against the wind in her face.<br><br>Her eyes widened appreciably as she glanced past his shoulder to the road ahead.&nbsp; They'd circled the periphery of the camp, and with all the canyons and broken terrain in the Maze, there were quite a few places where you had to take the road to get anywhere - and ahead of them was one stretch of road.&nbsp; And that road was blocked - half a dozen Chinamen with guns stood between them and a barricade blocking the right-o-way.&nbsp; She gasped in disappointment - how could they pass such a barrier?&nbsp; She tensed, gripping the lawman ever more tightly as the man spurred his horse straight toward the Chinamen and the barrier beyond.<br><br>She gasped again, in equal amounts surprise and dismay, when one of the silhouettes resolved into the heavy-set, almost squat outline of a massive Chinese wearing a bowler hat.&nbsp; Tom!&nbsp; He was so strong!&nbsp; If he could get a grip, she was sure he could pull down a running horse.&nbsp; Nate spurred right into the man, and their mighty steed knocked the big man to the side, sending the hat into the air out of which Marguerite instinctively snatched it.&nbsp; Shots were blazing, both from the lawman's six-shooters and from the Chinamen's rifles.&nbsp; She heard the angry buzz of bullets cutting through the air as the big horse they rode sped straight for the barricade, apparently of its own accord, as the Lawman was busy shooting at people.&nbsp; Of course, the man was probably steering with his knees, but....&nbsp; <strong>"Yeeek!"</strong>&nbsp; She squealed anew as their muscular mount took to the air, literally flying over the barrier in a jump that would have won applause at a steeplechase back East.<br><br>Sounds of gunfire faded as Nathan ceased firing and the barricade and its guards faded into the night behind them - though the angry buzz of a bullet did occasionally remind that they were not yet out of danger.&nbsp; Soon enough, those stopped too and the big horse galloped on in relative silence before breaking into a slower canter - pulled in by his brave rider.&nbsp; <strong>"That was..."</strong>&nbsp; She panted breathlessly.&nbsp; <strong>"That was amazing!"</strong>&nbsp; She spoke into his ear.&nbsp; <strong>"Do you do that a lot?"</strong>&nbsp; Pain shot through her loins and up her spine with every cycle of hoof beats, though neither her voice nor her attitude reflected her discomfort - riding astride wasn't very comfortable when one was so tender in the bottom.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:04:07</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He saw the terror in her eyes when she turned back towards him.&nbsp; His skin reddened by the sun, his dark suit and the powerful black horse presenting a terrifying specter, to be sure.&nbsp; He was grateful when she slowed, minutely, when she seemed to recognize a rescue instead of some devil bearing down on her.&nbsp; Her natural limberness made it all the easier to pick her up instead of knocking her down and driving the wind from her, and he was grateful his one armed catch hadn't ended with a broken rib and knocking the damsel on her backside.<br><br>Her supple waist and slender ribs were a temporary distraction from the agony of his side – the blade had missed the lung, to be sure, and he hadn't smelled the cloying stench of an organ that would mark his lifespan in hours – but the cut through solid muscle still meant that every use of the muscle made every muscle want to knot and contort in pain.&nbsp; He didn't smile at the squeal, his eyes already set on the shadows of the road ahead, and when she offered her thanks he gave a grim nod.&nbsp; He slid the reins around an arm, drawing his pistol and a speed-loading cylinder with his free hand.&nbsp; <br><br>It was the horse's instinct to bear down on the heavier man, not his own.&nbsp; Ergo wasn't the fastest horse he'd ever seen, nor the strongest – but he'd never seen the horse flinch in fear; not from gunshots and not from darker denizens of the west.&nbsp; He counted weapons by rote reflex – noting the pistols drawn near the rifles, and he took a deep breath, his weapon coming up steady.&nbsp; If Margeurite had seen his face, she would have seen his own fear and tension slip away.&nbsp; For a moment, time seemed to dilate and slow, his mind working a hundred miles an hour.<br><br>The rifles were harder to aim at a moving target.&nbsp; The pistols were familiar, easier.&nbsp; At close range they'd be more dangerous.&nbsp; He waited until Ergo's hooves raised and kicked, the hat flying into the air, the chinaman going down with a grunt, and then the flat of his palm came down across the hammer of the Peacemaker, the trigger squeezed back tight.&nbsp; Most men preferred the double action; the click and release of the hammer's automation made firing rapidly easier, and men could carry two guns, filling the air with bullets.&nbsp; Fanning a hammer took careful precision, hours of practice, but in the right hands, six bullets could come out faster and deadlier than twelve from a matched pair of peacemakers.<br><br>Nate had hours of practice.&nbsp; Entirely too much experience when the stakes were higher, as well, and his hand was swift and sure as it slapped the back of the pistol.&nbsp; He sat as tall as he could, making his shoulders and his height a shield against bullets for the woman riding behind him.<br><br><em>Bang.&nbsp; Bang.&nbsp; Bang.</em>&nbsp; <br><br>Three of them men fell back, as he walked the muzzle across the line of men aiming pistols at him and the lady.&nbsp; With the surge of adrenaline he could almost see the bullets racing through the air, the lines of them as they shattered a shoulder, buried into a hip, and caught a man through the hand.&nbsp; It wasn't inaccurate shooting; some part of him knew that a string of eight bodies left in his wake would mean more trouble than Gomorra could handle.&nbsp; <br><br>The gun's cylinder still spinning, he walked the muzzle over the horse's head, tilting it upward as the steed raced for the barrier.&nbsp; Then it came down, the world still slowed in his mind's eye, barely aware of how tightly she clung or the press of her breasts against his back or the pain in his side or the hammering of his heart.&nbsp; <br><br><em>Bang.&nbsp; Bang.</em><br><br>The bullets crisscrossed through the two men with rifles.&nbsp; He didn't dare be merciful.&nbsp; They'd be racing down the road, and a good rifle and a good shooter could take them out from a hundred paces.&nbsp; Those bullets sank into a throat, went clean through an eye, bodies jerking and snapping back as the horse raced up and over the barrier.&nbsp; The injured chinamen were screaming, but still firing.&nbsp; But the black clad man bearing down on them, the sudden volley of death and pain, the injuries and chaos worked to ensure it was trembling hands the held the pistols.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“Good boy, Ergo,”</strong> he whispered, as the horse landed and the world sped up.&nbsp; He kicked its flanks and slid a hand over hers, pulling her tight as the horse galloped down a road.&nbsp; He could tell from the gait his steed hadn't been shot, and he felt a wave of gratitude.&nbsp; He kept Ergo at a run, his mind ticking off bullet counts, then calculating the time it would take them to reload his weapons.&nbsp; He slid the single live round free, shaking out the empty brass with a flick of his wrist, the weapon loacked and reloaded with the blink of an eye.&nbsp; <br><br>Then his heart was slowing, the adrenaline fading, the stitch in his side flaring once again to genuine pain.&nbsp; He could feel warmth soaking through his shirt, his vest, his suit jacket, but he stoically set his jaw, just as keenly aware of the press of her body against his as she panted.<br><br>Did he do that often.&nbsp; He almost chuckled.&nbsp; The question made him think, though – think about all the times he'd ridden with JP or Nash, the deputies who'd died fighting alongside the law dogs.&nbsp; He'd been surprised and humbled when J.P. had made him a senior deputy.&nbsp; Nash, of course.&nbsp; Nash made sense.&nbsp; The man was deadly.&nbsp; But Nathan had never felt entirely comfortable with a gun in his hand, never much cared for taking a man's life, and never did it without a wash of guilt, not matter how justified or necessary it had been in the moment.<br><br><strong>“More often than I'd like,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; He turned slightly in the saddle, wincing as the tendons in his ribs reminded him just how poor an idea it was, but he needed to look back at her.&nbsp; He slipped the gun back into place in the holster with a practiced ease, unaware of the simple grace of the action.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“Are you alright?”</strong> he asked, his voice soft.&nbsp; &nbsp;He slowed the horse a little more, to a trot, tying the reins to the saddlehorn.&nbsp; A hand slipped to her side as he twisted himself in the saddle, the concern coloring his voice, just the pads of his fingers daring to touch her side. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:08:56</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She noticed the wince, and her manner immediately became solicitous.&nbsp; <strong>"Are you all right?"</strong>&nbsp; She inquired with deep concern.&nbsp; <strong>"You weren't hit, were you?"</strong>&nbsp; Her hands moved over his body from hips to ribs and from ribs to arms, searching for injury.&nbsp; <strong>"You're bleeding!" </strong> She exclaimed sharply.&nbsp; <strong>"We have to stop!"</strong>&nbsp; She continued, her concern verging at the edge of panic.&nbsp; If he were seriously hurt, she'd be alone.&nbsp; On her own, without a man to protect and provide, or... she couldn't be alone!&nbsp; She just couldn't!&nbsp; And besides, the somewhat less selfish thought crossed her mind, it was all her fault.<br><br>Deft, though not particularly skilled fingers probed at the wet area in an attempt to determine just how badly he was wounded.&nbsp; <strong>"There's a bandage."</strong>&nbsp; She noted, feeling relief that he wasn't shot though her concern did not diminish.&nbsp; <strong>"We should stop so I can get a look at it."</strong>&nbsp; And, of course, the added benefit that she could dismount.&nbsp; It felt like she someone was driving an axe into her from beneath.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:10:38</strong>
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				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>She could feel him tense slightly when even the gentle touch went over his right side – he'd leaned to scoop her up with his left, no doubt placing all the strain of her weight on the injury.&nbsp; <strong>”No, I'm fine.&nbsp; I wasn't shot,”</strong> he promised.&nbsp; Though his reddened skin blushed slightly when she mentioned that he was bleeding.&nbsp; <strong>“Ahh... a little,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; He was set to play the bravado to the hilt when he heard the panic in her tone.&nbsp; He grimaced, but decided it was an occasion when discretion would, perhaps, be the better part of valor.&nbsp; Some logical part of his mind knew that he was the worse for wear by virtue of his dehydration, his time spent beneath the open sun, his blood loss – and that time would only make those things worse.&nbsp; He'd fully intended to stop come day break, still a few hours off, but the panic in her contralto was powerfully suggestive.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>”I took a knife from one of the guards,”</strong> he explained.&nbsp; <strong>“I – "</strong>&nbsp; He broke off, shaking his head.&nbsp; No need to terrorize her with the details.&nbsp; <strong>"There's a range along the way.&nbsp; Switchbacks and some caves.&nbsp; Keep us out of the sun for a few hours.&nbsp; If we can keep riding three, four hours, we'll be to the Vigilance Ranch.&nbsp; Beds and food and fresh water.&nbsp; And from there, we could be in Gomorra by sundown, the day after.”</strong>&nbsp; He smiled softly, but pulled the horse to a stop, slipping off the saddle and then offering his hands up to her slim waist, and helping her off.<br><br><strong>”Safe and sound and back to your husband.”</strong>&nbsp; There was regret and a certain sadness in his eyes.&nbsp; Wheat he'd done to her still troubled him deeply, gripped him in a vice of guilt.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:11:40</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She gratefully slid off the horse.&nbsp; She'd be fine if she had just a few minutes to clench and tense and generally settle her pelvis back into place.&nbsp; She was always quick to recover and she's discovered some techniques on her own, learned others from sister-wives and other women she'd met over the last few years.&nbsp; These techniques seemed to work to help tighten and recover after... after.&nbsp; She'd be fine after a bit, but it was a relief to get off that horse!<br><br>She was halfway to the ground when what he said hit her.&nbsp; <strong>"My husband?!"</strong>&nbsp; She exclaimed.&nbsp; It wasn't possible!&nbsp; Her face registered her initial shock, flowing quickly flowing into a puzzled frown.&nbsp; The Breed was in prison, serving a life sentence in Deseret for killing that deputy that laid hands on her when they tried to arrest him.&nbsp; But he knew she was heading to Gomorra when she met him, and he'd come for her if he could.&nbsp; She was sure of it.&nbsp; He was free!&nbsp; And here!&nbsp; But how?&nbsp; <strong>"He's here?"</strong> She asked, overwhelmed and bewildered. <strong>"I mean, he's in Gomorra?&nbsp; When?&nbsp; How?"</strong>&nbsp; Her questions mirroring her whirling thoughts.&nbsp; <strong>"How... how does he look?&nbsp; Is he well?"</strong>&nbsp; He'd been in bad shape the last time she saw him, beaten during his arrest, then flogged half to death for the crime of impregnating a white woman.&nbsp; Her puzzled expression softening first into a warm smile before gradually lightening into a radiant grin of pure joy.&nbsp; He was free!&nbsp; And here!&nbsp; Here!! She could hardly believe it.<br>&nbsp;<br>The blood on her fingers pulled her back to reality.&nbsp; <strong>"Let me see that wound."</strong>&nbsp; She instructed, already undoing his shirt, trying hard to focus on the moment and not think about...&nbsp; He was free, and here!&nbsp; She hummed a merry musical tune as she worked, and her smile only grew brighter.&nbsp; What would people think, her married to a black man?&nbsp; Would there be a repeat of what happened back in Deseret?&nbsp; The thought put a damper on her joy, to be sure.&nbsp; But she was just so very happy that even that dark possibility was unable to contain her excitement.<br><br>It was hard to focus on her task, she was no doctor, or even very accomplished at nursing.&nbsp; She did know her way around a body though, wasn't squeamish in the slightly, and she could dress a wound.&nbsp; She tsked and fussed for a bit, but decided that he'd live, if he hadn't lost too much blood.&nbsp; <strong>"You'll be fine."</strong>&nbsp; She decided after tightening a bandage she made by ripping off the long tails of her tunic.&nbsp; <strong>"You just need rest, and water."</strong>&nbsp; She had wanted to bring water, but none of her tent-fellows had a canteen, and she couldn't bring herself to steal one from another tent, and a bucket simply wasn't practical, so she'd left camp with nothing but her small poke and the clothes on her back.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:12:38</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Camp Gǒu <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>Her excitement gave him a small smile, though another rush of guilt at how he'd availed himself on her.&nbsp; Some distant notion, a hope that he might be wrong – that she was an available woman and he could somehow set right his bestial assault upon her evaporated, and he sighed inwardly, even as he forced himself to smile at her happiness.&nbsp; It was selfish of him, but he set it aside.&nbsp; Soon she could be with her husband and her hardships could be behind her.&nbsp; <br><br>He gave a nod.&nbsp; <strong>“He's been here a few months,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; <strong>“And I think he... misses you very much, misses Boston very much.”</strong>&nbsp; He frowned, and dipped his head, giving it a shake.&nbsp; <strong>“Uh.. same as most folk?&nbsp; Came in on the Iron Dragon.”</strong>&nbsp; He winced slightly at the question which followed.&nbsp; How did he look?&nbsp; He looked unwell.&nbsp; He looked like a man who buried himself in whiskey on a nightly basis, he looked... He blew out a breath.&nbsp; <strong>“He... looks like a man who's wife is dead,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; There was an ache of sympathy for the man – he'd been widowed himself, and he remembered how hard those last few months had been, watching her waste away, powerless to stop the progression of nature, powerless to help her.&nbsp; His eyes grew sad, deeply wounded for a moment, and he looked away.&nbsp; <strong>”Alfred... he needs a new suit.&nbsp; And a haircut.&nbsp; And a few days sobriety,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; But he couldn't feel morose in the face of that pure joy, and he returned her smile, putting a hand sympathetically on her shoulder.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>”You'll be back together soon enough.”</strong>&nbsp; It had the ring of promise to it.&nbsp; He didn't know why he felt a certain pang of jealousy, of loneliness, but it was a familiar ache, and one he carried as part and parcel of his obligations.&nbsp; He looked away as her fingers traced over his shirt, his vest, his jacket, freeing the bandage – or what passed as a bandage for her perusal.&nbsp; It was little more than the tie he'd been wearing two days before, tied around the ribcage, not even wide enough to full cover the wound.&nbsp; He grimaced when the shirt was pulled away – dried blood had been loosened by the fresher, warm blood, and it began to leak anew.&nbsp; The 'knife' which had gone into his side looked more like a small sword – the cut was nearly three inches wide, and had gone deep.&nbsp; In the light of starlight, though, it wasn't the only one – the handsome lawyer was checkered with the wounds from shotgun pellet, gunshots, knives – even what looked like enormous talons, large enough for a bear that had sunk into his shoulders on both sides.&nbsp; The claws were bear sized, but weren't a bear – there was only two talon marks on the front of each shoulder.&nbsp; There was a matching mark on his back, as well, as if some unknown beast had locked claws from above.&nbsp; He'd lost quiet a bit of blood, but the stab wound was only leaking slowly – although the collared shirt and much of the vest had been soaked well.&nbsp; <br><br>He began to protest when she ripped off the tails of her tunic, but fell quiet.&nbsp; <strong>“Well, with any luck we'll be able to find both at Vigilance,”</strong> he promised.&nbsp; <strong>“Or we can try for a cave.&nbsp; I've a … quarter canteen left,”</strong> he offered, gesturing to the horse.&nbsp; He reached up behind the saddle, freeing the straps on the bedroll tied off there, opening it and laying it across the horse's flanks.&nbsp; Ergo tossed his mane, lifting his head to look back at the pair of them.<br><br><strong>“We should be on our way,”</strong> he offered.&nbsp; <strong>“We don't want to try riding when the sun comes up.”</strong>&nbsp; He lashed the bedroll down to serve as much as a blanket as could be offered, then offered his hands to help her back up and onto the horse, lifting her by the waist&nbsp; and letting her settle herself.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:15:57</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; On the road to Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>A few months!&nbsp; It didn't quite add up. She'd last seen Bartholomew just over eight months ago, by her reckoning.&nbsp; She'd spent almost two of those in the women's asylum which shared a doctor with the Republic of Deseret Prison.&nbsp; A kind man, that doctor - a true disciple of Smith untainted by the bigotry of Young.&nbsp; He'd kept her informed about the Breed, once even taking a note to him for her.&nbsp; There had been no note in reply, just a verbal message the Doctor relayed - that she was best to forget him.&nbsp; But the point was - he was still in prison six months ago.&nbsp; And while she hadn't taken the most direct route to California once she escaped - was abducted really - from the Mormons, once she joined Sergeant Gruman she made good time west.&nbsp; He could certainly have escaped prison and beat her to Gomorra if he took the train, but... beat her there by several months?&nbsp; She didn't see how that was possible.<br><br><strong>"Why would he miss Boston?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked aloud once they were mounted and he got the horse moving.&nbsp; <strong>"He's never been east of..."</strong>&nbsp; Why, the only person she knew from Boston at all was, was...&nbsp; <strong>"Tell me what this man claiming to be my husband looks like!"</strong>&nbsp; She demanded.&nbsp; She squinted in concentration, trying to remember just what Alfred had looked like.&nbsp; <strong>"White fellow, slender, about five-ten or so, polished, but soft?"</strong>&nbsp; It seemed so long ago, but really it was less than a year!&nbsp; <strong>"With an accent that couldn't be from anywhere but Boston?"</strong>&nbsp; Even back in Baltimore, the fellows gave him a bad time about that accent.&nbsp; Good-naturedly for the most part, but several of the jokes involved cracks about nothing good coming from Boston, just bad tea and the Irish.&nbsp; <strong>"Alfred Eklain?"</strong>&nbsp; She demanded, <strong>"You think I married Alfred Eklain?"</strong>&nbsp; She was laughing, laughing so hard her eyes teared.&nbsp; It wasn't funny, not in the least bit funny at all.&nbsp; But the emotional roller-coaster of the nightmare images, her brief moment of joy, and then the jolting letdown left her at the thin edge of hysteria.&nbsp; <strong>"Wh-hy would you ever think such a thing?"</strong>&nbsp; She stuttered through laughter that was sobs.<br><br>She kept laughing as they rode, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the horse.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:16:24</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The road to Vigilance Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He watched her puzzled look, saw the gears turning, and his own brow knit.&nbsp; He helped slip her up on the horse, then mounted gracefully, patting Ergo's neck and getting them moving.&nbsp; He frowned and looked over his shoulder as he gently eased the horse along.&nbsp; <strong>“Middle height... but soft, yes.&nbsp; Curly hair.&nbsp; Irish blood, I think.&nbsp; Pale skin, brown haired... don't think he's worked a day in his life,”</strong> he chuckled.&nbsp; <strong>“He went on and on about his business in Boston folding.&nbsp; Tried a few investments out here, but the bank wasn't keen on lending him credit.”</strong>&nbsp; He gave a small chuckle. <strong> “Or maybe they just couldn't understand with that accent.”</strong>&nbsp; He smiled, good natured, over his shoulder.&nbsp; He hid the jealous pang, reading the subtext of her words that she was, indeed married – though the prospect of her being married to Alfred seemed exceedingly narrow.<br><br><strong>“Yes, Eklain,”</strong> he nodded.&nbsp; He blinked when she asked if he thought she'd married him.&nbsp; <strong>“Because he's got a marriage license?” </strong> He heard the strange edge in her voice, the sound that bordered on madness, and he turned in the saddle once again, looking back at her, the wet sound of the sob under the laugh puncturing him deeper than the knife.&nbsp; His brow knit, and as she started to slide backward off the horse, his hand reached out to her waist, pulling her close again, keeping her there as he steadfastly ignored the stab of pain.<br><br><strong>“But you are married,”</strong> he said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.&nbsp; She deserved far better from him.&nbsp; Some romantically foolish notion of wooing her, wedding her died with the realization, the certainty her heart belonged to another.&nbsp; The pure happiness he'd seen in her smile cemented that.&nbsp; He kept his arm partly around her – not quite a hug, but an attempt to keep her on Ergo while she laughed, or cried, or whatever it was she was doing.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:19:55</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; On the road to Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>Such hysteria is draining, and she frankly didn't have the energy to keep it up.&nbsp; The laughter never did quite degenerate into crying before it finally dried up and ceased.&nbsp; <strong>"Well then."</strong>&nbsp; She replied to his comment about the marriage license, her voice dripping with a level of acid sarcasm that completely obscured the normally soothing tone of her voice.&nbsp; <strong>"If he has a license, we must be married."</strong>&nbsp; She agreed with patently false agreement.&nbsp; <strong>"I mean, maybe out here in the west, they give out marriage licenses to people who push girls off of a train .&nbsp; Because the last time I saw Alfred Eklain, that's what he did.&nbsp; And I certainly don't remember telling him I do."</strong>&nbsp; Well maybe not deliberately pushed, her honest instincts prodded her conscious, but the effect was the same.<br><br>The horse trod on, plodding along the trail with his double load as she considered how to answer his last statement.&nbsp; Finally, she replied.&nbsp; <strong>"I was married."</strong>&nbsp; She agreed.&nbsp; <strong>"But I don't think I'll ever see him again.&nbsp; The last thing he told me..."</strong> He'd told her through an intermediary, but she was sure the message was genuine.&nbsp; <strong>"...was that it was best if I forgot about him, and that we were ever married."</strong>&nbsp; If it had only been that informal little service in Mormon Territory, she might have been able to do that.&nbsp; But they were properly married in that quaint old Spanish Mission, and she didn't know how she was supposed to forget about that.&nbsp; &nbsp;<strong>"I don't think he's coming back."</strong>&nbsp; Not unless he escaped a prison run with the efficiency equal to everything else the Mormons did, then crossed three deserts and two mountain ranges and all the hazards they contained.&nbsp; A journey she wasn't entirely sure he'd attempt even if he had the chance.&nbsp; <strong>"I was married."</strong>&nbsp; It was all so sad.&nbsp; She lost his child - why would he bother finding her?
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:24:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The road to Vigilance Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He nearly ventured a small embrace – some part of him wanted to reach out and hold her, and for a moment he leaned forward, compelled to hold her, but the strange, hysterical mix of laughter and near-tears kept him in place, uncertain if such a comfort was welcome.&nbsp; “I'm sorry,” he apologized, as her voice dripped with acid.&nbsp; <strong>“I didn't mean to imply... I didn't know you.&nbsp; He'd... claimed you'd kept your maiden name, out of respect for your family.”&nbsp; </strong>&nbsp; But then she mentioned the train, and his eyes widened, filling with a fierce anger.<br><br><strong>“He. What?”</strong><br><br>His voice had the same controlled fury when he'd pushed himself off of her – when he'd considered putting the muzzle of his gun in Tom's throat and then shooting his way out of the camp with her in tow.&nbsp; He grit his teeth, eyes fixed on her for a moment, the nights he'd spent consoling Eklain over his lost wife, his lost business, his lost life suddenly taking on a new light.&nbsp; The hours of drink, the whiskey – his hand drifted to the pistol at his side, and his voice was a growl.&nbsp; He'd courted Nathan's sympathy, and he'd offered it, thinking the man shared his heartbreak; instead he'd simply been vying for assistance with his plans to leave a woman murdered or adrift in the west.&nbsp; By comparison, the chinamen were saints.<br><br><strong>“I think Alfred Eklain and I will have a … talk, when we get back into town.”</strong>&nbsp; His jaw was set, his nose curled, rage still seething in his eyes.<br>&nbsp;<br>The rage slowly drained as he saw her struggle to answer.&nbsp; The deep tragedy in her voice, the pain of hurt... His hand slipped from his side, and his head hung.&nbsp; No amount of righteous vengeance could save her from her hurt, and he felt an enormous well of sympathy. <strong> “I'm sorry,”</strong> he said softly. <strong> “I... lost my wife.&nbsp; A few months after we were married.&nbsp; Consumption.” </strong> He shook his head.&nbsp; <strong>“I can't imagine how it must feel to... know he's out there, and not know how he is, or... what's happening to him.”</strong><br><br>He let his head hang, ever so slightly, uncertain if it was any consolation.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:25:06</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; On the road to Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She nodded vigorously in the affirmative.&nbsp; <strong>"Alfred Eklain is a contemptible, oily little sycophant."</strong>&nbsp; She nearly spat out the words.&nbsp; <strong>"And I was young, naive, and I believed his lies for quite some time."</strong> He'd never fooled her papa, of course.&nbsp; He'd tried to warn her, but she was so young, her head so full of romance.&nbsp; It was only after the accident that she started noticing the signs, the insistence that she liquidate, or invest her few remaining assets in scheme after absurd scheme.&nbsp; She sucked in her lip, chewing softly for a moment before adding.&nbsp; <strong>"He might not actually have wanted me to fall off the train, but he was pushing when the gate broke."</strong> Maybe not the best way to gather sympathy, but she was basically an honest person.<br><br>She watched as he offered his condolences, reading the real pain and loss in his voice and his face.&nbsp; He understood.&nbsp; Really understood.&nbsp; <strong>"Oh..."</strong>&nbsp; She reached out, laying a feather-light hand atop his wrist.&nbsp; <strong>"I'm so sorry."</strong>&nbsp; She offered her sympathy.&nbsp; <strong>"We only had a few months too, and they weren't always happy or even pleasant, but they were still wonderful."</strong>&nbsp; She wondered what it said about her that maybe the best thing that ever happened to her started with her vicious beating and brutal rape by a filthy nigger.&nbsp; She'd been so scared, so shocked, rejecting the reality of what was happening.&nbsp; He had no regard at all for her station or her virtue.&nbsp; He took what he wanted because he was a man and he wanted her.&nbsp; He put himself inside her and he just kept filling her and filling her and pounding into her and she was crying and screaming and begging him to stop and she didn't really want him to stop and maybe he knew that but he cocky black bastard really didn't care and she kept begging even after she was bucking back into him and it was horrible and glorious and she wouldn't change any of it and god she missed him.<br><br><strong>"I miss him so much."</strong>&nbsp; She answered his heartfelt declaration.&nbsp; <strong>"As much as I'm sure you miss her."</strong>&nbsp; She patted the hand resting on his wrist.&nbsp; Life was hard, was what it was.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:26:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The road to Vigilance Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>His jaw was set, hardened.&nbsp; <strong>“Then I owe you an apology,”</strong> he said.&nbsp; <em>More than one.</em>&nbsp; <strong>“I... believed that he'd lost his wife, and I helped him, spoke to the Judge on his behalf.”</strong>&nbsp; He frowned, grateful for once that the Judge was a wiser man than he.&nbsp; “He's insisted on proper documentation, and... for some reason, Alfred Eklain's not dared venture to Sacremento to retrieve it.”&nbsp; He glanced back as she mentioend he might not have wanted her to fall.&nbsp; While it might not be murder, it might as well have been an attempt, and somehow the distinction between trying to kill her and simply letting her die of exposure in the wilderness didn't arouse much sympathies.&nbsp; <strong>”Ma'am.&nbsp; If he threw you off the side himself, or he simply let you fall – he's been parading around town taking advantage of your relationship.&nbsp; He should have been scouring every inch of that track looking for you.”</strong>&nbsp; He opened his mouth, ready to say 'I would have.' but letting it pass.<br><br>He shook his head.&nbsp; <strong>“It was... I knew she was ill when we wed.&nbsp; I... I thought we'd have more time,”</strong> he admitted.&nbsp; <strong>“I brought her out to Colorado... I'd heard good things about the air, but...”</strong>&nbsp; He shook his head.&nbsp; She'd died days after they'd gotten off the train, and she'd been far from her friends, her family.&nbsp; His selfishness still tore at him.&nbsp; He'd picked up after that, unable to return to New York, to the promising practice, to his father's law firm.&nbsp; He couldn't bear the thought of her family's accusing eyes.&nbsp; For a moment he wandered, lost in thought, and then realized the touch on his hand, heard her declare how much she missed him. <strong> “I'm sorry you... lost one another,” </strong>he said, his voice soft.<br><br><strong>“I do miss her,”</strong> he agreed. <strong> “I... I owe you an apology,”</strong> he said softly.&nbsp; <strong>“Another.&nbsp; For the camp.&nbsp; For my behav...”</strong>&nbsp; He broke off, and swallowed, electing to call it what it was was.&nbsp; <strong>“For raping you.&nbsp; You were being... generous. Careful.&nbsp; And I... took advantage.&nbsp; Took what wasn't offered.&nbsp; It was... unforgivable.”</strong>&nbsp; His voice was heavy-laden with guilt.&nbsp; His head had turned, slightly, but he couldn't quite bring himself to look at her.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:27:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; On the road to Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>His past was full of hear-ache and loss.&nbsp; Just like hers.&nbsp; The details were very different of course, but the pain felt the same.&nbsp; <strong>"She loved you."</strong>&nbsp; She didn't have to ask - the woman crossed a continent with him, leaving her family behind.&nbsp; She held on to him as they rode.&nbsp; She listened to the hoof beats and and the sound of his heart, and she listened to his rambling until he apologized once too often.<br><br><strong>"What?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, staring at him as turned not-quite toward her.&nbsp; <strong>"Now listen here."</strong>&nbsp; She didn't know how to put it gently, and besides she didn't really want to.&nbsp; <strong>"You. Did. NOT. Rape. Me!"</strong>&nbsp; She emphasized each word, making sure he heard every one before she shot out the next.&nbsp; <strong>"You bought a whore, and you got what you paid for."</strong>&nbsp; Hastily, she put a finger to his lips before he could protest.&nbsp; <strong>"Whore.&nbsp; Not a life I chose, but that is what I am."</strong>&nbsp; Or was - maybe she could escape from it.&nbsp; <strong>"You can't rape a whore, Lawman."</strong>&nbsp; She told him.&nbsp; Not really true, but when you got exactly what you paid for and no more it might be a crime, but it wasn't rape.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:28:42</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The road to Vigilance Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr><strong>”I - “</strong>”&nbsp; He wasn't sure.&nbsp; She'd been gentle with him, told him so, but there was a part of him that always wondered.&nbsp; He could remember looks of reproach, the way she clothed herself&nbsp; after the times, in the beginning, when they tried to be as man and wife.&nbsp; As though his touch had humiliated her.&nbsp; He'd felt like a beast, a monster, and any physical passion had waned quickly as her conditioned worsened.&nbsp; The notion that the exertion had deteriorated her condition had made it a quiet relief to simply spend the evenings holding her rather than seeking pleasure.&nbsp; <strong>” - I hope so.”</strong><br><br>The sharpness in her eyes made him look up, surprise making him meet her eyes.&nbsp; The ire in her eyes, in every word made him blanch.&nbsp; &nbsp; Then her finger was across his lips, and he winced as he called her self a whore, then repeated the word.&nbsp; It had never been his intention – just to form a ruse, but his intentions mattered little when the ten minutes had ended with his cock buried in her.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>”You can.”</strong> he said softly.&nbsp; He'd hung men for it.&nbsp; It hadn't made him popular with the miners, stringing up one of their own when the man had gone berserk, cutting a girl and taking her.&nbsp; He didn't argue with her, didn't know how to respond to the fierce anger in his eyes.&nbsp; Even is she'd been a willing participant, he'd treated her like a whore, and it still made a part of him ache.&nbsp; He'd given more respect to the doxies in Casino Morongo, treating the whores like ladies – and when his mettle had been tested, he treated a lady more in need of his aid than any of them like a whore.&nbsp; <br><br>But instead of arguing any further, he put a hand over hers, turned it, and brushed his whiskered lips against her knuckles, a kiss he'd afforded to a woman of station.&nbsp; A lady.&nbsp; For him it was a moment of deference, respect, an unspoken oath.&nbsp; It was utterly sincere, the deference he owed her.&nbsp; Words failed him, and he hoped instead that at some point in the future, he might make amends with his actions instead.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:30:05</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>He was right of course, you could rape a whore.&nbsp; But then, that is not what he'd done.&nbsp; As he kissed her hand, she gave him a gracious chaste smile.&nbsp; <strong>"You are too kind."</strong>&nbsp; She drawled out in her deeply feminine voice, the Baltimore accent hinting rather than proclaiming proximity to the South.&nbsp; They traveled through the night, silently for the most part, and she pulled herself close to him several times, mostly to prop him up.&nbsp; He was a strong man, but he'd been through a lot and dehydration and fatigue were taking their toll.&nbsp; Despite his knowledge of the area, she was the one that first spotted the lights of Vigilance ranch.&nbsp; She suspected the horse carried them more of its own accord than following any recent guidance from her tin-star knight-errant. <br><br>But he was up and able when they arrived - insisting again that he help her down off the horse.&nbsp; They must have made a strange pair walking in, the wounded lawman and the pretty girl dressed as a Chinese Cooley.&nbsp; She let him do the talking, though she did insist on one room, with two pitchers of water.&nbsp; It was not with the least amorous intent that she did so, but rather her desire - her need - not to be alone.&nbsp; She was so tired, but she was afraid to go to sleep.&nbsp; Her parents died almost four years ago now, and for months after she'd had the most horrific nightmares about that day.&nbsp; Occasionally, they would return to plague her sleep, but not with any frequency and never with any warning.&nbsp; But after today - after the images she saw in those clouds.&nbsp; And after everything that had happened...&nbsp; She didn't want to sleep, and she particularly didn't want to be alone.&nbsp; <br><br>So they shared a room, and she made him drink. She made him drink all the water he wanted, and then she cajoled him to drink a few glasses more.&nbsp; She cleansed his wound and saw that it was properly bandaged with clean linen, and then she put him to bed while she sat on a chaise-like chair and watched.&nbsp; She wasn't sure where the chair originated, but it looked French, and it was upholstered - though it could certainly use some more padding.&nbsp; She sat and she watched and she thought and she avoided sleep for as long as she could, but eventually the demon slumber overtook her, and she nodded off, perchance to dream...<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:32:09</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 2nd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Night<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He kept a hand to the arms wrapped around his waist, a reassurance that she was still behind him even if the feel of her body pressed against his was adequate to that purpose.&nbsp; He made small talk on a few occasions – pointing out where a fork in the road would set her feet on the path towards Shan Fan, Lost Angels, or the delightfully titled mining town to their north, the 'Devil's Armpit.'&nbsp; He regaled her with stories from time to time – to offer a soothing voice, and to keep himself awake when dehydration and exhaustion threatened to make him pitch from the saddle.&nbsp; He told her of the 'tame' Maze Dragon in Dragonhold, and the mad 'Emperor Norton' who had declared all of California as his empire, and a Chinese warlord who had made much of southwestern California into Kwan Province and declared it under his protection.&nbsp; <br><br>But as morning began to light the sky, he grew quieter.&nbsp; His voice had grown hoarser, gravelly as his efforts to keep alert and protective had drained his strength.&nbsp; When she'd pointed out the ranch, he'd started slightly, snapping awake from his sleep in the saddle.&nbsp; He'd been greeted by the rancher and his wife, the horse taken by an eleven year old boy.&nbsp; He was recognized by all three – or rather, by the rancher and his wife.&nbsp; The boy had recognized the horse on sight, and run out to greet the steed.&nbsp; The rancher and wife both seemed concerned, opening theirs doors without a second thought.&nbsp; The rancher had all but carried the staggered lawman inside, and his wife quickly fixed a plate from their larder, and whatever thoughts she had about the strange way Margeurite was dressed, she set them aside for a pair clearly in need.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“He's a good man,”</strong> she'd offered.&nbsp; <strong>“Helped us out when those blood-ticks came through last year.&nbsp; Kept us from losing our entire herd.”</strong><br><br>Then the rancher had let her within, promised them peace and quiet for the night.&nbsp; The lawman had drifted in and out of consciousness, assured of her safety and finally relaxing enough to drift off in earnest. He'd drunk the water obediently, taken a handful of the food, murmured a question about Ergo and then drifted off.&nbsp; When she'd pulled up the chase lounge, his hand had drifted closer to hers, as if needing a reassurance in his sleep that she was well.&nbsp; <br><hr>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 02:36:22</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr><em>Her groom awaited her at the altar.&nbsp; Candles glowed with the greenish light of ghostrock, and an unholy melody played through a cathedral that seemed to be formed of a giant ribcage.&nbsp; In place of walls and a ceiling, she could see tendons stretched tightly over the ribs, and the notes of a wedding march seemed to scream from an organ of twisted black metal.&nbsp; 'Here Comes the Bride' played on notes that sounded like screams and groans.<br><br>A ghoulish, blackened face of bone and blackened flesh was next to her, his arm locked around her elbow, dragging her down the aisle.&nbsp; Her father's features gave her a horrifying smile of reassurance, as the white clad bride was dragged footstep by footstep down the center of the monstrous church.&nbsp; Strange faces filled the role of groomsman and bridesmaid – a sharp featured old woman and a grotesquely obese woman astride a pig.&nbsp; <br><br>She passed a line of men – men who she'd entrusted, men who'd taken her virtue as the price for their protection.&nbsp; She saw an apparition of steel and bolts, a man of metal that towered like a juggernaut, and Breed's bleeding face within.&nbsp; She saw the Sarge, his scalp parted from his skull by an Indian tomahawk.&nbsp; Her Mormon husband, an arrow emerging from his throat, his elderly features impassive.<br><br>Her blackened mother sat in the front room, a tear rolling down her cheek.&nbsp; <br><br></em><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f1/Lucifer.png)</div><em>Her groom turned, and he was the image of wholesome, human perfection in a sea of monsters.&nbsp; He turned, his hair golden blonde, his eyes dazzlingly blue.&nbsp; He gave her a warm, inviting smile, offering his arm while her father released his hold on her.&nbsp; He turned a sunny smile towards the preacher.&nbsp; His hand on her arm felt as strong as steel.<br><br></em><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/4f/Elijah.png)</div><em>Blood dripped from the blackened leather tome the preacher opened.&nbsp; Scraggly beard and long hair, a sun-bleached face and eyes that seemed to scream of fire and brimstone raised to meet them both from the dark book.<br><br>“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here this day, out of the sight of God...”<br><br></em><hr><br>When she awoke in her room, their positions were reversed - she'd been tucked into the bed in her sleep, and the lawman reclined on the chaise chair.&nbsp; 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 04:02:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She jerked up, shoving the sheets away to fall about her waist.&nbsp; Too breathless to scream, she jerked a hand to her breast, feeling the rough sweat-damp fabric of her coolie tunic.&nbsp; The thing was filthy, and even in her terrorized shock she felt a pang of guilt for soiling the ranch-wife's clean sheets with the grime of a work camp.<br><strong><br>"Oh."</strong>&nbsp; She was coming out of shock nicely, <strong>"It's just you."</strong> Her face screwed into an irritated scowl, that wasn't what she wanted to say.&nbsp; <strong>"I mean... never mind."</strong>&nbsp; Trying to re-assure an insecure gentleman that she really was glad to see him wasn't something she wanted to get into.<br><br>So she flashed him a warm smile and changed the subject.&nbsp; <strong>"I hope you slept better than I did?"</strong>&nbsp; She was surprised he managed to wake up before noon, remembering the shape he was in when she tucked him in. <strong> "Do you think maybe the rancher's wife might have a dress she'd sell me?&nbsp; I have money."</strong>&nbsp; A pitiful amount, but enough for a working-woman's frock, she imagined.&nbsp; <strong>"And do you think there's water for a bath?"</strong>&nbsp; She could use a bath, though she felt nothing could wash away all the filth, it seemed to permeate down to bone. <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 05:39:00</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>The Law Dog sat straighter in the chair when she sat bolt upright, refusing to let his eyes flick to the way her sweat had given the coolie tunic a provocative wrap around her.&nbsp; But it was easy to ignore the attraction – easier than it had been before.&nbsp; He'd heard her thrashing in her sleep, and instinct made him suspect it wasn't a pleasant sort of dream.<br><br>Few enough had pleasant sort of dreams near Gomorra.<br><br><strong>“Just me,”</strong> he reassured.&nbsp; If there was offense taken, it didn't register, and he just smiled at her change of topic.&nbsp; Some rest from the exhaustion and the stitch in his side feeling better had given him back some semblance of self-identity.&nbsp; The warmth of the smile that came after would have taken out any sting from the words if there had been any malice in them.<br><br>He gestured to the closet.&nbsp; <strong>“They lost a daughter, two years back.&nbsp; Her clothes might fit you better.”</strong>&nbsp; The question of water gave him pause, though, and he rose to his feet.&nbsp; <strong>“I'll see.&nbsp; And I'll speak to the rancher's wife.”</strong><br><br>He paused at the door, unable to ignore his protective instincts.&nbsp; <strong>“You're alright?”</strong><br><br>After he knew she was well enough, he closed the door behind her.&nbsp; The closet had a few simple dresses, and a church dress that looked to be of fancier material, and a cut that proved promising to the skill of the seamstresses in town.&nbsp; There was a bit of Spanish flair to the style, although the simpler frocks seemed of finer materials than she might expect, and carefully cared for.&nbsp; <br><br>After a long stretch of minutes, the lawman returned.&nbsp; <strong>“Bath's set up out in the shed,”</strong> he explained, the beads of sweat on his brow suggesting he'd helped haul the water.&nbsp; <strong>“Warming up now.&nbsp; The missus said to take something, if you needed it.”</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 06:56:19</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She went through the dresses - looking over the darling Sunday-best with a poignant twinge of loss.&nbsp; None of these dresses were quite as nice as even her everyday wear before her parents died.&nbsp; But even before she decided to cut herself away from the tangled financial mess and sucking whirlpool that was her father's contested estate she was reduced to wearing $100 dresses rather than the $1,500 casuals that she was used to.&nbsp; The gown for her debutante ball... she hadn't known it until years after when the lawyers and accounts were seizing assets and took almost her entire wardrobe... that gown cost nearly $10,000 - she had so desperately wanted to keep it, but there was simply no way she could buy it... Buy her own dress!&nbsp; from the Estate.&nbsp; <br><br>And now she was looking at the small wardrobe of a dead girl, feeling both nostalgia and a sort of gentle disdain for the lower-class attire.&nbsp; She was such a horrible person!&nbsp; After everything, did she really think she was better than this dead girl?&nbsp; Of course she wasn't... but she still had nicer dresses!&nbsp; She laid out the most suitable garment - a spring frock that was perhaps suitable for the West, though she'd jump off a cliff before being seen in such a thing among real gentry.&nbsp; She was being patronizing about a perfectly cute dress while wearing filthy rags handed down by a Chinese laborer.&nbsp; She had to smirk - the irony of the attitude was not lost on its audience of one.&nbsp; She'd have to be careful not to insult the rancher or his wife.&nbsp; They were good people.&nbsp; Better people than herself, she feared.<br><br>She laid out the dress and a matching hat, and sourly looked down at her bare feet and the frayed rags covering her like a tent.&nbsp; The Lawman was a good man - a tough man and gentleman and pretty much the real deal when it came to heroes.&nbsp; He was also... awkward.&nbsp; Maybe not in most situations, but certainly around women.&nbsp; This was not a quality she admired.&nbsp; Was she being too...<br><br>The knock on the door interrupted her thoughts.&nbsp; <strong>"Come in."</strong>&nbsp; She called through the door, turning as she spoke.&nbsp; He was sweating, the damp plastering his hair back and giving him a bit of a glow.&nbsp; He was a handsome man, she noted.&nbsp; She wondered how he remained single, despite his awkward shyness.&nbsp; She suspected he drove women away - perhaps even intentionally.&nbsp; <br><strong><br>"Thank you."</strong>&nbsp; She flashed him that dazzling smile.&nbsp; <strong>"Could you lead the way?"</strong>&nbsp; She left the dress where it was, not wanting to sully it with humidity from a bathing room, or the soil from her present attire.&nbsp; <strong>"Is there a robe or something I can wear back from the bath?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, not thinking that such an affection was anything but normal.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 22:20:54</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He stepped in carefully, closing the door behind him.&nbsp; She'd been able to offer some small cleaning the night before – little more than a bowl of water and a rag, and most of it to clean the wound in his side.&nbsp; But he still clearly intended to wait for a true bath until he'd returned to his home in Gomorra.&nbsp; He kept a polite distance, looking like he wished to have a hat in hands.<br><br><strong>“Of course,”</strong> he offered.&nbsp; He held the door for her, stepping back, still intent on treating her like a lady despite her attire or the manner of their meeting.&nbsp; It was an old, easy role, and his proper upbringing wanted to assert itself naturally around her.&nbsp; In Gomorra, he'd grown used to being a Law Dog, a certain roughness required by the profession.&nbsp; She made him feel like a teenager, struggling to mind all his manners at a formal and feeling perpetually out of place.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“I'll look,”</strong> he promised, but his tone didn't suggest much optimism.&nbsp; <br><br>He looked back to the dress she'd laid out. <strong> “If I can't find one – shall I bring you that?&nbsp; I can try to find a linen, if you prefer.”</strong><br><br>He led the way out through the house – there was the smell of a breakfast being prepared, something with eggs and potatoes, and he led the way across a yard of red-dirt.&nbsp; The shed was built up just against the barn, and behind it a large corral had a half dozen horses nibbling at feedsacks, the rancher's son tending them carefully.&nbsp; The shed was a woodshed, with extra planks and lumber that had been stacked carefully.&nbsp; A simple galvanized tub had been taken down from the wall, and set over a makeshift firepit to heat the water.&nbsp; The harsh, lye soap that was so ubiquitous in the west had been set out as well, and a wood-handled brush with rough bristles for scrubbing.<br><br>The lawman opened the door - the shed was just building a fair amount of steam - the shed had been well weatherproofed.<br><br><strong>"I'll wait outside,"</strong> he offered.&nbsp; "But... take your time."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>08-03-2013, 23:30:59</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She considered the options he suggested, and after a moment she shrugged.&nbsp; <strong>"Anything that's clean will do."</strong>&nbsp; She replied as she followed him out the door and across the yard.<br><br>She stepped up beside him when he opened the door into the steamy shed.&nbsp; Close and facing him, she paused a moment as their bodies didn't quite touch and their twin masses filled the small door.&nbsp; Her vivid eyes met his, pausing as briefly as her body before sliding down to his shoulder to appraise the arm propping open the door.&nbsp; <strong>"If you like."</strong>&nbsp; She answered his statement about waiting outside.&nbsp; Standing close, filling the doorway, she pulled her hands up between then and undid the top toggle of her tunic.<br><br><strong>"Do you want me Nathan?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, moving her eyes back to meet his gaze.&nbsp; Eyes locked, she watched his face.&nbsp; <strong>"If you want me, you should take me."</strong>&nbsp; She told him bluntly.&nbsp; <strong>"Quiet worship and chivalry won't get you anywhere."</strong><br><br>She glanced down to watch herself undo the second toggle.&nbsp; <strong>"You're a strong, handsome man Nathan."</strong>&nbsp; She told him.&nbsp; <strong>"You can have any woman you want."</strong>&nbsp; Her eyes cut back up to him.&nbsp; <strong>"Any woman."</strong>&nbsp; <br><br>With a saucy grin she released her top, leaving the last three toggles fastened.&nbsp; Turning from him swiftly, she flounced into the shed with a sway of hip and shoulder she moved into the center of the room before pausing and looking back at him over the shoulder.&nbsp; <strong>"So if you want me, take me."</strong>&nbsp; Eyes flashing over the rough fabric of the tunic, she added.&nbsp; <strong>"Just be sure I'm really what you want."</strong><br><br>It was an invitation, a challenge, and a warning - he could take it as he liked.&nbsp; &nbsp;Turning her head forward again, she continued to undo her top and proceeded to pull it up over her head, not bothering to wait for his decision.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 01:34:58</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>He nodded as she shrugged off the question about a covering, then held the door for her to the shed.&nbsp; To say he was unprepared for the sudden intimacy was an understatement.&nbsp; When she pressed close, close enough he could feel the warmth of her curved body without quite touching it, he felt a flood of arousal through his body.&nbsp; His cock surged and swelled, making a bulge down his pantleg.<br><br>His gaze drifted down as she undid the top toggle of the tunic, the memory of two nights ago and her bare torso, the swell of her breasts against his bare chest sang through his mind, as if it were only moments ago that she'd been riding him through the filthy trousers, his sheathed cock rubbing at her crease.&nbsp; His breath came quicker, his heart racing.<br><br>The question rattled through his mind.&nbsp; <em>Do you want me Nathan?</em>&nbsp; It struck at the bars of the caged beast, The words conjured images of grabbing her throat, pressing her back against the wood, pulling the dirty trousers down and pressing her against the walls, bare and wanton.&nbsp; He remember the way her walls had gripped him, the sultry purr, the sharp points of her nipples that dragged across his bare chest.&nbsp; Oh yes, he wanted her.&nbsp; The beast hungered to be buried inside of her again, and there was a fierce, animal heat that came more naturally to his eyes than it had the night before.<br><br>Then she was praising him, her voice a caress.&nbsp; A quiet assurance to an ego that she nettled more easily than he was comfortable with.&nbsp; Even in a castoff chinaman's clothes, she had a beauty, an assurance that no hardship could take from her, a true beauty that wasn't dependent on fancy clothes and expensive makeups.&nbsp; He knew there was a feral, lustful thing in her, too, a tigress, and he ached to see it loosed.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp;<br><em>If you want me, take me.</em><br><br>His eyes followed the last of the toggles opening, the sway of her hips and shoulders, the flounce in her step that seemed to make her entire body wiggle in anticipation.&nbsp; Not even the most civilized part of him could deny that he wanted her.&nbsp; But it was the last two words.&nbsp; The last two words that reminded him of the woman he'd married.&nbsp; The woman who'd flinched at his gentlest touch, who'd endured his affections rather than desired them.&nbsp; Who'd made him loathe himself for wanting her.&nbsp; Thoughts turned in his dark eyes, and he stepped away from the doorway.&nbsp; He followed her with, feeling the shed shudder with the closing of the door behind him.&nbsp; Part of him was terrified, and with that sensation came a welcome release – the drift in sensation that came with fear, the crystallization of a moment.&nbsp; When his palm would slam down on the hammer of a pistol, when every motion was deliberate precision.&nbsp; It freed him from fear, freed him from the whisperings of the beast.<br><br>He stepped closer, her topless body still calling to him.&nbsp; He reached for her, but only took her hand.&nbsp; Even calm, he didn't trust himself to touch her anywhere else.&nbsp; He drew her hand to his mouth, offering the kiss of a gentleman.&nbsp; Controlled, and careful, and sinfully aware of the pleasures that could be had simply by tugging her closer and wrapping an arm around her waist.&nbsp; Her body was a sculpture's marvel, and for a moment he allowed himself his admiration of it.&nbsp; He let those desires go, instead kissing her knuckles, a light brush.<br><br>“<strong>I do want you,</strong>” he whispered, into the steamy shed.&nbsp; “<strong>I am sure of it.&nbsp; But I will never <em>take</em> you again.</strong>”<br><br>His gaze met her eyes, and he released her hand, letting it fall.&nbsp; He forced himself to turn, stepping back towards the door.&nbsp; It took a long moment, paused, his muscles tense, to remember how to work the simple mechanism of a handle.&nbsp; For a moment it seemed like a complex blacksmith's puzzle of rings and bars, but he reached, clicking, and feeling a flood of relief when the door opened.&nbsp; <br><br><em>TURN AROUND AND FUCK HER.</em><br><br>His beast had grown a voice, rattling in its cage.<br><br><em>FUCK HER LIKE THE WHORE OF BABYLON.&nbsp; FUCK HER TIL SHE BEGS FOR IT.&nbsp; FUCK HER TIL SHE SQUEALS ON YOUR COCK.</em><br><br>He blanched at the crudeness of his own thoughts, gritting his teeth, and stepped through the doorway.<br><br><em>YOU YELLOW COWARD.&nbsp; SHE WILL NEVER LOOK AT YOU AGAIN.<br><br>Maybe.&nbsp; So be it.</em><br><br>The thought was as painful as chopping off an arm.&nbsp; But he was never going to <em>take</em> from a woman again.&nbsp; Not by gun or coin or filial obligation.&nbsp; He stepped out, closing the door behind him, wondering if he had missed the most provocative, sinful, pleasurable experience of his life.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 02:03:01</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr>She turned to face him, the graceful curves of her bare back replaced in his gaze with the fuller, softer curves of her breast.&nbsp; She watched as he approached and she smiled as he spoke and she accepted his kiss with the poise of a woman well-used to the gesture.&nbsp; She even tilted her head and bowed in a quickly-dipped curtsy.&nbsp; Of course, given the bare nature of her torso the movement and the reactions it spawned weren't quite so chaste as it played in polite society.<br><br>She listened to his declaration with feelings that were half-chagrined, half-amused, half-impressed, half-&nbsp; that was several too many halves.&nbsp; She could stop him.&nbsp; His back was to her as he struggled with the door, but if she called to him, if she asked him to stay, then he would come back.&nbsp; More than likely.&nbsp; Probably.<br><br>She shrugged again and let him go.&nbsp; She then completed her disrobing.&nbsp; The bath was warm and relaxing and she savored every moment of it.&nbsp; But those moments weren't many. No amount of scrubbing would really cleanse her, so she finished quickly.&nbsp; Fresh and clean and pink and damp, she stepped from the tin tub and dried herself with the towel left by the rancher's wife.&nbsp; It was a small scratchy towel, almost more gray than white - but it absorbed enough to pull droplets from her skin.&nbsp; It worked well enough as a wrap too - when she tucked it into itself tightly under her arms.<br><br>The small boy watched her walk from shed to house, too young to really appreciate what he saw but old enough to be curious.&nbsp; She flashed hm a brief warm smile that didn't linger an instant, and then she was indoors where she quickly made her way to the bedroom to dress.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 04:01:56</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>Outside, Nathan lingered against the door of the shed for as long as his masochism could allow.&nbsp; With the moment of integrity behind him, he felt a brief, pointed moment of righteous goodness, followed by a long spiral of doubt.&nbsp; He worked over her smile, trying to determine if it had been amused, placating, or simply accepting it as his due.&nbsp; More than anything, he found it impossible to ignore how he'd made her feel, when he'd pushed her down and slid into her.&nbsp; &nbsp;He remembered the words on the horse.&nbsp; <em>“You.&nbsp; Did. NOT.&nbsp; Rape.&nbsp; Me.”</em>&nbsp; He tried to sort through, sort out what it was this woman who claimed to be a whore and acted one moment like a society belle and next like Jezebel herself had on him.&nbsp; What mystique she exerted, or why she made his gut tighten when he heard the bristles of the brush on her skin.<br><br>He had promised her a dress.&nbsp; He remembered it belatedly, forcing himself out of his protective reverie.&nbsp; For a moment, he wished for an unwashed mass of chinese&nbsp; warriors to came riding up from the road, just to give him a more familiar sort of predicament.&nbsp; Something besides the sway of those perfect breasts during a half-undressed curtsy.&nbsp; He sighed and set off to the house.&nbsp; He was stopped by the rancher's wife, who pressed a bag of trail rations into his hand, and an extra canteen to accompany the one he'd already filled.<br><br><strong>“Oh … you didn't have to do that,</strong>' he smiled.&nbsp; But he didn't refuse the charity.&nbsp; She just smiled and patted his shoulder.&nbsp; <strong>“It ain't much.&nbsp; Just something to get you back to keeping the area peaceable.”</strong><br><br>He gave a blush and felt a stab of guilt at that.&nbsp; He was pretty sure a hornet's nest had been good and kicked.&nbsp; <strong>“Thank you, ma'am.&nbsp; If... if there's any trouble in these parts with Chinamen, you get on your horse and get your husband and your son to Gomorra,”</strong> he said.&nbsp; <strong>“Don't try to … make yourselves heroes.&nbsp; There's hundreds of 'em, and only the three of you.”</strong><br><br>She nodded, taking the admonition seriously.&nbsp; <strong>“You don't worry.&nbsp; I'll get old Jude up in the saddle and we'll be on our way first thing,”</strong> she promised.<br><br>He nodded, grateful, then headed to the room.&nbsp; He set down the food and the canteen, taking a clean linen and the dress, only to turn and nearly bumped into Margeurite, wrapped in a towel, clean and fresh.<br><br><strong>“I... “</strong>&nbsp; He swallowed.&nbsp; He extended his arms, with the dress and the linen, then realized his foolishness.&nbsp; He pulled the arm with the linen back, offering her a smile and a dress, cursing his anatomy for surging hard at the sigh of her.&nbsp; Somehow, it refused to be tamed by force of will or reason.&nbsp; <strong>“... your dress,”</strong> he finished weakly.<br><br>Did he want her.&nbsp; <em>Indeed.</em>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>yesiroleplay</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 06:50:36</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/Marguerite_Tuerny02.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Marguerite Tuerny<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/8/87/Victorian_Travel_Dress.jpg/450px-Victorian_Travel_Dress.jpg)</div><strong>"Oh."</strong>&nbsp; She flashed him a wide grin, <strong>"It's just you."</strong> Miming herself from earlier in the morning.<br><br><strong>"Thank you."</strong>&nbsp; She offered when he passed her the dress.&nbsp; And then she waited, facing him.<br><br>She continued to stand facing him, holding the dress against her bosom with crossed arms.&nbsp; She kept standing, watching and waiting.&nbsp; As the pause grew awkward she suggested.&nbsp; <strong>"Well, I'm going to get dressed now."</strong>&nbsp; She lifted herself up on her toes with a slight bounce, the towel, her crossed arms, and the hang of the dress off her forearms muting any suggestive aftereffects.&nbsp; Another moment as he processed his options and stood awkwardly and she bounced again.<br><br><strong>"Did you want to help?"</strong>&nbsp; She asked, though her manner was more playful tease than real challenge.&nbsp; The smile she flashed him as he stepped around her and didn't quite flee through the door was more fond than amused.&nbsp; She dressed quickly, amazed at how well the girl's dress fit.&nbsp; Well, it could stand to be let out in the bust and a little around the hips, but she could move freely.&nbsp; Surveying herself in the mirror, she checked herself at different angles and gave a satisfied nod.&nbsp; A nice simple plaid travel dress - not really fancy, but very well made of durable fabric with a rather flattering cut.&nbsp; It was certainly better than what she was wearing.&nbsp; It would have to do.<br><br>She left the room, navigating the house until she found the Mrs.&nbsp; In the kitchen.&nbsp; She wondered if maybe she should have avoided the woman, seeing someone else wearing her daughter's dress couldn't be easy.&nbsp; But she had to pay her own way, so...&nbsp; <strong>"Thank you so much.&nbsp; It is a wonderful dress."</strong>&nbsp; She told the woman.&nbsp; <strong>"I don't have much, but I insist you take this."</strong>&nbsp; She pulled out two half-double-eagles, the solid gold coins broken in half to make crude change.&nbsp; There weren't many mints out here, but gold always had value.&nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>09-03-2013, 10:50:40</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/thumb/e/e4/Natehunter.png/437px-Natehunter.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Nathan Hunter<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Senior Deputy (Law Dogs)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Vigilance Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Margeurite, Closed<br><hr>&nbsp; The lawman smiled, well aware she was teasing him.&nbsp; The humor managed to undercut his awkwardness, and he held a hand over his heart, as if sorely wounded. <strong> “It's just me,”</strong> he mimed, repeating himself from earlier.&nbsp; He passed her the dress, offering a welcome, and then paused.&nbsp; The possibility that he might dance to the left at the exact same time she did, or dance to the right and the two of them would end up in a collision of arms and soft flesh somehow ended up in his mind with the two of them akimbo and his earlier declaration for naught.&nbsp; <br><br>He missed it completely when she mentioned she was going to get dressed, still paralyzed in his attempt to conjure a method to get by her gracefully, and then her teasing quaestion made him laugh, and finally realize the solution to his dilemma.&nbsp; He stepped back and extended an arm, inviting her in, and slipped into the doorway after she'd given him the fond smile.&nbsp; <strong>“I will... saddle Ergo,”</strong> he resolved.&nbsp; He gave a small bow at the doorway, wondering if it was possible to run at a walking speed, and slowed his retreat to something more dignified.&nbsp; <br><br>The rancher's wife looked at the coins, and smiled softly.&nbsp; <strong>“You don't have to do that,”</strong> she said.&nbsp; She hesitated a moment longer, but a need for the coin shone in her eyes.&nbsp; <strong>“We... we'lll put it to good use,”</strong> she promised.&nbsp; <strong>“If you're ever back this way, and need a horse... I'll make sure my husband finds you a fine mare.”</strong>&nbsp; She left the offer open, grateful for the contribution and unused to the generosity.<br><br>He took in the warm desert air outside, giving a sigh, and made for the barn.&nbsp; He buried himself in familiar things, brushing down the stallion while he waited for the beguiling woman to emerge, then saddling Ergo.&nbsp; He'd once again managed to yoke his impure thoughts when she emerged, the grateful rancher's wife in her wake, and gave a smile at the dress.&nbsp; The modesty of it was as alluring in its own way as the sight of her half-naked in the steamy shed.<br><br>No.&nbsp; No, it didn't hold a candle, but it still looked fine stretched around her curves, her face clean and washed.&nbsp; He had a new appreciation for how she'd look in Paris fashions or New york finery, though, and he pulled the steed up offering her his hands to help her sit side saddle once more.&nbsp; <br><br>Then he swung up into the saddle himself, and smiled back to her.<br><br><strong>“Gomorra or bust.”</strong>&nbsp; he switched the reins, and a well rested Ergo raced out of the paddy and onto the road, as the ranchers offered friendly waves.<br><br>[continued in Around Town (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=167796.msg7845788#msg7845788)]
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>12-03-2013, 00:15:44</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack's Lair <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley, Li-Li, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a9/Rachaelsumner.png)</div>The others were calm, but Rachael Sumner, second in command of the Raiders, never really stopped moving around the camp.&nbsp; Whether she was fingering her gunbelt, checking the ammunition in the bandolier slung around her shoulder, snapping off a crispy piece of bacon or simply putting her hands on her hips to glare at the entrance to the cave, Rachael never stopped moving.&nbsp; She'd been awake since the news had hit last night.&nbsp; Coleman dead.&nbsp; Black Jack shot, and hurling himself over the edge of the cliff.&nbsp; Rachael was the real deal, as outlaws went – she'd robbed trains and stagecoaches, shot a man dead at seven, had bounties posted on her in three states in the Union, two in Confederate territory, and two more in disputed lands.&nbsp; She was also one of the few members of the Raiders well known without her mask – the large tattoo of a spade on her breast wouldn't have been noticeable if she were a modest woman, but she had a habit of keeping her shirts half buttoned, even mid robbery.&nbsp; Few men could describe her face; the tattoo had actually made it onto a wanted poster, to Rachael's perpetual disgust, though&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/49/Flint_parker.png)</div>That wasn't to say the others weren't nervous, too.&nbsp; They just had different ways of showing it.&nbsp; Flint Parker had a hat tipped lazily over his eyes.&nbsp; The Kentucky born redneck was born into a legacy of crime.&nbsp; Illiterate, uneducated, and ever immodest, the red-headed raider&nbsp; did his best to pretend to sleep, if nothing else to diffuse the tension of Rachael's constant pacing and fidgeting.&nbsp; Flint had a rogue's charm – he'd been an outlaw since he was a twinkle in his daddy's eye; the Parker family had been thieves, bushwhackers and highwaymen for three generations.&nbsp; Flint had once scooped a high-society dove up and over his shoulder in the middle of robbing a stage coach laden with Sweetrock supplies.&nbsp; He'd ridden all the way back to the secret landing they'd moored the boat on before Black Jack had laid down the law.<br><br><em>“Ye can't keep her, Flint.”</em><br><br><em>”But I'll take good care o' her!&nbsp; She won't bother no-one.”</em><br><br>Black Jack had scowled.&nbsp; <em>”She's a lady, Flint, not a pet.&nbsp; Leave her here, the posse coming after us'll find her and bring her back to town.”</em><br><br>It was hard to say if the young damsel or Flint had looked more crestfallen, but Flint had given her a kiss that had curled her toes and earned a giggling slap across his cheek.&nbsp; Flint had just given an aw-shucks smile and kissed her again, and Rachael had rolled her eyes when the little debutante melted a little, and didn't work up the verve to slap him again.&nbsp; She'd waved goodbye and waggled her fingers, a hand trembling on her cheek as she sorted through the utterly improper feelings she had.<br><br><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/3/3b/Eddiebellows.png)</div>In stark contrast to the easy going, happy go lucky outlaw, Eddie Bellows brooded in a corner of the cave they'd made their home.&nbsp; The Confederate uniform he wore was ragged and fraying, years old, but the dark eyed former soldier only removed it when he was bathing – which was rarely.&nbsp; It was no particular distaste for being clean – when Eddie cleaned up, he looked a proper gentleman, but the man was a natural born wilderness scout, well aware of the power of scent to alert&nbsp; prey or pursuers to his presence.&nbsp; Eddie rarely spent much time in the cave – he far preferred the desert, and tailing Sweetrock supplies as they arrived by steam-wagon or conestoga wagon.&nbsp; The scout was also a sharpshooter, and his dusty clothes hid a lean frame that seemed impossible to keep meat on.<br><br>The true blessing was the absence of Twitch.&nbsp; The third underboss in Sweetrock's gang, Twitch wasn't so much a leader as a force of nature.&nbsp; The madman lived for a gunfight, his reputation with a pistol second only to Black Jack's.&nbsp; It wasn't so much the speed of Twitch's draw or the skill in his gun hand, as the wild-eyed bravery that had earned respect.&nbsp; Twitch advanced fearlessly into gunfire, shotgun and pistols blazing until his foes or his ammunition were expended.&nbsp; He never took cover, and if his enemies weren't dead by the time he reached them, he went to work with a Bowie knife and a maniac's laughter.&nbsp; The only thing Twitch seemd to like was seagulls.&nbsp; The strange man had managed to train a number of the birds as carrier pigeons, and seemed to prefer their company to people most times.&nbsp; It was one of Twitch's gulls which had carried the news of the escape, but there'd been no more word for nearly ten hours.&nbsp; <br><br>He didn't handle tension well.&nbsp; It made him feel 'stabby.'&nbsp; If the quiet murmurs were any indication, and Rachael's booted heels grinding on the rock, Twitch would have been feeling 'stabby' four hours ago.&nbsp; But Twitch was on boat duty – which meant long hours manning a hidden steamboat near the city, ready to evacuate any of the Raiders who made a rapid departure.&nbsp; Hide nor hair had been heard from him or Black Jack since eight hours prior, and the lack of communication had begun to wear on even the relatively patient members of the raiders.<br><br>Rachael paced around the glowing embers of the campfire, grabbing another slice of the bacon and snapping it off with her teeth.&nbsp; She ran dirty fingers through her hair once more, when a bellow echoed through the cave.<br><br>“Wooooooooweeee!&nbsp; Goddam, but it feels good to be alive!”<br><br><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1f/Thetwitch.png)</div><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/86/Blackjack.png)</div>Black Jack's voice boomed through the cave, and he sauntered into cave, Twitch following on his heels.&nbsp; He'd turned a dirty undershirt into a bandage around his muscular torso, and he grinned wildly at the Raiders who'd already risen to greet him.&nbsp; He tossed the armored vest he'd purchased discreetly from the Collegium onto a peg, along with his hat, and his duster a moment later.&nbsp; His powerful arms and chest were bronzed by sun, and a broad grin broke his face.<br><br>“You son of a bitch!” scowled Rachael.&nbsp; “We were worried sick about you!”<br><br>Black Jack gave an easy laugh.&nbsp; “I believe that's the third aspersion on my mother's character I've heard In twenty four hours.&nbsp; Apparently I killed J.P. Coleman.&nbsp; Am I mean drunk, or just a forgetful one?”
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>13-03-2013, 20:57:56</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/donna-feldman-4_zps795d249b.jpg)</div> <hr><strong>Name:</strong> Harley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Black Jack's Lair<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Black Jack and the others, Li-Li <hr> Harley lay back in a casual sprawl some short distance away from Flint, her bed roll tucked up under her head while she flicked open the loading gate on her Colt and proceeded to load up as fast as she could. Her motions, much like everything else she did, were smooth and easy--no fumblin' for the girl who had picked up her fist gun some 6 years ago and shot a man dead. To her way of thinkin' there simply wasn't time for flinchin'. Not if you wanted to be the one firin' rather than the one dyin'. There'd be plenty of time to rehash her mistakes when she was dead, weren't no sense in dawdlin' when it mattered. She was well aware that to some she might have given the appearance of moving rather slow considering speed was her aim, but well, Harley had a way of bein' quick without ever seeming to be in a hurry. While you were busy thinkin' she was too slow to get the drop on you, she had loaded up and was already firing off a shot. And she had a right wicked way of hittin' what she aimed for.<br><br>Still, despite the way the young woman had taken to the way of the gun, she knew better than to take things for granted. Harley practiced, drawin', loadin', shootin', movin' targets, stationary targets, whatever, whenever she could--which was quite a lot really. At a time like now that discipline of hers helped in other ways too. What with everybody's nerves on edge after the news that had come last night. The others might not be ragin' or hollerin' but anybody livin' could feel the tension about the cave, thick as molasses it was. Keeping her hands busy and her mind focused on the task at hand kept her mind from ponderin' "what if's" and the like. Too much thinkin' could be as bad as not enough thinkin' in some regards. She could have gone into town this morning to keep herself occupied by acting as an extra pair of eyes and ears on the ground, but she wasn't too much known in town for chattin' up a storm or bein' overly interested in gossip. She could have caught some news likely but no more'n anybody else could get and too much interest might raise suspicion. Thus far her face wasn't recognized as one of Black Jack's since she typically kept the lower half of her face covered and let her waist length hair loose to fly about when on raids. She didn't suppose she could hide forever but for now it worked and she wasn't in a hurry to lose that cover.<br><br><em>“Wooooooooweeee!&nbsp; Goddam, but it feels good to be alive!”</em><br><br>The exclamation seemed to slice through the tension and worry clean and easy like a bullet through water, though Harley's features had never shown a trace of either. Course, she was the loyal sort, so while she might not have been overly demonstrative, she had indeed been a bit worried about the boss. Black Jack had given her a place back in the early days when she'd thought there wasn't anyplace for her and over the years the man had certainly proved himself, earning her respect (not an easy feat) and even a bit of admiration--though getting her to say so out loud might be nigh impossible. <br><br>There weren't many that Harley viewed herself as bein' close to, Lilah bein' the main exception there, so when the others rose to gather round and greet the boss man heartily, laughin' and jokin' now that they knew Jack was all well and good, Harley kept her distance, offering a cool and polite nod before snapping her gaze away from him and back to her firearm. "Glad to see you ain't busted up none Jack." He looked plenty healthy to her, no worse for the wear despite supposedly bein' shot and jumpin' off a cliff. There weren't many males who could get her blood pumpin', much to their disappointment, but Black Jack was one of the few that could manage it when she wasn't careful. Yeah, too much thinkin' could be bad. <br><br>"Probably a little of both," she snorted in reply to Black Jack's question though she didn't expect to be heard. Her Peacemaker went to her hip, slipped into its holster as she rolled herself up from her sprawl to stand and dust herself off a tad before leaning back against the rough wall just as casual as you please. She might not have had all the fancy book learnin' of some but the gears in Harley's head were already turnin' and as much as she didn't want to cut into the celebration of their leader's return she felt compelled to speak up. "I suppose you know good'n well you'd have been blamed even if you were laid up with fever for all to see. Cause the trouble is... if you ain't the one shot Coleman dead then who did? Folks always prefer the devil they know over the one they cain't even see." 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 03:11:29</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i627.photobucket.com/albums/tt357/Niferbelle/my%20avatars/doomtown7av_zps641b8122.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><strong>Faction:</strong> There have been a few rumors but who listens to those<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Black Jack's Lair<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Harley, Jack, Rachael and the rest of the gang<br><hr>Everybody seemed to have their own way of coping while they waited -- Rachael paced and worried and ate more bacon in one morning than she usually would in a week; Harley fiddled with her guns, all mentally coiled like a snake; the fellas all acting each according to his nature; and then there was Lilah who'd gathered a small stack of clothes from around the camp that represented every button and patch in the camp that needed to be sewed on, all in the hopes that keeping her hands busy would keep her mind occupied as well. It wasn't working so well as she seemed to be sticking her fingers as much as the fabric as she navigated the mending and in the end worry about Jack could never be banished from her mind, not until they heard from him. Although she didn't ride out on raids like Rachael and Harley did, Lilah knew how to use her Colt and she kept it loaded and close to her now -- if trouble came back instead of Jack she wouldn't hesitate to protect the camp, same as any of the others. <br><br>There were no words to describe the relief that filled Lilah's breast at the sound of Jack's voice and she was instantly on her feet and pressing forward with the others to hear his tale. Of course he was back and of course he was fine, wasn't no law dog on Sweetwater's leash that could bring Jack down. It was probably irrational that Lilah felt such pride in their leader and her friend seeing how she didn't have nothing to do with Jack's cleverness and luck but she couldn't help herself. She glanced over to Harley with a smile as her friend got to her feet, knowing that despite appearances, Harley had been concerned too. While the others chimed in with greetings and questions, Lilah was silent, her beaming smile speaking to her relief, and waited to hear what Jack had to say.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>14-03-2013, 09:45:18</strong>
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				<br><hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack's Lair <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley, Li-Li, Closed<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/86/Blackjack.png)</div>Black Jack offered embraces to those who approached – though it was Flint that was first in line to give him a clap on the back.&nbsp; Jack still had an impromptu bandage over his abdomen, but from the way he moved it seemed more a flesh wound than a serious injury – not bad for a man who'd been gut shot by their last missive.<br><br>He gave a nod to Harley, and Lilah, and sighed at Harley's question of who did.&nbsp; “I can't rightly say I know.&nbsp; I mean, I'm sure it was Findley pulling the strings, but I don't know who the triggerman was.&nbsp; But I'm sure as hell that Findley's keeping his hands clean.&nbsp; Big Jake and Scooter ain't got the brains between 'em to kill Coleman, and it ain't like anybody'd miss Scooter running from the scene.”<br><br>He shook his head.&nbsp; “It's a damn shame.&nbsp; Coleman was a dog on Findley's leash, but as lawmen go, he wasn't bad.&nbsp; Way I figure, that means they're either gonna put Bilton in charge, or Hunter, but my money's on Bilton.&nbsp; We crossed pistols with him enough at Sweetrock mines, we know he's on the take.&nbsp; Hunter's... “&nbsp; He chuckled.&nbsp; “Well, if Hunter's in charge, we're all gonna have to become smarter criminals.&nbsp; Man's got a first rate mind, and he ain't gonna come after us guns blazing.&nbsp; He won't stop, either, until he's in the ground or we're in jail.&nbsp; Coleman – for those of you that don't know, Coleman was putting together a case for Warwick against Sweetrock.&nbsp; Trying to prove they'd been hiring thugs to kill independent miners for years and seize good claims.&nbsp; He offered us a day in court to try to prove our claims.&nbsp; I wasn't sure what to think of the matter, but with Coleman pushing up daisies, I'm thinking the offer was legitimate.”<br><br>He blew out a breath.&nbsp; “Missed opportunity, maybe.&nbsp; Or maybe a setup, and there was something else I wasn't seeing.”&nbsp; He pursed his lips, pacing through the cave.&nbsp; “I'm gonna want a volunteer in town, keeping tabs on what's going down with the new Sheriff.&nbsp; Everyone else – we're getting the hell outta Dodge.”<br><br>He grinned broadly.&nbsp; “I been making y'all rot away in this nasty cave for too long.&nbsp; I got a plan to get us some new digs, and I think you're gonna like 'em.”&nbsp; His eyes twinkled with that particular band of Black Jack mischief.&nbsp; “Harley – you mind keeping an eye on things in town?”&nbsp; He looked to the feminine gunslinger for a moment.&nbsp; “Low profile.&nbsp; Keep your nose clean for a bit.”&nbsp; His eyes twinkled.&nbsp; “Not forever, I promise.&nbsp; Just til we know the lay of the land.&nbsp; Twitch'll be nearby, if you gotta send messages back.”<br><br>“Lilah.”&nbsp; He turned to the still-smiling Raider, one of the few who knew him before he was Black Jack.&nbsp; “I got a message I need you to deliver.&nbsp; I got a lead in Gomorra who can get it to Captain Sim Yut-San, and I need you to make sure it gets there.&nbsp; No one knows your face, no one knows your with us, and I'm gonna need you to keep it that way.”<br><br>He looked around, his grin broadening.&nbsp; “Everyone else – we're gonna take a cue from the Maze Rats and get ourselves a boat.”<br><br>There was some groans from a few of the Raiders who'd tried their hands as sailors before.&nbsp; Jack raised a hand.&nbsp; “Now, now – I ain't talking about a rusty, bilge rat infested chinaman's fishing boats with a gatling gun thrown on for good measure.&nbsp; Seems Sweetrock's shipping up a new business venture.&nbsp; A proper casino boat, with first-class rooms and pool tables and a bar that's supposed to put any saloon in Gomorra to shame.&nbsp; I thought y'all might care to rest your heels in a place with showers and a full-service kitchen.”<br><br>Rachael led the rest in laughter.&nbsp; “Well, hot damn.”&nbsp; She glanced around the dark, damp cave that had been home for years.&nbsp; “What the hell are we waiting for?”
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>17-03-2013, 21:06:30</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i627.photobucket.com/albums/tt357/Niferbelle/my%20avatars/doomtown7av_zps641b8122.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><strong>Faction:</strong> There have been a few rumors but who listens to those<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Black Jack's Lair<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack<br><hr>Lilah just stood quiet, hands in pockets, glad to be feeling things were right with the world again as Jack addressed the group, taking in everything he said and nodding to accept the job he asked of her though of course there was never any question of her doing whatever he asked. It didn't exactly make her feel easy to know she'd be dealing with Chinamen -- in her experience, they wanted as little to do with her as the whites did -- but she was past letting what other people thought bother her and Jack wouldn't ask it of her if it wasn't important. Jack's suggestion of getting them a fancy boat caused quite a stir and Lilah had to admit it sounded like a nice change from their current digs but part of her had to wonder about the timing. Still, she held her tongue and waited for some of the hubbub to die down before she stepped up and clapped Jack on the back.<br><br>"Jack, I don't believe a cat's got nothing on you in lives," she declared with a slight shake of her head, still bemused at his latest exploit&nbsp; though truth be told there was no small worry in her over this latest turn of events. He'd been in scrapes before, sure, but this felt different. There was a sheriff dead after all and somebody was gonna have to swing for it. "Now, yer boat sounds swell and all but do y'really need another bullseye on yer back?"<br><br>She maybe had a few more things to say about that but he'd already thrown it out there and excitement was building in the crew and it wasn't the sort of thing Jack would back down from. If she mother hen'ed him any more she'd just get a good teasing out of it. "I can head out right away. Just need the message...and who am I looking for to get me to the captain?"<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>21-03-2013, 01:07:42</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/86/Blackjack.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Blackjack's Raiders (Black Jack)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack's Lair <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley, Li-Li, Closed<br><hr>Jack stepped up to Lilah after waving off a round of question.&nbsp; "We'll get planning here in a minute, boys.&nbsp; For now, just imagine what a bed and sheets is gonna feel like."&nbsp; He called over his shoulder, and stepped closer to Lilah, wrapping her up in a quick bear hug before setting her back down on her toes.<br><br>He chuckled at her quip.&nbsp; "Don't worry, Lilah.&nbsp; Got a few more up my sleeve, I'm sure."&nbsp; He wrapped his heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her into brush his lips across her temples.&nbsp; Most of the others often wondered about the relationship between the two - she wasn't a boss, and there was gossip the two were sleeping together, but Black Jack always looked at her more like a grown daughter than a love interest.&nbsp; He gave a chuckle at the question.&nbsp; <br><br>"One more, or ten more.&nbsp; Ain't like a higher bounty's gonna draw more bounty hunters than've already tried.&nbsp; And being in a moving boat's gonna make us less targets than hiding in the same old cave."&nbsp; He paused, dropping the bluster.&nbsp; "And... I'm pretty sure they got an idea where we've been staying.&nbsp; Maybe not exactly, but once they got their posse rounded up, this part of the Maze's gonna be flooded with gunboats.&nbsp; We need to be gone."&nbsp; He wouldn't risk their safety over luxuries - not even luxuries like a casino boat.&nbsp; His voice was quiet, as he explained the real reasons.<br><br>"There's a man in town.&nbsp; A Mr. Lee.&nbsp; Owns a shop, a whorehouse.&nbsp; Chinamen with a sharp suit.&nbsp; I'm sure folk'll have heard of him."<br><br>He drew out a folded piece of paper - Black Jack's penmanship was one of the small marks of his unexpected signs of education.&nbsp; She'd heard Black Jack wax eloquent about philosophy and history before, and there was a remarkably apt scholar beneath his easy demeanor and rogue's charm.&nbsp; He winced, remembering she wouldn't be able to read it, and gave a small sigh.&nbsp; Teaching her to read had been one of those promises he never quite seemed to have time to fill.<br><br>"Come on," he said, looking over his shoulder and leading her further back into the cave.&nbsp; "I'll read it to you til you can recite it for me word for word."
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Kokaine</strong> on <strong>21-03-2013, 02:37:15</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://i167.photobucket.com/albums/u133/kokotigress/Elliquiy/Doom%20Town/donna-feldman-4_zps795d249b.jpg)</div> <hr><strong>Name:</strong> Harley<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown to the public thus far<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Black Jack's Lair<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack and Twitch each very briefly <hr>Harley heard Jack's take on it all and supposed it all made sense to some degree. She'd had no knowledge of the discussions between Coleman and Jack but it wasn't such a surprise to hear that he might have been cooking up something. Far as lawmen went, Coleman hadn't been bad at all but as far as whether his offer had been legit or not, well, she couldn't rightly say one way or the other. She'd made a real effort to keep her distance from the Sheriff and his deputies, not wanting her face to become too recognizable by anyone who might have heard things. The past had a way of catchin' up most times and she had to believe that hers was no exception. It would be interesting to note just who stepped in to fill Coleman's boots though. Jack was right in that Hunter could prove to be a real problem for them. <br><br>By the time, Jack had moved on to his little revelation concerning the group's future home, Harley was well off into her own mind, trying her best to piece together the things she knew so it took a moment for it to sink in that Jack had addressed her. "Hmm?" Her brow furrowed but then the words she'd heard sunk in and she nodded, "Oh, no problem boss." Her agreement was the only words uttered, with no further questions to add. Jack knew she didn't usually tend to say too much and most times if she had questions she went looking for the answers on her own anyhow. She went into town enough that it wasn't nothing too far out of the ordinary. She was gonna have to stake out a proper place to bunk down well away from the cave but so long as she had her bed roll and her Peacemaker that didn't bother her too much. Some said there were creatures and critters that roamed outside of town but Harley didn't spook so easily. Sleeping under the stars was no different that sleeping in a damp cave if you asked her and she'd done her fair share of both. <br><br>As Jack walked off to coach Lilah on a few thing, Harley leaned down to pick up her stuff. She didn't have much other than the clothes on her back anyhow so the transient life never seemed too cumbersome. Other than a good bath every once and again, she didn't really need too much more. In any case, she was glad to have a task to keep her at least somewhat busy. She'd been gettin' far too antsy sittin' round here starin' at the walls.<br><br>Not one to dawdle, Harley tossed Twitch a look, nodding to the second in command that she'd be in touch should a reason come up and started off. She would have said goodbye to Lilah at least but figured she'd see the girl soon enough and they could spend time catchin' up when things had cooled off a bit. Besides, the younger girl knew Harley well enough to know she wasn't much for gettin' sentimental. Wasn't much reason for her to linger about with the others when she'd learn more in town than she would standing around with her finger up her nose. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>25-03-2013, 06:53:12</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://i627.photobucket.com/albums/tt357/Niferbelle/my%20avatars/doomtown7av_zps641b8122.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver<br><strong>Faction:</strong> There have been a few rumors but who listens to those<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Black Jack's Lair<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Jack<br><hr>It was easy to see why some folks thought there was something going on between the two by Watching Jack and Lilah together. Lilah wasn't a hugger but when Jack caught her up in a bear hug and gave her a little kiss, Lilah seemed to glow from the attention. She was a child who hadn't known affection and was growing into a young woman who was suspicious of it and Jack was the only one who had gotten through all that. As far as Lilah was concerned, what passed between she and Jack was a more sacred thing than if the two of them were just rutting. She immediately felt better when after his bluster he voice took on that more serious tone she knew so well as he laid out their predicament and made his plan to hijack a fancy boat seem like it came from Solomon himself. That was her Jack.<br><br>"You're right and it's prolly a good thing we can be mobile," she said in acknowledge, hoping all the good rooms wouldn't be gone before she caught back up with everybody. As he began to write her face began to burn. She knew she shouldn't be ashamed for not knowing how to write, it wasn't exactly her fault the way she'd grown up, but still it was a constant source of embarrassment. Luckily Jack didn't get far along before he realized his mistake and smoothed it over so she didn't feel so bad. She sighed as he led her to the back of the cave. "Least y'know I ain't dumb. I'll get it right, don't you worry."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>29-03-2013, 06:35:17</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/86/Blackjack.png)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack<br><strong>Faction:</strong>&nbsp; Blackjack's Raiders (Black Jack)<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Late Morning<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; Black Jack's Lair <br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Harley, Li-Li, Closed<br><hr>Jack gave Harley a squeeze on the shoulder as he passed, giving her a grateful nod.&nbsp; "Thanks.&nbsp; Stay out of trouble."&nbsp; He paused, stopping to meet her gaze for a moment, his dark eyes touched with genuine concern.&nbsp; "I mean it.&nbsp; Keep your head down.&nbsp; They're going to be looking for someone to lynch.&nbsp; Don't give 'em reason to pick you."&nbsp; He waited for acknowledgement, then stepped back to coach Lilah on the details of the message.<br><br>He nodded to Lilah's insight.&nbsp; "It will be.&nbsp; Maze's got more nooks and crannies to hide in than an ant hill's got ants.&nbsp; Soon after he saw her blush, he stopped, his large hand squeezing her shoulder, and when he saw her sigh and quip about her intelligence, he gave a low chuckle.&nbsp; "Never thought you were dumb for a minute," he promised, leading her away to begin reciting the message he intended word for word.&nbsp; It was only a few more minutes before the young raider had it down, and he gestured for her to join Harley at the rowboat.&nbsp; He paused before she turned back, giving her a quick embrace, taking off her hat to run a hand through her hair in a brief moment of paternal affection.<br><br>"You take care, too.&nbsp; Gomorran's are suspicious of strange faces, and they don't much know yours."&nbsp; He squeezed her once more, then turned her loose.&nbsp; "Y'all take care now," he said, nodding to the three of them.<br><br>Twitch gave that grin, as he moved back to the steam launch which would carry them up the channels to Gomorra.&nbsp; It was a manic thing, always half wild, his eyes glittering like he might well stab someone with provocation of any kind.<br><br>"Gomorra or bust!"<br><br>[Harley and Li-Li's threads will continue in Gomorra proper.]
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>30-03-2013, 04:12:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jaelyn<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ab/Stagecoach.png)</div>The driver of Jaelyn's coach knew how to dress the part, but a life in Lost Angels had made recognizing a Guardian Angel as easy as spotting a wolf in sheep's clothing.&nbsp; The old man who played teamster was no natural hand with the horses – nor did he seem terribly familiar with the various difficulties of driving a coach.&nbsp; He drove the horses through the desert trails until they seemed ready to foam white with sweat, then gave them just enough chance to slow and cool, to catch sips of water before he cracked reins and whips upon them.&nbsp; He drove the horses like Lucifer himself pursued them, and there were times when Jaelyn caught a gleam of pleasure in his eye, a sadistic pleasure in pushing the beasts so hard.<br><br>They had made good time.&nbsp; Far better than they ought – the road had been untroubled by bandits or the 'Army of Kwan' that roamed Southern California.&nbsp; In Lost Angels, the news for weeks had been about the armies of Santa Anna clashing with Kwan's Chinese and Indian troops, and how the 'Ejército de la Noche' had been marching to claim all of California for the glory of Mexico.&nbsp; Despite the rumors of Confederate, Union, and Mexican armies clashing, the roads had been empty, and the notorious army of Chinese outlaws had left them untroubled.&nbsp; <br><br>The driver had driven the horses through the day and the night, and the horses had somehow survived the ordeal.&nbsp; The pair of black stallions would be easy to feel some sympathy for, but they were unpleasant creatures.&nbsp; They had reared and snapped whenever Jaelyn had gotten too close, and one of the horses had gotten his teeth into her blouse, coming away with a mouthful of cloth, and near a mouthful of skin as well.&nbsp; &nbsp;The coach had been a listless place to sleep, the driver never offering much by way of conversation.&nbsp; He'd answered her queries with single syllables, keeping his attention on the road and not upon the young, would be martyr.<br><br>Then, without warning, the rear axle of the carriage snapped.&nbsp; The jostle of a few rocks was followed by a sudden crack as the rear of the coach crashed into gravel and dirt. There was a long pause – the dynamite in the trunk of the stagecoach was <em>mostly</em> stable, but the sawdust and nitroglycerin had an occasional tendency to explode when jostled hard.&nbsp; Even the hardened coach driver let out a breath after a few moments, then hopped down to examine the coach, leaving Jaelyn in the rear of the carriage.<br><br>“Saint's piss,” he swore, as he examined the damage.&nbsp; His hand had gone to the holster at his side, and he glowered at the carriage, his eyes filled with fire.&nbsp; His brow furrowed and darkened, as he knelt to get a closer look.&nbsp; The sky was just beginning to darken.&nbsp; Nearby, not more than two hundred yards from where the coach had crashed into the gravel and dirt, smoke curled up into the sky from a campfire.&nbsp; The small glow of the fire's light illuminate the sky, and cast long shadows over the cacti and rocks of the darkening trail.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>31-03-2013, 04:17:52</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; driver (Guardian Angel)<br><hr> <br><br>If the would-be martyr thought the day couldn't get any more miserable, she was about to find out different.<br><br>Hours of jostling and bouncing had bruised the backs of her thighs and the arm closest to the carriage wall, not that anyone would ever see the evidence, but she felt the aches just the same.&nbsp; And she was near exhausted just trying to keep her seat.&nbsp; Ire raised within her.&nbsp; This is how HE kept control of the masses, by keeping them weak and beggardly, of which she, in comparison to the sad populace of Lost Angels, was neither.&nbsp; Hadn't he reminded her how fortunate she was to be fed and clothed within the bosom of the Cathedral.&nbsp; Now he expected payment for such.&nbsp; Only her tithing was far more than ten percent!&nbsp; <em>Bastard.</em><br><br>She was immediately contrite.&nbsp; Such thoughts were not becoming of a lady even if they were truer than blue.&nbsp; And being a proper lady was important to her; as a reflection of her parents, where ever they might be in God's Universe and perhaps more importantly as a reflection of her piety.&nbsp; Truth be told, the later was more of a struggle these days.&nbsp; For the young woman, orphaned by death and circumstance, God was far too often negligent in the care of his lilies to warrant her full faith in return.&nbsp; <br><br>Doubt was shoved away.&nbsp; There was no time to waste on such thoughts when she needed a keen mind to see her way through this 'trip'.&nbsp; For it was already not what she expected.&nbsp; A Guardian Angel?&nbsp; Did the good Reverend not trust her to complete the task?&nbsp; He was no mind reader, surely!&nbsp; A chill crept along her shoulders remembering their last conversation, his final instruction.&nbsp; Her final doom.&nbsp; <br><br>Jaelyn forced her thoughts from what was behind to the immediate future.&nbsp; As to the nefarious plans of Reverend Grimme, he'd already taken her mother.&nbsp; As addled as she was, the woman had volunteered, while Jaelyn herself was sought out.&nbsp; It was a change in tactic that didn't set well with the girl at all.&nbsp; Because as harsh as life was, she'd never wanted to kill herself.&nbsp; Not even for God.<br><br>It was precisely then that the axle snapped, the sound sharp and boding nothing good.&nbsp; The jarring it gave her spine was nothing compared with the sudden drop to earth.&nbsp; She yelped, bouncing hard on the seat before coming completely off it to land on the floor in a mess of skirt and bruises.&nbsp; She had no doubt there would also be several dark imprints of the small lady's pistol she carried in a deep pocket of her skirt.&nbsp; At the moment she was just grateful it hadn't gone off.&nbsp; It would be hell to pay if she shot herself to death before she could blow herself up.&nbsp; <br><br>“Saint's piss!”&nbsp; The ornery cuss of the 'driver'; some guardian angel he was turning out to be, she thought from her position on the floor.&nbsp; She ought to move, but was just enjoying not being bounced around for the moment.&nbsp; Because Jaelyn hurt.&nbsp; Every bone and joint in her malnourished body, every coach smacked bit of flesh, begged her to cry.&nbsp; She might have, too, if she wasn't made of sterner stuff.&nbsp; As it was, she surely moaned a little sliding herself across the floor and out the door.&nbsp; The ground was closer than usual, so that was a plus, ironically.&nbsp; <br><br>Memory chose that moment to surface;&nbsp; there was a gross amount of explosives packed carefully in her one suitcase.&nbsp; Standing on wobbly legs, she blanched several shades paler, a wide-eyed stare moved from the back of the coach to the driver.&nbsp; "Oh, Jesus!"&nbsp; A hand patted her chest, willing the muscle encased there to return to a normal beat.&nbsp; "That might have been the end of both of us, Sir!"&nbsp; She didn't expect much of a response for stating the obvious.&nbsp; The man hadn't given her much more than grunts since the trip started.&nbsp; <br><br>Testing her legs, she moved away from the coach to get a better look at the damage.&nbsp; It was bad.&nbsp; And highly unlikely to be repairable, at least not quickly, and not here.&nbsp; "I don't suppose you have a spare one of those?"&nbsp; She asked hopefully, and if he listened he might hear a teasing lilt.&nbsp; A bit of sass came with the relief of 'buying time'.&nbsp; Even so, she soon shivered and looked around in the quickly fading light.&nbsp; Darkness would bring more cold.&nbsp; Briefly she wondered if freezing to death was a better end as there were no warm clothes packed between sticks and fuses.<br><br>There was just a threadbare shawl inside the coach.&nbsp; One didn't have to own the best to maintain their modesty after all.&nbsp; Retrieved, she was glad to have it.&nbsp; It covered the tear at the back of her left shoulder where a bedeviled horse nearly came away with a good patch of her skin.&nbsp; Jaelyn was sure to keep her distance after that encounter; no loving pets or sweet affections for those beasts.&nbsp; <br><br>"What's that there?"&nbsp; She pointed, knowing full well what it was.&nbsp; In truth, it did take a moment to notice the smoke some distance off the coach road.&nbsp; Whether is was friend or foe, she just wanted her driving angel to be looking away while she located the pistol in her skirts.&nbsp; She kept hold of it there, reassured, foolishly no doubt, with its weight and cool pearl handle against her palm.&nbsp; <br><br>"Perhaps the good Lord is providing us assistance."&nbsp; She offered, doubtful, but ever playing the part.&nbsp; And for once since the journey's start, she was a little glad for the surly driver and his 'protection'.&nbsp; "Shall we have a look then?"&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>02-04-2013, 08:52:49</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jaelyn<br><hr><div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/ab/Stagecoach.png)</div>“Might have,” growled the driver, as she stepped out, looking back towards the suitcase which half protruded from the end of the couch.&nbsp; He eyes the suitcase warily, then glared over at her when she asked if he might have another axle for the carriage.&nbsp; His eyes narrowed, visibly displeased with her ridicule, then glowered back at the exle again.&nbsp; “No.&nbsp; And if I did, no idea how to repair the accursed contraption.”<br><br>His attention was torn away when she looked, and pointed, and already sullen eyes glared at the fire with greater suspicion.&nbsp; He glanced dubiously to her when she suggested the Lord was providing assistance, his skepticism writ large in his features.&nbsp; “We know that <em>we</em> are from God.”&nbsp; He paused, his gaze sliding at the rocky landscape around them, at the distant fire.&nbsp; “And the whole world lies in the power of the evil one.”&nbsp; Still, he touched the pistol at his side to reassure himself, then set off at a brisk pace towards the distant fire.&nbsp; <br><br>“Yes,” he grunted, clearly expecting her to keep pace.&nbsp; He unbuttoned the catch on his holster, leaving it free and open, then slipping through scrub brush and smaller cacti towards the firelight.&nbsp; He slowed as he came closer, his eyes casting about for the one who'd made the fire.&nbsp; <div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/The_preacher.png)</div>A man in black sat upon a small rock, a closely trimmed grey beard visible beneath a tangle of grey hair.&nbsp; The fire – the entire camp seemed to exude a strange warmth, a calm and soothing presence.<br><br>The driver turned his head, side to side, then sniffed the air.&nbsp; It was as though he couldn't see the man sitting before him, plain as day.&nbsp; He took another step forward, then blanched and recoiled, hissing.&nbsp; He turned then, fearful, his eyes widening, and his hand clamped around Jaelyn's wrist, squeezing it hard as he began to drag her back towards the carriage.&nbsp; “This is not a safe place,” he hissed, as he tried to drag her along.<br><br>The man at the fire stood, and at his neck, Jaelyn could see a simple wooden cross dangle.&nbsp; He stepped closer, and then his voice boomed like thunder across the desert.<br><br><em>“And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.”</em><br><br>The Guardian Angel froze in place at the words, turning back towards the fire.&nbsp; They seemed to echo off rock and desert, the words carried like the trumpets of Judgment Day, and the driver snarled and drew the pistol at his side, aiming it back towards the campsite.&nbsp; He squeezed a shot, and the preacher, unruffled, didn't break stride as the bullet whizzed over his shoulder.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>05-04-2013, 17:04:16</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; driver (Guardian Angel), stranger (Priest) <br><hr> <br><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote from: Grimme's man</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote"> “And the whole world lies in the power of the evil one.”</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br>The difficulty was imagining an evil worse than the reality of Lost Angels.&nbsp; <em>But you've never been outside Lost Angels, so how would you know, girl?</em>&nbsp; It was not so funny that the thought rang clear in the Reverend's booming sermon voice.&nbsp; Jaelyn pulled the worn out wool tighter around her narrow shoulders and stepped quickly to catch up with the man's longer strides.&nbsp; It wasn't easy in her mother's best old skirt and boots two sizes too big.&nbsp; She heard the soft sound of fabric giving way as the desert did it's best to grab hold of her.&nbsp; It nearly succeeded, too, evident in the sting of long scratch across her left arm.&nbsp; A saving grace was the stuffing in the toes of her boots that, even in her haste to keep up, kept them from flying off her feet.<br><br>Jaelyn might not care for her escort, but he was - she knew somewhere deep in her gut - a killer.&nbsp; Just one of the many incongruous observations she'd made over the past few years.&nbsp; But in the dangerous Maze, bigger and stronger equated to safer, so after catching up, keeping him between herself and the stranger seemed the wisest thing.&nbsp; So it was that her first impressions were slightly delayed.&nbsp; First, the warm sensations had to make their way around the cold, hard wall that was Grimme's man.<br><br>Upon feeling the inviting warmth - because, after all, wasn't all warmth inviting? - Jaelyn began to step around, more curious than afraid.&nbsp; <em>Was there ghost rock burning in that small fire?</em>&nbsp; Even in the waning daylight, there was a soft glow casting a gentle shadows around the stranger.&nbsp; Jaelyn felt a great sense of relief, this was no Maze Rat or Chinese Outlaw.&nbsp; "Good....&nbsp; oowww"&nbsp; <br><br>The girl was surprised, to say the least.&nbsp; There was no imminent danger here.&nbsp; The stranger was a monk or traveling preacher of some sort.&nbsp; She stumbled to keep up, letting go of the small gun hidden in her skirt lest she reveal that secret too soon.&nbsp; "What are you talking about?"&nbsp; She hissed.&nbsp; Couldn't he see the stranger was also Christian?<br><br><div class="quoteheader"><div class="topslice_quote">Quote from: Traveling Priest</div></div><blockquote class="bbc_standard_quote">“And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.”</blockquote><div class="quotefooter"><div class="botslice_quote"></div></div><br>The stranger's words filled the air around them, seeming to bode danger and dread.&nbsp; But Jaelyn wasn't afraid, not really, not the way she expected she should be.&nbsp; She stopped short when her guard-driver did, finally able to give a good hard yank to break his vice like grip.&nbsp; Fortunately there were no broken bones, though there would certainly be a bracelet of bruising.&nbsp; As she turned to face the 'danger' with him, once again she dug back through the material of her skirt to palm the small gun. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>Days ago, she had slipped away from the Cathedral to duck back into the old hidey hole she and her mother called home.&nbsp; There, Jaelyn spent some time reminiscing as she picked through what was left by other squatters.&nbsp; It wasn't much and the place stank of death and rat droppings.&nbsp; A far cry from when her father had visited there, staying long enough to tease them with love and laughter before going off.&nbsp; Leaving them again and again.&nbsp; Exchanging them for ghost rock, rocks and dinero.&nbsp; She hated him for that.<br><br>Miraculously, the derringer her father had left for their protection all those years ago was still in its hiding spot and as far as she knew it was loaded and never ever fired.&nbsp; The fact was, she wasn't sure the thing <strong>would</strong> fire after all this time.&nbsp; Just holding it had been a bit overwhelming.&nbsp; But it was leverage, something to use if she had to bluff her way out of a bad situation, or she could sell it.&nbsp; That's when she still had hopes of living through this task for the Reverend.&nbsp; <br><br>The grey head had an aura that struck palpitations in Jaelyn's chest.&nbsp; She realized quickly, it was nothing more than back lighting from the glow of his fire.&nbsp; But the image was powerful and penetrating.&nbsp; What she didn't see was danger.&nbsp; All that was there was a man; an absolutely fearless man.&nbsp; She stared, awestruck, as he continued to approach the two broken down travelers, paying little heed to flying lead.&nbsp; "Stop!&nbsp; Stop it!"&nbsp; She screeched at the driver, once again dropping the weapon in her pocket in exchange for taking hold of his arm.&nbsp; It barely budged and she could feel the unpleasant intensity of the man.&nbsp; But she could not - WOULD NOT - be part of killing a holy man, so she added more calmly, "Can't you see he is a fellow <strong>CHRISTIAN</strong>?"<br><br>"Sir, please,"&nbsp; Addressing the priest, Jaelyn tried to salvage the circumstances, "there's been a grievous misunderstanding, I'm sure."&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br><br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>13-04-2013, 21:40:33</strong>
			</dt>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; “I can't see him at all,” he snapped.&nbsp; “This is no Christian... he's a warlock!&nbsp; Exodus, 22:18.&nbsp; Thou shalt not suffer a witch - “&nbsp; His hand closed around the young martyr's arm, squeezing it tight again, yanking her back to his side.&nbsp; His hand trembled where it held the gun, and his eyes kept searching the area in front of the camp, his gun leveled.&nbsp; “ - Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”<br><br>The priest nodded softly to her statement.<br><br>“There had been,” he agreed.&nbsp; “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.&nbsp; He jumped to the side as the river once again jerked and fired.&nbsp; The bullet nearly caught his shoulder, and then he threw himself forward.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; 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.&nbsp; <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:&nbsp; The Latin is the beginning of a rite of exorcism.]
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>17-04-2013, 01:50:13</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/5a/Agatha-avi.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa Outside of Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Open<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<div class="floatright">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/d/d3/Gatling-Aggy.jpg)</div>The Mesa was a sun-blasted and scorched peace of rock covered in dust that would line your nose and coat your tongue if you opened your mouth for too long.&nbsp; It was why Agatha often wore a scarf even on the hottest of days.&nbsp; &nbsp;She came out here often enough especially on a day like today when she had a new invention to test.&nbsp; Science was often messy and sometimes dangerous so when an experiment needed testing Agatha made sure she was far enough away for no one to be hurt if something went a rye.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha shut one dancing emerald eye and lined up the sight of the pistol with the sun bleached old tree stump.&nbsp; The pistol was heavy.&nbsp; She had to grip in tighter than she would have liked and use one hand to hold under its filigreed handle just for support when she extended it away from her body.&nbsp; She took a deep breath, just like Spooky had shown her and held it, steadying her hand that was shaking with anticipation.&nbsp; She exhaled as she squeezed the trigger. The cylinders began to whine and moan as they spun and the ratta-tat-tat of gunfire rang out across the mesa.&nbsp; She wasn’t prepared for the recoil of the pistol which threw her arms up into the air and left her off her mark.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Whoa.” She said like she was trying to reign in a horse and gave a nervous laugh.&nbsp; “Oookay, Let’s try that again.” She said out loud and lined up her target once again.&nbsp; This time she purposely aimed at low.&nbsp; She shut her bright green eye once more and her face crinkled prettily in concentration.&nbsp; Once more she eased the trigger and the whirl of gun barrel and ratta-tat-tat filled the mesa.&nbsp; The bullets chewed into the stump sending bits of tree flesh into the air ripping the truck from base to tip as the recoil carried her aim higher.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; The gunfire stopped as the pistol quickly ran out of ammunition, but the results were very impressive.&nbsp; She lifted the pistol up pointing it into the air and blew at the smoke coming from the barrel with a smile.&nbsp; A successful test always brought a smile to her lips.&nbsp; She unloaded the casings and began to reload the pistol whistling a happy little tune.<br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>22-04-2013, 03:53:36</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/9/93/Doomtownposter3.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 3rd, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> A Mesa in the Great Maze<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Open<br><hr> <br><br><em>Clunk<br><br>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><br><strong>SPLASH</strong><br><br>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze. There were a number of reasons this was a surprising revelation. The first was that very few liked the Great Maze to begin with. The earthquakes had turned a once pristine sea line into a twisted series of caverns, valleys, ravines and ridges where death lurked behind every corner. It was a harsh and barren place, a place where even if the burning heat of the day and freezing chill of the night didn't take you then any number of creatures... be they human or otherwise... could snatch your life away. Yes, it was a place where a fortune could be made, a place for a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps but it was a place people endured, not that they enjoyed. What sort of fool enjoyed a place like this?<br><br>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br><br>The second surprising thing about Walter's like for the Maze was that he didn't seem to like anything else. Well, anything outside whisky and whores anyway. He was a cantankerous bugger, a ornery bastard and he let people know that. He hated everything else about the place. He hated the heat. He hated the cold. He hated the weather. He hated the wide plains and the long deserts. He hated the people. He hated the houses. He hated the accents. He hated the food. He even hated the whisky, although he drank enough of it. He hated the flies. He hated the reptiles. He hated the horses. He hated the smell. He hated the taste. He couldn't give a toss about any of it. Walter Sinnett hated everything.<br><br>Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br><br>The third reason was perhaps the most bizarre. Because it's the reason why Walter liked the Great Maze. It was because it reminded him of home.<br><br>Now, that would be a shock to anyone who knew Walter and knew his home. There were few comparisons that could be drawn between the Great Maze and London... especially the parts of London Walter frequented. His London was dark and damp, full of cramped alleys and dark corners, people living and dying on top of each other, crammed in together in a foul pit of poverty and despair. There was no privacy, no quiet, no time when you weren't bound up and bustling with the other filth that walked, crawled and crept through the docks of Millwall. The Great Maze... that was none of those things. It was wide open, airy, bright where London was dark, dark where London was bright.&nbsp; And it was empty. Despite the danger a man could go for days without seeing a human soul. Weeks... hell, months... if they really wanted to. It was nothing like London. Not Walter's London.<br><br>Yet Walter Sinnett liked the Great Maze.<br><br>Walter couldn't tell you why he liked the Great Maze. He was no deep thinker. His thoughts rarely went beyond where his next bottle of whisky would come from or how he could afford the next whore to shag. But if you were to delve inside his mind (and I pity anyone who dared to) you'd find it was his hatred that drove his mind.<br><br>He hated the bloody wide opened plains. He hated standing on a ridge and seeing for miles and miles. It was so open, so empty, so lacking. He didn't feel a sense of freedom, a sense of destiny. He felt resentment, he felt hatred. Walter didn't like open spaces. Open spaces meant someone could get at you from behind more easily. It meant someone could see you coming. It meant someone could shoot him before he could do down them... the slang for giving someone a beating that had given him his nickname. He hadn't liked open spaces when he lived in London... and his definition of an “open space” there was a quiet tavern or a square. Not these bloody massive fields. He hated them. Yet in the Maze, in this place where the walls of rock twisted and turned back and forth, where their shadows started to drown out the sun, where one could never know where each corner led he felt a slight sense of peace. A slight sense that he was back home. These twisted rocks, broken and misshapen as the earth ripped itself apart formed a maze like the streets of London he so missed,&nbsp; &nbsp;a series of giant alleys, of natural backstreets. They may be grander, their walls may be made of stone and not rotting wood but they were close to the runs of Cheapstreet and Whitechapel. They were close to home... or as close as he could get in this bloody place.<br><br>He hated these blooming American towns. He hated the way someone could throw up some wooden shack on a road and it was soon a city. He hated the way that a town that had been there for 20 years was suddenly a town with real history. That wasn't history. There wasn't enough history there to fart with. He hated London but he loved London and he loved the fact that it had been there for centuries. Since before this place was even a bloody country. When it was still full of buggers wearing feathers and loin clothes bashing each other over the head with rocks. Walter hated it all. Yet here he could see old stone, old earth, once buried deep, once destined to never see the light of day. This stone had purpose. This stone had history. This stone had something to it. Not the flimsy efforts of these damn yanks to stamp their own mark on the world as if their bloody country would ever come to anything. No, this stone was different. It was better.<br><br>Not that Walter Sinnett did realise any of that. He wasn't a thinker. He didn't do “introspection” He didn't even know what the toss “introspection” was. He just knew that he liked the Great Maze. He liked being here, away from the small town that was supposedly some major place. He hawked and spat. Major place! It was like some village in England... he'd never been to a village, he'd never really been outside London, but he'd heard of them... suddenly thinking they mattered. He hated this country. He hated this place. He hated being here.<br><br>But he liked the Great Maze.<br><br>The hot sun was still beating down on him, one last assault before it faded away into the night. Walter had been caught out by the nights here before. He didn't like 'em. Nowhere should go from being that hot to that cold... not that quickly. And as much as he liked the Great Maze he liked whisky and whores more. Get his job done, get back to Gomorra, get some whisky and get a whore if he could afford it and he hadn't drunk enough whisky that his johnson would stay limp. That's what he wanted. Maybe have a fight. He hadn't had a good fight in weeks. Maybe not a fight. Not unless he was paid for it. No need to antagonise anyone. Not yet. Not unless he had to.<br><br>He took his top hat off his head, scratching behind his ear. The wound in his shoulder was aching again. Meant it was going to rain. Or he needed a really big piss. One of the two. The damn thing kept aching. He knew he should have gone to a crow rather than just have one of his lads pull the knife out and stitch it up. Always ached. Especially in winter. And especially when it got cold. And when it was about to rain. And when he needed a piss. He didn't want it to rain. He didn't want it to get cold. And seeing as despite years of trying the weather was yet to acquiesce to his likes and dislikes it looked like he needed to get his task done quickly.<br><br>Five to go.<br><br>Getting the bloody things here had been an effort. Walter was no horseman... he wasn't a bloody Yank who all seemed to be born in the saddle or some country bumpkin who went a-riding though the fields. Not much call for horsemanship in Millwall. You were lucky enough if a horse didn't get eaten as soon as someone saw it. And he was no wagon driver either. Could never get the horses to do a bloody thing, no matter how hard he jerked at the reigns and whipped them. And when they did start moving they'd go in different directions. And even if he got them moving and moving in the same direction the bloody things would start and stop and speed up and slow down and do whatever it was they could to piss him off. Walter's talent was for creating these things, not disposing of them. But a job was a job he guessed. It kept him in whisky and whores and you never know, perhaps he'd be given a task more suited to his skills.<br><br><em>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><br><strong>SPLASH</strong><br><br>Four to go.<br><br>Walter had found himself above one of the deep, watery ravines that gave the Great Maze its name. Behind him was the wagon he had used to transport his cargo, the horses whinnying from time to time. Walter was aware he was meant to take care of them, rub them down or something like that, but frankly he didn't know and just didn't care. He was more interested in getting rid of his cargo. The six bloody things that had forced him away from the whisky and whores. It was an awkward cargo, not the sort of cargo one usually hauled around the Deadlands and Walter couldn't say he was going to be sad to see the back of it.<br><br>He reached out with his cane and touched one of the objects. Flies were starting to gather now, buzzing around the purplish, bloated lips, landing on the crack in the skull where the bullet had torn this man's life away. The stench wasn't yet overpowering... and in truth Walter didn't mind it. It reminded him of home. Dead, rotting, decomposing flesh. Filth. Taint. The didn't know what the man had done and why he deserved to die. He just knew that he had died and now it was Walter's job to dispose of him. The body had been placed inside a burlap sack along with rocks Walter had scavenged, enough the weigh the body down and sink it to the bottom of the watery ravine below him. Walter knelt down beside the body, continuing the stitching, pausing only when he came to the face. He knew the man was dead but that didn't stop him putting the needle through his nose anyway. Didn't want to anger the fates.<br><br><strong>“You on 'he floor bar steward. Who 'ou dandered 'ey? Were you too downey? Somethin' too flummut for you?”</strong><br><br>Walter spoke to himself, his words quiet, his accent clear. It's yet another thing he hated about this bloody place. No-one spoke bloody English. Or at least his English. He'd talk about his time with the Fancy and they looked at him like a mandrake. He'd order a reeb and the bartender would look at him funny. He'd ask for nethers and people would shake their head and wonder if he was insane. Bloody Yanks. Bloody place. Bloody country.<br><br>But work was still work. The nose was pierced, the sack was sealed and with a few dismissive kicks from his boot Walter sent the body tumbling off the edge of the cliff to sinks to the bottom of the depths below. No-one would ever find it there. Few enough went searching through the these watery pathways and even those brave few who did normally had their eyes looking up for that damn Ghostrock stuff. No-one went diving into the depths of the Maze. Too scared of dragons. Walter had never seen a Maze Dragon. He sort of wanted to. He was English after-all and King Arthur had killed dragons. Was it King Arthur? Or was is Alfred? Or St George? Walter couldn't remember. He'd never really been to school and his mum had never been one for stories, even before the consumption took 'er. But he know there was something about Englishmen killing dragons. If he could do nothing else in the hellhole of the place, he could at least kill a dragon. He didn't know how to kill a dragon. He doubted he could just punch it in the head until it collapsed down so he could stomp on it. But he'd find a way. It was something to aim for. A dream. Walter didn't really have dreams and those he did generally involved him screwin' a whore or punching some bastard. He didn't have great dreams. He didn't have ambitions beyond drinkin', screwin' and occasionally fightin'.<br><br>But stood here now, kicking a body off the side of a cliff, Walter wanted to see a dragon. And then he wanted to kill one. It may not be a dream that lasted long, it may not be a dream that even lasted the journey back to Gomorra but it was still a dream he had.<br><em><br>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><br><strong>SPLASH</strong><br><br>Three to go.<br><br>But first, work.<br><br>Walter didn't really know why these men were dead. Well, he sort of did. When you ran with the crowd he did you soon picked up the reasons people were off'd. Disrespect the wrong man. Don't pay your debts. Have something they want. Be unlucky/ Be too lucky. You didn't have to be guilty, you just needed to be a target. And these miners... he was fairly certain they were minders... were easy marks. They may have been tough and they may have been resourceful but they weren't killers. They weren't monsters. Not like him. He could imagine why Howard Findley wanted them dead. Not the exact details but he knew Findley's type. You didn't crawl to the top of a craphole like this without some of it sticking to you. And you couldn't have an iron fist without some enforcers. You kept control through fear. Sure there were other things, sure you could do more. But when it all came down to it, it was fear. Fear of failure. Fear of success being taken away. But most of all fear for your life. Fear for your family. Fear for your friends. That's where Walter and his type came in. So Findley and his type could have their smart suits and their nice cigars.<br><br>Not that Walter knew much about Findley. He'd barely seen the man, let alone speak to him. His type may have needed Walter's type but they didn't want to deal with them. Not directly. It's not like Walter had walked into his posh office and demanded a job when he arrived. No, he's simply let it been known that he was looking for work, won a bar fight or two and someone had come to him. Asked him what he was willing to do. And so Walter had found himself a member of the Sweetrock Mining Company. I guess in some way that made his respectable. Walter didn't feel very respectable. Not pushin' bodies off a cliff.<br><br>Town politics did interest him but he hadn't been here long enough to work it all out. Apparently the old sheriff had got himself shot. Sheriff. What a stupid name. He was a rozzer, a crusher, an escop, a miltonian. Not a bloody “sheriff”. But anyway, this rozzer had got himself both barrels in the chest... somethin' that Walter hadn't exactly appreciated bein' he was a stranger in town and he carried a double-barrelled shotgun around with him. He'd have to give people some hard stares about it. You could see the thinkin'. But anyway, this blue bottle had got himself killed and they were blaming this Blackjack guy. Walt knew sweet fuck all about that bugger but from what he heard he was the sort of bastard he really hated. A thug like him but one with delusions of grandeur. One who thought he was special, that he was fightin' for something, that he was a rebel or a freedom fighter. Screw that. Give Walt some education and he could have told anyone who would listen that he was doin' this because of society or some shit like that even though he was really doin' it cause it was easier then doin' a real job, paid well and let him give people a good beatin'.<br><br>But yeah, this Blackack guy and him supposedly nobbling the sheriff had got this town into an uproar. They needed to get some new lawman in and there was goin' to be an election and everything. The thought amused Walter.<br><em><br>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><br><strong>SPLASH</strong><br><br>Two to go<br><br>Electing your crusher? Walt could just imagine it, one of the stiff-upper lip bastards walking down to the Nag's Head and trying to get those ruffians to vote for you. Votin' for your escop? What did you expect to get? It was a bloody farce. What, should Walter stand? Just for the fun of it. A place like this he could probably smack a few people around to get some votes and he was sure if he had some push to his name.he could buy some votes if he needed. Not that he was ever going to be sheriff. But the thought was a funny one. It had brought a smile to his face. But yeah, so there wasn't a proper sheriff right now, just this interim guy. Now Walt didn't know much about him. Apparently he liked to whore and he liked to drink which meant he was someone with similar interests to Walt at least. But right now his was interim. And Walt guessed that was one of the reasons he was kicking bodies off a cliff. Drinkin', whorin' interim crusher's didn't have too much power and influence. Findley probably had his claws into him anyway. That's what his type did in a place like this.<br><br><em>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><br><strong>SPLASH</strong><br><br>One to go.<br><br>He knew what he was going to do when this was done. He was going to have a damn drink. All day working in the sun, sweating his arse off, being biten by the damn bugs here. Even they were worse then back home. Sure, the damn midges could peck a man to death but they were at least small. Walter swore he's seen one bug the size of his hand earlier. Bastard things. Along with the horses and the stink and the wagon and the whole damn shebang. He needed a drink. So he was going to toss this last body down, put it from his mind, light up his pipe and get out of here. And if those damn horses decided to kick up some more fuss you know what... he'd be damn tempted to slit their damn throats. Bloody, stinking things. Bloody, stinking country. Land of opportunity my arse. Land of bloody horses and insects and wide open spaces and damn yapping Indians and damn yanks who don't understand bloody English and damn “”bourbon” not real whisky and damn “sheriffs” not rozzers and damn all of it.<br><br><em>Clunk<br><br>Clunk</em><br><strong><br>SPLASH</strong><br><br>He watched as the last body went tumbling down the cliff, the sack bouncing off the side twice before landing with a splash and immediately sinking to the bottom. Thank God that was over. Walter had never particularly enjoyed disposing of bodies. He'd done it of course... the ol' Thames was full of bodies he'd dumped in... but he rather enjoyed the creating more than the disposing. But once again, work was work. He needed the coin and it was good to keep busy. Sitting in a saloon drinking whisky may be fun but it wasn't cheap and for Walter it all too often led to bar fights. And despite it not being in his nature, he knew he had to keep his head down. Not create too many waves. Not without someone of some worth to back him up.<br><br>For as much as he hated it, Gomorra was the land of opportunity. A land where a man could kill or be killed.<br><br>And Walter “Do Down” Sinnett was very good at the first part.
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>22-04-2013, 18:37:10</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; driver (Guardian Angel), stranger (Priest) <br><hr> <br>“I can't see him at all,” he snapped.<br><br>Simple disbelief arched two feathery brows.&nbsp; "But...&nbsp; errmph!"&nbsp; Too slow to avoid the viper's grasp, Jaelyn was caught again, her shoulder smashed into the solid man flesh as his motion twisted her wrist .&nbsp; There was no care for her tender flesh, in the heat of the moment, then, concern for her was never really part of the mission.&nbsp; Jammed up so close to the man, she could smell his sweat.&nbsp; And his fear.&nbsp; It was puzzling to know the small inexperienced hand gripping the pearl handled derringer was tight but steady enough, while the man who wore a holster like a second skin shook to his knees.&nbsp; There was more to this blindness, to this ready willingness to gun down a man of God. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp;“You have been deceived.”&nbsp; More to this bullet dodging moment she was witness to.&nbsp; <br><br>Jaelyn struggled to break free from the shackling appendage, needing to put some distance between herself and the unfolding scene.&nbsp; &nbsp; The holy man continued his approach, determined with his own task, it seemingly more pressing than explanation.&nbsp; She felt the growing anxiety of Grimm's man under his crushing grip, smelled...&nbsp; <em>urine?</em>&nbsp; There was no time to ponder the possibility of this hulk of a man pissing himself, there was her own growing terror in the face of...&nbsp; what? <br>&nbsp;<br>Coherent thoughts ceased as her mind only registered what her senses took in, cataloging it for possible later examination.&nbsp; Because at the moment, there was no understanding the sights and sounds.&nbsp; The sudden smell of burning flesh and sulfur had her thinking she was dreaming, so similar it was to a reoccurring nightmare.&nbsp; Jaelyn knew she was awake because of the pain running in stripes down her forearm.&nbsp; It was the burning kind that only comes with deep abrasion.&nbsp; She had stumbled backwards when the thing that was no longer a man gave her up for a bigger fight, its scream tearing through her eardrums.<br><br>The stranger's words filled the air around them, gibberish to her ear, but commanding none the less.&nbsp; She found herself then, literally coming back to some tangible awareness of the unfolding event.&nbsp; Jaelyn was on her knees in the sand, skirt further battered and bunched up, arms stretched in front to come together with the precious little pistol firmly in hand.&nbsp; Her questionable aim waivered from the thing on its back to the priest over top of it.&nbsp; She had no idea how long she was in the purgatory of shock and awe.&nbsp; Mere seconds, she hoped, as adrenaline surged through her body.&nbsp; She gave a quick shake of her head, then blew an errant tuft of hair out of her face. <br>&nbsp;<br><em>Demon?&nbsp; Warlock?</em>&nbsp; It was hard to believe either.&nbsp; Still, her gut told her to trust the holy man.&nbsp; Could it be that Grimme didn't know his man was something&nbsp; evil?&nbsp; <em>He knows, Jae.</em>&nbsp; Her gut was certain.&nbsp; Still, it was hard to believe her eyes and ears.&nbsp; Wide eyed and pale, the frightened and confused young woman was as ready as the immediate situation allowed, while she weighed the potential outcomes of running into the Maze.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>27-04-2013, 21:04:13</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://gunsofold.com/marshal_badge_silver_balltip.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; 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><strong><em>”Domine sancte, Pater omnípotens, ætérne Deus, Pater Dómini nostri Jesu Christi, qui illum réfugam tyránnum et apóstatam gehénnae ígnibus deputásti, quique Unigénitum tuum in hunc mundum misísti, ut illum rugiéntem contéret: velóciter atténdem accélera, ut erípias hóminem ad imáginem et similitúdinem tuam creátum, a ruína et dæmónio meridiáno.</em></strong><br><br>The thing thrashed and fought, the cross in the hand of the man in black held fast against the creature’s skin, the image of driver and that dead… thing continually shfting in front of her eyes.&nbsp; One moment, he was a leather skinned, decomposing corpse with roaring throat and an empty eye socket, and the next he was a man, angry and resolute, struggling against the priest’s grasp.<br><br>The priest looked up, seeing the pistol aimed at him, but he didn’t falter.&nbsp; The cross remained pressed to the walking abomination, the skin continuing to hiss, and sizzle.&nbsp; The creature flailed, but his claws couldn’t seem to find traction on the priest.<br><br>”NO!&nbsp; THIS ONE IS MINE!” growled the driver, and the priest dipped his head, sweat on his brow, continuing the incantation.<br><br><br><strong><em>”Da, Dómine, terrórem tuum super béstiam, quæ extérminat vineam tuam. Da fidúciam servis tuis contra nequíssimum dracónem pugnáre fortíssime, ne contémnat sperántes in te, et ne dicat, sicut in Pharaóne, qui jam dixit: Deum non novi, nec Israël dimítto. Urgeat illum déxtera tua potens discédere a fámulo tuo Michael, ne diútius præsúmat captívum tenére, quem tu ad imáginem tuam fácere dignátus es, et in Fílio tuo redemísti: Qui tecum vivit et regnat in unitáte Spíritus Sancti Deus, per ómnia sæcula sæculórum.”</em></strong><br><br>The creature roared, it’s claws finally finding purchase.&nbsp; The priest gave a hiss but didn’t pause, the words continuing to spill out of him, and then the creature roared, his back arching, his eyes closing.&nbsp; He shuddered and trembled, and a roar went over the&nbsp; camp.<br><br><strong>”NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!</strong><br><br>Then it was falling back – and the image of the man was gone.&nbsp; There was only the dead thing, with sallow skin and stringy hair, the missing eye and grotesqueries of rotted flesh.&nbsp; &nbsp;It blinked, and took a breath, air rattling in its lungs.<br><br><strong>“Amen.”</strong> said the preacher, softly.&nbsp; He closed his eyes, the cross no longer stinging the flesh of the creature.&nbsp; The driver pawed lightly at the torn cloth, and the priest leaned in.<br><br><strong>“Do you believe in the Father, Son and Holy Spirit?”</strong><br><br>The driver nodded, his vision beginning to flicker.&nbsp; The priest gave a small nod, a tiny smile.&nbsp; <strong>“Do you repent all your sins?”</strong><br><br>The driver croaked out a noise, his lips flecking with blood.&nbsp; The priest again smiled, softly.&nbsp; The priest closed his eyes, dipping his head, holding the driver as he took his dying breaths.<br><strong>” ‘“The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine on you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.”</strong><br><br>The driver gave a tiny gasp, his eye finally closing, his body going still.<br><br>With that, the priest closed his eyes, speaking quietly and praying for the departed.&nbsp; He drew a deep breath, and then set the driver’s body down, rising and wiping off the dust on his high collared shirt.<br><br><strong>Are you well, my child?”</strong><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>28-04-2013, 17:57:19</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa outside Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha, Open<br><hr> <br><br>Walter Sinnett was out in the wide open world again.<br><br>He wondered if perhaps he had been spoilt by living in London his whole damn life. He didn't know how old he was; whores and brothels weren't known for their record keeping, but what he did know that he had spent every year of that life within London. He had literally never left the city. An entire life lived in one place. No countryside for Walter, no trips to the beach, no hikes through the mountains. Just London. Just rain and narrow streets and overflowing gutters. Faces filled with despair, hearts filled with hate. Never leaving. Never looking over your shoulder and watching it fade into the distance. No escape.<br><br>And here he was in Gomorra and it seemed that he spent the whole damn day outside the town.<br><br>His task today had been a relatively simply one. Intimate some miners who had ideas above their station. Nothing too strenuous. Head on out, give them the banter, get pissed off after they don't understand what you say, sock one of em in the gut, give the other one the stare, watch him crap himself, kick the one on the ground a few times, tell 'em you'll be coming back soon and if you see them there it won't be pretty, show 'em the knife, watch 'em both crap themselves and then walk away. A nice easy day's work, just the way Walt liked it.<br><br>The night before hadn't exactly been full of pleasure. He'd thought about goin' for a whore but in the end the temptation of whisky was just a bit too much. Though he wouldn't admit it, even to himself, Walter was a bit lonely. He was a stranger in a bloody strange land, no-one could bloody understand English and no-one talked about the things he could talk about. Not that Walt was really sure what he talked about back home but he knew he talked about something, hunched over the bar in the Nag's Head sipping on beer so dark and bitter you could see bits floating in it. He knew all the names, all the faces. Here he knew bloody no-one and that night he hadn't felt like getting to know anyone. So he'd sat in his room, drank half a bottle of whisky and fallen into a deep but troubled sleep.<br><br>And so he'd ridden out again, off to bang some head together and generally be the miserable whoreson his employers paid him to be. His mood was, for once fairly good. He'd left the bloody horse and cart back in town. Someone had offered him an 'orse but he'd taken one look at the blooming thing and decided against it. He knew sweet fuck all about 'orses but he knew a lot about bastards and he could tell this horse was one. Had a malicious glint in his eye that 'orse did. Kinda like Walter's own. And Walt certainly didn't want some bastard riding him so he doubted the 'orse did. No, that 'orse wouldn't do. The donkey next to it on the other hand...<br><br>And Walt and the donkey had got on famously. Walt wasn't going to pretend he could outrun anything on it or that he didn't look at least a little ridiculous but he didn't really mind that. Not when he got to sit on the donkey's forgiving back and pleasantly amble along, the sun on his back and not a care in the world. The donkey wasn't temperamental, wasn't angry, wasn't demanding. It simply walked in the direction Walt wanted, a reliable and utterly uncontroversial beast of burden, giving Walter the chance to think further about exactly how one would go about hunting down a Maze Dragon. So far he'd worked out one thing; brass knuckles probably weren't the way to go. Beyond that? Not so much, but it gave his mind something to do.<br><br>At least until the gunfire started.<br><br>Let us make one thing clear to begin with. Walter didn't like guns. That may seem strange. After all he was a murderous thug afterall. And beyond that he had a great big bloody shotgun on him. But that was necessity. Walter had no real inclination for gunpowder. I mean, he sure he could use a gun and practice if nothing else meant he knew which end to stick away from him but he had no feel for it, no... what's the word? No... connection. He had a connection with his knife, with his club, with his knuckles. He used those because he enjoyed using them. He used a gun because from time to time he had to. Guns were too barbaric, too impersonal. You went fist to fist with a man, knife to knife, then you knew him. You knew his character. But a bloody gun? In Walter's mind you just pulled the trigger until the other guy fell down. Walter would never have been pretentious enough to talk about there being an “art” to hand to hand combat but that's essentially what he was thinkin'. And just as importantly, to Walter at least, was self-preservation. If he had to teach some scamp a lesson then it wasn't really an issue if they just had their fists... he knew he'd give 'em a bit of a do down. Give 'em a knife? Still pretty easy for him. Give them a gun? Whole different kettle of bloody fish. Click, click, boom, bad luck, you're dead. Screw that for a game of bloody soldiers. <br><br>So he didn't react too well when the sudden staccato bursts split the otherwise quiet afternoon. And neither did the donkey for the first time...<br><br>The fall hurt Walter's pride more than the fall but he still jolted off the hard ground before scrambling desperately to a conveniently placed rock to cower behind. This was why Walter hated bloody open spaces. Nowhere for him to hide, lot's of place for other people to hide. And his shotgun wasn't exactly much bloody use against a rifle. The fact he'd unslung it and was pointing around randomly was more for his own courage than any practical benefit. Sure, in an enclosed area he could simply point the shotgun in a vague direction and riddle anything in front of him with shot... hell, that was one of the reasons he'd got it, making up for his lack of accuracy... but out on a wide open plain like this? Even if he was the greatest bloody shot since Robin Tell... or William Hood or whoever it bloody was... the shotgun was still useless. And his other weapons? Walter wasn't bloody French or Scottish... he didn't believe in suicidal charges.<br><br>That said his fear began to slip away when no second volley of shots came. Even the donkey had stopped running away and was slowly making its way back. Walter wasn't sure if donkeys could feel shame but he hoped this donkey did for rearing and depositing him so rudely on the ground. That said, if the donkey was happy to stand in the open then Walter wasn't going to let himself be shown up that way. Cautiously he stuck his head out from behind the rock. He held it out there for ten seconds and, on the basis that if anyone was going to shoot him they'd have done it by now, stood up and approached his once erstwhile steed, grabbing the tethering rope round the donkey's neck.<br><br>There was a decision to be made here. He could continue on his way as if nothing had happened. That wasn't really a great option he figured. He could ride in the exact opposite direction. That was probably a sensible option... but it involved riding the very long way round to get back to Gomorra and after his social pariah act last night he was intending to enjoy himself this evening. Heard of a pretty swish casino actually... Morango or some bollocks. Not that Walter gambled much... or hell, at all... most of the time. A man had to know his limitations and when you knew half the sharps of London one knew to keep their money in their pocket, not on the table. And after all, much of Walter's business came from collecting from gambling debtors. He knew the pitfalls. But even if he didn't toss the cards, Walter knew there was still pleasure to be found. Whores and whisky. So Walter knew he didn't want to ride the opposite direction. He could go over and have a look at what was going on. Perhaps it was the fact he had just had a quiet and fairly boring day or perhaps thoughts of battling sea monsters had filled him with a sense of adventure but&nbsp; for whatever reason he decided that the right decision to make was to head towards the gunfire.<br><br>The donkey wasn't quite as agreeable at first, but a few tugs on the rope and some well chose swear words eventually got it going in just about the right direction, up into the mesa. The man in the tattered suit was careful with his approach to the sound. Whatever he walked into he didn't want to end up with a gun pointed at him... or worse, stuck between two groups having a shoot out. No, he wanted to appear in as nice and as safe a way was as he possibly could.<br><br>One of the things Walter didn't like about this place was actually quite useful to him here. The wide landscape, the rolling plains... they made it easy to see and easy to be seen. It didn't take a huge amount of walking until he could just about make out a figure in the distance and a little more to see the glint of red hair and the unmistakable shape of someone aiming a pistol. Not anything else to be seen at that distance... but there was certainly something to be heard. He assumed she had reloaded and pulled trigger as once again the unmistakable sound of gunfire rang out... and a tree stump seemed to explode. Whatever the hell whoever was down there was shooting with, Walter did not want to be down the sights of it when it was shot in anger.<br><br>He kept his pace slow and gentle as he made his way towards the figure, making sure he gave no obvious cause for alarm, the shotgun slung. If he could see them, they could see him and Walter knew he wasn't exactly the most reputable figure to look at, what with the ragged suit and the tattered hat and well, his general appearance and he didn't want to give any cause for whoever it was to turn that damn firepower on him. He was close enough to make out more details now. Girl. Waifish figure. Long red hair. Walter racked his mind. Shopkeeper, that was it. Seen 'er around town a few times. One of those weird bloody eccentric shops full of gizmos and gubbins that whirled and fizzed and went bang. The one she was using now obviously went “bang” rather a lot. Thought she was a bloody scientist or something. Walter didn't really know what a scientist was but he did know they were old men and had moustaches.<br><br>He raised his hand in what he hoped came across as a friendly greeting, waiting till he got a bit closer before tipping his hat at her, approaching from the side but in her vision. His voice was its usual cockney brogue as he called out to her<br><br><strong>“Afternoon, Mam.”</strong><br><br>He looked appreciatively at the gun she held in her hands, rubbing his eye before gesticulating to it and nodding his head at first it and then the shattered stump.<br><br><strong>“That's there's one mighty lookin' barker you got there.”</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>04-05-2013, 17:01:25</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; the priest <br><hr> <br>Ignoring the growing ache in her slight arms as the dainty gun grew heavier to hold, she kept her eyes peeled on the terrible scene.&nbsp; On her arm, blood welled up in several of the deepest wounds until gravity had its way, leaving her striped with sticky carmine rivulets.&nbsp; Thoughts of running had left with the use of her legs, it seemed all her strength was channeled to wielding the derringer.&nbsp; And she was crying, unbeknownst even to herself.&nbsp; The tears were silent, sorrowful leaks out of the far corner of each eye.&nbsp; Perhaps it was desert dust that did it.&nbsp; <br><br>Or it might be that the pretty young cynic bore witness to the ferocity of God, who a life's breath later granted His sweet grace.&nbsp; The awesomeness of the event was not lost on her as her still startled gaze settled on the thing left behind.&nbsp; It was a lot to take in, to believe.&nbsp; Jaelyn knew that the immediate danger was past as the priest rose to dust off his day's work.&nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; <br>"Are you well, my child?”<br><br>It took some effort to shift the gun's aim, residual terror perhaps, but she did it with a soft gasp of pain.&nbsp; Her muscles were not used to such doings as this.&nbsp; Though she was kept active with cleaning and chores, her body was much too thin for her place in Lost Angels 'society'.&nbsp; That she sneaked much of her own food serving out to the starving during the week days when there was no grand show of a banquet was the culprit for her continued malnourishment.&nbsp; And heartrendingly, it still wasn't enough to keep very many sustained from one Feast Day to the next.&nbsp; Still she did it, her own private rebellion.<br><br>Her gaze shifted up and while she wondered at the difficulty of the task this priest just performed, the trembling started.&nbsp; With the sun gone, so was the Maze's heat source and cool air came quickly with the night.&nbsp; Jaelyn shivered and it took several attempts to work her jaw properly.&nbsp; <strong>"I... I think so."</strong><br><br>She searched the old man's face, it seemed kind with its own hint of sorrow.&nbsp; It added to the terrible sadness weighing heavy on her chest.&nbsp; She had suspected dirty dealing from Grimme, but this was incomprehensible.&nbsp; Her voice was small and tight, <strong>"Can you... can you tell&nbsp; me what just happened?"</strong>&nbsp; What did it mean?&nbsp; Where did it leave her?&nbsp; Such a simple question, so loaded with need.&nbsp; Had the God she'd come to doubt spare her?&nbsp; Or was she next to fall under the press of a simple wooden cross to her flesh?&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br><br><br><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>04-05-2013, 19:18:10</strong>
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				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/The_preacher.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; The Preacher<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jaelyn<br><hr>The priest’s eyes caught her shaking, and the priest slipped closer, slipping around to wrap an arm at her waist and begin escorting her up the path towards his simple campsite.&nbsp; He caught the slight wince from where his hand reached around the deep slices in her arm, and he pulled his hand away, frowning.His hand went to the wooden cross, holding it as his hand once again closed around her injury.<br><br><strong>“Et dixit eis euntes in mundum universum praedicate evangelium omni.&nbsp; Qui crediderit et baptizatus fuerit salvus erit qui vero non crediderit condemnabitur.&nbsp; Signa autem eos qui crediderint haec sequentur in nomine meo daemonia eicient linguis loquentur novis&nbsp; Serpentes tollent et si mortiferum quid biberint non eos nocebit super aegrotos manus inponent et bene habebunt.”</strong><br><br>His words were whispered, and soft, and the cross was slowly lowered to touch her arm.&nbsp; It felt cool, against the warm skin and the heat of blood.&nbsp; Then her arm tingled, and the skin stretched.&nbsp; The scarlet blood lingered on her skin, but the flesh knit back together, the muscles sewing, cut tendons healing before being colored over by pale, whitened skin.&nbsp; Beneath the blood from the claws were four small faded scars that looked like they might have come from a childhood injury.<br><br><strong>“Amen,”</strong> said the preacher.&nbsp; He slid off the long back cloat he wore over his shirt, and collar, and slipped it over her shoulders.&nbsp; He tugged it into place, then guided her to sit near the campfire, while he moved to a small pack which had been hidden behind a rocky seat.&nbsp; The priest drew a griddle from within the trailpack, and was soon laying on strips of bacon and beans, beginning to let them cook together.<br><br><strong>“That – that man, and the horses on your coach – they were servants of evil.”</strong>&nbsp; The preacher said it softly, without the fire and brimstone malice Grimme always attached when he was sermonizing.&nbsp; Down at the coach, the twin black horses which had pulled the carriage were gone – harnesses hung from the yoke, but there was no sign of the two vicious mares that had tried to take a bite out of Jaelyn.<br><br>The priest’s eyes shone in the firelight, and he extended his hands to the fire which still glowed warm and welcoming.&nbsp; There was a circle traced around the campsite, looking as though it had been made by a&nbsp; heel dragged around, but there was a palpable sense of serenity within, of security and safety.&nbsp; The preacher settled onto the rock, poking at the vittles he’d laid out, quiet while her question of what had happened hung in the air.&nbsp; He looked back to the nearby corpse, his jaw working for a moment before he spoke.&nbsp; <br><br><strong>“That man… whoever he was once…at some point, he was shot, or stabbed, or poisoned, or his heart quit or any number of things.&nbsp; He died, and his spirit was just getting ready to move on when a demon took up residence in his body.&nbsp; It… it brought him back, and not cause he made a deal with the devil or some such.&nbsp; But the body… sharin’ real estate between the man, and the demon.&nbsp; Sometimes the man could be in charge, and sometimes the demon… but somewhere down the line the demon wrestled all the control away from the man.&nbsp; I smote the demon… but without it, the body dies again, and the spirit moves on like it ought to.”</strong><br><br>He paused, licking his lips, and added, <strong>“In the last… thirteen years, I expect I’ve exorcized eighty or so.&nbsp; Before that, exorcism wasn’t unheard of, but… it certainly didn’t happen often, and if it did it was usually more about a wild-eyed preacher than a town full of possessions.&nbsp; The gates of hell’ve been thrown open a crack… and now all hell’s breakin’ loose.”</strong><br><br>He paused, and licked his lips.&nbsp; <strong>“When was… when was the last time you had communion, Jaelyn?&nbsp; Outside of Grimme’s church?”</strong>&nbsp; He said both her name, and the mention of Grimme’s church with certainty.&nbsp; He wasn’t here by accident, or happy providence.&nbsp; <strong>"Because you should... before you eat.</strong>"<br><br><div class="spoiler_container"><div onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button" class="spoiler_header">Mark 16:15-18</div><div class="spoiler_body">“And he said to them: Go ye into the whole world and preach the gospel to every creature.&nbsp; He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved: but he that believeth not shall he condemned.&nbsp; And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name they shall cast out devils. They shall speak with new tongues.&nbsp; They shall take up serpents: and if they shall drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them. They shall lay their hand upon the sick: and they shall recover.”</div></div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>07-05-2013, 03:44:34</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; the priest <br><hr> <br><br>It would have been so much easier if she had hit her head in the carriage hard enough to have slipped into some semiconscious delusion.&nbsp; So much less terrifying when that wooden cross moved in her direction.&nbsp; He had duped her and now had her well in hand&nbsp; to be turned into some withered thing, a pathetic shell of a human.&nbsp; "uuuhhhnooo."&nbsp; She whined, attempting to pull away, unwilling to face the wrath of God for her sins.&nbsp; It was a feeble attempt against his firm gentleness; he was old, but he was strong, and held fast while Jaelyn's mind raced.&nbsp; Is it possible the thing infected her?&nbsp; She pleaded for God's mercy then, an inaudible prayer of moving lips and clenched eyelids.&nbsp; How quickly one turns the coward.&nbsp; <br><br>It was soon apparent that she was far from writhing in expected agony.&nbsp; Those strange sensations then, warranted a peek.&nbsp; That curiosity had got her into trouble more than once with the Reverend, who would then send her to The Prayer Closet.&nbsp; That was a dreaded place where she was made to kneel for hours seeking 'forgiveness' and 'guidance'.&nbsp; Not just once had someone thrown a handful of uncooked rice to scatter across the hard floor.&nbsp; The time spent there didn't appease her curiosity at all, but worked very well as a deterrent.&nbsp; Here in the middle of the Maze, she was far from closets. <br><br>Through a sliver she saw the dark cross pressed to her blood-smeared skin and knew for a certainty that yes, she had hit her head so very hard.&nbsp; That must&nbsp; be it, she assured herself as torn flesh healed before her eyes.&nbsp; Yet, while there was a fair amount of fear in her, natural for a young woman on her own in the deadly desert who was injured and seeing and feeling the strangest of things, there wasn't terror or screeching or pain.&nbsp; Had all those prayerful conversations - Grimme's punishments - earned her God's mercy after all?<br><br>Moments later, a dumbfounded Jaelyn sat snug in the man's coat, pondering this sudden reversal of circumstances.&nbsp; The most she had hoped for at the start of this 'trip' was to manage the task without loss of life.&nbsp; It would be tricky, but she had no desire to go as easily as her mother had nearly a year before.&nbsp; Eyes large and round followed the man - God's man - as he moved around the small camp site.&nbsp; It was evident he was comfortable living life on the trail.&nbsp; She watched him quietly, unsure of exactly what these new circumstances had brought her to.&nbsp; Finally, he began to speak...&nbsp; <br><br>“That – that man, and the horses on your coach – they were servants of evil.”&nbsp; A truly unbelievable explanation went on, as unbelievable as the twisting, pleading husk of a being she'd just been witness to.&nbsp; <em>The horses, too?</em>&nbsp; She wondered at how such things came to be.&nbsp; "The gates of hell’ve been thrown open."&nbsp; Jaelyn shivered in the safety of the fire's glow.&nbsp; It was not from cold.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br>"... Jaelyn?"&nbsp; <br><br>Startled, she finally spoke, "Ex... excuse me?"&nbsp; It wasn't just that he knew her name, it was that he spoke it, as if she was a human being rather than some sort of tolerated vermin.&nbsp; She hadn't heard more than 'girl' or a 'young lady', with a heavy sneer on the lady portion for months now.&nbsp; <strong>"I avoi.... um..."</strong> She blushed slightly, and finished with a half truth. <strong>"I am usually working on feast preparations during Sunday service."</strong>&nbsp; The truth was the Reverend's communion table left a horrible taste in her mouth, as did the next words she spoke.&nbsp; <strong>"The good Reverend Grimme lays out a generous feast for the city's citizens every Sunday."</strong>&nbsp; It was a waste of food and - surprisingly for Grimme - money, when that same amount of food could be spread out over the days of the week with less waste.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br><strong>"How...&nbsp; how do you know my name?" </strong> Searching his kindly face, she sounded so very young, with a hint of hope, much like some London urchin wanting a second helping.&nbsp; <strong>"Who ARE you?" </strong>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>08-05-2013, 03:38:24</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/5a/Agatha-avi.jpg) </div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa outside of town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Walter, Open<br><hr>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Walter got a good look at the six intricately filigreed barrels of the gatling pistol as Agatha leveled them at his rough looking face.&nbsp; She had noticed him approaching, whether he had been trying to be noticed or just not very bright she didn’t know.&nbsp; As the figure approached she had lowered her goggles over her emerald eyes, the lens looked black out here in the bright sun as they warded off its afternoon glare.&nbsp; She had made sure to drawn before he got even close to within arms length of her.&nbsp; Strange men outside of Gomorra were a danger as sure as any maze dragon, hell they were dangerous inside of Gomorra, but at least their you might get some help if one had a mind to make ill-mannered advances.&nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha observed the man through those smoky lenses.&nbsp; He was scruffy and dirty with sharp vicious features, a face full of scars and wiry hair sprouting from his chin.&nbsp; &nbsp;She noted his posture, which appeared to be offering truce with his outstretched hands staying away from his body and from the shotgun slung across his shoulder.&nbsp; He wasn’t someone you wanted to meet on a bright sunny day in the middle of a crowded park, let alone a lonely mesa top.&nbsp; His suit looked like he had been dragged behind a donkey for a few miles then tossed into a sand dune.&nbsp; She liked the hat though.&nbsp; It was a nice touch.<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Much abliged Mister.” She said politely holding up the heavy firearm and realized the drawback to such a large weapon.&nbsp; She wasn’t going to be able to hold it up for very long outstretched like that.&nbsp; “And it can be yours for the low, low price of five thousand dollars.” <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>08-05-2013, 10:22:43</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa outside Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha, Open<br><hr> <br>It wasn't a particularly unusual reaction for Walter to arrive somewhere and immediately have a gun shoved in his face.<br><br>He was a man who's line of work generally involved approaching people and either intimidating the hell out of them until their bladders and bowels loosened or laying his fist upon them until they bled all over the floor. And that was only the nine-to-five stuff. Murder, torture, kidnapping; they weren't daily occurrences but they happened often enough that they weren't particularly special. Walt was what he was; a killer, a ruffian, a scoundrel, a villain. If you were unfortunate enough to attract Walt's professional attention then sticking a gun in his face was probably one of the few sensible decisions you had made. The even more sensible one would be to then pull the trigger until you ran out of bullets... and then reload and empty it into his head just to make sure.<br><br>Even when Walt wasn't around out and about doing his business he still knew what he looked like. Perhaps if God had blessed Walt by making him be born in some affluent household with a decent and proper family he'd have turned out looking a bit respectable. But God hadn't. He'd had Walt been born in a whorehouse into abject poverty and misery. They say you can tell a lot about a person by looking into their eyes but you didn't need to look beyond Walt's face, resplendant as it was with scars and crooked teeth, a nose that had been broken one too many times and rarely set in anything even resembling the correct manner to see that this was a man who had lived a hard life. And his whole “begger king” look... Walt wouldn't have ever thought to call it a “fashion sense”... wasn't exactly respectable either despite the fact he wore a suit. In truth that in some ways made it worse, almost a sneering mockery of respectability. If Walter was a respectable person and saw himself then he'd stick a gun in his own face. It was almost an amusing thought. What would Walter do if he met himself? There'd be blood. Walt was pretty certain on that.<br><br>So, suffice to say Walt was used to having guns stuck in his face.<br><br>Not that he particularly liked it though.<br><br>The girl was wearing goggles. Walter didn't really like that. I mean, they did say you can tell a lot about a person from their eyes and beyond all that “look deep into their soul” bollocks there were far more useful practical benefits. That sudden narrowing that came before action. The slight widening as fear set in. Watch them flicker as the person took in aspects of your appearance. Work out what they're looking at. All those little things that were the difference between gettin' a belly full of lead and gettin' to walk away unharmed. At least her voice was calm and polite. He liked that. Liked it far more than a scared voice. A scared voice meant the person may do something hasty like pull the trigger. A calm person was more likely to ponder on the matter. Walt's the face already looked like a woodpecker had decided to nest in it, it certainly wouldn't be improved by having it get shot off. But there was something else in the voice.<br><br>Feckin' Irish.<br><br>There was no particular reason for Walt to dislike the micks. Sure he'd brawled and fought with a few in his time and the slums of London were full of Irish who had left the homeland in search of riches and fortune only to find Walter and his brass knuckles but if those were the only reasons for dislike then Walter would dislike everyone. Well, he sort of did dislike everyone, but that's not the point. Perhaps it was simply burned into his psyche from an early age, a part of his national conscious, Walter a mere prisoner of fate, bound by history he could not change and did not understand to dislike the Irish. Bollocks to it. He just didn't like the Irish. But it was only a dislike. Walt went through his day disliking everyone he met. He didn't even like himself that much. He could deal with mere dislike. His own tone as he spoke was equally, polite... well as polite as Walt could be... and somewhat light-hearted.<br><br><strong>“But let me guess... you'll happily give the bullets in that there shooter for free right?”</strong><br><br>He smiled, although it must be said with his teeth being the state they were it was hardly the most pleasant or welcoming of sights. The gun she currently held out was large and likely heavy and she didn't look to be the strongest of lasses. He imagined that under her clothes her muscles were starting to tense and tremble a bit. Not that he was imagining what was under her clothes. Well, not much. Anyway, the end result was that she wasn't going to be able to keep that gun aloft indefinitely. Meaning she either had to lower it or shoot him. He hoped it was the first. His free hand reach up to tip his hat to her, a slow, deliberate movement.<br><strong><br>“The name's Walter mam. Walter Sinnett. And this 'ere...”</strong><br><br>His hand came across to tape his donkey on the head, rubbing it gently back and forth, the dokey giving a small, contented sound.<br><br><strong>“... this is my donkey. You'll 'ave to excuse my appearance.”</strong><br><br>The hand came back, this time brushing some of the dust that had appeared on his duster away.<br><br><strong>“We was just 'avin a little ride out 'ere when I'm guessin' you let off that barker you got pointed at me. He may not look it, but my donkey is a bit of a high-strung fella, ain't you donkey?”</strong><br><br>The donkey seemingly replied with a “hee-haw” although it could just have been that he was due a carrot by now.<br><br><strong>“Gave him a right fright it did. So he decided to go for a little wander and I decided to fall off his back and land up in the ol' dirt. Not that I'm blaming you love. Just explainin' why I aint lookin' my prettiest if you get my meanin'.”</strong><br><br>The donkey hee-hawed again, although once more it was unclear whether it was the thought of Walter ever being pretty or the lack of carrots that caused him to make the sound. Walt glanced to the wrecked tree stump and back to Agatha.<br><strong><br>“Now, I ain't much one for barkers myself but I seen a few in my time and I can't say I seen one like that before. Certainly ain't heard one like that. Gave me a bit of a bloody fright I tell ya, though not as bad as it scared poor donkey over 'ere. He's still terrified he is.”</strong><br><br>The donkey looked more content to slap at flies with his tail rather than “scared” but I guess it's hard to tell with donkeys.<br><strong><br>“And that there is one tree stump that ain't gonna be botherin' anyone ever again. Made a right blooming mess of it you did. You make the shooter yourself?”</strong><br><br>And Walter was beginning to see the start of a plan. Not a good plan. Not a great plan. Not one he could put into place quickly. But a plan none-the-less, an ambition, a hope, a prayer. a 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>10-05-2013, 19:58:01</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/The_preacher.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Malta<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jaelyn<br><hr>He nodded, and her lack of communion in Grimme’s church didn’t seem to bother him unduly.&nbsp; Instead, he simply moved to the travel pack, removing a simple wooden cup and trail bread that had been carefully wrapped in waxed paper.&nbsp; It was a humble feast, made slightly more appetizing by the beans and bacon which cooked over the fire.<br><br><strong>“I know all about Grimme’s feast,”</strong> he said softly.&nbsp; <strong>”The bounty that keeps folks coming to his church, to his table, week after week.&nbsp; The famine which holds the city in his thrall the other six days of the week, the Church Court.&nbsp; When I visited Lost Angels, I went before the Court.&nbsp; I was accused of preaching against Grimme’s mockery of faith, and then tried.&nbsp; They would have taken me off to the Rock, to serve my sentence, but the Lord intervened and saw fit to protect me from Grimme’s Ordeals.”</strong><br><br>He rubbed at his chin.&nbsp; <strong>”To my knowledge, I’m the only man who’s ever been charged by the Court and found innocent, but that didn’t stop Grimme’s ‘Angels’ from finding me in the night and throwing me in the Rock anyway.&nbsp; But again the Lord intervened, and sent a savior to my rescue.&nbsp; But I witnessed what happened on the Rock – on that hellish island where all the criminals and ‘witches’ are sent for punishment.&nbsp; They are executed, butchered and then served up for Grimme’s feast.&nbsp; There is nothing, nothing godly being done in that town.&nbsp; Only vilest sacrilege.”</strong><br><br>He paused as her questions, and gave a small chuckle.&nbsp; <strong>”I know your name, your face, your path – “&nbsp; He gestured to the road the carriage had travelled upon – “because the Lord saw fit to put me in your path, and turn you from Grimme’s task.&nbsp; He believes in you, Jaelyn Scot-Jones, whether or not you are certain you much believe in him, or how much love you might hold in your heart for him just now.”</strong><br><br>His face fell back to the fire, his eyes shadowed.&nbsp; <strong>”Just a sinner the Lord gave mercy to,”</strong> he shook his head.&nbsp; <strong>”I was a chaplain, once, and then I saw horrors that made me doubt.&nbsp; I took to drink, I took to women, I took to wandering the world and enjoying all earthly pleasures.&nbsp; But then someone saved me, as I look to save you now, so I took a new name and with it a new purpose in this world.”</strong><br><br>He extended a hand.&nbsp; <strong>”My name is John Malta.”</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>11-05-2013, 20:06:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				&nbsp;<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/5a/Agatha-avi.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa Outside of Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Walter<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I’d rather not use good bullets when I don’t have to.” She replied.&nbsp; The man, Walter seemed to be quite willing to chit-chat, but that wasn’t making Agatha any more comfortable.&nbsp; Was he just trying to be friendly? Doubtful.&nbsp; What he stalling for something? Maybe.&nbsp; The fact that she didn’t want to take her eyes off of him to look around didn’t make her any more comfortable. “But that won’t stop me.” The gun was getting heavier so she pulled the smaller derringer from its much tinier holster and pointed it at Walter letting her hand with the gatling pistol drop to her side.&nbsp; <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“I don’t mean to be unfriendly mister and I am very sorry that I startled your donkey and caused you a tumble, but I’m not used to seeing a soul out in these parts.&nbsp; It’s why I come here to test my invention.”&nbsp; Looks like she was going to have to find someplace new. <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; <br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;“Now I was just leaving, so if you don’t mind I would like to continue to do so.&nbsp; If I have caused you any damages please stop by my shop in town and I will make amends.”<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Agatha wasn’t about to turn her back on Walter yet to get into her buggy, so she fully intended to wait for him to go along his way before she lowered her weapon and made her way back to town.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>11-05-2013, 21:13:17</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa outside Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha, Open<br><hr><br><strong>"Bloody 'ell... you got more iron on you then Crystal Palace..."</strong><br><br>The lady having to lower the gun wasn't a surprise. It was something Walter was sort of expecting and, to an extent, relying on. He didn't like having a gun stuck in his face but he'd assumed that weight and gravity would take care of that. He'd got that part right at least. What he hadn't expected it for it to be immediately replaced with another one. Sure it was smaller but Walt knew that wasn't a good thing. The bullet was going to be just as deadly and all the small size meant was that she could hold it up for longer. The buors of London rarely carried a shooter on them, let alone two. Something else to learn about this damned place. That said Walter's eyes remained mercifully devoid of baleful red and his tone as he spoke was little different to earlier, a cheerful rolling cockney brogue, a slight hint of surprise as the pistol was produced but no hostility, no anger. Even the donkey remained silent, evidently bemused by everything going on around. For his part Walt nodded as Agatha spoke, eyes locked on hers.<br><br><strong>"Oh, don't you worry Mam, I've 'ad a few tumbles in my time and this one weren't so bad. Just dusted myself off..."</strong><br><br>He patted a bit more of the dust off his coat, careful to keep his movements slow and deliberate, not giving Agatha any reason to test out her derringer with his skull doing an impression of the tree strump.<br><br><strong>"... well, mostly dusted myself off... and came on up here. And don't you be worryin' about this place becomin' some travellers 'otspot. From time to time I like me some solitude... well, solitude with me donkey... so I come wanderin' out these parts. Just sheer luck I ended up in hearin' range of that there shooter. You're the only living soul I seen other than me donkey for hours mam."</strong><br><br>A slightly quizzical look flashed across his face as she finished speaking however, cocking his head to the side slightly.<br><br><strong>"Em, sorry mam, and I ain't intendin' to be rude or nuthin', but I'm pretty new in town and I ain't exactly sure who you are, what your shop is or where it is. Me donkey might know... he's been around town a fair bit longer than me... but he 'ain't the talkin' type if you get what I mean. I ain't gonna' stick me 'and out and ask ya to shake it on account of you probably wantin' to put a bullet in me 'ead at the thought of touchin' me but it may be 'elpful to know who you are mam. And if you're some local famous person or somethin' I can only apologise for not recognisin' ya and hopin' you'll beg me pardon."</strong><br><br>Another pause, before his eyes dropped down to the gatling pistol hanging by her side. Walter had never seen anything like it and he'd seen a lot in his time. Every so often some mad scientist type fella' rocked into Walt's manor with some crazy invention but more often than not Walt was employed to swiftly encourage them to leave. Exploding rooms were no good for anyone and those scientists tended to explode on a pretty regular basis when they did whatever the hell it was they did. And sure, Walt had seen a gatling cannon before, but those had been huge devices mounted on battleships as they steamed too and from Millwall docks, they weren't pistols that a slip of a woman could hold (even if only for a short time). If she had one of those, then what else did she have? And didn't she just say she owned a shop and had talked about selling it to him earlier? That vague idea in the back of Walt's head was buzzing away there. Walt didn't like ideas, especially those which hid in the back of his head and didn't go away but this one seemed to have stuck. He went back to an earlier question, his tone still light.<br><br><strong>"So did you make that shooter yourself? And do you sell stuff like that in the shop you mentioned?"</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>auroraChloe</strong> on <strong>12-05-2013, 18:47:13</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br><strong>Faction:</strong> n/a<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; stagecoach trail<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; John Malta, the priest <br><hr> <br><br><strong>"ohhh..."</strong>&nbsp; It was a long, soft sound, as her mind worked through the indications.&nbsp; Grimme's mockery of a church, eh?&nbsp; So her own feelings were not so far off then.&nbsp; If it weren't for her mother, Jaelyn would have taken her chances on the street, leaving that god forsaken town all together.&nbsp; After her mother's death though, she had a difficult time breaking away.&nbsp; Was she under this thrall as well?&nbsp; Jaelyn had thought it was her own broken heart that had paralyzed her over these many months until it was too late to escape Grimme's attempt to use her as he had her mother.<br><br>She listened as he told the tale of God's many interventions.&nbsp; Perhaps the preacher was a little dotty after all, she mused.&nbsp; And then, "They are executed, butchered and then served up for Grimme’s feast."&nbsp; She gasped as if he'd struck her, sitting back on the log with her hands out to either side to stay her balance.<br><br><strong>"You can't..."</strong>&nbsp; Her throat constricted&nbsp; until she forced herself to swallow.&nbsp; <strong>"You can't be serious, Sir!"</strong>&nbsp; She had helped prepare many a meal; peeling vegetables, baking bread, counting plates and flatware - lest any come up missing - setting table.&nbsp; <strong>"That...&nbsp; that is...&nbsp; "</strong>&nbsp; Her face first turned white as the blood drained away, then a little green at the edges as the bile rose.&nbsp; She couldn't help believing him.&nbsp; And she had eaten that meat, as well as given away the following days what she could ferret away on Sunday.&nbsp; She paled again, realizing how often the starving would risk the rank smell of that meat for the nourishment it brought.&nbsp; <br><br>As he explained about their crossing paths, she questioned herself, <em>Oh, what have I done?</em>&nbsp; Her pale face looked up at him, anger against a myriad of parties, herself included, hardening the edges of her mouth.&nbsp; <strong>"If I hadn't put much faith in your God before today, why should hearing this horror story change that?&nbsp; It's disgusting what HE allows to go on in this world, Grimme's shenanigans are only proof of that.&nbsp; All of those innocent people,"</strong>&nbsp; Her expression crumpled slightly, eyes glistening with emotion.&nbsp; <strong>"You know, priest, preacher, what ever you are... a true father would not abandon his children to... to such a MONSTER!" </strong><br><br>Anger brought some color back to her cheeks in two deep pink splotches, one on either cheek, as if she purposefully pinched them before a happy soiree.&nbsp; Instead of dancing, she shucked his coat from her shoulders to toss it off to the side.&nbsp; Stubbornness and spite reared their ugly heads together and she was powerless to stop them.&nbsp; Why should she?&nbsp; The games of God &amp; Man were ridiculous, while her anger was righteous.&nbsp; Still she was silently thankful that the fire gave off a good, warm glow.&nbsp; <strong>"How could he not believe in me?&nbsp; I'm easy enough to see now, aren't I?"</strong>&nbsp; Two fingers pinched the skin on the back of her wrist for good measure, the thin flesh held there, before slowly slipping back into place.&nbsp; <strong>"See?&nbsp; It's your God that's invisible, Mr Malta.&nbsp; I made plenty of one-sided conversation with the Great Missing One."</strong>&nbsp; Had she ever, with rice cutting into the skin of her knees until she could barely stand one more second.&nbsp; <strong>"An answer might have been nice...&nbsp; just once."</strong><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>13-05-2013, 22:25:27</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/f0/The_preacher.png)</div><strong>Name:</strong>&nbsp; John Malta<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 3, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong>&nbsp; Dusk<br><strong>Location:</strong>&nbsp; The stagecoach trail from Lost Angels to Gomorra<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Jaelyn<br><hr>The preacher raised an eyebrow, his features long and drawn.&nbsp; <strong>“It would be a poor jest,”</strong>&nbsp; he whispered.&nbsp; <strong>“A poor jest indeed.&nbsp; No, I’ve seen those kitchens with my own eyes.&nbsp; I’ve seen what the Angels do there.&nbsp; There is a sickness in those men.”</strong>&nbsp; He gestured to the corpse that still lay, so many feet away.&nbsp; <strong>”And most are like him.&nbsp; Harrowed.”</strong><br><br>He bowed his head as she began her righteous tirade, nodding like he could almost hear the words coming from his own mouth.&nbsp; He understood her anger, he understood her rage.&nbsp; He understood her doubts and her struggle – it was a road he’d walked himself, more than once.<br><br><strong>”I don’t claim to have an answer,”</strong> he said.&nbsp; <strong>”Because there is none.&nbsp; I don’t know why he lets people be butchered, and eaten, I don’t know why demons are breaking loose from hell and wearing people like coats.&nbsp; Surely, I wish I did.&nbsp; I wish I could answer all your questions, .&nbsp; But I’m looking for those answers myself.&nbsp; I could debate with you on free will and the evil of the world being original sin… but it won’t help you or I any.&nbsp; Or anyone else.”</strong><br><br>His eyes were soft as he looked up.&nbsp; <strong>”The only wisdom I have to offer is – there <em>is</em> a God.&nbsp; And I think you believe that, too.&nbsp; He may not grant us the wisdom to understand his ways.&nbsp; He won’t answer every prayer, but that doesn’t mean we should stop praying.&nbsp; You have it in you to be one of his chosen.&nbsp; I believe that.&nbsp; I believe He sent me in your path because he sees the good you can do.”</strong><br><br>He spread his hands.&nbsp; <strong>”But for me… I think all the wickedness in the world is man’s doing.&nbsp; And so it is to man to undo.&nbsp; &nbsp;I don’t know why the gates of hell are crackin’ open.&nbsp; I don’t think it’s God’s will.&nbsp; I think it’s man, poking around with things he ought not to, takin’ advantage of all that free will he gave us.”</strong><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>14-05-2013, 04:20:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				&nbsp;<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/5/5a/Agatha-avi.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Agatha Dunwich<br><strong>Faction:</strong> Unknown<br><strong>Date:</strong>&nbsp; May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa Outside of Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong>&nbsp; Walter<br><hr><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha laughed lightly at his comment about iron, but didn’t respond.&nbsp; What he didn’t know could hurt him and that was the only advantage she had at the moment.&nbsp; She didn’t seem to be particularly confused by his accent and had heard much worse.&nbsp; Hell Ginny Whateley was supposed to be educated and most people couldn’t understand a word that spoiled little child was saying, not that she said much of value anyway.&nbsp; Agatha had heard accents like Walter’s along the rails many a time. It was almost a comforting sound…almost.<br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Agatha took a few steps back and lowered her derringer.&nbsp; From that distance she would have no problem bringing either gun to bear if she needed to.&nbsp; “Then let’s keep this place our little secret.” She said fully intending on finding a new spot to test her inventions.&nbsp; Last thing she needed were some look-e-loos accidently getting shot or blown up. <br><br>&nbsp; &nbsp; Another light laugh accompanied his quizzical look and questions.&nbsp; “Oh, I am nobody special.” She said.&nbsp; “I own a little shop in town, Agatha’s Occidental Delights.&nbsp; I make clockworks and other inventions.” She answered.&nbsp; “And yes, I made this.” She said indicated the large pistol in her right hand.&nbsp; “But I do not specialize in weapon smithing.&nbsp; For that I would suggest Bagley’s.&nbsp; They have a fine reputation for custom weapons.&nbsp; Not of this sort, but fine none the less.&nbsp; My inventions tend to be pricey so I work on commission only.” She admitted.&nbsp; She worked on commission and she only took commissions she felt comfortable with when it came to guns.&nbsp; &nbsp;“If you would like to drop by sometime anyone is welcome in my shop, it is on the north end of town just down the way from the Collegium.&nbsp; Now if you don’t mind Mr. Sinnett I plan on going to celebrate my recent success with a good jolt of Irish whisky.”&nbsp; <br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>14-05-2013, 11:18:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 4th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Mesa outside Town<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Agatha, Open<br><hr>At least she was laughing.<br><br>Walter suspected that meant she was less likely to shoot him. Not a guarantee of course... hell, Walt himself had been chuckling and laughing away himself with more than one mark before he socked him in the gut, gave him a good kicking and possibly gutted the rascal but Walt was, after all, a monster and from what he could tell of this woman he doubted she was. Evil has a way of knowing evil and Walt was one black hearted bastard. So the fact that she was laughing was definitely an improvement... almost as much as one of her stepping back and lowering the pistol. Walter had seen enough barkers used at close range to know it didn't make a practical difference; if she did mean to do him an injury she could bring either one of those pistols up quickly but it was the thought that counted, an indication that smearing his brains over the mesa was not her primary focus. He tipped his hat again.<br><br><strong>"Much obliged mam... for lowerin' that shooter."</strong><br><br>He chuckled himself at her comment about keeping the place a secret although the laughter did not reach his eyes and in truth did little but once more show off his crooked mouth.<br><br><strong>"Beggin' your pardon mam, and with no disrespect, me and me donkey are intendin' to forget this place soon as we get the chance. I'm sure you're real careful in makin' sure there ain't no-one nearby when you pull the trigger on one of those there barkers but I don't much like havin' to check if someone's accidentally put bullet holes in my hat&nbsp; if you get what I mean."</strong><br><br>Walter nodded as she described her shop and vocation, putting two and two together. She still hadn't said her name but considering the place was called 'Agatha’s Occidental Delights' and she owned it rather than just worked there he was fairly certain her name was Agatha. And she did make guns. Special guns. Walter knew about the other place Bagleys or whatever bloody name it had. All shiny and spiffy and not at all what he wanted. Walter didn't like guns, didn't like shooters and as fine as those pieces were, perfectly balanced and accurate, they weren't what he was looking for. Wouldn't do anything for him anyway; he could shoot a bit but he was no blooming marksman and as much as he'd like to blame shoddy firearms for his general lack of accuracy he couldn't. Didn't matter if the barker shot true as steel if he ended up pointing it a foot from where his target was. And what did they have that would do what he wanted it to do? They sold normal shooters made pretty and he didn't want a normal shooter. Maybe they'd have a two bore elephant gun or something but he doubted there was much call for things of that nature out here. Too few elephants. Although perhaps cause and effect meant that the lack of elephants was down to too many elephant guns. He doubted it. No, if his little ambition was ever to become a reality he'd need to come to Agatha so she could make him a shooter the likes of which the world had never seen. Which meant he needed to make some damn money. And then she mentioned whisky.<br><br>Walt didn't really know enough about whisky to know if he preferred Irish, Scottish, American or whatever other types of bloody whisky there were. He knew he liked the darker, peatier stuff but outside of someone once telling him it was Scottish from one of the bloody islands he had no idea. He just cared that it tasted vaguely of whisky and got him drunk. But he did like whisky. Liked it rather a lot. He glanced down at his donkey again. Did donkeys like whisky? Should he try giving him a bowl of it sometime? The donkey appeared... at least to Walter... to shake its head. Smart donkey. Smarter than him at least.<br><strong><br>"Let no-one say that Walter Sinnett kept anyone from a jolt of whisky. Pleasure to meet you mam."</strong><br><br>Walter tipped his hat again before grasping the halter for his donkey and leaving the mesa, heading back in the vague direction of Gomorra. He assumed Agatha was heading back that way as well but considering she'd already drawn a shooter on him once he didn't want to press the issue.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Crash</strong> on <strong>18-05-2013, 07:04:04</strong>
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				&lt;End of Scene&gt;
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Ciosa</strong> on <strong>13-04-2014, 22:26:49</strong>
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				<div align="center">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/e/e6/Reloadedbanner.png)</div><br>All posts after this juncture are part of Doomtown Reloaded.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>18-05-2014, 18:15:26</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> The Great Maze, just having seen the Gates' Ranch on the horizon.<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“Don't bloody look at me like that. It's just somethin' I gotta' do.”</strong><br><br>The sun was burning down and it was hot. It always seemed to be bloody hot out here. People told Walter it got feckin' cold at night but it wasn't night and it wasn't feckin' cold. It was hot. Hotter than pretty much anything Walter have ever experienced before he came to this sodding country. And it was wet heat, drawing moisture from the sea and submerged twisted canyons that made up the Great Maze. It clung to Walter like a second coat, like a heavy shawl draggin' him down. A thick droplet of sweat burst into life on his forehead, hanging there precociously for a second before losing the fight against gravity and sliding over his skin to dangle and drip from his nose before a thick finger brushed it away. It was far from the first to have made such a journey... the streaking lines of dirt across Walter's face told a story.<br><br>Oh yes, it wasn't just hot. It was hot and dusty. Walter had thought the occasional sea breeze that managed to make its way inland to him would bring sodding respite but he'd been bloody wrong about that. They barely lowered the temperature, made the air even bloody moister and they brought dust. Tons of feckin' dust. A whole feckin' deserts worth, swept up from the loose top soil of the Great Maze and seemin'ly all dumped directly on Walter's bastard head. He was caked in the stuff. The heat might have been like second coat over him but the dust actually was a bloody second coat, coverin' ever bloody part of him. His boots, his trousers (and they were soddin' trousers not “pants” whatever the bloody yankee-doodle's said), his coat, his shirt under the bloody coat, his hands, his face, even his feckin' hat. Feck it, every time he drew in a breath he seemed to get it up his nose or in his bloody mouth, staining his lips, drying out his tongue, makin' him bloody sneeze. Walter liked the Great Maze, he liked the way the cracked land wriggled this way and that with no sense of purpose or design... in that it reminded him of London. But the sparse flat lands when one rose out of the shadows? Walter bloody hated those. He hated the sun and he hated the heat and most of all he hated the bloody dust.<br><br>Walter's donkey snorted. It didn't like the dust either.<br><br>Walter's bitter mood was in no way helped by what he'd spent his morning doing. Which was walking back and bloody forth through this bloody place. Pointlessly. He hadn't seen bloody anything, hadn't done bloody anything. He'd just walked up and down getting hotter and hotter and dustier and bloody dustier till he now resembled a bloody sculpture made out of sand. Normally Walter could keep his irritation somewhat under control by falling back on the most traditional of all English pastimes, quietly moaning to himself about his boss and the stupidity of what he had been told to do, but even that was denied to him... he'd given himself this bloody job to do and endlessly railing at your own inadequacies gets bit boring after a while. So Walter just shut up, kept his mouth closed, tried to avoid any of the bloody dust getting in his mouth... and tried to avoid the equally accusing eyes of his donkey, clearly bitter at being taken from the comfort of Stiffies to this bloody place. And when a dump like Stiffies was described as havin' “comfort” compared to what Walter was goin' through then you can realise quite how grim this bloody was.<br><br>Redskins and Chinamen. They were out there. Walter knew that. Hell, he could pretty much see the bloody Redskin and their great bloody camp they'd set up whenever he wandered out to take a piss off the side of the Gomorra mesa. But he wasn't here to find a giant bloody Indian camp. What was he meant to do with a whole bloody camp of Redskins? Gather 'em all up and ask 'em nicely if they'd mind startin' a war with the bloody Yellowskins if it weren't too much trouble? Like that would bloody work.<br><br>The donkey shot another glance at Walter just to make clear it wouldn't work and he shouldn't try it. You never knew with Walter.<br><br>So no, Walter was ridin' out lookin' for other bloody Redskins, preferably less than a feckin' tribeful all at once. And any Chinamen he could find as well... preferably less than a shipload. And he hadn't soddin' found any or any bloody sign of them. Some men could track a swallow through flight, could look at a single footprint and work out every single detail about the owner of the foot, could workout how a fight went down by looking at the damage caused to the surroundin' area. Walter would be lucky to notice the bloody footprint. He wasn't no soddin' tracker which made him feel like a bit of a bloody fool for havin' given himself this bloody task in the bloody first place. Not that it had been entirely wasted effort. Not entirely. Sure, Walter may not have seen a bastard redksin or a bastard yellowskin or franky any bastard skins at all but it weren't just about that was it?<br><br>Never let 'em see you comin' right?<br><br>Walter didn't know if anyone was watchin' 'im. He didn't know if people knew he was doin' a bit more for Sweetrock then just scarin' some miners. But he knew it didn't hurt to keep up appearences. Pretty much ever since he had first started workin' for Sweetrock Walter had spent each mornin' strollin' around the Great Maze and there was no reason to stop now. Keep a routine, make it all look normal, make it look like nothin' had changed. And get people used to seein' him. When you saw something every day, you stopped payin' attention to it. It just became part of the scenery, like an old blanket draped over a chair. You just paid it no bloody heed. After all, who expected the soddin' old blanket to rise up with a knife and cut your guts out? If Walter kept wanderin' around the Great Maze without doin' much of anythin' then any beady little eyes that might be on 'im were soon goin' to lose interest in 'im. And that meant they were less likely to pay attention when he was bloody doin' something.<br><br>Not that such thoughts offered much succor to Walter at this point in time. Because however hard he tried to concentrate on them... and trust me, Walter was tryin' to concentrate on them... all his mind could actually conjure up were a variety of swearwords related to the heat and the bloody dust. He just didn't want to be here, didn't want to have a dry mouth, a sweating brow and a stomach full of dust. He wanted something to drink and he wanted something to eat and he didn't want to be out in the bloody Great Maze. But he was still a long, dusty walk away from getting' back to Gomorra.<br><br>But not hours away from the building that had just appeared on the horizon on one of the few wider flatter areas of the Great Maze.<br><br>And with his usual tact and ability to understand the needs of others, Walter decided that he rather liked the idea of going to this place and getting something to drink.., and possibly to eat.<br><br>Whatever the residents thought.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>21-05-2014, 03:42:03</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Aggy, open for Walter Sinnett<br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty stood close to the cream and brown horse, gently stroking its mane with her fingers while the other stroked its nose. She spoke softly near its ear, smiling as she watched the twitching, indicating that the horse was indeed listening. Letty spoke in her native tongue, spilling the whispered words on a gentle breath like lazy river, steady and strong, but with a melodic rhythm that seemed to lull the great beast closer. Crazy. That is what the horse’s owner had called him when Wildfire had first arrived at the ranch. He had been at his wits end, ready to show the horse the business end of his pistol. Letty could see it in the mans eyes! If you asked her, out of the two of them the one that deserved the title “crazy” the most was the one that walked upon two legs!<br><br>Under Letty’s guide Wildfire had learned to trust the human hand. It was a slow progress, but eventually she had managed to gain the his trust. The problem with men, Letty found, was many of them were so busy finding themselves superior to all that walked the earth that they forgot that a relationship needed nurturing, even one with a horse! Letty got on better with horses than she did with most people, mainly because she had learned the hard way to distrust the lies of men. A horse had never steered her wrong. A horse had never lied, or stolen from Letty. A horse was pure in its affection, and if you were lucky enough to gain its trust, then you would have a friend for life! And what’s more, that friend would be unshakingly loyal and reliable. <br><div class="floatright">(http://i975.photobucket.com/albums/ae240/samanthamazur/chloride-mn-banner_zpsf5b36522.png)</div><br>The sound of the creaking door echoed over the dry desert land, alerting Letty to a body exiting the stone ranch she had called home for the past few years. The groan of protest from the wooden planks under the weight of the person now walking down the stairs was heavy, so she knew it wasn’t Abby. Most likely the stranger that had come looking for answers that only Aggy could give in private. The sudden clucking of chickens let Letty know of the strangers progress, heading south of the stone cabin, away from where he had left his horse. It took all that she could muster not to turn and see what the fellah was upto. Letty wasn’t one to trust strangers, especially ones that come looking for answers to questions he don’t want just anyone overhearing. <br><br>Another creak of the door and a lighter groan signaled Aggy’s exit from the home and soon her voice rang out strong and true, kindly letting the stranger know he was heading in the wrong direction. Aggy’s words might have been kind, but her tone was not to be tested. Letty smiled. The two women had argued the two days before, but all had been forgiven. There was no point in holding onto a grudge when the only person you had for company most nights was the one you weren’t talking to. Besides, after Letty had calmed down she had come to realize that Aggy had been as much in the dark about the letters as Letty had. There weren’t no point in arguing with Aggy over what her brother had done behind her back. And since it was bad luck to call on a ghost, even if you wanted to rip that ghost a new one, then Letty had no choice but to let the anger go. But that didn’t mean she weren’t gonna find out who had helped her would be bridegroom! <br><br>Wildfire tensed, and shook his head voicing his annoyance with a sudden neighing. <strong>”Easy boy… easy.”</strong> Letty slowly stepped away. There was no point in holding a horse still when it was ready to gallop. She’d only end up hurt. Besides, part of trusting each other was knowing when to let go, and when to comfort. A sudden cloud of dust was kicked up from the quick movements of the startled horse, leaving Letty to cover her mouth with her hand, lest end up with a mouth full of dry earth. She’d had a diet of desert once or twice while growing up, Letty hadn’t enjoyed it then, and she didn’t think it had improved much with time. <br><br><strong>”You think on what I tell ya, you hear Miss Agitha! It aint gonna be easy scratching a living without Jonah. I’m offering a good deal!”</strong><br><br><strong>”You’re spitting on his grave is what yer doing! Now go on and get while you still have the ability to do so!”</strong><br><br>Shaking his head the stranger turned towards his horse, pausing at Letty and offering her what she was sure he thought was a charming smile. <strong>”Ma’am”</strong> <br><br>Letty simply nodded her head but kept her mouth shut. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know his business. But what she did know was that Aggie wasn’t best pleased with the news he had to offer. It was best the man headed out before he found himself facing the barrel end of Aggie’s favorite shotgun.<br><br><strong>”Talk to her… make her see sense”</strong> he pleaded with the dark eyed ranch hand. He handed her a slip of paper in the shape of a rectangle and flashed that smile once more that had her eyes narrowing before mounting his horse and tilting his hat, first to Aggie and then to Letty. <br><br><strong>”Letty! feed the pigs before you come in, and bring some milk from Nan”</strong> ordered Aggie before disappearing, leaving nothing behind but the squeak of the door and the light banging from within. <br><br>Letty watched for a moment as the mysterious figure was swallowed up by the unrelenting horizon before turning on the balls of her feet and heading towards the old barn and the pen which held the pigs. The noise exploded the closer she got, with the animals sensing dinner would soon be served. She wrinkled her nose as she set out the feed, watching as the pigs snorted and grunted with their nose pressed against the troff. A few chickens clucked at her feet, looking for a handout and making an awful racket. Letty chased the few that had escaped the pen back into their compound and rewarded them with a few scatterings of seed. She warned them in rapid spanish that they were much better off at the ranch than escaping into the desert, but she couldn’t be sure they understood… they were chickens after all. <br><br>Heading towards the barn, Letty pushed the doors open, allowing the bright rays of the sun to penetrate the darkness, streaming lines of dust particles dancing in the air and placing a spotlight on one of the two goats that sat munching on twigs and straw. <strong>”Come Nan, rápidamente”</strong> she commanded, but the black and white goat simply looked up at her with its glossy black eyes and kept on munching. <strong>”You eat too much!”</strong> accused the young Mexican, though the smile on her pretty face reduced the sting of her words, as did the laughter that soon followed. Giving into the stubbornness of Nan was the smartest thing anyone could do, and so Letty gathered a stool and a bucket and went to work, milking the goat, and singing her a Mexican Lullaby as a thanks for the fresh milk the animal gave freely. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>26-05-2014, 23:47:18</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr>Horses.<br><br>Why did it bloody have to be bloody horses?<br><br>Walter soddin' hated soddin' horses. Bastard things with their bastard mouths and bastard hoofs and bastard long faces and bastard eyes and bastard noses and bastard tails and bastard ears. They trotted around all bastard day and the bastards never did what you bastard told them to bastard do. You wanted to go one bloody way they went the bloody other. You wanted them to stay bloody still and they bloody moved. You wanted them to get bloody movin' and they bloody stayed still. You wanted them to bloody trot gently and they bloody bolted for it. You wanted them to bloody sprint and they slowed right bloody down. You wanted to stay on the bloody thing and it bloody threw you bloody off. And even if you could negotiate all of those difficulties and somehow get the bugger to actually take you where you wanted to go or pull whatever it was you wanted soddin' pulled you'd come to the end of your bloody journey with your thighs achin' from bein' stretched out as you sat astride 'em and your arse beaten black and blue by bein' bounched up and bloody down all day.<br><br>There was precisely one situation where Walter liked horses. When they were chopped up, boiled, had a few stringy onions, even more disreputable carrots and if you were really lucky maybe a turnip or two thrown in the pot, left for about six hours and then poured out over bread so hard you'd break your teeth on it, served with a warm, dark bear which was even thicker than the stew. Walter could get behind that... not just because it was tasty, filling and as close as he ever came to nutritious but also because it meant there was one less bastard horse in the bastard world. Some things were for eating and despite the fact that he was seemingly alone in his view, Walter firmly believed that the only good horse was a cooked horse.<br><br>Some people tried to suggest that the evident dislike horses showed toward Walter was nothing more than a reaction to them sensing the dislike he held for them. But which came first, the chicken or the feckin' egg? Walter had to have picked up his dislike for horses somewhere right? And if Wa;ter had a penny to gamble (he didn't), he'd have put it on some scheming, malicious, vindictive, sadistic bloody horse havin' done something to him when he was a bloody kid. But that's Walter's view. Nature or nurture? Because the truth was Walter didn't exactly like bloody anyone or anything (excludin' whiskey and his donkey of course) and while he always had a reason why he didn't like the bastards, sometimes you just had to take a look at the bigger picture. Maybe those bloody horses were like Walter's donkey and were smarter than they looked. Maybe the reason they gave Walter the evil eye and bared their vicious teeth and stamped their lethal hooves and waggled their... well, even Walter couldn't really think of anything nasty to say about their bloody tails... was because they realised that about Walter. But whatever the reason, Walter hated horses and they hated him. Once upon a pint in a dark and dreary English pub, the one respite from the joy of the English summer (read: it was raining), Walter had heard a story from some bugger who was too smart for his own good how some buggers called the Hyskos or somethin' had invaded Egypt and wiped the bloody place out, largely because the Hyskos had some bloody horses with them and the Egyptians had thought they were bloody man-eatin' demons or some such bollocks. Walter had a lot of sympathy for the Egyptians. Now, of course, those bloody sand eaters had eventually decided that horses were actually beasts of burden... but look how that worked out for them? You didn't see a bloody Egyptian empire around these days do you? The horses had done it again. They might fool everyone else, but they weren't foolin' Walter.<br><br>Bastards.<br><br>You remember how Walter wasn't in a good mood right? About the dust and the heat and all that crap? Well, Walter's not exactly pleasant demeanor had been struggling through that... and it certainly wasn't bloody helped by the fact that as he walked his tired legs and less tired donkey towards the house that was meant to be salvation (or at least a brief respite) he saw horses. And not in the “there's a big party ridin' towards you, duck behind cover and grab your shotgun” sense. That was alright. Sure, there was the risk of death... but at least you could shoot some bloody horses. No, these buggers were just sort of standin' there like they owned the place. Jesus, this was where horses <em>lived</em>. The house of horses. The edifice of equines. And in Walter Sinnett's not exactly sensible mind, pretty much hell on bloody earth. Behind a police station a place where horses lived was pretty much the worst place he could imagine being. But... and he threw a resentful glance over his shoulder and then coughed as they more dust made its way into his dry mouth... it was also a place likely to have something to drink. Which means Walter would have to brave the horses.<br><br>Bastards.<br><br>It was outside Walter's area of expertise... and for once he hadn't heard anyone talk about it down a boozer... but several cultures have myths and legends about creatures and demons from the desert, beasts which were half-man, half-animal and cloaked in sand which would rise up to attack unsuspecting travellers. Malicious spirits of the sand, as horrifying of visage as they were deadly. And to be honest, if one were to catch Walter out of the corner of their eye as he staggered his way into the clutch of buildings that formed the centre of this ranch, one couldn't be blamed if they thought he was exactly that. The man riding away from the place on his own bloody horse seemed to think so... the gentle trot breaking into something resembling a gallop as he passed Walter. The Tattered Man considered giving him a two barrel goodbye... especially when the gallop kicked yet more dust in Walter's face... but frankly he couldn't be bothered. And it wasn't like a bit more dust made any bloody difference... Walter seemingly already had half the Great Maze on or in him. So instead he simply continued to walk until he got right into the heart of the little collection of buildings. Which, from his limited view, appeared to be deserted but for the cluckin' of some bloody chickens.<br><br><strong>“OI! Who do I have to shag to get a drink around 'ere?”</strong><br><br>Never accuse Walter of bein' subtle.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>02-06-2014, 07:35:55</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Aggy, open for Walter Sinnett<br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">The announcement of a visitor was impossible not to hear. Both Agitha and Aletta looked up from their perspective chores and frowned. It would have been comical had they seen each other pull the exact same expression after hearing the crudely worded question. It was a matter of timing as to whom would be the first of the two ladies to greet the inquisitive visitor and possibly offer him the water that he sought, or usher him off of the property with the use of a rather sharp pitchfork. <br><br>Aggy poked her head up from where she had been preparing dinner and pulled aside the old, worn out drapes so she could view the visitor from a distance. She wasn’t sure that she liked what she saw, but then the braying of the donkey had her wondering if he might not be grumpy from a long walk under the desert sun. In her eyes Walter morphed from an invading nuisance to a possible customer in need of a horse! She glanced towards the barn but didn’t see movement and so after picking up a cloth that she used for hand drying, Aggy made her way to the front door of the ranch. <br><br>The squeak of the old, scarred wooden door announced Agitha’s presence, and soon after her voice was heard, loud and confident. <strong>”Afternoon! I don’t reckon I know how to answer that as I’m not familiar with the meaning of that word, shag. But I reckon we can scrape you up a mug of water to wet your whistle. Maybe even a horse if you are in the market for one.”</strong> She glanced over at the donkey and smiled. <strong>”Maybe something a little more… larger?”</strong> <br><br>With the small pail half filled with the goat’s milk in her hand, Letty made her entrance from the barn, back onto the grounds of the ranch, blinking from the sudden brightness of the sun. She moved towards Aggy ready to give her boss and friend the pail of milk, while rapidly blinking to adjust her eyes from the darkness of the barn to the brightness of the day. <br><br><strong>”Letty darlin’ why don’t you help this man out, fetch him a mug of water, he’s parched.”</strong> It was normal of Aggy not to let a person get a word in edgewise, especially after a visit like she had just endured. The more those fancy fella’s told the older rancher that she couldn’t do something, the more she was set on proving that she could! <strong>”Give me that milk now, and&nbsp; how about you fetch the water and then show our guest the horses.”</strong> She turned to smile over at the stranger, sure she had pegged his needs right. <br><br><strong>”Yes ma’am”</strong> replied Letty as she handed off the pail to her employer and moved to fetch the mug of water for their guest. She didn’t take long. Letty was not one to dawdle in the first place, but most certainly she wouldn’t take her time about things when Aggie was in “sales pitch” mode. The wooden stairs groaned and creaked, following the light footsteps of the young latino as she moved towards Walter with a mug filled with water and a jug, should he wish to top off his mug, wanting seconds. <br><br>Coming to a stop before him Letty extended her arm and offered Walter the mug filled with refreshing water. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>07-06-2014, 20:51:54</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Agatha, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“Don't listen to 'er donkey. She don't know what she's sayin'.”</strong><br><br>Walter Sinnett had been many things in his life, even if they tended to follow the same theme. Thief, thug, mugger, murderer, boxer, muscle, enforcer, assassin, bounty hunter, pick pocket, fighter. One thing he had never been was the voice of reason or a peacemaker. And yet here he was patting his donkey on the back of the head with the closest thing he could find to affection as it stamped its feet (hooves?) and heehawed aggressively. If donkeys could speak then Walter's donkey would have made Walter sound like a choirboy with the way it turned the air blue and if looks could kill then Agatha would have shuffled straight off this mortal coil from the way it was eyeballing her.<br><br><strong>“And look love...”</strong><br><br>Now Walter's ire turned on Agatha as well, although he tried to at least be somewhat polite. Walter's version of being somewhat polite meant he hadn't punched her yet.<br><br><strong>“... if I wanted a soddin' horse I'd have asked for a soddin' horse. And if I'd wanted someone to show me the bloody horses I'd have gone to bloody Ireland. And seein' as it 'aint bloody rainin' and it is bloody hot and I ain't seen a feckin' turnip in months, we're not in blasted Ireland are we?”</strong><br><br>A horse neighed in the near distance and with a chereography that perfect matched Agatha and Letty's own earlier, Walter and his donkey both turned to stare at it aggressively. The condescending look Walter imagined the horse had as it laughed at the donkey it thought it would soon be replacing disappeared almost instantly, the neigh turning into a whinny as it turned, nosily urinated and began to canter away. Walter rubbed his donkey between the ears for a job well done. Fuck the horses. Bastards.<br><br><strong>“But I will take the bloody water.”</strong><br><br>Walter let an eye roll over Letty, roll over her curves, roll over the offered mug... and immediately shot his hand out to grasp the jug instead, taking that and tipping it up above his head, water pouring down into his mouth, leaking over his chin, spraying his clothes and dribbling down to pool on the ground. It was not an edifying sight. Then the mug was taken, Walter offering it to his donkey, the beast gratefully offering up his tongue as Walter elevated the vessel and allowed it to refresh itself. Seemingly content for the moment and with the water drained, the Tattered Man reached into his billowing cape, pulling out a pipe and a tinder box before lighting up. Three satisfied puffs later, the thin smoke hanging in the air, Walter offered the pipe to the donkey which in turn took a long drag from the implement. Stiffies was clearly rubbing off on it.<br><br><strong>“Who was that bastard I saw ridin' away from 'ere like his arse was on fire?”</strong><br><br>That was directed to Agatha, some of the anger in Walter's tone having dissipated with the water and the tobacco although as always there was a underlying hint of menace in his words. The next comment went to Letty, Walter's eyes continuing to linger.<br><strong><br>“And ain't you the drunk mexican I say getting' feckin' sloppy down at Babel's a day or two ago? Surprised you made it back without fallin' off the bloody edge. Many miner's feck you that night?”</strong><br><br>Back Walter's head turned to look at Agatha, taking another deep inhilation from his pipe, unconcerned by the fact his donkey had just used it. Personal hygene was not a big concern for Walter.<br><br><strong>“And don't you have anything proper to drink around 'ere?”</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>27-06-2014, 03:45:16</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Aggy, Walter Sinnett and Donkey :D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>“A liar and a thief!”</strong> spat Aggy as she replied to Walter’s question as to who had passed him as he had made his way to the ranch. Just incase he didn’t get the idea that Agitha was not best pleased with the fancy cowboy, she spat on the wooden porch for good measure.&nbsp; It has become obvious to her that Walter was not there to buy a horse, and so she turned on her heels and left Letty to deal with their visitor. She had cookin’ to see to! <br><br>The sound of the door squeaking as is it opened and slammed shut signaled Aggy’s exit, drawing Letty’s focus towards the ranch as she looked over her shoulder. Agitha Gates was not one for idle chit chat. <strong>”Si, I was there… what is this feck? I do not understand”</strong> replied Letty as she watched the donkey smoke. She nodded her head towards the beast and quickly changed the subject. Whatever that word meant, something told her that she really didn’t want to know the answer. <strong>”He needs food, si? Come….come to the barn”</strong> suggested Letty. <br><br>Not waiting to see if he would follow or not she headed towards the barn, ready to offer the visitor’s donkey some proper food and more water. She held a soft heart for animals and hated to see them suffer. It was hot and the poor donkey looked as if he needed some rest. She heard Walter’s request as she was a few steps away from him and stopped to turn to wave him on. <strong>”Si. Jorge keeps it hidden from Aggie. It’s the drink of el diablo… the devil.”</strong> She wasn’t about to explain to this stranger that she had been spared any horrors from the drink by an angel by the name of Avery, and his assistant Corky. It wasn’t any of his business. All Letty wanted to do was look after the donkey and get the stranger on his way. <br><br><strong>”You look hungry”</strong> commented Letty as she pulled the barn door open to allow Walter and the Donkey into the cool darkness. The sounds of the goats bleating caused her to smile, while the arrival of the newcomers had the chickens all in a flutter. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>30-06-2014, 02:31:15</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Agatha, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“Yeah, he seemed like a right bloody wanker to me to. Feck ‘im… I see that bastard again I’ll give him a right piece of my bloody mind.”<br></strong><br>Walter didn’t know exactly what had caused the old bint’s distress, but he could hazard a good guess. There weren’t many truly independent businesses around in the world for a reason and that reason was that everyone wanted a piece. This bloody horse house was on one of the relatively few wide and open parts of the Great Maze where there weren’t a bloody feckin’ crevice for you to suddenly tumble down. That meant it was a worth a penny or two. You only had to look at what Walter was doin’ for Sweetrock to see that everyone was gettin’ in on the act. Maybe the bastard had been from one of the railroads. They also wanted the flat land for their soddin’ tracks. Bugger didn’t look Chinese though… maybe some other group of cunts who wanted to bend Gomorra over and fuck ‘em. <br><br>Walter knew how it worked you see. He’d done pretty much that exact job himself. Some guy runs a businesses… could be a family firm, could be he’d bought it, could be he’d stolen it, it didn’t bloody matter. But that business was located in a slumlord’s territory and that meant Walter was sent off to “negotiate” for it. If the slumlord liked it then they’d keep it for themselves, if they didn’t like it then they’d just get a bit of the action… “protection” they called it, ‘cos if you didn’t pay the money then there was nothin’ protectin’ you from Walter. And Walter could be a very aggressive bloody negotiator. And in this case “bloody” wasn’t just a bit of slang to add emphasis… it was actually true. First off Walter would ask for what he wanted. If you said yes, no harm, no foul, on you go with your day. If you said no, Walter broke a bone. Then asked again. Say no again and another bone got broken. Repeat as necessary… and if Walter got bored of breakin’ bones he could get a bit bloody inventive. And let’s say you had the sort of courage tales are made of, the sort of moral fortitude that even the great feckin’ heroes would aspire to and you resisted even after havin’ your bones broken, your teeth smashed out with a hammer, your fingers and toes chopped off, your eyes and nose sliced away, your eyes put out and some rather important bits severed with a rusty hacksaw then Walter would simply ease your sufferin’ by slittin’ your throat, dump your body in the Thames, sit in the house till some more goons arrived and Bob’s your uncle, the place was yours.<br><br>But Walter was smart enough to know that he weren’t the only type of bastard sent to places like this (well, not like this… who the feck would have a horse farm in central bloody London to begin with… but you get what I mean) and slumlords weren’t the only sods interested. Sometimes men came with sharp suits and arrogant smiles. Walter knew to avoid them. Often they called&nbsp; ‘emselves lawyers. Somnetimes they even were lawyers. And they might not have broken bones ‘emselves but they could break a man just as well with little bits of paper sayin’ little words that meant a big deal, at least to the soddin’ magistrate. <br><br>Walter suspected that if he were right the man was more of the second than the bloody first.<br><br>But he might be wrong you know. It could be that the man wasn’t tryin’ to get a piece of this places’ action. Maybe he was a simple liar and thief tryin’ to claim a reward for somethin’ he’d “found” which belonged to the old bint. Maybe the whole thing was a bloody front and as it turned out the old bint was usin’ the horse farm as a front for a smugglin’ operation or some such and the bastard was from the government (which government was an entirely different and far more loaded question) and was tryin’ to get a piece of the action. Maybe it could be a whole host of things. Hell, maybe the man was was from the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty by Horses and he was ‘ere to shut this bloody place down. Walter grinned. Then he remembered that the bastard had been ridin’ a horse. No such soddin’ luck.<br><br>Anyway, Walter didn’t really have time to think about that any more or even ask a question, cos for a crone that bloody women didn’t half leave when she wanted to. Walter didn’t meet that many old women… his lifestyle wasn’t exactly conducive to meetin’ grannies&nbsp; and if he did it was generally only because some other rotter wasn’t doin’ what he should and the Tattered Man needed to exert some pressure. But when he did meet some wizened old creature (and he weren’t talkin’ about his donkey there) it seemed that all they did was natter on. And on. And on. And on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on. Endless small talk about absolutely nothing that anyone other than the feckin’ crone herself cared about. And tea. They always wanted to give you some bloody tea. I mean, Walter liked tea, he liked it almost as much as he liked beer and whiskey but come on? You couldn’t spend every moment of the bloody day drinkin’tea. Yet for these old dears the teapot never ran dry. Not this woman though. She’d asked Walter if he wanted a horse, he’s said no and she’d fecked right off as soon as she realised she weren’t gonna make any bloody money out of him. Walter sort of liked that. If a man had done it Walter might have punched him in the face for the disrespect but this old bird weren’t a man and so he sort of didn’t mind. Perhaps Walter was an accidental gentleman.<br><br>Anyway, the older ladies departure meant he could concentrate on the other one. One looked like she was made out of wood, the other one gave him wood and he couldn’t help a slight leer from appearing on his face as his eyes ran over her curves again. Although the leer lasted all of about two seconds before she opened her mouth and Walter’s own expression crossed over to something of a cross between bewilderment, shock and despair.<br><br><strong>“Jesus bloody Christ, do you feckin’ colonials not speak bloody English or what? That bird don’t know what shag means, you doesn’t know what feck means. Seriously, why don’t you speak no proper English like what I does? </strong><br><br>Walter shook his head dismissively and let out a big sigh.<br><br><strong>"To feck, to shag, to bonk, to bone, to boink, to bump uglies, to make the two backed bloody beast, to bof, to bang, to boing, to do the deed, to flop the hay, to get it on, to hammer, to hit it, to smash it, to knock boots, to mount, to do the naughty, to test the springs, baggin' the bishop, ploughin' that furrow, to do the bedsheet shuffle, to plant your seed, to pork, to pound, to probe, to ram, to ride, to ring 'er bell, to spank the cat, to get busy..."</strong><br><br>Walter illustrated the point with a series of rather crude but informative hand gestures involving one hand forming a ring and the other thrusting a series of fingers inside. The effort was unfortunately wasted as by then the pretty bird had turned her back and was wanderin' off. In reelin' off the list of terms... and that was only a small selection of Walter's euphemisms... Walter almost missed her next comment... but only "almost".<br><br><strong>"... Oi. <em>He</em> needs food? What about bloody me?"</strong><br><br>There was an almost... no screw it, it actually was, not "almost"... a plaintive note to Walter's voice as he spoke, not helped by a preening donkey playfully headbutting him in the side at the mention of gettin' fed. Walter glared back at him, the donkey taking on a look of playful innocence.<br><br><strong>"And 'ey, don't you soddin' start either donkey."</strong><br><br>Muttering under his breath, Walter started to wander after Letty, although the grumbling was cut short by the mention of alcohol, replaced by a revolting grin and a distinct brightening of the eyes. Few things brought Walter pleasure in his miserable, worthless life. Alcohol was one of them.<br><br><strong>“Drink of the devil? Whatever you say love; you weren't exactly reluctant to throw a few down your throat back at Babel's were ya? Aggy that old bird right? So who the feck is George or Jorge or however you soddin' pronounce it?”</strong><br><br>Walter's demeanour had notably improved since the mention of alcohol was made, his irritation at his donkey getting' fed before him from a moment ago dismissed without a thought. Tired, dusty and ragged as he was there was still a spring in his step as he came closer to Letty and the now open barn door. Although to be fair his face did somewhat drop when the opening of the portal didn't reveal six kegs of beer, 32 bottles of whiskey and a feast fit for a king but instead showed two goats and some clucking chickens, along with some straw and yet more dust. And if there was one thing Walter didn't need in his life it was more dust. That said, the barn was cool(er) and one of the piles of straw looked particularly comfortable, at least by Walter's lax standards. With all the grace of a drunk hippo, Walter basically collapsed down onto it, startling a chicken nearby which squarked offendedly and waddled off. Walter didn't care. His donkey looked at him disapprovingly before wandering off to have an impromptu staring match with one of the goats.<br><strong><br>“Hungry? You're too right woman. I could eat a bloody horse. Best thing for the buggers. Hell, if I wasn't bloody bone tired I'd go chase down one of those soddin' chickens and eat it raw.”</strong><br><br>Walter was fairly certain that chickens couldn't understand the human tongue (unlike horses, which he was convinced were spying on him as part of their grand conspiracy) and even if they could, he suspected from the way Letty threw strange bloody words in that the chickens spoke Spanish rather than English. But anyway, the chickens seemed to have sensed the intent behind Walter's words and clucked aggressively at him before swarming towards Letty for protection... or it could be that they were simply used to her feedin' them. Regardless, off they clucked. Walter didn't really have the energy to argue with them. Or the inclination to argue with a bunch of chickens.<br><br>In fact, at this moment Walter had the inclination to do very little. One hand reached to his hat and pulled it from his head, placing it next to him before his fingers ran through his short hair. He half-groaned/half-yawned and stretched... before the yawn turned to somewhat of a yelp as his stretching caused him to rest uncomfortably on one of his many implements (for once that's not a euphamism). His hand reached inside his voluminous duster and began to withdraw his tools of the trade, placing them next to the hat beside him. First came he sawn-off shotgun. Then the cavalry sabre he had taken from that unfortunate bastard cavalry officer the beastie had ripped apart. Then his walking stick/club. Then the large and notoriously sharp bowie knife. Then a pair of other knives. And a cosh.And his pipe, now stubbed out so as not to risk a fire. And a harmonica. And a pair of handcuffs... never knew when they might come in handy. Let no-one say that Walter travelled light. Without anything hard and normally pointy or sharp to make him uncomfortable Walter settled back onto the straw with his hands behind his head. The donkey had given up his staring contest with the goat and instead wandered back over to Walter and looked at him quizzically. Walter patted him on the head before looking back up to Letty.<br><br><strong>“Yeah, a good feed would set me right up love. A good feed and a good drink would make me right as bloody rain. You know what thought love?”</strong><br><br>Walter propped himself up on one elbow, his donkey likewise turning to look at Letty.<br><br><strong>“Considerin' we were just talkin' about it, I could really do with a shag. Been at least a day since I got my cock wet and that whore was pretty underwhelmin'. That old bird... Aggie did you say her name was... she looks like the sort who needs a good shaggin'. But well, you look like the sort I'd want to give a good shaggin' to. How much does it cost for a roll in the hay with you?”</strong>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>30-06-2014, 03:32:10</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>”Si, we speak Inglés señor”</strong> replied Letty, purposely using her native tongue. She wasn’t offended by his comments, nor did she find him particularly amusing. Thankfully her back had been turned to him so she had been spared the visual aids of his answer to her question, and although she was trying to listen for the definition, Letty had to admit she was still non the wiser to the meaning of “feck”. His accent was thick and left her guessing to half of what he was saying. Rather than ask him again, Letty chose to fake her understanding and simply nod her head. <br><br>Waiting for him to pass over the threshold into the cool protection of the barn she nodded her head, answering his question that Aggy was in fact the “old bird”. <strong>”Jorge”</strong> corrected the young Mexican before explaining who the man with the drink was. <strong>’He comes to help us with some reparaciones en el granero, ah...fixing the barn, si”</strong> Jorge would stay for a week or so depending on how much work needed to be done and sleep in the barn before he would leave for another job. <strong>”He leaves … drink in here. Hidden.”</strong> <br><br>She followed into the barn, ignoring the chickens the flocked around her feet. Grabbing a bucket she brought it back to the pump to draw some water for the donkey before filling half of a trough that was sectioned off with a piece of wood. Letty then used a smaller bucket to fill with feed to fill the other part of the trough before clucking her tongue to call over the Donkey, signaling that his dinner was ready. <br><br><strong>”I will not offer you a horse, but I can get you something to fill your stomach for now…”</strong> began Letty <strong>”You’ll be better off with cooked meat, better for your tummy.”</strong> She moved towards a ladder that lead to a small loft area that was covered with clean hay. Gathering her skirt in one hand, Letty climbed the ladder with practiced ease and crawled across the small platform to unearth a half filled bottle of rum before making her way back down to the main level of the barn. <br><br>As she approached Walter, who was making himself comfortable, Letty held out the bottle for him to take and smiled as he accepted her offer of food. She was ready to go fetch him the promised food when he added to his list of wishes. <br><br>Letty froze<br><br>At first she was none the wiser to what Walter was suggesting since Letty still had no idea what the term “shag” meant. However the second he described exactly what he was getting at her eyes grew wide and she stumbled back to place distance between them. <strong>”I am not part of the offerings. Cost or no cost.”</strong> Her heart was beating a mile a minute, causing her breath to come rapidly, pressing her breasts against the fabric of her dress. But her pride would not let his question drop. <strong>”And if I was that kind of woman I can assure you, my cost would be high!”</strong><br><br>She narrowed her eyes as her temper began to rise. She had to calm down before she flew at him, ready to scratch his eyes out. <strong>”The only rolling you will do here is alone...drink. I’ll get you food. Nothing more.”</strong> As she was talking, Letty was inching towards the pitch fork leaning up against the barn wall, just incase things turned for the worse. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>01-07-2014, 13:20:16</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“You lay a bloody hand on that pitchfork with the wrong intention love and I'll take the blunt end and shove it so far up your fat arse you'll be choking on it.”</strong><br><br>The mood had changed.<br><br>Walter had changed.<br><br>Up to this point he may have been crude, he may have been crass, he may have picked his words poorly but he had been mostly amiable. He had joshed with his donkey, followed where Letty led and generally been ill-tempered but harmless... like a sort of strange immigrant pet bear.<br><br>He wasn't harmless any more.<br><br>Walter was propped up on both elbows and his eyes were fixed on Letty. And what a stare it was, for his right eye seemed to glow red and carry with it the promise of imminent violence. Not just violent. Pain and death. Suffering and rage. Agony and torture. This was not the stare of Walter Sinnett, Englishman abroad who struggled with the language and the food and the weather and the horses. This was not the stare of a man out of place and trying to finding his place in the world.<br><br>This was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Butcher of Bayswater, this was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Scourge of Spitalfields, this was the stare of Walter Sinnett, the Monster of Millwall. This was the stare of the Tattered Man. A man who had killed, who enjoyed killing, who savoured killing. A man who done acts that would blacken the tongue to speak of and corrupt the soul to consider. It was not just a stare, it was a promise. A promise of what was to come and the price one who felt the stare fall upon them would have to pay. It was a stare that looked deep into the person and asked the simplest of questions; did they want to live? Make no mistake ladies and gentlemen, when you cut to the heart of the matter (and Walter was rather good at cutting) that was the basic nature of Walter Sinnett. Forget the whiskey, forget the whores, forget the donkey, forget the knives, forget the hat, forget the coat. Forget the accent, forget the slang. Forget it all. Focus on the simplest and most true point of all. When Walter Sinnet launched this stare at someone, this weapon of his, this tightening of the jaw and narrowing of the eyes, this clenching of knuckles and gritting of teeth, he was asking if they wanted to die this day, for if they did Walter would happily oblige them in the most brutal, demeaning and painful of manners. Few did. People had pissed themselves, yellow uring runnin' all down their britches, when Walter turned his eyes on them... and now Walter's eyes burned into Letty, sparkling not with delight but with despair and his voice carrying the chill promise of death.<br><br>A pet bear ladies and gentlemen is not truly a pet. For while it may bumble along in an almost comedic manner, eating whatever you throw it and simply content to laze around doing very little of anything it can also snap and rip your head off at the slightest provocation. And Walter had seemingly been provoked.<br><br>It had all been so much better just a few short moments before.<br><br>Walter had chuckled lightly at Letty's assertion that they did speak English, eyes (distinctly lacking a threatening red glow) staring up to the ceiling of the barn.<br><br><strong>“Nah, you don't speak English love. You speak some bloody yankee-doodle version... hell, you speak some yankee-doodle crossed with bloody Spanish version. It's like we're speakin' a bloody different language despite some of the words bein' the same.”</strong><br><br>Walter's donkey perked up considerably at the sound of first water and then feed being poured into the trough and immediately trotted over, burrowing his head into the sustinance. Walter chuckled again and spoke without rancour, still adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the straw.<br><br><strong>“Traitor.”</strong><br><br>Thoughts of donkey's with questionable morals quickly passed from Walter's mind as Letty went off to get him his drink. Not just because there was alcohol involved... although that certainly helped... but because it involved Letty gathering up her skirt and climbing up a ladder. Which in turn gave Walter a chance to appreciate her rear end. From what Walter could tell, Letty had a rather nice rear end, even still somewhat hidden under her clothes. Thick and meaty, something you could really grab hold of and would cushion you if you pounded it a bit too hard. When people went around choosin' a whore, if the choice came down to a fat or thin one they went with the thin cos' people tend to think a thing girl is better lookin' than a fat one. But that's because most people were bloody stupid. You didn't pick a whore on looks... it weren't like you were goin' to be bringin' 'em back to your parents or showin' 'em off to your mates... so as long as she was attractive enough for Little Walter to stand to attention then that would do. What mattered with the whore was how she felt and a fat whore was nice and comfortable. A thin one? You'd end up with bruised thighs from slammin' against bone over and over again. No, Walter was smart enough to know you picked a girl with a bit of meat on her every time... and Letty certainly had some meat to her.<br><br>And then she brought rum, which meant she was just about Walter's favourite person in the world right then.<br><br><strong>“Rum? Didn't expect that... thought everyone just shot down whiskey or bourbon or whatever they call it over 'ere. And most of you Mexi-whatever's drank Tequila or whatever that bloody stuff that looks like piss and has a worm in it is called. Feck it, rum will do though. Keeps the British navy goin' doesn't it? Rum, sodomy and the lash. I never met many sailor boys myself... half the ships may be built in bloody Millwall but they all sail from the bloody south coast, but you 'ear the stories. When ashore it's all wine, women and song but stick 'em on a ship for three months and it's rum, bum and bacca. Never fancied a man's rear end myself but two out of three ain't bad.”</strong><br><br>Walter tapped at his pipe before pulling the stopper off the bottle of rum with his teeth and taking an almighty swig, followed by a massive and long lasting “ahhhhhhhhhhhh” as the fire rolled down his neck. That was better, that was much better, that was much, much, much, much, much better. Somewhere cool to lie down, alcohol to be drunk, food to be brought and maybe, just maybe, a bird to give a right old seein' to. The Letty decided to ruin everything by gettin' bloody angry. It didn't take long for Walter to decide he quite liked her when she was angry, especially the way her quicker breaths caused her chest to rise and fall and push her tits out. But then her eyes narrowed and he saw her start to work her way towards a pitchfork and now, here we are.<br><br>With Walter staring pure murder at Letty. Even the donkey had stopped its feedin' and raised its head, just as the chickens and goats fell quiet too. They knew something was about to happen.<br><br>It did.<br><br>What did happen was that Walter briefly closed his eyes and when he opened them again there was no sign of anger, no sign of rancour, not hint of violence to come. Instead he simply lay back again, head once more pillowed in his hands, tone friendly... or at least as close to friendly as Walter got.<br><strong><br>“It was only a bloody question love. No need to get bent out of soddin' shape. You're bloody right though. You'd cost a pretty penny you would. You got all your teeth, all your limbs, both ears and as far as I can tell two workin' eyes, neither of which is lazy. I had a whore with a lazy eye once... bloody wierd it was 'cos I kept thinkin' there was some bastard stood behind me. Yeah, you could charge a bloody fortune for a quickie with you and people would pay it. Hell, you're half set-up here already and it's got to be better than lookin' after bloody horses. Got a buildin' not that far from Gomorra, got somethin' comfortable to lie on. All you really need are some curtains...”</strong><br><br>Walter looked up to the ceiling, mapping out in his head how the barn could be turned into a brothel.<br><br><strong>“Some people would prefer beds but honestly, straw's just as comfortable and you can throw it out when it gets messy rather than just turnin' it over and hopin' the next punter don't notice. Hell, what's the word... ru... r...r... rus... rustic, that's bloody it. You call it “rustic” and you charge an extra coin for that and people will still pay.”</strong><br><br>A glance around the barn again, followed by another slug of rum.<br><br><strong>“You'd need an abbess of course. Can't have a brothel without a madam who runs the place. They gotta be tough and scary for those outside but nice and carin' to the whores inside. That Agatha bint seems like she'd do the job. And you'd need a bastard. Someone to keep the punters in line and keep them honest. I could do that. I done it before. Gotta watch out for some punters.”</strong><br><br>Another slug of rum filled Walter's mouth and nostalgia filled his voice.<br><br><strong>“I was lookin' after some dollyhouse down in Shoreditch one time. Decent place actually, not that much need for me. Perhaps that's why I only got a small discount rather than pussy for free. Anyone, there was one guy who went there, a cunt cnamed Richard but everyone just called him dick. And Richard liked everyone to know that he'd done a whore. He wanted marks on 'em, to treat 'em rough. Now I ain't got no problem with that, I like me some rough stuff too but you gotta remember, we're talkin' about whores here. You rent 'em for a while, you don't own 'em. They're whores, no slaves. And if nothin' else, no man likes to be reminded the whore he's about to tumble has already been feckin' around that day. Sure, we all know it... we ain't stupid... but as long as it's not obvious we put it out of our mind. But if the whore comes up to you with her pussy gaped right open, her hair a mess, her arse bright red, marks all over her and a bloody black eye then you can't really avoid the fact that she's just been given a right good seein' to... and that's bad for business. You can do it if you want, but the whore's got to agree and you got to pay more. But Dick didn't pay&nbsp; more and he didn't ask the whores if they agreed to takin' a beatin'.”<br></strong><br>Walther lifted up his hat and gently used the brim to fan his face,<br><br><strong>“So me and him had a little conversation. He asked me why it was difficult to breath and I said it was 'cos I'd broken three of his ribs. And then I had a chat about how he should show a bit more respect to the whores. Thought that would be the end of it didn't I? Stupid of me.”</strong><br><br>Down went the hat.<br><strong><br>“For two months he was a good little boy. He could have gone to another knockin' shop... I half expected 'im too. But he was right sweet on one of the lasses wasn't he? Pretty little thing called Sally. Small, petite, looked like she was made out of china. Half expected her to crack whenever someone touched her. She had happy eyes though. That was the big thing. Aint many whores with happy eyes and hers were right full of joy. Dick liked her... he liked her a lot. Treated her right too. Spent his speed, went on his way and never marked her. Even tipped a couple of times. Everything seemed good.”</strong><br><br>A slight grimace appeared on Walter's face, his eyes narrowing.<br><br><strong>“I'm sat in the taproom one night with my feet up. Quiet night really; I'd had to throw out a group of rowdy dockers but they were too full of beer to really do much of anything. So I'm sittin' there sippin' on a cup of tea and wonderin' if I've got enough change in my pocket to get one of judy's to sip on somethin' of mine when there's a great crash and a scream. I'm up like a stabbed rat and go chasin' up there to find out what the feck was goin' on. It was Sally's room. Should have known. And the window was open and Dick had bolted.”</strong><br><br>The grimace deepened.<br><br><strong>“He'd taken a whip to her. Not just to her back or her arse or even her tits... that would be bad enough but it can be dealt with. Nah, he'd taken it to her bloody face. And not just once. After they cleared the blood away there were at least three deep lines across her face. Lines that scarred and stayed forever. And with the tears wiped away you could see her eyes weren't full of joy no more. So I went to find Dick.”</strong><br><br>A hand clenched.<br><strong><br>“I didn't kill 'im. That weren't the point of it. Sure, he needed to be bloody punished but there needed to be more than that as well. It weren't just about punishin' Dick, it was about sendin' a message. People die in London everyday and many of 'em die badly. If I'd just knifed Dick and dropped his body in the Thames then what message had been sent? Would the next lad who wandered into a whorehouse with a bit of anger to take out realised what would happen if he went too far? No chance. No, I made an example out of Dick. I took away everythin' he could use to hurt anyone... his hands, his feet, his tongue, his eyes, his em... sensitive parts. Then I nailed what was left of 'im to London Bridge with a sign around his neck sayin' he'd beaten a whore and this is what he got. When I came back and showed Sally a part of him I'd removed, I saw some joy in her eyes again. Only time though. Ain't much call for a scarred up whore and she weren't no good as a thief. I tried to tell her to go visit some nuns where she'd at least get a meal a day even if she did have to wear a habit and pretend like she knew the lord but she wouldn't listen. Ended up tryin' to be a pickpocket but I guess she was too used to makin' sure people knew her hands were there to do the opposite. Hell, when she stuck a hand in a pocket she probably squeezed a cock by reflex. They hung her. Only six months after that bastard took her face. But we didn't have trouble. Not for a long time. Word got out and no punter do nothin' to a whore that she hadn't agreed and he hadn't paid for. And not just in our whorehouse, in most of 'em right across London. I reckon I saved a few whores lives that day. Couldn't save Sally though. She had to suffer so others didn't. Pretty shit for her really."</strong><br><br>Another deep drink of rum, swishing it around his mouth.<br><strong><br>"That's why you need a bastard love. You need some fecker to scare the shit out of the punters so no-one gets treated like Sally. 'Cos she didn't feckin' deserve that."</strong><br><br>Walter swallowed.<br><br><strong>“Bloody hell, what was I talkin' about?”</strong><br><br>Walter pushed himself back up to his elbows, eyes glancing at Letty. There was no indication of either the anger or nostalgia that had flowed through him previously in either his tone or expression; it was as if the last few minutes had not happened.<br><br><strong>“Oh yeah... whorin'. It was only a bloody question love, no need to get so self-bloody-rightous. I mean, Jesus, what's the world comin' too when a man can't ask a lady if he could pay to feck 'er? That's just good communication love; basis of all great relationships. Anyway...”</strong><br><br>He rolled her neck slowly, feeling a few pops and cracks as he loosened it up. His irration at the hot dust of the Great Maze had meant he had forgotten the knife blade still buried in his shoulder but as the cool barn did its work he could feel the dull ache start up again. Someday he'd have to have it seen to. Preferably by a doctor who looked more skilled than the butcher Walter had apprenticed under.<br><br><strong>“... if you're not in the game then I take it that Aggy bint ain't either? I mean, she ain't exactly my type&nbsp; but, feck it, needs must if ya know what I mean. Like seriously, what's the longest you've ever gone without feckin? After about a week it just gets bloody awkward you know? Makes me right soddin' irritable. And shaggin' your hand just aint the same no matter what you try to do. I've tried all the bloody tricks; usin' my left hand, sleepin' on my hand till it goes dead and then usin' that, both hands, cuppin' my balls, twistin' rather than strokin', bloody all of 'em but it just ain't the same. Probably the same for you lasses right? A couple of fingers, a bit or wood or even a carrot... it just ain't the same as a hard dick slammin' ya. Hell, carrots... you got any? My donkey is mighty partial to a few bloody carrots and I don't mind 'em myself. Where was I?”</strong><br><br>Walter took another big swig of the rum. Frankly, he was getting through it at what would be an alarming rate for most people. For Walter it was a quiet afternoon.<br><br><strong>“A feed. That was it. Yeah, I got my drink, I'm guessin' I ain't gettin' a whore so yeah, a nice bit of grub would really hit the spot. What do you people eat out 'ere? It ain't horse is it?”</strong><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>03-07-2014, 04:31:30</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty visibly paled as the threat was delivered with all the force of a brick smashing up against the side of her head. She froze where she stood, halfway between Walter and the pitchfork. There was something about the man that warned her to take his words seriously. He was most likely many horrible things, but a liar….at least at that moment, he was not! To show good faith she shuffled away from the pitchfork, careful to keep distance between herself and the stranger. Glancing to the right, she tried to judge how long it might take her to escape out of the barn. He was tired from the heat. It was possible he might not be able to catch her. <br><br>Frozen with indecision she stood like a lamb to the slaughter waiting to see what his mood would bring. In her mind she was praying to the several of the saints that she had often rolled her eyes at when visiting church with her mama. The thought of never seeing her sisters, her father, her mother, and all of her relatives again was humbling. <br><br>Letty had left to get away from them and now when she was facing her possible death, they were wall that she could think of. Perhaps she ought to just give him what he wanted and lay with him. It wasn’t like she was a virgin. Letty had been foolish at age sixteen and had been seduced by one of the sons of a visiting family. They had been rich. It hadn’t been memorable. It was also the only time she had ever allowed a man between her legs. <br><br>It wouldn’t be so bad… if memory served her right the entire thing lasted for three, maybe four seconds. As she considered the idea her hand moved to her blouse, as if her body had already made her mind up. A woman did things to survive. This land had taught her that! <br><br>However somewhere in the endless chatter her mind had changed her mind and now here she was frozen, terrified and without a single clue as to what to do next. <strong>”Stew… we have stew cooking since morning señor. I will fetch it, por favor...and carrots, si...yes?”</strong> She wasn’t going to move unless he said so. One wrong move towards the pitchfork and she had a feeling she would regret it more than she had come to regret leaving home. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>08-07-2014, 01:37:31</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr>If Walter had been paying attention to Letty he'd have noticed she'd basically stopped paying attention to what he was saying immediately after his opening line. If Letty had been paying attention to Walter she'd have noticed that he had accepted her refusal to spread her legs for coin with surprisingly good grace. But Walter was too busy telling a story and Letty was too busy being scared out of her damn mind. Walter wasn't paying attention to Letty not paying attention and Letty wasn't paying attention to Walter not paying attention. From what I understand that mutual act of not paying attention to what the other party is saying, thinking or doing is how marriages work. In fact, not paying attention to the other party not paying attention to you and not having sex with each other is actually a pretty workable definition of marriage. But, funny as the image would be and as strange as it would make the children, Walter and Letty weren't married. They'd barely met. Technically Walter didn't actually know Letty's name.<br><br>Where was I?<br><br>Oh, yes, Walter and Letty. Walter was opening himself up and telling a story of his younger days, one that most likely had led to a great impact on his psyche and world view and Letty was contemplating her mortal life and how Walter might end it but like two ships at night or two rats gnawing at a dead body from opposite ends, neither had a clue what the other one was doing until they rammed into each other/bumped noses and looked up bewildered. Walter had seen the way the cog's in Letty's mind had turned and from the sounds of it Letty hadn't heard a word Walter said since he threaten to bugger her with a pitchfork. Thankfully there was one universal constant that no manner of tale, distraction or terror could keep from Walter's mind.<br><br>Food.<br><strong><br>“Stew. I do a like a good bloody stew. Although do you even get turnips over 'ere? Some people say you should put some ale in a stew but I never got round to it. Ale's for drinkin' innit, not for stewin'. Good beef and turnip stew... that's the dog's bollocks that it. And yeah, some carrots would be bloody nice too. Donkey over there likes carrots. Eats them all the bloody time he does. Oi!”</strong><br><br>A chicken, seemingly less frightened of Walter than Letty, had wandered over to the Tattered Man and apparently decided that there was some delicious looking seed inbetween his fingers and that it was a wise idea to peck at it. Walter disagreed and shot his hand back as the chicken's beak hit him. Shaking out his finger he glared at the chicken but the fowl was seemingly braver (or more stupid) than Letty and simply squawked at Walter before trotting away. Walter grumbled under his breath before takin' another swig of rum. The bottle was lookin' dangerously empty at this point. Walter's tired eyes rolled over the barn once more... before settling on one thing in particular.<br><br><strong>“Bloody 'ell, where the feck did that come?”</strong><br><br>The “that” was his donkey. Or more accurate, his donkey's donkeyhood which was suddenly unleashed to its full glory. And it had to be said, the donkey was eyeing one of the goats rather lustfully. Or whatever donkey's did when they wanted to get their end away.<br><br><strong>“Jesus Christ, you're worse than bloody I am donkey. Feckin' slut you are, you know that? Jesus... anyway, love...”</strong><br><br>Back his attention turned to Letty.<br><br><strong>“... listen, I know you ain't gonna sleep with me but could you find somethin' for my donkey to feck? That's a serious problem he's got there and I don't want him chargin' off on my way 'ome. Jesus, even a feckin' horse would do.”</strong><br><br>Another pause.<br><br><strong>“And weren't you getting' me some stew?” </strong><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>08-07-2014, 03:58:03</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">The words hit&nbsp; her like a wet cloth on a hot day. “I know you aint gonna sleep with me….” It was very possible they were the best words she had ever heard in her entire life! The smile exploded and danced in her eyes. She wasn’t going to have to sleep with him! Letty was so happy and relieved that she could have just kissed him! But then something told her that if she had, then Letty would be right back in the same dangerous position that she was just a few minutes earlier.<br><br>Looking over at the donkey Letty blushed and glanced away, only to sneak a peak once again. <strong>”Um… ah.. can you not throw water on it?”</strong> she asked with a bit of a shaky voice. The idea of the donkey mounting one of her sweet goats caused Letty to shudder. With that thing dangling between its legs it would surely spit the poor goat in two!&nbsp; <br><br>There was a horse she supposed…. <br><br><strong>”I can’t believe I’m thinking of finding a date for a donkey”</strong> grumbled Letty as she turned to look at Walter after he reminded her that she was supposed to get him some dinner. <strong>”Si, si… you keep that thing from my goats, and I’ll be back with your dinner”</strong> promised Letty as she moved swiftly towards the barn doors. She paused for a moment, debating whether to keep the doors open or not… the decision was made as she moved swiftly through the doorway without stopping to close the door behind her. Picking up her skirts, Letty hiked the material high so that she would be able to run across the ranch grounds, reaching the old house as fast as she was able. Out of breath and somewhat flustered Letty burst through into the kitchen, surprising Aggie. <br><br>“What is going on girl!” barked Aggie as she turned to watch her normally calm and collected young ranch hand. <br><br><strong>”I need stew… stew and something for a donkey”</strong> replied Letty as she moved about the kitchen, searching for a big clay bowl and moving to scoop out&nbsp; healthy portion of the rabbit stew that had been cooking for most of the day. <br><br>“Hey now… that’s our dinner!” complained Aggie, trying to get Letty to put back the portion she was currently scooping into the bowl. <br><br><strong>”Aye, aye, aye...he can have my portion…I need to get back… Carrots!”</strong> Placing the large bowl down on the counter Letty moved to pick up a bundle of carrots before grabbing half a loaf of bread and tucking it under her arm.&nbsp; She grabbed the carrots by the greens and picked up the large bowl of stew and&nbsp; headed back to the barn and fast as she could, with her skirt still hooked around her fingers to keep herself from tripping. <br><br>Thank god she had left the barn door open!&nbsp; With her hands full she entered the cool dim barn, keeping her eyes on the stew to be sure she didn’t spill a drop. </div>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>14-07-2014, 03:55:06</strong>
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				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“Well, it's alright for you ain't it? Stop battin' your eyelashes at the damn goats and get over 'ere.”</strong><br><br>As Letty went scurryin' away to gather up Walter's meal, the man in question propped himself back up onto his elbows and raised an eyebrow at his excited donkey. The donkey in question looked at Walter with a look of seeming innocence on its face, blinked twice, looked back at the nearest goat, looked at the feeding trough and then padded over to Walter. A grimy hand reached out to scratch it behind the ears with remarkable tenderness.<br><br><strong>“She didn't have to look so bloody happy when I said I weren't gonna feck her, did she?”</strong><br><br>There was no denying the way Letty's eyes had lit up when Walter had mentioned that they seemingly weren't going to enjoy coitus in the hay or the huge smile that had appeared on her face. Or the way an elated breath slipped from her body and it seemed like new life had been breathed into her. Walter wasn't used to inserting joy into people's lives but he guessed the fact that he said he wouldn't be inserting anything into Letty was probably as close as he'd come. Unremarkably, people tended to get happier the less they had to do with Walter.<br><strong><br>“I ain't that bad lookin' a fella am I?”</strong><br><br>The donkey tilted its head quizzically as he took in the dirty face, scars barely hidden by rough stubble, pockmarked skin, rotting teeth, badly broken... and even more badly set... nose and chapped lips. The donkey didn't have to say anything.<br><br><strong>“And it ain't like I'm badly dressed either innit? I mean, I'm wearin' a suit.”</strong><br><br>The donkey seemed to nod, looking at the ripped suit, badly stained by a days travel through the dusr... and many a day's travel before that. If one paid close attention they would notice a few blood stains that hadn't been washed out but the fact the entire ensemble was so filthy actually somewhat minimised quite how badly worn the ragged thing was. Walter didn't get referred to as the “Tattered Man” because of how good he looked...<br><br><strong>“Oi... don't you be getting' self-rightous donkey. You were about to feck a bloody feckin' goat... and a scrawny one at that. Who'd want a feck a goat anyway? You ain't got no bloody standards. It's just she does.”</strong><br><br>The donkey reached down to grasp a bit of straw, chewin' on it solemnly. For his part Walter lay back down, pillowing his head in his hands and staring up at the barn ceiling.<br><br><strong>“What's bloody wrong with me donkey?”</strong><br><br>Walter raised his head, but only enough to take another deep slug of rum.<br><br><strong>“Weren't so long ago if I rocked up to a quiet little place like this with only an old bint and a young slag 'ere I'd have stabbed the bint, raped the slag bloody and then stabbed her, robbed the joint, burnt it down and then fecked off. Now look at me... I'm lying down in a soddin' barn waitin' for her to bring me a feed and getting' offended cos' she won't take my money to feck her. I'm going bloody soft donkey. Right bloody soft.”</strong><br><br>Absent-mindedly Walter scratched at a dust caked eyebrow but his mind was on other things.<br><br><strong>“It ain't the rum talkin'. Rum don't do that. Whiskey? Sure. You drink enough whisky and you get all bloody... what was the word that posh bastard used... madlin? Dawdlin'? Maudking? Feck it, you get bloody sad and you start whinin' about your life and how much of a bugger you are, then you start cryin' and wake up the next day with a sore 'ead. But rum? Rum just wants you to go find some burly sailor boy so he can bugger you and you wake up the next day with a sore 'ead and a sorer arse. Nah, this is somethin' bloody else.”</strong><br><br>The donkey spat away the straw and wandered back over to the feeding station, clearly bored by Walter's moments of introspection. That didn't stop Walter goin' on. And on. And on.<br><br><strong>“It's this bloody place donkey. Not this place... this place is alright. But the whole bloody fast country. I'm feckin' homesick donkey. I miss London. This place... this whole soddin' Great Maze bollocks. It's too hot, it's too dusty, it's too dry, it's too open. There ain't no pubs, they're all “saloons”, the beer's yellow when it should be brown, the whiskey's sweet when it should be bitter, the food's got a load of spices I don't even bloody know the name of in it. Everyone walks round with bloody spurs and arseless chaps with a bloody leather waistcoat. It don't rain enough, it don't get misty enough and it just ain't right. The bluebottles aren't bluebottles cos' they're not called the police, they don't wear a uniform and if they did it wouldn't be bloody blue. They got guns, not truncheons and those feckin' ridiculous Stetson hats or whatever they're called not the round ones our police wear. Even the gangs aren't the bloody same... here it's all feckin' miners and outlaws with a bloody cause and feckin' Indians and feckin' chinamen. Where are the good-old fashined criminals? The proper criminals, not the bloody cunts down at Stiffies. You can walk around London for hours and not get back where you started, half the “cities” in this place you can do a lap of in the time it takes you to take a piss. Everyone rides a bloody horse, they don't even speak English even though they pretend they do and they all shoot each other rather than stab. Feckin' bastards.”</strong><br><br>The donkey stayed entranced by the trough, not paying attention to a word Walter was saying.<br><strong><br>“And I miss 'er donkey. I bloody miss 'er.”</strong><br><br>At this the donkey did finally shake its head. It was clear he'd heard this all before.<br><br><strong>“I've seen 'er once. We said one bloody sentence to each other... she shouted at me for robbin' and I told 'er to feck off. But I can't get her and her bloody swan-neck out of my feckin' mind. It may have been different if I'd run into her after the goddamn bridge fell down and that bastard went in the drink. My blood was up then donkey and if I'd have seen her I'd have given her a good fumble and maybe that would have got it out of my feckin' system but no, I didn't see 'er and I ain't seen 'er and yet every other time I close my soddin' eyes I'm lookin' right at her and the bugger of a swan neck. So what's bloody wrong with me donkey? I've seen pretty girls before... hell, I've even shagged a few before if I had the coin. But none of them did this to me.”</strong><br><br>Back up to his elbows Walter went.<br><br><strong>“Or maybe this is all cos' I ain't killed no-one or even got in a bloody fight these last couple of days. Used to be I'd be sent out to go rough up some bloody miner who got the wrong idea but now? Now I just wander out in the bloody sand for hours and then wander back. But shouldn't that make me angry donkey? Shouldn't that make me want to start killin' again? Not sat here whinin' to you about my feckin' life? I mean, bloody hell donkey, there's something bloody up here and I don't bloody like it.”</strong><br><br>As powerful as Walter's introspection was, there were certain things that could cut through it. And one of them was food. Letty's return was proceeded by wafting aroma of stewed rabbit and to Walter's nose... influenced as it was by hunger... it smelt like heaven in a bowl. He propped himself even further up on his elbows.<br><br><strong>“That smells bloody good love... and not just because my stomach thinks my throats been slit.”</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>15-07-2014, 05:59:23</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty had just been about to enter the cool dim of the barn when she heard a word that had her grow whiter than a ghost.&nbsp; “Kill”&nbsp; She really shouldn’t have been surprised, not after her had threatened her over the pitchfork. But there she was, stumbling over her steps, almost spilling the stew and dropping the bread and carrots. If her opinion counted for anything, and she doubted that it did, Letty would tell Walter that she much preferred the softer, whinney Walter over the would-be murderer and possible rapist. Perhaps a full stomach might keep&nbsp; his mood sweet… or well less vile than what he could potentially be. <br><br><em>Well then Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez… why are you hovering about the door when you could be feeding the man!</em><br><br>It was a good question with the only possible answer being that she was scared! But Letty had faced her fears in the past and it would seem that she was going to do that again. Stepping clear into the barn she pasted on a smile upon her lips and moved to kneel before Walter, offering him the large bowl of rabbit stew. <strong>”I shot the rabbit this morning. Fresh”</strong> explained Letty before she offered him the half loaf of bread and spoon. Her eyes flicked towards the rum and tried to see if he might require more water. The chances of finding another bottle of rum was slim to none, but if he was insistent upon a drink Letty knew she could get her hands on some homemade wine that Aggie kept in the pantry. <br><br>Next came Donkey. No, she hadn’t found a mare to offer the beast to relieve his urge to mount something, but she had found some delicious carrots. As she stood to move closer to Donkey, Letty pulled out one of the three carrots and held it out before her, clucking her tongue in an attempt to call him over. She waited to see if the animal would trust her, smiling as she worked on appearing relaxed. Animals could sense when someone was tense, and the last thing Letty wanted to do was make the animal uncomfortable. </div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>17-07-2014, 17:18:00</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr>Watching Walter eat was far from a pleasant experience. When most people ate... dare I say when normal people ate... however hungry they were they at least took a moment or two to savour the flavours of the dish they were eating. Walter... well, Walter didn't. In fact, he didn't so much “eat” as he did “devour”. And he didn't pick at his food, he poured it. The bowl was brought close to the face, tilted up and the spoon was merely used as an implement to effectively push... or more accurately shovel... the stew into his gaping maw. It was not a pretty sight, nor one that was kind on the ears as Walter chewed and slurped noisily. Walter ate like a man who had seen no food in days and was unlikely to see it again. He ate like the child he had been not the man he (sort of) was. He was like a raging bushfire, consuming all that came into contact with it in seconds, unaware on unconcerned by the damge he left in his wake. Or, in this case, the stew that leaked out to cover his chin or the rabbit flavoured spittle that flew from the corners of his mouth. There were occasionally breaks from the rapid spooning of stew into mouth... but that was only so Walter could grab the half loaf of bread and take a rather huge bite out of it, barely chewing before he'd go right back to forcing more stew into his gob.<br><br>No, not a pretty sight.<br><br>The donkey had immediately perked up at the distinctive sight of carrots and come trotting over to Letty. The poor woman may have been thinking about trust and putting the animal at ease and all that bollocks but that was for bloody horses, not Walter's donkey. Walter's donkey had seemingly, picked up some bad habits from the man himself and so its mental process was far simpler. The woman had carrots. He wanted a carrot. Tense, relaxed, happy, sad, smiling, frowing, it didn't make a soddin' difference... she still had carrots and it still wanted carrots. So over it went. Simple. Rather like Walter. Although there was a moment... just a moment... where the donkey glanced over to Walter and his quest to devour as much food as possible in as short a time as possible, appeared to shake its head before looking back at Letty and rolling its eyes in a mark of exasperation. Although the donkey did rather itself open to claims of hypocrisy when it pretty much ripped the carrot out of Letty's hands and devoured it whole.<br><br><strong>*Burp*</strong><br><br>To say Walter belched doesn't quite describe what happened there, in the same way describing a hurricane as a little breeze doesn't really capture the essence of it. It was long, it was loud, it was proud and it rippled. It was also the sign of a man who had rather enjoyed his meal even if he'd eaten it about as quickly as it was humanly possible to consume food. A sign reinforced as Walter patted his stomach, wiped the back of one of his hands across his face in a vain attempt to clean it (spoiler; it just matted it even deeper into his filthy beard) and belched once more.<br><br><strong>“Damn good feed that love. Damn good bloody feed.”</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Niferbelle</strong> on <strong>20-07-2014, 22:48:45</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/09/Lilah3.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Lilah 'Li-Li' Oliver (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9813377#msg9813377)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> not widely known<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 22nd<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> mid-morning<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sioux Camp<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> whoever's watching <br><hr>It wasn't yet noon but the day was already warm and the sun a steady presence beating down on her shoulders as she approached the Sioux encampment. It was nothing like the high heat of summer, of course, but it was definitely a promise of things to come and a good reason to plan on being near some shade come the afternoon. Her pace was steady and her gait even and she reckoned from a distance her nerves looked calm enough though she was starting to feel some apprehension about her errand. All the stories she'd heard of the horrors the Sioux inflicted on their enemies flitted through her mind unbidden and she tried to banish each as quickly as it appeared, knowing that dwelling on such things would surely work away on her nerves. She wasn't there to start no trouble anyway so she knew the bigger concern was that there wasn't one single, solitary redskin in the world that had any reason at all to help her and she had nothing of real value to offer in return for the information she sought. Folks like to say injuns were savages, that they reacted to things like beasts and when all you had was logic, reason, and sense of purpose in your corner, it could be a mighty touch road to haul. Folks were were wrong about a lot of things though, she told herself, and wouldn't be dissuaded from at least the possibility of some cooperation from them simply because it was the right thing to do.<br><br>That was a&nbsp; mighty thin branch to walk for anybody, no matter the color of their skin.<br><br>She couldn't shake the feeling she was being watched and it made her skin crawl and the sensation was growing stronger the closer she got to camp. She'd likely been watched for quite some time, she knew the Sioux were experts at remaining hidden when they wanted to, but she could practically feel the eyes in her back now though she knew if she turned around she'd see nothing and look like a greenhorn jumping at her shadow to boot. It was their right to watch her anyway, she figured, she was coming onto their ground and who was she? Aside from some kind of hostility breaking out, the worst outcome of course would be that they had no information to give or that they'd just treat her like a crazy woman and shoo her off. What would she do then if her efforts left her empty-handed, the most likely outcome? She had no idea where she would turn next. <br><br>She slowed and the stopped as she reached the edge of the camp, feeling like t would be bad matters to break the circle f shelters that had been erected. She stood silently for a moment, arms slightly away from her side to show she wasn't going to reach for anything, then awkwardly reached up and removed her hat -- maybe they knew enough about white culture to know it was meant to be a sign of respect -- and cleared her throat softly.<br><br>"My name is Lilah Oliver and I didn't come to make trouble," she said. She didn't holler, suspecting in the stillness there were ears close enough to hear, but she did pitch her voice to be heard. "I was hopin' to speak to somebody 'bout things beyond my ken. It's a matter that should concern us all."<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>23-07-2014, 22:01:06</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">It was like a train wreck, or like watching a duel in the street. You knew it was going to lead to carnage but you couldn’t walk away. Couldn't turn your head and look in another direction, no matter how much your stomach protested at the sight! Letty did her very best to contain the groans that wanted to escape, having had to swallow a few, she shivered as the man before her devoured the stew she had offered him. She reminded herself that he must have been starving, but a small voice in the back of her head scoffed, making the assumption that he would have eaten the same way regardless if he had just finished a four course meal! <br><br><em>Do not think uncharitable thoughts&nbsp; Aletta!</em>&nbsp; the voice of her mother drifted from a past memory causing Letty to drop her eyes and feel ashamed. She shouldn’t be judging this man. She knew nothing about him after all. <br><br>The nudge at her side brought a smile to her face as she looked down to see the soft brown eyes of the donkey looking up at her. <strong>”Si my friend. I have more for you...si”</strong> offering the sweet mule another carrot, Letty stroked his main as he munched happily at the thick, orange vegetable. All was pleasant for a moment until Walter had to remind Letty of his present with a sound that frankly didn’t sound human. Her eyes grew owlish in character as she turned to face him with a shocked expression. <strong>”I am happy you enjoyed it señor, perhaps…you might enjoy a bath?”</strong> She didn’t want to insult him, but it was obvious that he might have chosen to skip that particular luxury for more than a few days in a row. <br><br><strong>”Unless...you are still hungry. There is a honey cake. I made it this morning, fresh”</strong> her mind was working overtime. Did she risk upsetting him again by offering coffee? Her dark eyes glanced at the bottle that was practically empty. She figured he would much prefer more of the same, but she doubted another bottle of whiskey would be found. Of course, there was alway the tequila she had hidden in her room… but then that was to be used sparingly. Besides, she didn’t have to offer him everything they had, did she? <br><br>As Letty waited for a reply the donkey seemed to sniff out the remaining carrot and rather than disturb Letty by asking for it, he simply snuffled his nose about her skirt pocket to fish out the tasty treat himself. </div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>31-07-2014, 19:33:40</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Walkin' into the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>"What, you tryin' to say I stink?"</strong><br><br>Walter raised one of his arms and sniffed at his own armpit. The problem here was largely simple. Even putting aside Walter's own thoughts on personal hygiene and bathing (and those were very limited thoughts that rarely went beyond "what a waste of bloody time") the truth was that he had gotten used to his own stench. He could walk, ride, fight, kill, feck and fart for a whole month and barely even notice. And let's be honest, he was used to living in London... and the rough parts of London... which wasn't particularly known for being salubrious or pleasantly smelling. Walter was, to steal a phrase, nose-deaf to his own odor. However badly he stank, however much people around him may wretch, he simply didn't notice.<br><br>The donkey, being the smarter one of the pair, did notice however, and even took the time to stop furrowing for carrots to turn his head and give Walter a long and telling glance. Walter responded with a scowl before taking another sniff of his armpit, grimacing.<br><strong><br>"Alright, maybe you're right. I do pong a bit."</strong><br><br>His duty done the donkey went back to the eternal struggle for more carrots.<br><br><strong>"But let's say I did have a bloody bath here. I've still got to go back through the soddin' dust to get back to Gomorra so I'd end up just like this anyway. Only time to have a bath is when you got a whore in there with you. And you're not on offer are you."</strong><br><br>Walter went back to his pipe, repacking it and lighting it before turning back to Letty.<br><strong><br>"And why you bein' so bloody nice to me? Gettin' me food, gettin' me rum, offerin' me some feckin' cake, wantin' to run a bath for me? I've had whores I've actually paid for not treat me this bloody good."</strong><br><br>Walter sniffed the air and let his eyes glance around.<br><br><strong>"This ain't a bloody trap is it? There ain't some big group of bloody mexicans or whatever the hell you are loiterin' around the back lookin' to jump me once I get nice and relaxed is there? Some bloody joker hidden behin'd the bathtub waitin' to jump at me once I whip my cock out?"</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>07-08-2014, 20:59:06</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty was focused upon the Donkey, mainly because she was somewhat terrified she might have set off the stranger again in another tirade. Though it would appear with a pointed look from her furry friend, Walter had chosen to give into the idea that he might be rather ripe! To award the clever Donkey, Letty scratched behind his ear and nuzzled against his mane. It was only when Walter had asked once more if Letty was on offer that&nbsp; the brunette raised her dark brown eyes to meet the inquisitive orbs of the man in need of a bath. <strong>”Si… I am not”</strong> she replied,&nbsp; hoping to god that she had not sounded combative. <br><br><strong>”You will be dusty, si… but not as… ah… stinky?”</strong> suggested Letty. In the end it was Walter’s choice. If he decided to leave the ranch as he had arrived, but with a full stomach and a gut full of whiskey, it would be no skin off of her nose. She had only suggested it for the Donkey’s sake. After all, it was the poor creature that was stuck with such a smelly companion. <strong>”I am sure your burro would be grateful”</strong> added Letty, trying her best to hide the smile tugging at her lips. <br><br>Moving from the Donkey, Letty placed her hands upon her hips and glared, letting her latin temper get the better of her in a sudden spike of emotions. <strong>”No! There is no other men here but you! Why cannot I be gracious? Is it because you think my people no nothing but the gutter! I would tell you where you can stick that pipe señor! But I am a lady!”</strong> she huffed, glaring down at him with all the fire of her passionate soul. <strong>”Do not accept the bath, or the cake! If I am so untrustworthy then why not leave!”</strong><br></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>13-08-2014, 18:37:06</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sittin' in the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>“Oi.”</strong><br><br>This dumb bint may have possessed the infamous “latin temper” or whatever the feck you called it, but Walter had his cockney temper. And however fierce Letty's “latin temper” was, I highly doubt it being raised normally resulted in the undertakers being swamped for business. “Fire in her passionate soul”? Feck off. Walter wasn't entirely sure he had a soul... and if he did it would be a small, dark, petty thing, full of malice and rusty through lack of use. But what he did have was enough anger and bitterness to swamp a world, the willingness to use it and a pair of knuckles hardened by being driven into flesh and bone. Letty's anger meant little to him, her defiance even less. But one word she chose, one word... that was enough for Walter to settle his own glare upon her and for his voice to thicken with anger.<br><br><strong>“Look at the bloody state of me bitch. Do you think I look and sound like this cos I'm some feckin' civilised man? Where do you think I'm soddin' from and what do you think I feckin' know? I was born in the feckin' gutter. Well, actually, I was born in a whorehouse but that's pretty much the same thing what with all the bodily fluids flowin' around. And that's all I've ever bloody known. I'm scum love, the filth you scrape off your bloody shoe. I know what I am and I ain't bloody ashamed of it. Now, I don't know a bloody thing about Mexicans outside of the fact they're from bloody Mexico, wear stupid feckin' wide hats, drink this god awful stuff called Tequila and one of the bastards tried to buy my donkey. You know why I think some of you bastards may be tryin' to jump me? Cos that's what I'd bloody do. Cos' people aren't nice to me unless they want somethin' and in my world when people want somethin' they tend to feckin' take it. I ain't one for pretty words love... I can't say 'em, I can't write 'em and even if I bloody could I wouldn't. But don't you for a feckin' moment think that I'm gonna judge someone for bein' from the gutter.”</strong><br><br>His own anger abated for the moment Walter went back to one of the few pleasures he had in his life and took a deep drag from the pipe.<br><br><strong>“Anyway, you look right bloody feckable when you're angry so I'll try and remember the words you used and get a whore to speak like you tonight before I stick my cock up her arse.”</strong><br><br>Content that his point was made... whether it was or wasn't... Walter settled back down with his hands pillowing his head, looking up at the ceiling. Then a thought struck him... and from the way his face openly and obviously scrunched up in concentration it was clear to anyone watching that he was thinking, that this wasn't a regular occurance and that it actually appeared somewhat painful. Rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow, he directed another question to Letty.<br><br><strong>“Why would my donkey appreciate a bath? Every time I throw a bucket of water on 'im he just hee-haws a lot and tries to kick me.”</strong><br><br>Clearly the brains of the operation the donkey shook his long head, looked up at Letty with something between apology and resigned acceptance, before burrowing for another carrot. Walter may have misunderstood her question, but the donkey hadn't.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>22-08-2014, 17:19:04</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty wasn’t exactly shocked at his response, well not at the start of it anyway. Some might have thought he was a raging lunatic, and frankly there was a part of Letty that was absolutely sure that he was. But he was also a proud raging lunatic. Her eyes narrowed as he admitted to thinking only of his own reaction and not that of the Mexican people. Placing her hands on her hips, Letty opened her mouth to speak when Walter robbed her of the chance by adding a bit of information that Aletta could have most certainly done without! <br><br>She stood there, hands white knuckling her hips, mouth hung open, and at a complete loss of what to say. In fairness, he had warned her what type of man he was, but still… Letty hadn’t been prepared for the visual that had slammed her hard after his graphic explanation for his evening plans. Then suddenly, as if someone&nbsp; had pressed a button to put her on fast forwards, Aletta threw up her hands and began to pace back and forth, spewing out a stream of Spanish that was being spoken so fast there wasn’t a hope of anyone understanding her, unless fluent in the language.&nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>Not that her annoyance seemed to affect Walter. Letty hadn’t even noticed he had resumed his place among the straw until his voice cut through her anger, causing her to stop suddenly in her pacing and turned to stare down at him, clear with the expression that said… <em>you are insane!</em> <br><br>Luckily the Donkey seemed to share in the same thoughts, or similar at any rate. She smiled, despite the mood she had previously been in, and stroked the beasts mane as he rummaged for more carrots. <strong>”Because you smell…badly. Your poor ass has a sensitive nose, he maybe would not kick at you if you maybe joined in the bath.”</strong> She shook her head, already resolved with the fact that the attempt to clean him was a losing battle. </div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>25-08-2014, 01:41:48</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sittin' in the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr>It was remarkable how frequently people stopped speaking or understanding English when Walter was around.<br><br>For once this wasn't a reference to the bloody yankee-doodles and their tendency to butcher the Queen's bloody English. A pair of trousers was not called "pants"... pants were what went inside your trousers (or not, dependin' on how much freedom to swing you wanted). Walter got pissed off about that enough but even in his most bitter moments he didn't think that those bloody yanks only started speakin' like that when he was around. No, he was talking about a very specific phenomenon.<br><br>Let's give an example. Walter walks into a pub and asks someone where the money that person owes is. And rather than answer that question the bugger starts goin' on about "I have a wife and children", "I'll have it in two days" and so on and so on. It was a simple bloody question with a simple bloody answer. Either it was 'ere, in which case you give it to Walter, he pats you on the back and you can go on with your life. Or it wasn't 'ere and Walter punched you in the mouth repeatedly and then told you he'd be back to get it later. Feckin' simple, yet people suddenly understandin' English. And when he started punchin' people they tended to forget how to speak English either. He'd ask them if they were willing to tell 'im where the money was and they'd just gurgle and mumble God knows what. Although thinkin' about it, that could be on account of the fact he'd just broken their jaw. Shouldn't discount that.<br><br>This bint wasn't quite like that though. She'd started rantin' and ravin' in Spanish. Feck that. She may as well have been talkin' in Welsh. Feck that too. Walter hated the Welsh. Hated the Spanish too matter of fact. Feck 'em. Take some Francis Drake you feckin' dogs. Anyway, Walter didn't pay much attention to it. She hadn't gone for the pitchfork and that made her alright by him.<br><br><strong>"Joined in the bath? Like, I get in the bath while my donkey's in it? How'd we both fit? And anyway, he's got a bigger dick then I do... don't want that stabbin' me in the bloody eye while I'm covered in suds."</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>29-08-2014, 19:15:29</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Aletta hadn’t expected the answer she was supplied with. That in itself shouldn’t have surprised her. After all in the short period of time she had been in Walter’s company he had shocked her more than he had ever shown to be predictable. However, what had surprised her was her response to his worries. As if a flood of emotions had suddenly been released, Letty found herself almost doubled over with laughter. Her dark brown eyes glistened with water that pooled at the corners of her eyes before spilling over her long, dark lashes. Tears rolled over her cheeks, sliding over her jawbone to trail down along her elegant neck to pool between the valley of her breasts, leaving nothing but a track of moisture to show the dirt that had settled upon her skin.<br><br>It was all too much. His blunt responses ranging from violent and offensive, to down right rude and now… this! Most women would have found his comment on the donkey’s assets to be crude and uncalled for. But Letty couldn’t help but laugh. The mental picture that had flashed in her mind alone had been enough to crack a smile, but the instant response from the Donkey had been enough to tip her over the edge. Already weary, and tired from a long day in the sun, Letty had found herself at the edge of sanity. The desert heat did that to a person, and at that moment she cracked.<br><br>Falling down beside him onto the soft hey, Letty lay with her eyes closed, her hand resting on her flat tummy, and her body vibrating from the stream of laughter that didn’t seem to want to end. <strong>”My stomach…”</strong> she whispered somewhat out of breath as she tried to control her sudden burst of hilarity. Taking in deep breaths, holding them and releasing the air slowly, Letty finally was able to settle down. She smiled, still feeling the affects of the mirth that had given&nbsp; her a burst of endorphins throughout her body, putting her in almost a good mood. <strong>”You do smell…”</strong> she stated after a moment of breathing him in as she lay beside him on the straw. <strong>”But I see your point.. or imagined it.”</strong></div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>08-09-2014, 01:46:11</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sittin' in the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>"Is everyone in this bloody country bloody crazy?"</strong><br><br>Walter wasn't talking to Letty. He wasn't talking to anyone. Alright, maybe he was talking to himself, turning thoughts to words. Even Donkey wasn't really listening; with Letty collapsed down his source of carrots had been sadly cut off and so he wandered over to the trough with the feed in it.<br><br>It was fair to say that Walter produced a variety of reactions in people and that such reactions tended to change the longer their meeting went on. There was panic, bravado, fear, terror, remorse, anger, rage, sadness, regret, hate and a whole bunch of other words to convey emotions and reaction as well. Walter was used to most of them.<br><br>Laughter?<br><br>Laughter was something a bit new.<br><br>Walter couldn't deny he was a bit bemused as Letty collapsed down next to him. And people called <em>him</em> crazy? This bint had gone from friendly to helpful to defiant to angry to thinking about murdering him with a pitchfork to bringing him water and rum to insulted to condescending (Walter wasn't sure what they meant) to now pretty much hysterical. Walter only really had one coping mechanism when it came to hysterical women which generally involved him slapping them really hard until they fell unconscious but, in a rare example of self-control and tact, he decided not to. Maybe the bird had decided to sample the rum before handing it to him and it was just kicking in for her. Maybe this wasn't really a horse ranch but actually a place for crazy people... they had to stick them somewhere after that damn <em>thing</em> had torn through the Asylum. Anyway, wasn't it the bloody new thing to change how you treated the feckin' crazy? Back in the day you stuck 'em in Bedlam and charged a penny for people to go in and poke them with a stick. Then you started shootin' electricity through 'em because givin' em a bloody electrocution would clearly make people <em>less</em> bloody crazy... even Walter thought that was pretty much bollocks. And now they started sendin' people out to the bloody country for fresh air, hard work and some crap like that. Maybe Letty was one of those? Some nutter sent her to recuperate.<br><br>It would explain a bloody lot.<br><br><strong>"You know what love... you ain't exactly smellin' of roses and honey either are you? In fact, you got a bit of a pong to you yourself."</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>19-09-2014, 18:56:26</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">The laughter had stopped (thankfully) but the smile remained on Letty’s face, as well as in the depths of her dark brown eyes. She lay beside Walter amongst the straw and attempted to find her temper, and failed. She raised her right arm and sniffed, followed by her left, once more sniffing. <strong>”I do not… what is it you said? Pong? I do no such thing. I smell of fresh air and horses. Not this pong.”</strong> replied the feisty ranch hand. <br><br>A nearby goat made its way towards the makeshift bed and began to munch on the straw nearest Walter before it seemed to pause, look up suddenly then move towards Letty and continue its search for lunch. She giggled as it nosed about near her leg, searching out some of the carrots still left in her pocket. <strong>”See, if I ponged as you said do you think Mabel here would want to be close?”</strong> Of course Mabel would sell her left tit for a carrot, but Walter didn’t know that about the silly goat. <br><br>A few chickens clucked about, squabbling over a few seeds they had found, drawing Letty’s attention before she chose to ignore them and fall back against the straw. It had been a long and draining day, and now that she had settled and rested she didn’t want to get back up. <strong>”But I will take your words into consideration and enjoy a bath myself… back in my country there was a stream that ran by our home. It was good to bathe in.”</strong> she smiled thinking of home. Letty had wanted nothing more than to escape what (at the time) she had seen as boring. It was only now that she was away from it, from her family, that she could appreciate what she had once had.</div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>21-09-2014, 03:44:13</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sittin' in the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>"What, and you don't think that 'orses stink? There's gotta be a reason flies keep sniffin at their arsehole..."</strong><br><br>Walter flicked away a bit of straw that has come dangerously close to tickling his ear. He was comfortable here. Damn comfortable. Straw didn't tend to stay as straw in London for long... the combination of rain and leaky roofs meant it normally turned into a sort of feckin' sludge about two minutes after you put it down. Walter had slept on a lot less comfortable thing than this bed of straw... hell, his current digs weren't exactly that much more comfortable... although that could be on account of the fact when the maid had first come round to change the bedding she'd been confronted by the sight of a naked Walter askin' if she'd mind givin' him a quick blowjob before he headed out. Unsurprisingly she hadn't come back and the bedding hadn't been changed. A lazy tracked the goat... Mabel... as she abandoned him for Letty. That was a point... shouldn't he give his donkey a name soon? How long could he just call it donkey? But tryin' to think of a name. It was like tryin' to name a kid. And while Walter was pretty certain he had kids he hadn't seen any 'em as far as he knew and he damn sure hadn't named 'em.<br><br><strong>"She's a goat love... I don't think they're known for their sense of smell. Anyway, you're prettier than me so it's cheatin'"</strong><br><br>Walter briefly tried to avoid picturing the image of Letty bathing naked in the stream but after about a second he wondered exactly why he was trying to avoid it and instead embraced it utterly, happily picturing Letty in a state of undress frolicking in a stream, naked as the day she was born. And who's to say that a ruggedly handsome Englishman with a large club and an irascible donkey didn't happen to appear at the same stream, watch for a while and then join in?<br><br><strong>"Did you bounce around much when bathin' in that stream?"</strong><br><br>Hmmm... Letty. Hmmm... suds. Hmmm... naked. Hmmm... bouncing. Up an down and side to side. Hmmm...<br><br>Bloody 'ell, where was I? Where was Walter for that matter?<br><strong><br>"We didn't have no streams in London. We had sewers and we 'ad the Thames. Thames is a great big river and even if you could bathe in it you wouldn't soddin' want to. Full of bodies and nasty stuff. Shit too. Actual shit. London ain't got much plumbin' that works see."</strong><br><br>Walter thought it best not to mention that he'd put several of those bodies in the Thames.<br><br><strong>"And the sewers... as I said, we ain't got much plumbin' that works. Filthy down there, right proper filthy. Not that the Thames is much better. Best bet if you wanted a bath in London is to go find a pothole in the road, sit down in it and wait. It'll rain you see... always rains in blood London. Just have to make sure you don't get robbed, stabbed or run over by a carriage."</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>29-09-2014, 03:47:11</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty let her head roll to the side as Walter chose to paint a rather vivid picture of the backside of a horse. She scrunched up her nose with obvious distaste, not at all happy to have that image floating about her head. <strong>”Are you telling me that I smell like the back end of a horse?”</strong> holding out her arm she waved it under his nose <strong>”sniff my arm… there is nothing but good clean sweat.”</strong> She waved it about as if daring him to sniff her skin, as she was positive that she smelled nothing like the business end of a beast...any beast. <br><br>Dark eyes met his as Walter spoke of the goat and its skill or lack there of when it came to the sense of smell. Her lips twitched as he complimented her… sort of, causing her to removed the arm she had been waving in a dare. <strong>”Well… that is true”</strong> she replied as she broke into a wider smile. <strong>”But I do not think she would hold that against you. We are not competing for a date.”</strong> <br><br>Letty was pretty sure an animal didn’t think twice about a persons looks. They were much more likely to pick up a smell, or a sense of danger. Walter might have put off the silly goat out of fear than good or bad looks. <strong>”And I do not cheat senor, I am what they say...a straight line? No, that is not the saying…”</strong> Letty nibbled her bottom lip for a moment before snapping her fingers. <strong> AY YA!&nbsp; Arrow! I am a straight arrow.. si?”</strong> She always felt a small accomplishment when she was able to pick out the correct words in English. <br><br>However, throughout the time that Letty was struggling to put the correct words to her thoughts Walter had been off in a daydream of his own. One of which, had Letty been privy to, she might have attempted to slug him again, or prick him with the fork. Instead she turned confused eyes towards her companion and cocked her head to one side. <strong>”Bounce? I suppose so, some… my sister and I would have splash fights. There could have been bouncing. Why?”</strong> The question was out of her mouth before she could swallow it. Shaking her head, Letty withdrew the question as quickly as she could. <strong>”One second thought, do not bother telling me why. Something tells me that I do not want to know.”</strong> <br><br>Instead of answering the question Walter chose to explain more about London, and the working of the city that she had never seen in her life. From the way it was described Letty was pretty sure she would never want to see it either. <strong>”London does not sound like a good place to live. Bodies in the rivers? Washing only when it rains and hoping not to be murdered in the holes in the ground? I would not have survived. Maybe my family farm was not so bad, si?”</strong> All of her life she had wanted something better, it was only now that Letty was starting to realize that she might have had something better and had simply not appreciated it. <br><br><strong>”What made you come?”</strong> asked Letty suddenly. She turned onto her side so that she was curled almost against him on the bed of straw. Her sudden curiosity about this stranger was growing with every passing minute. He was interesting to say the least. She could only hope that his good mood would remain and her questions wouldn’t annoy him. </div>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>consortium11</strong> on <strong>07-10-2014, 11:54:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0c/Doomtown2-Recovered2.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Walter Sinnett (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9812108#msg9812108)<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1876<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon<br><strong>Location:</strong> Sittin' in the Gates Ranch<br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Letty, Open.<br><hr><hr><strong>"Well love, you're the expert on a horse's backside. I ain't ever gone round the back to smell one. Bastard's more likely to kick me than anything."</strong><br><br>Walter would have answered more questions but, put simply, he was a simple man with simple needs. Yes, the old burnt tosser back at Sweetrock might have given him a bloody complex mission that involved manipulating, attacking, pissing off and eventually dominating damn near every faction in the sodding place but that did not change what Walter was and what he wanted from life. He wanted some booze and some booty. What simple man like Walter was going to be able to concentrate on bloody anything once Letty had not just put the image of her bathing naked in a stream into his head, but followed it up (and "up" was likely to be the operative word here) with the vision of her bouncing around with her sister (pretty much a twin in Walter's imagination, although perhaps actually a bit more busty and less likely to stab him with a pitchfork) and having a splash fight. Walter's already faced a dilemma when it came to his plans for this evening... hire one whore and get her to pretend to be Letty or hire two whores, scare everyone out of the bathhouse and get the pair to pretend to be the Letty sisters while he watched... and eventually joined in. Choices, choices.<br><br>It was probably a good idea that Letty asked Walter not to go into detail. The pitchfork was still in the barn after all.<br><strong><br>"Oi... don't be rude about London. Fine bloody city it is. Finest bloody city."</strong><br><br>Unlike his previous interventions there was no harshness to Walter's words this time. It barely even qualified as a gentle rebuke. Perhaps the alcohol, soft straw and even the bloody noises of the farm animals were having a calming effect on Walter. Perhaps it was hard for his blood to fill with fire when the blood was making a southerly journey to a rather different part of his body.<br><br><strong>"You ain't lived until you've seen the Thames glistening on a cold winter's morning. Ain't lived till you've escaped the bloody cold that evening by headin' into the Nag's 'ead, havin' a couple of pints of real bear and a good hunk of roast meat before a roaring fire. Ain't lived till you've seen all the polite gentlemen and women walkin' up and down Mayfair in their finest. Ain't lived till you've heard Big Ben chime out the time... I watched that get bloody built you know. Ain't lived till you've walked past the Tower and ain't lived till you've seen a boxin' match down at the Fancy. Till you've had some of Miss Clancy's nuts or tried one of Mr Blunt's pies."</strong><br><br>Walter didn't comment on whether Letty would have survived. He especially didn't comment on the fact that he thought she would but that she'd likely survive by bein' a whore and gettin' fucked a dozen times a day. He certainly didn't comment on the fact that if she did, he'd have been one of her most frequent customers.<br><br><strong>"Stabbed a couple of buggers didn't I? One was a rich man's son who owed my boss money and got a bit chatty. Gave him a bit of a slap to knock some sense into his thick head and he drew a bloody blade. Had to stab him then. So that got the coppers involved and I had to stab one of 'em to stop 'im nickin' me and stretchin' my neck. Couldn't sit around London after that... they don't give a toss if you end up killin' a few worthless buggers like me but you snarf a rich kid and a copper and you get half of bloody Scotland Yard after you."</strong>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Doomtown Reloaded: Out of Town (IC Thread)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Loves</strong> on <strong>23-10-2014, 07:11:34</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<hr><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/6d/D1Dfb6tFfIBP.jpg)</div> <br><strong>Name:</strong> Aletta Emelda Maria Sanchez (aka Letty) (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=200832.msg9815927#msg9815927)<br><strong>Faction:</strong> none<br><strong>Date:</strong> May 13th, 1877<br><strong>Time of Day:</strong> Afternoon&nbsp; <br><strong>Location:</strong> The Gates Ranch <br><strong>Tagged:</strong> Walter Sinnett and Donkey, some chickens and a goat or two&nbsp; &nbsp;:D <br>*wearing (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/f/fa/2122639L1uzeeRM.jpg)<br><hr><br><div style="text-align: justify;">Letty was pleased to hear that Walter was ready to defend his London. It spoke of his character in a way that no one would understand from just looking at him. He was a proud man who was proud to be British… at least that was the impression that Letty finally settled upon. Perhaps she had rushed to judge him too harshly when they had first met. She silently worried that she might have allowed her temper to get the better of her during their earlier confrontation.&nbsp; She owed him an apology.<br><br><strong>”You make is sound much nicer now senor. What is a Big Ben?”</strong> inquires Letty curiously. She had never been, that much was obvious. Perhaps one day she might see the very sites that Walter had described, but the chances were slim, and for some unknown reason, that made her feel sad. <br><br>The sadness grew as Walter told his story. She wasn’t surprised to hear he had to leave do to violence. It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen her fair share of such acts. Even though she grew up on a farm did not mean she did not live within a community of people that had their fair share of drunks and thieves. Still, there was something more about Walter’s story that touched her heart.&nbsp; &nbsp;It was the way he had called himself worthless.&nbsp; <br><br>Letty frowned. <br><br>Without realizing it, she reached out to place her hand on his arm, offering a comforting squeeze. <strong>”Please senor, do not call yourself worthless.”</strong> <br><br>In the back of the barn a few chickens clucked, squabbling over a small group of seeds. The wind rattled a loose board and the rusty bell around one of the goats necks rang out in a rhythmic pattern. Letty removed her hand and placed them at the back of her head, smiling up at the ceiling of the barn as she watched the dust particles dance in the stream of sunshine. <strong>”You came here to find your fortune? Si? If you do, you can buy yourself a new name and return to you precious London and try one of those….pies, si? My mama, she makes good pie. And my papa, he is wonderful at Barbacoa… that you would like I think. We roast a sheep, the entire thing over an open fire. Mmmm I miss that.”</strong> closing her eyes Letty let her mind wander <strong>”sometimes at night I lay in bed and I can taste home.”</strong> </div>
			</dd>
		</dl>
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