Chapter 1: An Ill Guest Arrives

[Bobcloclimar]

"An' whar did Davy go? He cut ye loose, an' th' law might be kind'r t'ye if ye tell us more." Mickey tries to affect a more threatening pose.

 

OOC

Can Mickey assist Malakai with the bandaging for a bonus?

 

[prophane]

Sloan "Sledgehand" Turlough pugilist

---

HP: 3/13 FP: 11/11 Half Move and Dodge

---

Sloan winces as the newcomer patches him up. "Thank ye kindly, Malakai. I'm Sloan Turlough. We're sheriff's deputies tracking some mean characters that come this way."

---

OOC

HP recovery

If the first aid was successful...

Nooooooooo!

Edited January 18 by prophane (see edit history)

[matt_s]

Bandanna shrugged,

Davy went North. You can see the tracks well enough from here. But to tell you more than that - you guys are The Law. There are covenants and pacts, laws and codes, all those things that bind you. Davy is, well he's a poet of violence. He abides none of those things in himself. We need guarantees both from unfair treatment and from HIM.

The intensity of his voice grew as he spoke to an almost fervor. Davy scared him and from the bodies not without good reason. And the deputies although they had beaten them soundly, did not inspire such terror.

[DM-Tareth]

Malakai Wallace

ST: 11 | DX: 11 IQ: 10 | HT: 10 | Will: 11 | PER: 11 | Speed: 5.25 | Move: 5

HP: 11/11 | FP: 10/10 | Dodge: 8 | Parry: 9 (Brawling) / 8 (Knife)

Thr: 1d-1 | Sw: 1d+1

---

"You're welcome." Malakai replies to Sloan. "Glad to offer a hand."

While the interrogation continues, Malakai tries to recall hearing anything about a local bandit called Davy or any incidents that would fit the obviously murderous scoundrel's modus operandi.

Area Knowledge (Skill 10)

Edited January 17 by DM-Tareth (see edit history)

[matt_s]

The deputies busied themselves securing the prisoners, depriving them of any weapons on their person - their Henry repeaters, several rusty six guns, and a few Bowie knives was about the sum total of it. And they were pretty sure they had found any weapons on them and even more sure that the fight was well and truly out of these folks. Not least of all the moaning desperado who had so recently gazed into the infinite precipice of oblivion.

They also found a rough horse track leading away from the site of the wreck. And within the second train car, true as could be told, the busted open safe now of course thoroughly denuded of its contents. There were plenty of men in Davey's party it seemed and at a glance they thought they could make a reasonable job of following the track by day at least.

But while all this was happening, Malakai racked his memory of that infamous rogue Davey...

He had heard a few more stories of the doings of Davey after his so-called disappearance in 1850. Rumor had it that Davey managed to not only survive the Yuma ambush but make away with some of the ill-gotten gold that the Glanton Gang had sequestered away. That gold was cursed, some old cowboys swore, and each coin whispered in their owner's ears calling them to evil. But the older cowboys laughed a bitter laugh at this. Glanton, Davey, and that whole lot always was bad, and they hardly did it for the gold, neither. They had liked the thing in and of itself.

Maybe the gold wore thin, maybe he just got bored. But the town preacher had in drunken confidence one night told Malakai another tale. During the Civil War, Davey had set himself up as a freebooter of sorts. There were Union guerrillas and light cavalry see, both Federals and allied Indians, causing trouble, blowing up bridges, hitting convoys and depots, the cutting off war as the Iroquois would call it. And the secesh had placed a hefty bounty on each one - one hundred dollars dead, not a penny alive. In stepped Davey. Now, fighting the bluecoats was hard. But massacring unarmed farmers and passing them off as Federals was easy. The same awful trick Glanton had pulled down in the old country of Mexico more than a decade before.... The preacher had fled from a small town sacked in this way and his brother and uncle had been shot down there. Not much came of this after the war - a blink of an eye at Antietam was more death than Glanton, Davey, and their entire gangs had wrought or ever would.

 

[prophane]

Sloan "Sledgehand" Turlough pugilist

---

HP: 3/13 FP: 11/11 Half Move and Dodge

---

With the prisoners all ready to go, Sloan pulls his duster tight around his midsection and winces in pain, "Well, looks like we got some bad guys to track, best be going, we ain't gettin' no closer to 'em standing here jawin' about it."

---

OOC

it'll be fine. I'm sure it'll be just fine.

Edited January 20 by prophane (see edit history)

[DM-Tareth]

Malakai Wallace

ST: 11 | DX: 11 IQ: 10 | HT: 10 | Will: 11 | PER: 11 | Speed: 5.25 | Move: 5

HP: 11/11 | FP: 10/10 | Dodge: 8 | Parry: 9 (Brawling) / 8 (Knife)

Thr: 1d-1 | Sw: 1d+1

---

Malakai's face grew darker and darker the more he pulled at the memories and rumors he'd heard about one notorious villain who went by the moniker of Davey. His flick toward the wrangled bandits and he had to admit his respect for the fellers inched upward just a tad. Crossing a stone cold killer like Davey Brown was no easy thing to do. Even if it was to keep their necks out of a noose, if word ever got back their former leader, they'd likely be wishing for a clean, quick hanging. With a little more understanding of what, or rather who, this posse was after, Malakai turns back to the group of hard looking deputies. Helping put an end to Davey's reign of terror in the region might just give him a leg up with Kitty's pa, and that reward money would be a mighty fine stake for the two of them to start a life with.

"If you men are going after Davey Brown, I reckin' Id be much obliged if you'd have me along. Figure another gun is always handy against a man like that." He says, lifting his hat to run his hand through his hair. "Glad someone's finally decided to bring a scoundrel like that to account. Why, I've got it on good authority that back during the war he used to massacre poor farmers and others to claim the confederate bounty on union guerrillas." He turns and spits in the sand. "I ain't claimin' to be an angel, heck, I killed plenty during the war. But it was war and they were shootin' at me, just as much as I was shootin' at them. My family were, still are, farmers. Helpin' bring a no-good like Davey to justice will go quite aways to makin' amends for those I did send to the good lord's hands. And it'll make this land just a little safer for good and decent folk to live their lives." He adds, his mind turning to miss Kitty and her father and his own dreams of settling down some day.

If the deputies agree to have him along, he hurries back up the slope to gather his horse and strikes out with them on the trail of Davey Brown.

 

[matt_s]

The sun was still approaching the meridian of the day when the guns fell silent and the band discussed their next steps. Having been agreed to send some of their number back to Arcadia with news and the surrendered bandits, those riders went away silent except for the drumming rhythm of their ironshod mounts. They had promised to send back a few of the townsfolk who could see to it that the dead got good Christian burials and all their worldly and spiritual affairs were set in proper order. What would become of the bandits none save the Sheriff could say for certainty although those who had known him believe that when the gifts of men were set out the Sheriff was endowed with no small amount of justice and mercy. Meaning that a trial not a hasty execution was in order and if they met the hangman and indeed they may never meet him it would be months at least from the present moment.

But the rest of the band turned their horses North, along the dusty suggestion of a track left by men who had forgotten or perhaps embodied depending on how sought it the values of their forefathers. They rode from the plain into the rocky malpais and it was slow going then their knees scrapping against outcropping and the sun beating down relentless. Hell they could swear at times they could smell brimstone itself on the air, that issuance of volcanoes dormant before even the Indians had come down to this country.

Mechanics

The trail of their quarry now leads through a rocky badland. I need one tracking roll and one navigation/survival/similar roll (each player can make only one). The idea is that you are trying to both track the trail over tough ground and make good time over the same.

If you have more IC stuff to do at the train, that's fine, just write it as a flashback if possible but in any case go ahead on that too.

 

[DM-Tareth]

Malakai Wallace

ST: 11 | DX: 11 IQ: 10 | HT: 10 | Will: 11 | PER: 11 | Speed: 5.25 | Move: 5

HP: 11/11 | FP: 10/10 | Dodge: 8 | Parry: 9 (Brawling) / 8 (Knife)

Thr: 1d-1 | Sw: 1d+1

---

"I've followed a trail or two in my time." Malakai says as they make their way through the badlands. "Once we trailed a group of rebs all the way across Tennessee and Georgia on account they'd waylaid a shipment of Lincoln's gold. Caught up with them eventually, although by then they'd managed to bury or hide most of the gold." He pauses to wipe sweat from his brow with a kerchief. "A bunch of us tried to back track to find it, but far as I know, nobody ever did."

"Then there was the time..." He voice meanders along like the Rio Grande through Texas. The stories have little meaning except maybe to a fella who hasn't had folk to talk with for quite a long spell. But despite all the tongue wagging, the man seems to know what he's doing when it comes to trailing Davey Brown.

Tracking (Base Skill 13)

Edited January 20 by DM-Tareth (see edit history)

[Bobcloclimar]

Mickey plods along silently, looking to keep the group moving over stable ground while Malakai finds where Davy's gang had gone.

 

OOC

Can Mickey take one of the rifles and ammunition that one of the bandits had?

 

[matt_s]

The wages of sin...

are three Henry repeating rifles with enough ammunition to serve you in any contingency

Placeholder

Wanted to just get out the inventory update real quick

 

[prophane]

Sloan "Sledgehand" Turlough pugilist

---

HP: 3/13 FP: 11/11 Half Move and Dodge

---

While Sloan is sitting in his saddle and following along, it can barely be called riding. He holds the wound at his side and winces, but pushes on, knowing he has a job to do. The bleeding seems to have stopped, That's good, he thinks to himself with a chuckle. Though he is wounded and distracted, he does his best to make sure the trek is safe and successful.

---

OOC

Roll vs Survival 10

 

 

[matt_s]

The posse rode on and the skies began to darken. The faint suggestion of hoofprints here and there, sometimes more than a hundred paces apart and sometimes veering off in a direction peculiar such that Malakai made them backtrack to once again find the trail was their main guide along the hardened earth and dry rock. Mickey at time shouted out advice on how to switchback up and down and Sloan gritted his teeth and ignored his injuries as they pressed on. Eventually, the overcast skies turned to a drizzle and then the burgeoning beginning of a downpour. Ahead of them was a dry riverbed that they each knew innately would be an impassable flood in less than an hour. But they were dang sure that they would be safely on the other side if they so chose to do so. A small fortune from their collective success. Yet their return would be blocked for some time, hours more likely than days.

And far ahead miles and miles away, they saw the telltale glint of a spyglass. Somebody knew they were out there riding like sinful penitents upon the badlands or would know bloody soon. And near the glint, an ever faint suggestion of a trickle of smoke. There was a cook fire made by someone who knew how to make a cookfire that was dang hard to see.

[DM-Tareth]

Malakai Wallace

ST: 11 | DX: 11 IQ: 10 | HT: 10 | Will: 11 | PER: 11 | Speed: 5.25 | Move: 5

HP: 11/11 | FP: 10/10 | Dodge: 8 | Parry: 9 (Brawling) / 8 (Knife) | Thr: 1d-1 | Sw: 1d+1

---

As the rain begins to pelt the brim of his hat with more and more urgency Malakai turns to his new companions. The damp from the drizzle already drips from his chins and the hairs on his beard like he'd just emerged from some madame's bathhouse. A worried look crosses his face. The rain wasn't his only worry. The fact that someone had eyes on them already surely did make his skin prickle.

"Best we get a move on and get ourselves across that wash." He says watching the trickle of water that had already started gathering in the center of the dry riverbed. "Going to be hard enough to track them after this storm blows through, even worse if not impossible, if we have to wait for a long spell for the water to clear out. Reckin that is just what whoever is keeping tabs on us is hoping will happen." He adds nodding his head in the direction of the telltale twinkle of the spyglass.

[Bobcloclimar]

Mickey looks at the rain and the wash anxiously. "Ah'd feel better not havin' m'back 'gainst th' water, if ye know wha' ah'm sayin', an' m' 'splodey sticks ain't goin' t'work in weather like this. But th' sheriff charged us with findin' them varmints, an' ah ain't 'bout t'go back on m'word."