Hunter and Prey Mia Merle Holden's shack, north of Ashfield “I’m sorry, Mister Holden, but I don’t know what you are talking about.” Mia had already laid her weapons down, instead smiling at the other two with a confused touch to it. “You offered me a few night’s rest. Now I find out you’re telling everyone that I’m a fugitive?” Mia shook her head apologetically to the young woman across from her - Abigail. “I don’t take too kindly to be accused of wrongful things, Mister Holden.” Then she turned her attention to the lawman. First, Merle obviously was trying to sell her out. Second, to people of the law. Her cover was blown once again, except this time by some idiot with guns. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss. . .Abigail?” She smiled. TAG: @RepublicAnvil, @Penguinator
Hunter and Prey Abigail O’Rourke Merle Holden's Shack, north of Ashfield “It’s nice to meet you, Miss. . .Abigail?” The woman smiled, but more than that she had set her weapons down. Abigail eyed her for a moment. She didn’t look like a fugitive, not that fugitives looked anything special, but the nervousness of most criminals wasn’t there. Add in the show of trust and Abigail had serious doubts about this woman’s criminal activities. As far as Merle hiding her… abusive husband maybe? That was plausible. Abigail shrugged. She wasn’t kidding when she said she didn’t care. She lowered her revolver that was pointed at the woman and placed it on the table in front of her. The revolver on Merle stayed put. He still had his guns up and Abigail wasn’t as trusting as the Indian woman seemed to be. Abigail saw a way out. Suggest a plausible reason and let them run with it. If the woman was a fugitive the law would get her eventually, and if she was a runaway wife… well that wasn’t Abigail’s problem. “Merle, one of these days an angry husband is going to take a scattergun to you if you don’t stop hiding runaways.” TAG: @spycoder9, @Penguinator
Penguinator Approved! Name: Jonathan "Johnny" Long Gender: Male Age: early 30's Appearance: He has an unkempt beard and it seems as if he's never touched his long brown hair. His baggy brown eyes overlook his long nose and sharp chin. He wears a dirty, gray coat, and pants with white stripes on the side. He carries a U.S. Volcanic Repeating Pistol, and a 1866 Winchester Rifle. Occupation: Drifter Brief Bio: Jonathan was born in Oklahoma, son to Benjamin and Sarah Long. He spent his time often by himself while his father and mother were always away at work. With most of his spare time, he taught himself to fire a weapon. He shot various rodents as practice and quickly honed his skills; soon it was said that only that boy Long was able to hit a scampering rat with one cartridge and one only. At the age of 19, the Civil War began and he signed up with the Confederacy. The year was 1864, when he was shot in the leg in combat. They managed to remove the ball without amputating, but the resulting operation left him with a limp ever since.A year later, the Civil War ended, taking from him his only supposed purpose, war and conflict was something he became used to, and comfortable with. Since then, however, he's been travelling the lonely roads hoping to find himself a new career, just as fulfilling as his last. Tag: @Penguinator
IC: Carl "Rawhide" Mitchell Train Station, Ashfield Carl stared at the man at his remark, studying his features and memorizing every crook and cranny of the man's face. The Englishman may not know it yet, but he just made himself an enemy...and a very dangerous one at that. When it came to settling a score, Mitchell made sure it was permanent. This poor fool would find that out the hard way if he ever dared to cross his path again. Considering they were now after the same target, he had a feeling it wasn't a matter of 'if', but rather, 'when.' "Is that so?" he challenged, his expression remaining serious a moment longer before finally managing a smile. He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops and kicked at the dust with the toe of his boot. "Well, uh, allow me to offer you some advice, friend..." He stopped stirring up the dust and stomped the heel of his boot against the wooden boards beneath his feet to make sure the Englishman was listening. The smile disappeared from his face and a dangerous glint now reflected in his gaze. "I'd watch my back if I was you...this ain't like back home. It's easy to make enemies out here in the wilderness." Turning to make his leave, he passed the deputy and tipped his hat to the man. "Deputy." As he stepped from the platform, he fingered the crumpled piece of paper in his pocket and took note of what the deputy had said previous to the Englishman's comment: Merle Holden was the man to speak to regarding the town and possibly the Injun's last known whereabouts. Up near the old mine, huh? Carl squinted up towards the sun to determine which direction he needed to go to head north and oriented himself accordingly. Might as well check out this Holden fellow first and maybe grab a drink or two along the way. TAG: @Coyote, @Penguinator
St. Stephen Ashfield Saloon It was amazing what invoking the primitive patriotic imagery of the white man could accomplish! Particularly in such a lower class saloon. St. Stephen filed that little trick away for further use, right alongside the pie in the windowsill and the birthday candle. Especially the birthday candle. He was so impressed with his own mental alacrity that he only barely noticed his tomahawk had been returned to him, and when he had, he sort of accepted it as par for the course. "You! Where did you acquire that devastatingly brilliant accent, you wonderful person, you?" a vagabond asked - perhaps not in as many words, and perhaps more colloquially flavored, but by god the intent was there. Said vagabond then placed a hand - once, twice, thrice! - on his holster. Big man with a gun. Two other guys, also with guns. It was a proverbial gun smorgasbord and they were all the hell out of scones. Or something equally trite. "You know how it is with us savage brutes. We sojourn about the land, ignorant of God's good love, and make our way to strange parts, whereupon a lucky few of us are visited by the spirit of our great Savior, who whisks us off to old England to learn the ways of the world. But let me tell you something, my good fellow - dull, rainy Britania cannot hold a candle to the great glory of the United States. O, I am truly the luckiest of injuns, sir, for divine providence has shown to me the great beauty of these United States. Why, 'tis the most I can do to keep from weeping each time I see Old Glory raised in its full splendor, so moved I am by the massive promise and future embodied in the red, white, and blue." He moved to wipe away a tear, and, while doing so, replaced his tomahawk. "Incidentally, you know what I really love about the continent?" With a speed unseen save for those of bats out of hell, he produced two .44 caliber pistols. "The Colt Army Model." And with that, our erstwhile protagonist opened fire. Er... dashingly. ... Or that's what would've happened if some other guy hadn't decided that this, of all possible moments, was the best time to come in and ask what was all this, then? So St. Stephen decided to add a shout of "Duck, you sucker!" and hoped the new fellow would catch on. TAG: @Penguinator, @Zanatos Soldat
Merle Holden Shack, north of Ashfield Merle breathed a sigh of relief. "I don't much doubt that fact, Abe. And I'm sorry the two of you had to meet like this, let alone at all. Weren't my intent." He relaxed a bit, taking a swig from a flask he produced from his hip. By the smell of it, it was whiskey - and the fact that anyone could smell it made it strong rather than flavourful. Merle coughed, pocketing his flask again. "Thing is, y'all are both here under...less-than-admirable circumstances, shall we say. And ain't no one knows you're here. You fire them guns, that'll be changing real quick, right?" He looked from one woman to the either. "What y'all have done, that ain't my concern, and I got my reasons for helping you two out." Merle sighed yet again. "Moco. He's here, all right, that much I know. But I need time to figure exactly who he is, right? He's in deep with one of the families here, changed up his look, his style. But I can find him, if you give me a little time. This can't be rushed." He turned to Mia. "And you...hell, I know your story. Be mad to stand in the way of a woman scorned. Anything I can do to help, I will, within reason." Tag: @RepublicAnvil @spycoder9 Deputy Jones Train Station, Ashfield The deputy's smile faltered a bit at the minor altercation between the bounty hunters, but was in full force as the Englishman asked about where one could find a horse. "Well sir, we got some fine 'uns here, if you need something immediately. Reasonable prices too - though from one man to another, Durant Ranch is the place to go for horses." This was delivered almost conspiratorially to Blackhelm, with a friendly smile. Mitchell, on the other hand, made his way to the saloon, evidently a popular place at this time, considering the state of the broken window and lawman outside of it. Tag: @HanSolo29 @Coyote The Ashfield Saloon A veritable circus Two things happened at once. Madison made his presence known, as did St. Stephen. Of course, one did this through their words, the other through their actions. As St. Stephen fired, the ruffians in the saloon drew. One dropped clutching his leg with a yelp - mercifully a flesh wound. Madison made his way for cover at the same time St. Stephen did. It was an odd mirror image, really, but not unexpected. The situation, of course, had to play out, though the outcome was not yet decided. This was beyond the realm of true strategy - this was instinct and reflex. Tag: @Ramza @Zanatos Soldat Hotel Clerk The Last Chance Hotel, Main Street The bell on the door rang as Amelie stepped through. The clerk looked up with a smile. "Ah, good day miss! Excellent timing, the saloon seems a bit...chaotic at the moment." The muffled sound of gunshots came from down the street. "As I was just telling Mr. Long here, we're not exactly a wild town, though we do have our moments." He gestured to the gentleman glancing out the window at the commotion at the saloon, who turned at the mention of his name. Tag: @Mr Fonvizzle @Admiral_Volshe/>/>/>
St. Stephen The Ashfield Saloon "Remarkable reaction time you Yanks have, do you know that?" St. Stephen asked from behind cover, as he fired off a shot aimed at the man with the flesh wound - no sense in leaving this kind of creep alive to tell the tale. Besides, he was about 95% sure those types just spawned in dank, racist alleys during the full moon, or something. Those were the worst sorts of alleys. And that was before you factored in the whole racism part. "So what I'm really trying to say with this sort of outward show of physical force," he continued, firing off some more rounds, "is that I do not actually believe any of that poppycock I was spewing earlier. It's a slow philosophy for slow people. Such as yourself, really. You think I wear this suit out of a misguided sense of cultural pride? Culture is a dying concept, swallowed up with everything else by the advancing white mob." More shots. "Just like everything else. Just like all of you. Don't act like I can't see you just because you're hiding. You're the disease and there is no cure. Me? I'm just another plague." Another shot. "... Good lord, did I really just stoop to that analogy? I apologize, it's just that these gunfights always get so philosophical - you know, with the contrast of the low physical exertion on our end coupled with the firing mechanism doing so much work for us. It's why I like that tomahawk of mine - there's real kinetics in working that thing. None of this spring reloading crap." Another. "Bloody hell, I'm doing it again. St. Stephen the Motormouth is what they ought to call me, none of this 'Killing Injun' nonsense." He raised his voice. "Hey. Hey other bloke. I'm sorry about the sucker line, I just... one second." Two more shots. "I just get caught up in it. I sincerely do apologize if you have been hit in the crossfire. Not apologizing to these others, though. Uh... nothing personal, other individuals." TAG: @Zanatos Soldat , @Penguinator
Ashfield Saloon *James had no choice but to duck under cover as the guns began to blaze around him and St. Stephen. He heard the native speak as he was already diving grabbing a nearby table tipping it over using it for cover. He kept the rolled smoke in his mouth while he reached into his jacket and pulled out his Colt Walker. He made sure that it was fully loaded before he would peer up or around the table to see how many there were.* "I sure picked the right time to walk in for a drink." - *He said to the native as he glanced over listening to him babble on.* *James had no reason to start any fights but the law was not around to even consider if this was worth saving. The bar tender ducked underneath the counter and was about to reach for his double barrel. When one of the other commoners jumped over the counter to duck the fire and landed right onto him. James reached over and fired a couple of shots blindly as he didn't see where the other's were except the smoke that came from their guns.* "Would you shut up already...we will discuss this later." *James recited towards the native.* *He was getting nowhere with these thugs except the fact that they were pissing him off and he was growing tired of their shenanigans. He waited for a little cool down before he peeked around the table seeing that he couldn't get to them because they were behind a couple of pillars. But one of them decided to leave their leg sticking out and James took it upon himself and made the shot.* "BANG!" "Son of a ....Aghhh!" *One of them fell as the bullet went through his calf causing him to loose balance and drop towards the ground.* OOC: Sorry I am a little late...been busy playing SWTOR. TAG: @Ramza, @Penguinator
OOC: Still here! IC: Carl Mitchell Outside the Saloon The sun was beating down something fierce by this time of day and Carl reckoned that it wouldn't hurt to stop off on a little detour and grab a little refreshment. Luckily for him, he crossed paths with the local saloon on the way to his destination. As far as he was concerned, the little Indian squaw could wait a little longer while he stepped inside for a spell. She somehow managed to dodge the law this long, what were a few more hours gonna hurt? But as he rounded the corner and got his first good view of the front of the building, the scene that he saw unfolding outside gave him pause. A bar brawl, by the looks of it. He instinctively reached for his pistol, but stayed his hand and merely rested his palm against the butt as he observed the going-ons further. He counted one...maybe two lawmen as a poor sap got tossed out the front window. Must've been one helluva bar brawl...too bad the law was involved, this was his kinda place. Still, it wasn't worth the risk of getting caught and strung up on the gallows if someone happened to recognize him. He'd bide his time. Leaning against a fence post that provided him with a clear view of the scuffle, he reached within the lapel of his duster and started to roll up a smoke. Might as well enjoy the scenery while he watched the comings and goings and waited for the right moment to approach. TAG: @Penguinator
OOC: Sincere apologies! Summer band has taken up my week and tommorow, I aim to to move into my apartment, but I promise to get a post up either that afternoon or the next day.
