Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

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Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Zhelir Darkfall on Mon Dec 10, 2007 10:24 pm

Unrest brewed in Tempest.

Tempest was a small mining town located somewhere in the middle of a giant sandbox. Nothing but desert for hundreds of miles around, and only a single well in the center of town. The town itself was constructed of wood-plank shacks with the occasional steam or smoke stack protruding from a roof, a wall, wherever it was needed. The people were of a generally simple origin. They understood the basic laws of mankind and the basic justice they deserved. Not a year went by without at least one murder, and one hanging or execution to go with it.

The only thing noteworthy were these peoples' Scrapping abilities. In the desolate realm, there were plenty of remainders of foreign technology running on unknown power sources to be found, and there had been groups of people not only able to re-engineer this technology into steam- or gas-powered mechanisms, but able to do so with startling skill, some even capable of reproducing the energy sources to some degree. Such was the profession of Scrapping, and the people of Tempest were known to be one of the better groups within, not capable of reproducing the machines as they once were, but able to concoct anything one's mind could imagine with enough spare parts.

As with everything worth having, these machines came at a price. And as is prone with anyone capable of wielding great power, these abilities came with a dash of greed. Rumors circulated about corruption in the town of Tempest, and fact circulated about the bandits constantly on the raid, attempting to pillage any and every bit of this technology as possible.

OOC: So, as the title suggests, this is a Western/Steampunk RP. Post whatever you wish for profiles, they will be copied into the opening post and deleted from the topic. The basic rules of RP apply as per the creed, but entrance is application-only. Just send me what your opening post to this RP would be (I'm not a length-nazi, don't worry, but I will be looking for good content) and I'll let you know.

Profiles:

Player: Eymber
Name: Margeret Becker
Age: 28
Gender: Female
Allegiance: Herself
Weapons: A pocket knife slipped into the folds of her dress, a revolver strapped to her thigh, also concealed quite well by her dress, and a set of throwing knives, one in each boot.
Appearance: The envy of the town. Large, plump pink lips, long curved neck, perfect light skin, scattered freckles, waist-length curly brown hair usually worn either down or in a messy bun on the back of her head, hour glass figure. Usually seen in a light blue or light green floor-length full-skirted dress, low-cut to follow the style these days which showed off even more of her enviable figure. Peircing slate-colored eyes.


Player: Zhelir Darkfall
Name: Unknown, "Dark Man."
Age: Unknown, presumed to be between 30 and 40.
Gender: Male
Allegiance: Lawless
Weapons: One long-barreled, high-caliber revolver with the initials "C.D." engraved in the wooden hilt. One bionic arm, in place of his natural left arm, suspected to run off a genuine reproductive energy source. Its creator and origin are unknown, but it is rumored to contain both an automatic gun of some sort and a high-frequency cutter, a violently red blade of energy that extends approximately five feet in length, both powered by the arm's frequency.
Appearance: No photographs exist of this man, so as with his weapons, there is only speculation to run on. He is said to stand at 6'1, his build is unknown owing to his clothing. He has long, unkempt black hair that hangs to the base of his neck, though the top of this i s usually hidden by a wide-brimmed rancher's hat. He is rumored to have a bionic eye as well, a metal plate running the bridge of his nose to his right temple, encompassing a large red circle where his eye ought be. In further rumor, it is believed to be capable of penetrating thin walls as well as being possessed of both infrared and thermal settings, said to be controlled by thought alone. Around his figure rests a long black duster, sticking true to its name via a large amount of dust gathered on the cuffs, bottom, and collar of the article. Under this is another myriad of black, consisting of a black dear-skin shirt, open-throated, that gives hint to a silver chain disappearing below said shirt. Black slacks and a pair of black boots adorn the rest of him, earning him the rumourous title of "Dark Man."

Player: Lord Saladin
Sherriff

Player: Aeleon
Name: Ursula Majors
Sex: Female
Age: 19
Weapons: a screwdriver, usually. She tends to leave the weapons she creates alone.
Allegiance: The Majors family of Scrappers.
Appearance: She's tall, with wide shoulders and wide hips, but malnourished, which leads to exposed ribs and cheekbones. Her legs are long and lanky, and her hair is constantly big, often frizzed and curled, dry from the desert sun and red as desert clay. For special occasions, she flat-irons it, and its impressively reaches her mid-back in length. Her skin is dark from the amount of time she spends outside, but she still has dark brown freckles that frame the undersides of her green eyes.

Player: Dream Evil
Name: Marcus Hughes
Age: 30
Gender: Male
Allegiance: No-one
Weapons: Two finely crafted 6-shooters with sandalwood hilts and a Winchester Rifle.
Appearance: Sandy coloured hair that has grown down to his shoulders with a three-day growth.
Marcus is a handsome man with shimmering, deep-set green eyes and an old scar on his right cheek, ending at the edge of the lip.
Clothes: A well-made, rugged leather over-coat with numerous pockets.
Shin-high leather boots, a grey button-up shirt and black jeans.
He doesn't wear a hat nor do his boots have spurs.

Player: Smokescreen
Name: King Shaw
Sex: Male
Age: 31
Allegiance: Paramilitary of the Occidental Expanse, 33rd Cavalry, 5th Strike regiment, 1st Dragoon squadron commander, Captain.
Weapons: Two (2) C96 model automatic pistols, 9x19 caliber, 9+1 capacity, serial numbers 113982, 113983, respectively. One (1) 97-model pump shotgun, 12 gauge 3 in, 7+1 capacity, serial number 31533. One (1) knife, 7.5 inches, military issue, serial number 7734420, Crescent moon engraved on pommel.
Appearance: Dark hair, tall and lean. It has been days since he shaved. He wears the standard uniform of a cavalry commander. Black knee high pebbled boots, a pair of blue woolen trousers with red piping on the outside legs, a double breasted uniform jacket that buttons at the neck, gunmetal gray in color designating his dragoon service. He wears an oilskin riding topcoat and covering his head is the dragoon’s plumed leather helmet. The brown pistol belt hung around his waist holds his knife, weapons and two pouches containing twenty rounds of ammunition each.

Player: Quidhala
Name: “Rig”, Ornus Stephenson
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Allegiance: Stephenson Mining Concern
Weapons: A modified carving knife and a 3-shot .22 derringer. They are rarely used, he is quite weak and not very capable of self defense. His automaton bodyguards, Gyre and Gimble, where recovered from the Stephenson dig site. They can understand and follow only simple “instruction sets” and often malfunction, but are extremely strong and agile for two rust-heaps.
Appearance: A genetic defect stunted Rig’s growth and darkened his skin to a mahogany tone. He has thinning short cropped black hair and dark blue eyes. He is a 4’3” dwarf, his head and facial features are disproportionately large, his legs are stumpy, but his arms and hands are think and lithe like the arms of a young boy. His manual dexterity and keen mind make him one of the preeminent members of the Scrapper trade. He is usually found wearing small brown coveralls with a leather apron, filtered goggles, and fingerless brown leather gloves. He has a few specially tailored suits he likes to wear about town.
History: He was born of well-to-do merchants who attempted to love him like any normal child. Many people in Tempest thought he was a curse upon the family for their enviable success, but as he grew older his interests in artifact engineering proved quite the opposite was true. When a large find was discovered his family sold all their holdings to purchase the mining rights. He is now the main proprietor and his parents in their late 50’s are retired and live within Tempest. He employs several citizens of Tempest as miners and protection for his holdings. He is ill-tempered, ill-mannered, and enjoys exercising his authority over “normal” people.

Names: Gyre & Gimble
Weapons: Pincers, and built in 12 gauge scatter gun in their right arms. They carry 8 rounds fully loaded. With their high center of gravity the recoil can knock them over if they position themselves poorly.
Appearance: Desired more for their menacing appearances than true fighting skills. They are 6’2”, metallic bipedal automatons with limited intelligence. They have a small barrel torso that connect to 2 long legs and 2 powerful arms that end in pincers. They look more like a 4 armed octopus than a man. A small round head on top is equipped with three evenly spaced sensors that can detect light from infrared to ultraviolet. They respond to verbal commands given by Rig and can communicate to him with a series of rapid binary tonal codes.

Player: Angel_Melfina
Name: Tolsen Thatcher
Age: 15
Gender: Female
Allegiance: None.
Weapons: None.
Appearance: Tols currently is in a blood-red colored dress, low cut, wide, bustling, as was typical for the time. Her dress is tattered: one of the sleeves is torn off, part of the lace-up back is cut open, and there were several tears in the skirt portion of the dress. She has very fair skin, almost pink, obviously not blending in with the surroundings. Her straight hair is a sandy blonde color, reaching down to her lower back when allowed to fall freely. She has a small figure, not quite developed because of her age.

Player: Kaito
Name: Kaito
Age: 21
Gender: Male
Allegiance: None.
Weapons: Dual Pistols.
Appearance: 6'3 with short blonde hair. Green eyes. He wore a white button up shirt with tight black jeans. Along with the casual boots.

Player: Ralana
Name: Unknown
Nickname: Whatever name she gives you.
Age: 25ish
Gender: Female
Alliance: Herself

Weapons: Dual pistols, Rifle, two whips, Rope, pocket knife, hunter knife, and others to be revealed later. And pretty much anything that can be used to kill.

Appearance: Long curly burgundy locks of hair, blue eyes, toned slender frame, 5 ft 5, and she various scars on her body. The most noticeable one is across her stomach, a large gash mark made by a sharp blade. She has another gash mark on her left cheek and one on the right side of her throat. She is still fairly young and is a very attractive woman. Many can also notice just by the way she moves and speaks that she lived in more civilized places.

History: No one knows all of it, and no one knows her real name any longer. Her real family gave up on their daughter when she was 16 and went against their wishes. The rest of her history will come up as the role play progresses. Currently she is a wandering woman out for revenge.
STAVE: Commala-come-ki,
There's a time to live and one to die.
With your back against the final wall
Ya gotta let the bullets fly.

RESPONSE: Commala-come-ki!
Let the bullets fly!
Don't 'ee mourn for me, my lads
When it comes my day to die.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Eymber on Tue Dec 11, 2007 12:48 am

From behind the counter, Margeret Becker peered out the window as the sand blew lightly against it, the grains hitting glass with little clicks. Those monotonous clicks. All day, every day. All night, every night. That was what she got for being so far out on the outskirts of the town. But then again, where else would one put an Inn, which also happens to be a Tavern, which also happens to be the only place in town where you could get a decent meal three times a day. She took a deep breath and closed the ledger that had been laying open on the finished wood counter a moment ago. Bookkeeping was definitely on her 'least favorite things that have to be done for this place to run' list, and she always sought a reason to put it off for five more minutes on bank day. More sand against the window as the wind picked up. It had been four days since the last visitors had left the inn, their rooms filthy and trashed. The smell still lingered, even if it was just barely recognizable. Tobacco and blood and sex and bile and sweat and alcohol. All thrown together in one sickening concoction. Margeret forced herself to change the subject as the bile rose up in her throat just thinking about the wall of stench she was blasted with when she had opened the door after their departure.

That was enough to get her to sit back down and fight with the numbers. To try to make them fit around the budget that she had for this month. Pulling a pen out from her hair, it cascaded down her back against the wood of the chair. Pulling back the front section and tucking it behind her ear she began to write. Moments later, however, she was rudely interrupted.

The door slammed open, its back hitting the wall of the building, and Jamison Parker was hurled into the building, tripping backwards over the single step with a yelp. Not far behind him followed William Boyd, fist balled up and rearing back, obscenities flowing from his mouth like water from a well. Margeret stood quickly and moved between the two of them, her voice overpowering the both of them.

"Now you boys know betta' than to come in hea' like this!" Her stern tone scolded and accused. "I've done tole you time and time again to keep yo' fights to yourself." She could hear her own accent, thick and beautiful, take its full flight with her anger. William was still perched and ready to strike, which was something that Margeret had learned the hard way the first time they had broken the door in. So instead of telling them to '...Just go on and git outta' hea' before I..." She had learned a different method.

Motioning to a table nearby, she told them to sit down and be civil with one another until she got back. Being gone for one minute would not be long enough for a death. She came back with a pot of coffee and two cups, set them down on the table and delivered a single order. "Don't you two even THINK about movin' 'till you sorted your differences out in a civil mannah'." She looked both of them in the eyes, then returned to her bookkeeping, closing the door as she moved behind the desk

The sand blew against the glass, scraping with the force of the wind. Margeret shivered. Something other than the boy's tuff was wrong.

Never would she have guessed just how right she was.
...Arise and be all that you dream....

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Zhelir Darkfall on Tue Dec 11, 2007 6:15 am

The Dark Man walked slowly, his paces even and measured, every step thocking off the ground and rebounding off the nearby buildings. The trek had been hellish after the car -- that infernal piece of machinery guaranteed to make it through the desert -- had broken down on him. Or perhaps that was a euphemism, for the car had fucking exploded on him, and it was only by the graces of whatever cruel and wicked gods there were that he had been walking around the side opposite the fuel tank when it had blown, and had only hurled him a hundred yards into a solid rock face, as opposed to, say, burning his favorite coat.

It had been another twenty miles on little sleep and even less water. He had to resort, in the end, to blood. A handful of wildlife existed in the desolate region, and their nutrients and, more importantly, liquids were enough to sustain him through two days' blistering heat. The one thing he had had going for him was that he'd managed to hang onto his tobacco in the explosion. Those two days would've ended him without cigarettes.

His bionic eye shifted slightly, zooming in on the town square a quarter mile or so up the road, its interface tagging locals and identifying a threat level based on their appearance and stature. The technology both with his eye and arm were quite amazing, even by the day's standards; they ran purely off his body's own thermal and chemical energies, just like real body parts. No fuss, no muss -- except when something got broken. Metal didn't heal, and someone who could repair this shit was about as easy to find as a straight musician. A grim smile accompanied this thought, distorting the area around the metal plate around his fake eye, and shifting the week-long stubble that had grown.

He pitched his cigarette into the dirt as he turned off into what appeared to be an inn, and what he hoped like hell was a bar. He pushed the door open, his eyes traveling first to a pair of men arguing over coffee, then to the bar wench. He passed toward the bar, the red lens on the right side of his head glowing in the dimmer light of the building. His voice came out deep and husky, the words carrying such contempt for the people in the vicinity in general that it seemed to burn his throat, "I'll take the strongest beer ya got, and get them fools to shut it 'fore I put a bullet in each of 'em."

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Lord Saladin on Tue Dec 11, 2007 7:41 am

With a gentle murmur, the motorcycle pulled up outside the Inn that belonged to easily the best looking woman in Tempest, Margaret Becker. Tendrils of steam subsided as the old engine came to a calm halt, leaving silence but for the sounds of wind and the sand being whipped against the wooden building. Easily stepping over the bike, to emerge stood upon the dusty sand of what made up the roads in this little, desolate town.

Black boots, with the same colour spurs, shin high, but hidden by leather trousers of the same colour, kicked up more sand as the man made his way to the door of the place. In truth, his entire garb was black, denim jacket, and open collared shirt, even the wide brimmed hat was black. The heat seemed not to affect the fellow much.

The only items not of black were the two revolvers he carried, one on each hip, positioned in black holsters, and the golden, five axis star that identified him as the Sheriff of Tempest.

Walking in, he saw a rather dark looking stranger who was being rather confrontational, and was in the process of issuing a threat;

"I'll take the strongest beer ya got, and get them fools to shut it 'fore I put a bullet in each of 'em."

In an instant, the Sheriff had his own gun pointed for the head of the man, a minute red light showing where the bullet would hit; a colour much akin to the crimson of the Sheriff's right, false, eye.

The eight round revolver was a sleekly polished silver, with a wooden hilt, carved with "C.D", the Sheriff's hand was perfectly steady as he pointed the gun at the stranger, no fear was present, nor hesitation.

Taking the thick cigar from his mouth with his free hand, the Sheriff spoke in an unusually rough, deep voice, a rather arrogant confidence showing through in his words and tone.

"Yuh, an' I'll have a bullet in ya before you pull the trigger, naw ger our a my town, varmit"

His accent was also heavy, like most people in this small mining town, yet despite his gruffness, his real eye gave a quick wink to the owner of this rather dark establishment.
Last edited by Lord Saladin on Thu Dec 13, 2007 6:41 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Please tell me now what life is, Please tell me now what love is... Again, tell me what life is.

Tiko says: Saladin: Damn it, leave my hole alone.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby aeleon on Tue Dec 11, 2007 1:58 pm

Ursula groaned as she tried desperately to bend over a wooden worktable in her family's front 'yard'; her tightly woven corset made it difficult, allowing for her to better see the metal ornament she was shaping for none but two minutes -- after that, she could no longer hold her breath and would have to sit up straight and take a reviving gasp. She hated working like this, and shifted until her vertebrae cracked soothingly before adjusting her beige-colored dress. She pulled her puffy sleeves up and bunched a section of her dress behind her legs, which were not daintily crossed but instead spread wide, her right, booted heel tapping incessantly against the patchy grass ground beneath her workbench.

"What a mess," she groaned, picking up her soldering iron once more - one that she had modded in order to run off of small electric generator grounded to the right of her bench. In her right, non-dominant hand, she picked up another piece of metal, applying heat to it until she broke off a tiny piece. She took a deep breath and held it, leaning forward and picking it up with the edge of her instrument; She applied it to the oval-shaped picture frame she was creating, fashioning that bit into an intricate addition to the victorian pattern she had assembled from the original carved piece and other small additions like this one.

((Temporary OOC Note By Zhelir:)) Accepted in already, no worries.
Last edited by aeleon on Thu Dec 13, 2007 11:01 pm, edited 3 times in total.
As you recall, you know I love to show off,
But you never thought that I would take it this far.
What do you know?


Fancy a Butcher's?

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Lord Saladin on Tue Dec 11, 2007 2:50 pm

I must ask, aeleon, was that sent to Zhelir prior to your posting? Given your final OOC comment, I am supposing not.

Please try and follow rules given by authors of RPs, please. It is only polite.

Not my decision, of course, that is up to Zhelir, but do keep such things in mind.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Dream Evil on Tue Dec 11, 2007 3:41 pm

((OOC: It's okay, I've been accepted))

Marcus jolted awake at the sudden lurch of the great heap of steel he'd rode in on.
The ride had been long enough for Marcus to catch a good sleep, hundreds of miles he'd traveled, it was surprising that the tracks went so far.
But in this new technological world, not much was unbelievable.

But the large locomotive had now reached it's last stop, also delivered Marcus to where he wanted to be.
The town of Tempest, in the middle of nowhere.
Funny place to build a town, no water around, trading musta been difficult.
But Tempest had it's ways.
At least, Marcus had shoddily deduced that, thinking a town so lonely could survive and prosper on it's own bought Marcus to the conclusion that there must be some un-told riches or secrets there.

But something else drew him there, something a man would die for...or kill for.
Marcus was a few days behind a man, a man he knew all too well.
A man he'd been trying to end for the past year.
Finding him would be difficult, killing him, worse.
But Marcus swore him dead, for reasons he didn't tell people.
Hell, the man didn't tell people much at all.

But for now, he was going to relax, stress had begun to take it's toll on him and he wished to wash his hands of the blood of the past month.
He just wanted to feel clean before he had to dirty them all up again.

Once outside the train, Marcus threw his head back and drew in a deep breath through his nose, exhaling through his mouth.
Fresh air felt good, but Marcus could feel the dryness in his mouth and the parched feeling deep in his throat.
Marcus needed a drink, and he was going to get one if he had to walk around the town for the rest of the day and all of the night.
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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Eymber on Thu Dec 13, 2007 6:26 am

The door swung open, allowing entrance to a dark figure. Margeret felt the hair on the back of her neck raise as she caught a glimpse of his face, causing cold fear to trickle down her spine. She tried to pull her gaze away, but was petrified. His voice broke the spell as he called out from the bar.

She quickly stood, pulling her hair back with the pen, and moved to the bar as the door opened again. With much relief to her, the Sheriff entered the picture, and just in time. A flash of guns, and immediate tension were quick to follow.

"Must be mah lucky day... First the two o'er there," she spoke, motioning to the now suddenly quiet boys at the coffee table "and now our respected Sheriff and you, dark strangah." A smile formed on her face as she looked to the Dark Man with flirtatious eyes. "I dun know whetha or not you know 'bout our little town heah.. But we dun want no trouble." She moved towards the conflict, stepping between the Sheriff and the man. "Now... No more threats in mah establishment, ya' here?"

Margeret turned her attention on the other part of the conflict now. "Sheriff, put that damn thang away... We dun need no trouble from anyone this aftanoon. If you wanna play with your revolvah, take it outside. My place is a peaceful place, and you know that z'well as the next person." She placed a hand on the barrel of his revolver and gently helped him in his lowering of the weapon, the kissed him lightly on the cheek and moved behind the bar. "The strongest we got? Commin' right up for ya, Strangah. And for you, Handsome?" She winked at the Sheriff "Anything? Maybe some lunch?"

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Zhelir Darkfall on Thu Dec 13, 2007 6:59 am

So the law-dog wanted to play? Fine by him. He registered the woman acknowledging him, but did not respond. Instead, he pushed his coat back slightly to reveal his own piece, its size and caliber might have been an exact match to the weapon the sheriff sported, but the Dark Man was willing to bet everything he had that he could put the fucker in the dirt. His fingers had just been teasing the butt of the weapon when the bitch spoke again, her accent like a grate on his ears. It took a moment to tune it out, the sheer penetrating annoyance of it, so he could better focus, but whatever she spoke next, it seemed to calm the man. No one should have right to hold a gun if they could be talked down so easily. This town was already proving to be just as pathetic as he had feared.

He shook his head, pulling another cigarette from within his duster. "Drop the act, wench. I want my drink and peace, not a glorified hooker staring me down." His voice came out just as gruff and contemptuous as before.

He pulled a lighter -- fascinating objects, and a hell of a lot handier than matches -- out next, spinning the wheel briefly to set the wick aflame, before tilting his head forward slightly, igniting the end of the cigarette. Following that, he took a seat at the bar, his long coat falling over the stool as he did so. God damn, he needed a beer.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Dream Evil on Thu Dec 13, 2007 7:09 am

Marcus paused at the double swinging doors of the town's Bar.
He viewed the exchange of silent threats between the Dark Man and the Sheriff with an amused sort of curiosity.
A half grin had sent the right side of his lip closer to his right ear in an expression that easily showed his aforementioned curiosity.
The scar on his cheek, now pink in colour as opposed to the dark red it had been when it was still fresh.
Now it was up to 5 years old, a mere shadow of a wound.

But now, Marcus' hesitation was over.
He pushed the doors open, his only real goal was to get a drink, three days on that train with little place to go left him with a yearning for something strong.
He approached the bar, keeping his had forward, but his eyes moved around, taking in the crowd.
Only few of interest, those being the Sheriff - the man Marcus would have to be clear of, and the Dark Man - another man that Marcus may or may not have to also avoid.

Marcus took a seat at the bar, his over-coat remained so that only the butt of his Winchester was visible, hopefully that would let people know he wouldn't draw guns like a maniac.
But for now, he let his thoughts and intentions sit aside as he addressed the bar wench.
"Excuse me miss, could you pour me something strong?" Marcus said in a baritone, gritty voice that belied his politeness to women, "And also," He started with a slight chuckle, "Tell me what in the blue hell those two were pointin' guns at one and other for."

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby aeleon on Thu Dec 13, 2007 11:17 pm

The time that seemed not to pass at the inn passed like wildfire to Ursula; she was just about done sanding the glass into the oval shape precisely necessary to fit within the delicately fashioned picture frame when she looked up in the sky. She squinted: just past noon. She'd even skipped breakfast! She looked back over her shoulder and realized that her house was silent - which could only mean that it was empty, because if anyone was in there, they were guaranteed to be making a racket. Oh well, she thought - I'll ask miss Becker for some food, she's mighty nice to me. Decided, she lifted herself from her work bench, slid the glass piece into place, and was off towards the inn.

What would have been a long walk took no more than three minutes for little Ursula - as it would have for any townsperson, naturally used to trekking long distances in places like these. In her left hand she clutched the picture frame while her right quickly wrapped her hair around itself, taming it in a messy, frizzy bun. "MORNIN' MISS BECKER," she shouted as she side-stepped through the doors, letting her hips slide the swinging doors that one of her older brothers had fashioned just enough to allow her through. "Brought you that frame you -"

She stopped, silent as if she had never been there, the only give-away of her ever having existed was the soft creak of the door as it swung back into place. She blinked repeatedly, assessing the situation, nodding to the two gentlemen who had first entered, those two being the only ones she recognized -- well, other than the sheriff, but he was busy. "Goodness," she muttered, her eyes wandering from the people to the machinery they carried, piecing the guns apart with her eyes appreciatively.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Smokescreen on Sat Dec 15, 2007 4:48 am

Captain Shaw’s horse Immortalis, wheezed as its eyes lolled in their sockets. Phlegm ran from the seven year-old bob-tailed gelding’s nose. Spittle dotted the sleek flaxen side of the military warhorse as he ran from the monstrosities. Mutations had been rare years ago but now they were a Goodman plague. Being assigned to a Strike regiment was a fancy nomenclature for a butcher. Strike regiments cleaned up small, localized mutant bands that were a nuisance to humans. The regiments were 600 men broken down into four squadrons. Two squadrons were mounted infantry; the other two were dragoons and horse artillery.

The job was cake and the saved towns were more than grateful with their gold and daughters. It was racket with minimal effort and maximum rewards. The gravy train stopped when folks started digging up the machines. Over night, it seemed the muties went on the offensive. Whole towns were killed and eaten, not like animals but with the cruelty that only a human mind could imagine. Fighting became difficult; the mutations would not sit there and be bombed by the 90’s anymore. They would attack the guns first, then the horses. Mounted infantry is as good on horseback as a penguin in the desert and the mutations somehow knew that.

Losses were great in the those first years but still Shaw stuck with it. He saw it as his duty to the human race. When his unit reached Blenheim the romanticized notion of duty left his mind. The town was filled with them. Over six thousand of the things were there and his men did not stand a chance. The battle was quick, waves of the deformed bodies washed over them like a horrible tide until only seven escaped with their lives. After thirty miles of escape only Shaw remained.

He could see the hazy dust outline of Tempest and urged Immortalis on. Turning behind him, King could see the muties as little dots on the horizon, still pursuing but loosing interest. They crossed into town at almost full gallop, when Shaw pulled the reigns the horse did a short little jump as if he finished a steeplechase. The Captain patted his animal and secured him by the trough. He, like the animal was in dire need for a drink.

The bar was a uniformed piece of shit like the rest of the town but he hoped they had beer to make up for lack of taste. Shaw walked in unbuttoning his topcoat. There seemed to be some goings on in the five-horse town and that was just fine by him. He could care less if two people shot them selves to chop, all he wanted was a drink and maybe some eats. The woman behind the bar looked to be the catering type, a breeder. Shaw shook his head. More than likely, her womb was hostile sort of place where many man come, but very few leave. He knew about these outpost towns, if it was not the muties, it was townie whores creeping with downstairs buggies.

“I say woman, I’d have a beer and meal if ya bother.” Shaw had gold coins and silver chips but would not waste them on the shantytown. He took a rough garnet from his belt pouch and placed it on the bar. “You take stones as payment I trust, it’s a fine little gem, not now but some man turn it into a nice little bauble for one so pretty.” The earthen colored stone was not impressive but it would buy two meals, a days worth of beer and if the woman was stupid, a room. Sitting down on one of the stools, he patted the dust from his uniform and looked at his watch.
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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Lord Saladin on Sun Dec 16, 2007 1:42 pm

A slight grin on the Sheriff's face emerged as he received the kiss from his wife. He eyed her as what she was, and that was the most beautiful woman in Tempest, nay, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Not wanting a full argument in the place of second income for the two, the Sheriff, Charles Broudier, put his gun back in its holster. Margaret had chosen to keep her maiden name, which was not unheard of in these parts, and did not bother the black garbed law keeper; everyone in the small town knew that the two were married, so it was no import that the surnames of the two were different.

A cheeky light shone in Charles' eyes as he winked, and patted a gentle hand upon her butt.

"A meal'd be grea', me love. Bu' le' me take care o' some trash first."

Charles had heard with clarity what the awful fellow had said, and the address the stranger gave to the Sheriff's wife was, in the mind of Charles, entirely unacceptable. Placing the cigar back into his mouth, Charles walked silently towards the stranger and swung a strong fist directly for his face. The arms of the Law man were thick, from his years as a Scrapper; building and working with heavy metallic machinery from a young age had left him with a muscle structure that was, at the very least, extremely impressive.

Knowledge of Scraping had just about left him now, although he was still able to do basic maintenance on the bike he rode.

The punch would come swift and strong, a hidden rage, not showing on the man's face, which was hidden in the shade of the Inn under the black hat he wore, burning inside him at such an uncouth fellow.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Zhelir Darkfall on Mon Dec 17, 2007 12:10 am

The woman might have acknowledged him, he didn't know. He hadn't bothered to listen. What he had heard was the sound of an incoming fist. He could have evaded it, thrown his head back and slammed his mechanical arm into the attacker's stomach, but thought an entertaining solution more fit. Broken knuckles sounded good.

He brought his mechanical arm up to block the shot, the man's knuckles driving into the nigh-indestructible metal. This was a mistake. A opposed to the fulfilling sound of bone shattering, he was propelled off his seat, held momentarily in the air, and fell to the floor, his instincts throwing both arms out once more, using his left to push himself up, rolling off into a roll. He spun momentarily, bringing himself to face the Sheriff. Meanwhile, his right had shot to the long-barreled revolver, timing it to raise up just as he came to a stop, aimed in the attacker's general direction.

A wry grin split his lips, contorting the facial features around his eye once more, though this was nearly invisible between the cover of his hat and the building's dim lighting. The law-man had one hell of a punch behind him, likely from labor at some point in his life. But that was all right, even if his ruse had blown up in his face. Someone from a hard background was someone he could see eye-to-eye with far more often than the brats that never had to lift a shovel, never hard to break a bone for their work.

He spoke in a low tone, putting just a hint of peevish glee on his tone. "Nice shot, law-dog. You an ex-miner?"

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Smokescreen on Mon Dec 17, 2007 12:41 am

((OOC))Did you get my character info Zhelir?((OOC))
OOC: (Zhelir) Yeah, smoke. Gunna throw it up in a second.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby quidhala on Mon Dec 17, 2007 9:31 am

Instantaneous worldwide voice communication, multileveled compartmentalized living accommodations with internal environmental climate controls and miasma spirited away through fluvial substructural channels to a remote collection location to be decomposed at an accelerated rate without offence to a single nose. The glory and grandeur of a civilization living amongst efficiently applied technological constructs providing incalculable easement of access to the necessities of life. This was all meant to be discovered, analyzed, and reapplied across the world under the auspices of a centralized, economically mandated overseer directing a seething hive of humanity pouring forth from their domestic environs to a complex of progressive industry, existing only to fill a prescribed societal function, to contribute to the welfare and sustainable future of all mankind.

The pain was fierce, like the sting of a scorpion in his hand, causing the hairs on his body to stand erect and casting a flood of luminous dots before his eyes. The bouquet of ozone with singed flesh filled his nose and a cupric taste in his mouth. The physiological response of panic had temporarily arrested the cascade of thoughts in his riotous mind, nothing but the self diagnostic check of baseline consciousness. ‘Am I alive?’

Rig found himself lying on his back in front of his workbench, the hard wood floor bruising his unusually large shoulder blades through his dust covered grey denim coverall. He realized that he had applied much more current than the device actually needed to operate. Gyre advanced quickly from the corner where it lingered to its master laying in the midst of the chaotically assembled workspace and extended its metallic arm to help him up. Rig grabbed the cool steel limb with his sweat slicked mahogany hands and hoisted himself onto his coarse bare feet. He was indignant that Gyre and Gimble had witnessed his folly, despite there inability to mock such a thing. He ran his thin long fingers across his scalp frantically, rubbing his head in frustration, his coarse black hair still standing up straight.

He had been working on a old find that had lain in a bin for several year, but he had never been curious enough by the little thing, it just hadn’t seemed too important. It was encased in the hard, smooth, and, as yet, unidentified material that was so popular with the progenitors of these artifacts. It hinged in the middle revealing a button pad on one side and a grey glass window on the other. He had gutted the device to its essential elements and applied current to analyze its function. Exploring for a half hour he had deduced that the device converted audible sounds into an electrical signal that could be converted back to sound by a distant receiver, but did not understand how the distant end was reached or what many of the other circuits were for, so he continued to work and ponder. Sudden revelations had induced visions of the ancient world that had spawned these artifacts and clouded his focus allowing his hand to get too close to a live wire, where electricity had arced.

He gruffly announced to the two automatons, “We’re gettin’ out a here! I need to clear my head … eat something.” His voice was deep and rattling, like rocks tumbling upon one another in his lungs. Maybe a trip down to lovely Mrs. Becker’s saloon could restore his inner calm and allow him to return to work.

Rig exited his workshop and walked down the sloping granite stone path to his small shanty home sitting in the fading light of evening, with the “twins” in tow. As always, Gimble secured the door behind them and brought up the rear. Gimble’s foot caught the rough edge of one of the paving stones and kicked it up through the air with its next step. The heavy stone slammed into the exterior wall of the house breaking through the aged wooden slats into the insulating layer of bailed hay within.

Rig’s head snapped around on a swivel and he ground his teeth, his broad flat features twisted into a gargoyle’s grimace. He squeaked with frustration and clenched his fists. Gimble beeped a preprogrammed apology, the only effect of which was infuriating its master further. Gimble rushed across the bare earth yard towards the damaged wall on its long gangly legs, beeping chatter as it went. “BOTH of you, FIX it!” Rig shouted as he stormed off into the house, slamming the heavy hardwood door behind him.
Last edited by quidhala on Mon Dec 17, 2007 12:52 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby aeleon on Mon Dec 17, 2007 12:47 pm

Ursula was in fact still there in all of her insignificant glory, by the door. Her knowledge of the new bodies in the scene was minimal, because the confrontation before her seemed to shake the air with tension. She justified the metaphorical electricity in the atmosphere with a physical explanation, being well-aware that the Sheriff at least had mechanical parts that were quite powerful and, therefore, required some significant current.

Ursula winced the moment the Sheriff moved, shielding her eyes and quickly pacing over to one of the tables to the left of the ordeal which (I assume) had taken command of the center of the establishment. She seemed to try to sink into the hair she fell into, bringing her knees to her chest and seeming to hide behind her billowing skirts, but with wide, curious eyes exposed and fixated on the event.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Lord Saladin on Mon Dec 17, 2007 3:25 pm

He moved quick, that stranger. His arm up for a block in time to be effective, yet Charles had guessed that, like so many before him, that this disrespectful little stranger's defence would prove fruitless. How wrong Charles was; rather than watching as his fist hit the face of the man, breaking a cheek, jaw or nose in the process, the sheriff was met with a near immovable stationary object.

The feel of metal as knuckles clashed with the arm of the stranger, and a great pain shot up Charles' arm as the man went flying a short distance. Tar'nation, wha' the livin' 'ell was tha'? The thought passed through with enough time to notice the stranger reach for his weapon. That artificial eye, running on nothing but his own life force; blood, cerebral currents, and oxygen, certainly came in handy sometimes. Charles' own gun was out of its holster once more in an instant, held firmly in aim at the stranger. The red dot, that gave such an accurate aim in conjunction with the eye, rested with a solid position between the eyes of the stranger.

A slight tilting of the head, and Charles noticed something strange. The stranger's same eye had been replaced, just as the Sheriff's. He made no note of it, and instead spoke in that deep, gruff, rough tone.

"I'm pretty damn sure I tol'ya ta ge' ou' me town, varmit. Nah, run along, or you'll be findin' a early grave, ya 'ear?"

He stood there, waiting now, in silence, for the stranger to do as he was told; although, he knew that would not be the case. This man, dark as he was, would not take orders; but if he had to be shot down, then so be it.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Smokescreen on Tue Dec 18, 2007 12:13 am

On the stool, King took in a quiet reflection. Shaw had forgotten small towns were a knit work tapestry, that every piece of cheap thread was woven against the next with clumsy thumbed precision. The woman was a sister, cousin or sweetheart and that man had more than likely offended. It was to be dick measuring between the edgy traveler and the sheriff that was evident; Shaw was worried about the backlash. The men dressed in dark clothes would perhaps shoot it out, perhaps go to fists or perhaps they would talk about inane topics over the watered down whisky.

He did not like it. The sheriff was too prone to anger and the stranger was too prone to pithy retorts. Shaw took his helmet off and placed it beside him on an empty stool. He could get in the middle of the altercation but that never panned well for the chud that would cross two men with calloused gun hands. No, he decided to watch and pray someone would take this goddamn jewel from him and turn it into a meal. The other man seated at the bar was without food or drink as well. This was disheartening to Shaw and he frowned.

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Re: Unforgivable (Western/Steampunk)

Tips: 0.00 INK Postby Eymber on Tue Dec 18, 2007 12:38 am

Margeret stared for a moment, knowing that her husband was in danger.. hoping that he wouldn't take this too far. Though she was a tough woman... she was still a woman after all and had fears and worries and concerns. The dark man, whom she so very much wanted to punch in the face right now, had insulted her dignity. That made her face burn with anger like nothing else. She could see Miss Ursula cowering at one of the tables, knowing that the girl had simply come to deliver a package for her. And the other newcomers? Waiting for some form of food or beverage... waiting for her.

She snapped herself out of the petrified fear she had and moved quickly to the kitchen, putting together three plates: one for Miss Ursula, one for her husband, and one for the man with the ruby. Balancing them on her arm, she moved back into the bar area, passing a plate to first Miss Ursula, then to the one in the uniform, and setting the final plate down on the bar-top for Charles when he finished.

She then hurried to make a beer for the Dark Man and the Uniformed One, and one more just to be sure.. and made a Gin and Tonic for the other newcomer. Filling two cups up with water, she set one on the counter beside Charles's plate, then passed the other to Miss Ursula. Still balancing the beers and the drink, she laid one down on the table next to the ruby. "That's a damn nice stone ya' got there... But it'll only pay for beer and one more plate of food. If yer interested in gettin' a room.. Yer gonna have to cough up another one of them jewels."

Margeret passed the Gin and Tonic to the other newcomer letting him know that if he wanted something to eat to just give her a holler... then she stepped directly between her husband and the Dark Man, holding the last two beers out. "Beers, Boys.... Take'em and sit yerselves down. AND PUT THEM DAMN GUNS AWAY. I DECLARE IF I HAVE TO TELL YOU ONE MORE TIME, YER BOTH OUT!"

She then turned on her heel, passing the table that Jamison and William were at. "You two git out of here. This ain't no place for you boys to be right now. Settle your differences elsewhere."

Margeret picked up their coffee cups as they scampered off and took them to the back, placing them in the sink to wash later, then picked up her own cup of tea and moved to sit beside Miss Ursula.

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