DruSM157 — Roleplayer Guild

|| Soundtrack ||

The 12:15 train coming from Benningsfield was going to be arriving just on time. As with many steam engines of the time it was a monster of iron and scraps, all held together by human ingenuity and the sheer willpower that mankind will continue to thrive. It had been 80 years since 
the fall, and yet cities and towns were still sprouting up, families were still being made and jobs were still being done. There was a testament to the tenacity to mankind to preserve through it all; to keep pushing forward. Just like a train. Burning fifty miles an hour, furnace burning hot coals; conductors and staff sweating to keep her pushing forward. A nonstop locomotive heading towards a destination: Blackfinger. 

Not everyone came by train, of course. Some rode in on their horses. Others took a carriage. Some came by barge or ferry; and the lucky few came by zeppelin giving them save passage over the most dangerous terrain.

This was market day. People were piling in from the hundreds from as far as New Washington, Brigham’s Stead and even New Rojas. Blackfinger was the place to buy anything. New handguns imported from north Kingston, where the Freetowns’ armory lay. Fresh grains from Georgetown to the east, or red maize from the west. Today was the day you could find anything and anyone you needed. 

Passengers from all walks sat on the train. Bounty hunters. Musicians. Trappers. Doctors. Good men, dirty women, honest ladies and lying vagrants. The siren call of the city brought them all here today. All for one reason or another. Everyone comes around market day. 

But no one ever expects what happens next. 

ACT I
BLACKFINGER

|| Soundtrack ||

Gerald Carlson
PLACE // Jefferson’s High Road; 90 miles from Blackfinger
TIME // Evening

Dusk.

Gerald Carlson watched as the magic hour began to fade away; the orange and indigo tinted sky fading into the deep blues of nighttime. Soon the stars would be out, and the moon. He was busy hitching up the oxen while Lila started the campfire. They were still about a day’s drive from Gideon; the little trading post that he planned to make some money at. He’d been driving along the high roads now for weeks with his daughter, teaching her how to wheel and deal with these salty types of men. She was young and pretty; that helped out when she batted her eyes and leaned forward on the dealer’s tables; enough to suddenly get a steep discount on an item. 

Carlson was a simple man: spindly, with wiry dark hair. The years had been rough on him and his family; but a life of mercantilism traveling the roads and buying low and selling high had been the one thing Gerald Carlson found himself capable of. It had earned him a wife, it had earned him a daughter, it had earned him a nice enough carriage to travel the high roads between the cities. Yes, Gerald Carlson had a wonderful life. A skilled daughter who would soon take over for him while he found a nice farm to retire to? That was the reward of a simple life. 

Marrying her off would be a fool’s errand. He knew that girl would become the richest woman this side of the Great River with her charm. He was proud of the girl and he knew that her mother (God rest her soul) would be proud of her. Gerald looked up as those deep blues started to fade into dark black. He saw no orange glow coming from where he’d told that girl to set up camp. What the hell was that girl doing? 

“Lila, girl what in tar-“ 

Click.

Gerald Carlson’s heart sank deep into his stomach, deeper into his bowels. He felt like he was going to shit his heart out of fear. Standing to the side of him was a tall man with a gaunt face; a face ghoulish, as if there was too little skin to go over his skull, and it was forcibly stretched to cover the mass of his head. Even from a distance one could make out the sharp cheekbones and lines of his face, making him look almost like a skeleton wearing skin instead of a normal human.

 “Lookie what we got here boys,” the voice spat from Carlson’s side. “I think we found that purty girl’s daddy.” 

 “D-don’t you lay a finger on-“ 

THWACK! The back of Gerald’s head exploded in a fiery pain, and he lost his balance toward the earth. He fell, tumbling down, down, down, catching himself on the earth with his hands. He couldn’t finish his sentence, and only groaned in pain. Thin rivulets of blood poured from the side of his head, mixing with the dirt on the ground.

 “Did I say you could talk, you dumb fuck!?”  A boot was planted in the center of his back. More pain sent shockwaves up Gerald’s spine.

Orange light sparked around him. Men holding torches; but Gerald couldn’t raise his head to see anything. The man with his boot on his back began to speak; Gerald barely moved his neck enough to see this new figure’s black leather boots; carefully and meticulously shined to an almost glossy sheen. 

 “Whatdy’a think?” 

 “LET ME GO!” A female voice screamed as she was pushed down beside her father. Lila Carlson, thin like her father; with dirty brown hair and a slightly crooked nose; a young woman that Carlson now regretted never marrying off. Never sending away from this world. In that moment, seeing her face down in the dirt next to him, Carlson did not feel like this was a reward for his simple life. 

 “He’s too old and scrawny to be of any use. I wouldn’t even use him as a bullet shield for the front. The girl might have some use on the market in Rojas.” 

This new figure’s voice froze Gerald’s blood. His voice was smooth and dark; but it was not soothing. There was something sinister and cruel about the way the man spoke; something that made Gerald believe he would not live much longer. This was the voice of a man who had no love for his fellow creatures. Gerald also understood what New Rojas meant for Lila. Jefferson was a trading partner, but it was no place for a family to live. Especially new Rojas. Tears began to well up in his eyes as he tried not to picture his daughter as a slave to the bordellos. 

 “As for the old man? Kill him.” 

 “Yes sir!”  The man giggled with sadistic glee.  “I’ll be nice for you, you sniveling shit eater. I’ll give you to the count of ten to make your piece with God.” 

Gerald Carlson began to piss himself. 

 “Ten. Nine. Eight.” 

The numbers were like the ringing of the funeral bell. Gerald Carlson began to pray, sniveling and crying facedown in the dirt.

 “Seven. Six. Five. Four.” 

Voices came from the wagon.  “Hey General! Come and take a lookit this guy’s cargo! It’s got that Blackfinger name stamped on it!” 

 “Three. Two.” The goon’s finger began to twitch as it lightly caressed the trigger. 

 “Stop.” The man’s deep voice pierced the drumbeat of Gerald’s heart. He could barely hear the loud voice from the man, as he slowly walked over to Gerald’s face-down figure. Large fingers began to grope Gerald’s hair, pulling the man’s up to face a man he’d only seen in pictures. Tall, slicked back, greying hair which was getting long in the back. Slight stubble from a face that had been riding the trails hard all day. For a jacket, he wore a tattered old piece with countless medallions hanging from the lapels. On his rested a hand crafted ivory handled revolver, a gun that had killed countless men and women over the years.

The General.

 “Tell me about Blackfinger.” 

|| Soundtrack ||

Howard Baker 
PLACE // Baker’s Rest Council Room
TIME // Morning

Howard Baker had led a good life. At least, in his mind he’d led a good life. He was proud of his accomplishments. His father had founded Baker’s Rest forty years ago, back when Howard was only twenty. By the time Howard was 25, he’d inherited his father’s place on the town council; he’d married a beautiful woman and they’d spent the past 40 years together in relative happiness. He’d raised three wonderful daughters. He had a grandson. He should have been happy. 

“It’s not called Blackfinger, Mr. Johnson.” Howard said, fighting the desire to roll his eyes. “It’s Baker’s Rest.” 

“I know that sir,” the young man in a too-tight suit said across from the oak table. “I just-everyone-“ 

 “I know everyone calls it that. But I must ask you to at least respect my family name and call the town by it’s proper title while you speak to us here.” 

“I know sir. I just…Mr. Booker, I wanted to ask you if you could perhaps…your library is the most complete record of the old world left. Back in Hayfield, we need a working mill and-“ 

“Mr. Johnson, I cannot simply give you my records.”  The steel-eyed man sitting next to Howard answered, his face like a rock; only moving enough to talk and nothing more. “I can send out a team of engineers to help you with the mill. But it’ll cost a good bit; but it would be worth it in the long run.” 

 “We can talk about brokering a deal.” Johnson sighed, tugging at the bowtie around his neck. His face had been steadily turning pink, and now it was a bright shade of scarlet. A mix of sweat, nerves, a tight color and now? Anger.  “You Blackfingers make it your mission to bleed out every resource of the poor people around here, hogging your machines to your damn selves.” 

 “It’s better than having people start wars over it.” 

To his left, Paul Booker sat. Paul was only a decade younger than him, but the bastard looked like he was only pushing forty.  Paul was Howard’s second on the council; though some of the other members felt it was nepotism: after all Booker was his son-in-law. But while others felt like this was him giving Booker power; it was the opposite for Howard. He didn’t trust Booker. Perhaps it was because Moira died of the flu so many years ago. Perhaps it was because Booker came into town out of nowhere, swept his youngest daughter off her feet and had her pregnant within a year. Maybe it was because he was the person everyone who came to visit wanted to meet with! 

So Howard kept Booker at arm’s length. Always watching him, making sure he’d spill no secrets about Baker’s Rest. Even though Booker was the man behind the Blackfingers, even though he was behind the explosive growth and the building of the Foundry…there was always something alien about Booker. He’d just appeared in a storm one winter’s night over twenty years ago; looking half crazed and carrying a horse loaded down with books. Books! And some how, those books; not the farms, not the little ranches they had built on the outskirts of the town, not the station they had spent months to build to connect to the south and north rail lines-no, this man and his damned books with pictures and words on how to build a working water wheel, or a mill, or a steam engine, or a damn pistol. Books were what these people wanted. The only reason he tolerated the man was for his grandson; the boy was a sweet child and looked just like his mother. The fact that Alan had decided to work for him as well; instead of working in the Rookery with his father also helped. 

Yes, sometimes he was a little harsh on the boy; but it was because Howard wanted his grandson to grow up to be a leader. If anyone was going to run Baker’s Rest, it was going to be that boy. He was a Baker in his blood and in his heart, and he’d see to it that none of Paul Booker’s influence tainted the ability to be a good leader in times of hardship. Yes, Paul Booker did help bring attention and influence to Baker’s Rest. Hell, over the years they’d set up the most basic kind of government with the other towns on the Great River; enough that a few plague rats from old glory carrying half-working old world weapons weren’t as frightening as they had been thirty years ago. But Baker’s Rest needed a Baker there. And Alan would be the next one. With his grandson, Baker’s Rest would always have a Baker taking care of it. 

Yes. Howard Baker had led a good life to be blessed with such a kind grandson.

|| Soundtrack ||

 Alan Booker 
PLACE // Baker’s Rest Marketplace
TIME // Morning

Grandpa Baker was going to kill him.

Alan Booker just watched as the thin man sped off into the crowd with three loaves of bread. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This was supposed to be a simple market day; his first market day without Grandpa Baker barking orders at him. He would be the one selling the bread and bringing in the good profits. Grandpa was going to be so proud of him! 

Except now Grandpa was going to scream at him for three hours on why they didn’t have enough grain to simply let a bunch of hasty vagrants make off with it. How he wouldn’t be allowed to go out for market day for three months. How he’d be better off working the bellows in the foundry, and how his mother would die of shame if she saw how much of a poor baker her sweet son turned out to be. 

Alan Booker did not look like his father; his face was soft; with sandy blonde hair combed up; and his face was smooth. While he wore a nice buttoned down shirt with a pair of brown slacks; his white apron gave away his profession away easily. A matronly figure would squeal with delight at his innocent boyish look, aiming to pinch his cheeks and call him adorable. Alan was not a fan of that. It was bad enough that Maybe Waters teased his profession and his sheer enthusiasm for bread and pastries; especially when he wasn’t rotund like some of his fellows in the ovens. You dreaming when you oughta be baking, bread boy? Maybe’s teases were one thing; but Grandpa Baker’s were another. Alan, what would your mother say if she saw you like this? Laying around, letting a perfectly good batch of rolls burn for an hour? And for what? Bed time stories about magic and monsters? What good is all that reading gonna do if you let people starve to death? 

Every imagined rant and curse made Alan’s stomach sink lower. His left fist tightened with anger, and he walked over to another stall run by Engineer Nails. “Hey Nails.” Alan said, handing the large man his breadbasket. “I need you to watch this while I murder a man with my bare hands.” 

“Wh-Alan, son, what in the seven hells are you giving me this fo-“ 

“Thanks Nails! I’ll be back before you know it!” Alan had already run off deep into the crowd, pushing and ducking under planks and carts to look for that sonofabitch who stole half his damn fresh bread. While he moved, tumbled and dashed his way around his familiar turf, he replayed the morning’s events back in his head, over and over in a loop, like one of Doc Morrison’s light shows that he’d show when he passed through town. 

He and Grandpa (and the others in the ovens) had been hard at work. Sweet cakes, rolls, pies and bread. They’d spent all the previous night preparing; and they had an early morning rush of baking. First the cakes and rolls went out for the morning market; Amy and Pete always took the morning market and came back with a killing. The afternoon market was Grandpa’s specialty: fresh baked bread and meat pies. Usually the bargemen came in with the morning supplies and would stop by for a Shepard’s pie or a fresh loaf. And today; since Grandpa had a council meeting, he would oversee it all. He carried the basket with pies and bread through the market; dodging and ducking his way to the Baker’s stall. 

And then that damn tramp slammed into him. 

“S’cuse me sir,”  he said, turning his body away from Alan’s gaze. He stumbled away-but his gait was open enough that Alan could make out some of the fresh French bread he and Grandpa had worked on that morning. 

“H-hey! You damn thief!” That was enough to spook the tramp into running. 

And now Alan was running as fast as he could, wild-eyed, trying to find where the man was. “Henrietta!” Alan called to the stout woman behind the gunpowder stall. 

“What is it Allie sweetie?” 

“Did you see a tramp with some bread run by here?” 

“I think he was makin’ his way to the station.” 

The train whistle of the incoming passenger wagons could be heard now, even amongst the hustle and bustle of the market. Alan’s heart sank when he realized what the tramp was going to do. “I’ve got to stop him!” He shouted, turning and running towards the train station. If the tramp jumped the train…

Grandpa was going to kill him.

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