Festive

Commencement: A Farewell to P.R.C.U. [COMPLETE]

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The world is nothing without sound.

What is sound? Sound is a vibration within the air, a propagating force that permeates through all states of matter. A force that ravages the ears of the listener, and can captivate one within a single second. Sound will never leave you, no matter where you, no matter where you turn, no matter what you do. There will always be sound for however long one stands among their fellow man in this earthly plane we all call a home.

In spite of this fact, many yearn for the quick peace of silence. To be released into the seemingly safe and inviting grasp of silence is an experience of which many crave with a never-ending voracity. A hunger for nothing, to be sat in a vacuum where sound couldn’t dare travel. For many, it’s an escapism from the trials of life, but for Immanuel, it shall never come. Although true silence is unobtainable for the human ear bar the deaf, Immanuel only yearns to lay in comfort in a warm embrace of quiet, if only for but a mere blip in his time.

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_{Location: Off the beaten path - Hiking Trails, Dundas Island}

Dance Monkey #4.063: Turn it off

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_{Interaction(s): Nil}

Previously: Turn The Lights Down Low

One’s body shall only endure so much strain.

Strain was but only a single way to put it. Behind his eyes, a war was waged upon the forefront of his mind. A battlefield permeated with the searing pain brought forth by the eternal hell fire that raged upon his nerves. A throbbing, chronic disturbance which to the bearer felt his head akin to that of a pipe about to burst. Every second of his waking existence was accosted by a feeling which could only be lightly described as a knife stabbing area of highly concentrated nerve endings over, and over again without a second of reprieve. A punishment one would imagine only those cast into the deepest pits of a hellish realm would have such an agonizing displeasure to experience. A pain a masochist themselves would wince under threat of.

Immanuel’s eyelids stood stamped shut, his nowhere but upon his temples, rubbing circles around such a part of his head in a fallible attempt to curb the ripping within his head for but a second. Yet as he always knew, no such amnesty came. One of his hands only moved away from the position it held when the bartender sat before him the liquor his mind had yearned for at the moment. He had told the likes of Cleo and Lucas he was going to the bar for a drink yet failed to mention how long it would take him. However, much like his feeble actions of prior the burn that slid down the back of his throat did little to pardon him of the punishment bestowed upon him from procreation. Immanuel’s fingers held a grip akin to no other upon the glass within his hand, tilting the container upwards to allow the last bit of distilled poison to drop into his mouth. In but a second the glass was now back upon the surface of the bar, Immanuel pushed it back over to the bartender with his free hand. ”Are you alright?”

A scoff emanated from his lips, one of his eyes openning to look up at the bartender. Although the utterance from the barkeep was one likely only heard by the two, modulation of his words pierced his eardrums like a mere shout. ”Oh man, I can’t ever tell you I’ve been better than this.” The words fell from his mouth dryly and low, unlikely the intended target ever heard his little mumbling. Immanuel pushed his body off the counter, his shoes planted firmly on the ground as his hand dug into the suit jacket he had received off the bare seat besides where he sat to reveal a twenty from the pocket, sliding it across the counter to the bartender. ”Enjoy the tip.”

With a solitary nod to the barkeep from a head waging its own internal war against itself, Immanuel took off into the crowd. Humanity was a species that knew naught if but noise. The human body was a machine that ran louder with excitement. His wading through the sure inebriated crowd was laced with the evident pounding of hearts from each body he passed, small rustling of fabric threads against each that of another was a sound that pervaded the space as bodies danced against bodies and as shouldered brushed in the sea of people. The hefty breathing of those exhausted from their time upon the dance floor surrounded him throughout his shuffle. The loud voices of gibberish conversations, whispers, or sultry utterances spoken from the mouth of a lover were what was exposed to his hyper-sensitive eardrums. Forlorn secrets spouted by those around him seemed to seep through his waning wall of concentration as he tracked his way to the lavatory.

It was during times such as these he cursed the two people unknown to the likes of himself who struck him with such a curse disguised as a “superpower” he would see in the comics he read as but a wee child. In the hours of the night, Immanuel desired for but one person to truly know what was heard by his ears. To imagine being saddled with such a noise of a Lovecraftian caliber is akin to one imagining the pure and utter silence in which those of the deaf endure, and the absolute absences of all sight the blind must deal with; the brain of one simply cannot. Even as Immanuel broke free of the pull of the crowd and stalked toward the bathroom the noise had yet to lessen. With a push of the metal door and a step within the room, not even the walls could shield him from its ever-presentness. The lavatory had but one other man within its confines but who left not too soon after Immanuel entered. His hands with a slight hint of tremble grasped into a fist as Immanuel looked down upon them. His brown eyes met its match as he stared himself in the face in the mirror. Several beads of sweat lay scattered around his face, his expression contorted into that grimace. The man forced his back into that of a neutral one before starting the cold water on the tap.

Immanuel took a solitary breath before putting his head down before the water, using both his hands to douse his face. His mind tried with his mightiest effort to focus his hearing on simply only the running water. As the sound of the stream entered his ears he felt but a tiny bit of a reprieve until it all came back to him. It started first with small slips of the music sprouting until it finally broke through the wall, the voices came next in a whirlwind of sounds as the vibrations pelted his ears. ”FUCK!” His fist came down upon the porcelain surface at the failure to achieve more than a second of slight peace. Immanuel’s head turned as he heard footsteps approach the door of the bathroom, each louder in volume. With the same hand, now stinging slightly from the impact, he flipped the hand to the sink off. Quick in his pace, Immanuel stumbled back into the last stall down.

The mind Immanuel was provided ran at a million thoughts a minute, he couldn’t differentiate between the sound of his own internal monologue and the voices of the group that had just entered the bathroom, Hell, even between the voices of all those beyond the walls of this room. Why must he be the one to suffer such an impediment, what made him so unlucky? It was a blessing and curse, while yes he could hear everything, Immanuel could everything. The power he held was one he simply wanted one day to truly be able to master. To have control of his own situation was the freedom he yearned for. But all he could think right now was, why was it so fucking loud. His hands moved to his face covering his eyes with quickness before the light could make his head burn any fiercer. Immanuel sat down upon the top of the toilet seat leaning back against the wall as he exhaled, the noise poured in his ears without mercy, assaulting his cochlear hairs with a force that had only been matched but a few times throughout his life. It was too much. Why was it so goddamn LOUD.

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SILENCE!

His body moved almost automatically, fishing the sleek black wrist contraception from within his pants pocket to around his wrist. And in but merely a second, the sound that attacked his brain relentlessly had turned into but a muffle within his brain. For the first time in several months, he could hear his own thoughts ring out louder than the noises from the rest of the world. A quiet, lonely reprieve in his mind, accompanied with a breath he felt like he had never had the chance to take before, like his head had emerged from the water after sinking in the depths. It had been a while since he had heard the world go muffled, an odd experience to endure from a man who left nothing unheard. The limiter could only do so much the curb the effects of his powers. The whole world kept chanting its cacophonous record of noises one would rather not hear but to Immanuel, it was a lower, more muted volume. While he could still hear the sounds that permeated his ears now were naught but unintelligible junk, whereas before he could partially make out but a hint of semblance of what he was hearing, now nothing was discernible.

Immanuel placed his hands upon the railing on the side wall of the stall to prop himself up. The war burning within his head began to lessen just as the volume had done. He had achieved a victory, but in the end, it lay as but a pyrrhic one. A pitiful action in a moment of disparity. He had to be stronger than this, Immanuel had to be better than this. Reliance on such a piece of technology, a crutch, would not help one overcome the problems in which they possessed. Immanuel wanted to live with himself, with his own power, not shackled by the quick release provided by the likes of the limiter or inhibitor. He had been taught better than such. In a way the action hung upon his shoulders like a weight, there went his months-long streak, swirling down the drain like the water he had filled up in the sink earlier.

A soft sigh escaped the confines of his lips as he exited the stall, standing before the mirror he had stood but minutes before. His face stood blank in his own presence. The bathroom was now empty once again, it was but Immanuel left alone in the room, and for this one time with his own thoughts. His eyes locked in line with the reflection of them standing before him in the mirror as he felt the last bit of his headache leave from behind his eyes. Starting the water once again, Immanuel put back on the olive-colored suit jacket he held in his hand while he trained his focus on the water. After a process of patting down his outfit and straightening out parts, he once again looked deep into the mirror. While a reflection of his current self, Immanuel could only see the flaws within his character. You can do better than this. The words were shouted across his mindscape as he pulled the band from his wrist.

And in like the first time he received his powers, it all came flooding in like a raging tsunami upon coastal shores. However, this time, unlike that unprepared little boy he was years prior, he was ready for the waves. After all, he had a team to get back, even if it was just for this last night.

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Shadowstrike: The Awakening

Shadowstrike: The Awakening

Sorry I originally posted this I just looked up ai generated dead bodies and it popped up and I didn’t think it was the holocaust victims because I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to offend anyone

@Chronic

WHAT.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Amistad, Texas}
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" G H O S T R I D E R S I N T H E S K Y "
” G H O S T R I D E R S I N T H E S K Y "

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Although those believe that the closing of their weary eyes from a day of naught but strenuous work upon the frontier would give one a reprieve from pain, this whispered utterance of peace is yet but a fallacy. Guillermo knew these lies likely better than no man had before him. This land has become his lifeline, a place in which his survival depends upon the unforgiving dice roll of nature which gambled away the life of many of his compatriot travelers along this journey. And if the fight beneath the watchful eye of the moon foretold his precarious luck, the nights beyond the one in which he was currently enduring were laden with the curses a supposed almighty above had dared to strike down upon the land as a punishment for those of the Americas.

Guillermo’s hands held a tight grip upon the reins for Ascuas as he now rode off through the night. Sleeping had been a failed endeavor for all but the horse, the results of the scuffle that ruined his chances for but a few hours of sleep lay slung among the rest of his pack behind him upon Ascuas’ hind. The night was still young and the moon lay smack dab in the center of the vast expanse of the sky betwixt brilliant stars that permeated the void Guillermo looked up into. While the sky stood empty the land in which he traveled was in sharp contrast. Ascuas’ hooves stomped and crushed the ground below as she trotted upon the sandy soil laden around them, weaving between odd prickly pear and bush upon the path. Almost every day came with a new path back to society, although fewer new paths arose as the landscape became one that was familiar to him, the features and quicks that laden the fullness of this little piece of the frontier had been absorbed into the mind of Guillermo.

The silence of the night had persisted long throughout the path, only the whistle of the wind cutting through the bushes and over the ridges of the neighboring hills dared enter his ears. Not a single squeal from even an armadillo was heard as he continued on, his ears took in only that of which he was surrounded immediately by; the smushing of dirt beneath the feet of his animals, the slow, laboring breaths he exhaled through the bandana around his faces, rustling of his pack as it swayed from side to side with the movement of the horse. Thus was but an odd night in a line of many. There was only a break in this monotony with the soft crack of running water somewhere in his vicinity. It was a stream he had visited all too often when the sandpaper feeling tortured the back of his neck, begging for the least bit of hydration. Ascuas trotted on faster in his pace at the sound of water, for an old man his senses still stayed as sharp as in his prime days. And beneath the darkness of the absence of the sun, the old creek, a small tributary of the great Rio Grande off yonder, came into plain view.

Creek itself had been nothing special, one in which a traveler may stop if in dire need of the nourishing grace of water. A bed of flowing water if not about three heads of cattle wide at Guillermo’s eyeballed estimation, it was one in which he could travel right across on his horse. In but a few seconds he was off the horse, allowing the aged stallion a chance to fulfill his yearning for such water as well. Guillermo stretched out his body before approaching the creek in his own right, his hands felt the frigid temperature of the water as he scooped a bit upon his now exposed face. The water ran down his tanned skin reprieving him if for only a moment from the stresses he had experienced throughout the day. His hands finally dipped back in once again but not for the purpose of moments prior but for drinking. He brought the cool bit of water grasped between his interlaced fingers up before downing what hadn’t fallen through the cracks. And in but a second he had been healed from the sandpaper throat he sported. His body felt better like a second wind had been blown into him, reinvigorated from the energy he had lost from the fight, like a day had arrived on the horizon for him.

The break for the water was one that was needed yet could not last forever, within only minutes Guillermo had been back upon his horse and set back onto the path to the town of Amistad, partially part of the reason he had left the spot in which he occupied earlier, bar the tango with the spawn of Satan incident. While the two had never formally spoken words between each other besides the ordering of drinks, McReily and Guillermo had a sense of mutual respect towards each other, or so Guillermo had believed. Through all this traveling he had hoped to catch a glass before the bar had closed and a place to lay his head with at least a shred of protection. Guillermo hated staying within town limits for the night, although the threat of the Sheriff was on the list of his concerns, the newfound presence of Ranger Mellon had become one at the top of such list. He was a man who knew too much, and one who had seen too much, he’d put good dollars on the bet that Mellon had seen his face before on the Texas Rangers wanted board. The years had certainly changed his face but hidden behind the gruff lay a face that held onto the memories of days forgone, one he hoped Mellon would never look too closely at.

As Guillermo rode through the night approaching closer to the town, his pace slow but steady, he noticed far off in the distance the light shining through the dark. One which bobbed up and down as it swayed to the rhythm of the horse its rider held it on. He couldn’t recognize the face as the person drew closer but in his experience, this was nothing if not a dark sign.

”Qué maldición…”

I need rp advice.

<Snipped quote>

1. the year is 2098, and technology is actually almost the same, except the world is way too overpopulated, so the organization thought, "hey, if we wipe out one half of the world, the other half will have everything they'll ever need!" THANOS! so they attack the americas.

2. it was kind of a shadow organization that had holds in almost every major government, so it just sent someone to get the bomb job then launch.

3. if you were on the surface, the radiation would overdose and kill you. so you have to hide. plus, it's not instantaneous. it takes at least a month.

4.unintended

5. the organization plans to finish them off because they know the truth about how the organization fired on them. ( they discover it on their journey. ) You see, the organization used used America's own bombs against itself, so it looked like suicide. If the truth got out, there would be riots, and the organization would collapse.

@Sky Blue

That one went right over your head, my dude...

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Beyond the town limits, Amistad, Texas}
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" T H E D E V I L ‘ S H O U R "
" T H E D E V I L ‘ S H O U R "

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Late May, 1888

The night was always loud.

In the wee hours of the night within the void colored sky speckled with the white myriad of small stars laden in the vast emptiness lay the devil’s moon shining its most wicked semblance of light upon the west. Upon these lands hidden in the dark crevices between the weathered rocks, and among the cacti and weeds that engulf the plains houses creatures unknown to the passing man, only realized through the gutter cacophony of cawing and shambling feel of small critters in tandem with the slow stalking shuffle performed by larger beast whose growl would shock even the common man.

But tonight? Everything was silent.

One was to never be met with silence on the frontier, nature’s unending symphony of night had been felled. The air stoked the little flame burning out upon the rocky ground and stood stagnant all around, the only noise that could be heard upon the vastness of this land was the crackling pops of the flame that lay at Guillermo's feet and low breathing as he released air from his lungs. Tonight had been one of many nights in which the west stood still, frozen in place as if time had simply stopped even the chirps of the crickets beneath the moon had ceased to be vocalized. Guillermo’s back lay propped against the back of a horse which he’d been with his whole life. Ascuas was his name, an Andalusian horse of a light brown mane which as time flies by has grown light in color. A beaut of a horse that has been glued to his side since the day he stole the stallion from under the nose of his father’s estate; the two privileged beings riding into the sunset together. Guillermo's hand rubbed the side of the horse’s back softly, for as stubborn as the thing has been throughout these twenty years he’d yet to leave his side, even through the trial and many wounds suffered by both they are naught if not bonded.

A solitary yawn escaped from the tips of Guillermo's lips, his hands gripping the knife he held on his belt, with his other hand smothering the pile of slightly burning embers with a couple of nearby stones and dirt, mixing up the ground with his knife to truly kill the fire. ”¡Jorge, ven!” On the other side of the fire, a dog, a type of sheepdog Guillermo had never come to learn the bread of trotted over. The youngest of all three beings by a number of years, he scratched the boy underneath his neck as the dog laid his body up against Guillermo. The ever-changing ways of these lands had been naught if not an ever-present force within all three of their lifetime, bundling up at night to ward off the nipping force of the cold night air against their skin. The wilderness had never treated them with an ounce of civility, a land of pure and utter chaos that lacked any shred of respect for the life it harbors within. A land that if there was a god it had long abandoned the West like a husband to a courtesan wife. And yet, in these lands fraught with nature's most unforgiving forces, Guillermo didn’t know what brought him out here when he was but a boy, and kept him upon these lands he now calls home. Was it his yearning to bask in the euphoria of glory? To have his name be known beyond that of his father’s? To be the man his father proclaimed he could never be? It was a cause he could not pinpoint, a hole in his mind he could not provide a solid answer to. Why did he leave to these lands, why did he never go back to San Diego? His mind drew naught but a blank on the existentialism of the query.

As his eyes drew heavy Guillermo slowly shut them, falling into the forgiving embrace of sleep as his only escape from the weary west. As his mind drifted into a land beyond human comprehension. However, a voice cut through his mind like a knife as he heard it.

”¡Jorge, ven!”

”¡qué chingados!” Goosebumps rose up across his skin as the older man recoiled off of his horse, like a second instinct Guillermo hands gripped the gun that had laid to his side. Jorge had perked up at the noise, moving to where Guillermo now stands, his gun pointed off into the darkness surrounding the three. The noise, the fucking noise, even Guillermo would admit it was a carbon copy of his voice, although laden with imperfections. What was it? It couldn’t be a man. Jorge stood by his side, his posture withdrawn as he growled off into the darkness. In the distance, hidden in the shadow of darkness he could hear it. Mumbling off in his voice recounting words he had spoken not hours prior, the legs of the thing shuffling around cover behind spots he could not see beneath the moon’s light. As the creature approached slowly but surely, Guillermo gripped his hold upon the pistol.

Guillermo shifted his eyes to Jorge as he watched the dog lunge out forward narrowly missing whatever passed between his maw as Guillermo felt the sharp pain of what felt like a rock pass against his leg. It was quick, too quick for the gun. The man took the knife from his hip once again as he felt the creature pass by his legs for another swipe, this time snagging a bit of his pants along with it. Jorge heeded no further restraint and jumped into the scuffle with the small creature, chasing it around the little area around where they had attempted to sleep before catching the thing in his jaw, cracking the neck of the little demon in one swift motion as he brought the carcass back to Guillermo. In his time out in the west he hadn’t seen many of these before; A small hare-looking thing of a bigger size with horns like those of a deer poking out the top of its dome, within his mind he had failed to remember the name of such a creature. It brought upon itself it’s own demise, the thing that had thought to make the two it’s own dinner would end up being tomorrow's breakfast. This little fight had curbed all Guillermo's hope for a few hours of sleep tonight, lest another try to come prey upon the three, alas there ain’t no rest for the wicked.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

_{LOCATION(s): Amistad, Texas}
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" T H E Q U E R Y "
” T H E Q U E R Y "

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Early April, 1888

The once barren streets naught but a few hours ago lay choked to the margins laden with tired and weary travelers leaving the safe confines of the Haven Inn wandered down the rock permeated dirt road. The surrounding chattering voices of the town residents setting up their shops beneath the early morning’s rising sun filled the wide streets of town over powering the forlorn whispers of the travelers. The days in Amistad had always started early since the foregone days as a measly trading outpost for the lost souls upon the Rio Grande; a town started upon the backs of tents and caravan cars converted into homes, and the blood, sweat, and tears of the travelers turned settlers whose hard work carved the paths the folk mingle upon below. The intersection that lay just beyond the window Jonathan Davis sat behind reminded him of what he got up for every morning, even in the disordered streets of morning Amistad, there was a spark in this town he had seen ever since his first arrival as a traveler himself. A town of a hopeful populace and almost boundless potential, the newfound boom in the town had shredded the schedule Jonathan has become adapted to as the newest mayor of the town, trapped in a constant state of early mornings and even later nights. The coffee in his cup swished around as he stirred in the solitary moment of personal silence he would have for the rest of his day, his hand slithering from his side to the bottle tucked in the depths of his desk. From his hand revealed an unmarked bottle of whiskey, encompassing the bottle worn from the ages, removing the cap as Jonathan spiked the little bit of coffee he had left with the booze. It was time to hit the ground running.

Before the idea of relocation from the window washed across Jonathan’s mind, an intemperate knock tapped against the thin wooden doors before him. ”Ya know the door’s unlocked for ya Malory." At the advent of the words spoken from his mouth, a small blond head popped her way into the room through the crack in the door. "Ah! Uh, one mister Pierre Masse is here to meet with you uncl- Mayor Davis. He says he’s from the governor, something about a letter too?" The mousey little blond squeaked as her eye’s peered over to her uncle. Jonathan gripped the sides of his mug a bit tighter, the sigh from his voice was audible as the man took the rest of his drink in one sip. The letter, Malory had mentioned, laid upon his desk from his reading the day prior, his hands slipped up beneath the cream colored paper, once again laying eyes upon what was foretold. If that damned governor thought he could come into his town, and disturb his people, and take advantage of his resources, he had another thing coming to him. "Thank ya Malory, ya tell ‘im to come up ‘ere now." Jonathan looked at his niece and gave her a soft nod, watching the girl retract from the doorway in which she stood.

Minutes felt to Jonathan like hours as he waited for Malory to return with Pierre. He wasn’t excited, hell, the last thing on his mind was excitement. His fingers tapped away at the desk he now sat in front of awaiting his unwanted guest. If this man really was who the letter claimed him to be then he held no power, and as much as Jonathan resisted the grubby self-serving hands of the governor upon his town, there was nothing he could. "Mayor, this is Mister Pierre Masse." a familiar voice chimed in from the now opened doorway, standing beside his niece a man Jonathan had seen but rarely around the town since his arrival, his recollection held nothing about the man save for his connection with the government. "Good mornin’ to ya, Mister Masse." Jonathan stood from his seat with an arm outstretched, taking Pierre’s hand into his own for a handshake. "Please, call me Pierre, Mayor Davis,"

“My pleasure, then ya can just call me John.”

With the drop of the handshake, Pierre took the seat before Jonathan as he too fell back into his seat. The two men, whose positions of powers stood at an imbalance, sat in each other's company in a moment of silence. Pierre’s eyes took a gander around the room in this moment, in this brevity he held witness to the maximalist wonder that stood around him, artifacts from all over took positions along the wall and among shelves decorating this slightly bigger than average room with history of the place it occupied. With his eyes refocused upon the man whose face stood as blank as a page, Pierre cleared his throat before speaking. "I was assured you know why I am here? I am sure the governor made is explicitly clea-"

"Yer Cajun, are ya? I hear a bit of the drawl in that voice of yers."

"Yes, John, I am. Though I must be honest, I am not completely sure how that relates to the governor’s business." Pierre’s head cocked a bit to the side, his face twisting from the once worn smile to raised eyebrow.

"I like ta get ta know the folk all be workin’ with. Not many yall found over here in Texas, ‘specially by the Grande." Jonathans face remained the same blank stare he has held since the beginning of the conversation. The government always seemed to poke their head into business that had no concern for them, into a world far beyond what their reach should extend to, yet this was the power he was beckoned to yield to since he was elected to this position.

" Once again, John, I am not sure how this relates to what I am here for. I work for the government, I go where they tell me, when they tell me. Now if we could please get to the topic at hand, I would like to start my work early."

"Ah, I’m just bustin’ yer balls, Pierre, I do it to everyone.” Jonathan’s expression cracked into a faux smile as the two men locked each other’s gaze, God he didn’t like this man one bit. ”The creek, yeah? Surveyin’ and the like, I’ll get our very own Sheriff ta show you out there. When ya are done I’d like a copy of what ya are gonna send ta the governor, ya heard."

"Thank you, and of course, I can do that for you."

"Great. It was nice meeting ya Pierre, make sure to stop on by with any questions ya may have. I’ll make sure ta tell Malory to wrangle up Sheriff Ramos straight away" As the two finished their rather brief exchange of words, Jonathan stood up once again, his hand outstretched to the stranger one last time signifying he’s request for Pierre to make his exit. Perceptive of his body language, Pierre took Jonathan’s hand once more, as their hands joined Jonathan’s grip was tighter than before, more strained, and without further thought he shook it sharply before releasing his grip. "Till again, Pierre." With those words Pierre conducted his rather quick exit from the room, Jonathan falling right back into the chair he sat in before, melting into the soft cushions that lined the back as his head fell back in disdain.

"Fuckin’ government shills."

The Cursèd West

@JJ Doe

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♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "
" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "

" G U I L L E B U R N E R "
" G U I L L E B U R N E R "

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_____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " GUILLERMO "GUILLE" PEREZ-ROJAS _____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " SAN DIEGO, ALTA CALIFORNIA, REPUBLIC OF MEXICO _____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " ★ Age? 47 years ★ Birthdate? June 2nd, 1841 ★ Height? 6'1 ft ★ Weight? 195 lbs ★ Ethnicity? Californios ★ Gender? Male _____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________

______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " "..." "Yer acting like ya don' even know me." Guillermo is often silent, a man of few words outwardly as to not reveal who is to the town folk. The demeanor he wears is often cold, closing most out but the rare few who are able to crack out a bit of his personality. Although to most, he is closed off. Keeping a wall around his mightier than Hadrian's. However as cold as a man he presents, he shows kindness to those deserving, with a soft spot for the animals of the frontier whose nature was free of the supernatural energy. Guillermo is a changed man than he was over a decade prior, he has mellowed. The spitful nature he held as a young man had almost faded from his being in times other than rage. Out on the frontier, nature is the devil and its creations are its demons. Despite having been raised as a child religiously, he was faithless. To him, there were no gods of this land. His morals stood gray and his philosophy asunder, changing his ways to fit the situation at hand. He is a man who yearns for a normal life, but has yet to atone for his sins of the past. There is silt is on his hands, but to Guillermo? It was a necessary evil for his survival. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " "Describe myself? Ya got eyes, don'tcha?" Years of running brings naught but fatigue to the face. Guillermo is a man whose age rears it and dares not to hide, he bears a face riddled with a full beard of dirt-colored hair, ragged and jagged in spots he had cut down with his knife whilst on the road. The top of his head was overrun by a full mane of short-length hair which curled as it lay in place. The face of Guillermo continued to sport the same look throughout his adult life, a stern-looking (by most accounts), straight-faced stare. His eyes were low, the bags under his eyes stood still in time like the scars that lay scattered around his body. The body of which stood with a tall stature, with the muscles from his younger days persisting til the present; life on the frontier wasn't easy. The garb of a survivalist is one of practicality. Upon his shoulders Guillermo sported a dusty brown leather jacket, one stressed with the years of travel and utility. Atop the jacket, slung across one of his shoulders lay a bandolier strapped tight to his chest, and around the other lay loosely his saving grace; his rifle. And the sombrero he first found (stole) when he came to America sat on top of his dome. His old dusty and dirty white shirt peaking from beneath his jacket as it floats around the denim on his legs, which stretch all the way down to his black pair of boots. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " "Que? Oh, I was born in Mexico, survived the war, and been out here ever since." Under the blanketing light of a candle that burned ever so dimly against the clouded Californian sky, and the unlockable screams of a woman who yearned for the trials of motherhood, a long-awaited child was yielded to the couple who were surrounded by the graceful presence of close friends and family. Guillermo was nothing if not the child of abject wonder. Born from the barren womb many a doctor claimed would never bear the fruit that is children, the life force the boy was given to run this game we call life came with the loss of his mother; a handmaiden Isabella Rojas. Following the loss of his mother, an inkling of a picture-perfect life for Guillermo was ripped asunder. His father, Marco Perez, stood as a general within the Mexican army, and owner of many a rancho across the San Diego territory, and provided nothing but a void of the parental love assumed by many to be oh-so guaranteed to the boy with the incredible nature of his birth. A baby who sought the bosom of a loving mother and the gentle grasp of an adoring father was met with but the child surface of an iron chassis that held sustenance and the disregarding touch of the very same maidens who worked beside his mother. There was no heart, a life void of the assuring touch of love which allows one to see the world for the green it is rather than solely the gray. As the years passed in but merely a blur past his eyes, and for the first time in years, Guillermo had once again seen the man who had aided in giving him life, returned from the war with the Americans. In front of him stood a man whose life had been changed on a level irreversible by even the most skilled Native Shaman. Was he different? Could he be different? Guillermo held a staunch indifference, the man in military garb, wounded all over with bandages wrapped around several parts of his body had never been a father to him. As more years flew by with a pace unmatched the man who gave him life soon lost his own. Free of the master that held him in shackles to the grounds of the Perez home, Guillermo took off like the blowing wind. A man fresh of the master who held his shackles tight to the home, Guillermo took a sprint under the never-ending void of the night sky. A newfound vigor coursing through his bloodstream like a drug led Guillermo down to the estate's stable. Within the confines a horse lay in wait beyond the stable doors, a stallion bearing a mane of butterscotch brown, a tad shorter than the lot; the runt of the pack. "Ascuas" as he had come to call him, was the one thing who had stuck by his side for the long run, and Guillermo wasn't leaving without his prized mount. Both wearing that same spark within their eyes, they took off. Led by the dazzling light of the moon to far beyond the bounds of the place of his birth. Life upon the frontier lands had been a far cry from the rose-tinted view many on the coast had uttered. Coined as a land with unlimited opportunities the tales and odes seem to overshine the reality of the stories told under pit fire light in the wee hours of the night. Through his travels, there have been many a time his survival seemed near to zero, and yet he continued. Guillermo hunted, living off the land. He learned from the many native tribes who had added the young man in his desperate times, taking on traits and acquiring skills, he had learned more on the land than he did during his years with a teacher. Although the land was his mother during his numerous escapades, Guillermo was not shy to steal. A petty little thief, whose hands latched on to whatever lay unattended within his reach. A man of but twenty years of age, the day the news of a war between America and itself broke to Guillermo, it was the point of no return in his lifetime. In times of war, the only side that wins is the one that makes the most money. Like the conniving thief he was, Guillermo used the distress of all to take advantage of both sides. The fire, the brilliantly striking inferno of his hate was the only thing that marked the scene after his robberies. "Burner" was the moniker the infantry slapped upon his name. Like a flame snuffed out, he was in as quickly as he was out. The young man was now treated as an outlaw by both U.S.A. and C.S.A. lawmen. Guillermo stuck his reign of terror all across the South and Midwest; stealing and burning as cascade of national guardsmen followed close in his wake. With the end of the war on the horizon, Guillermo retreated back into the depths of the frontier. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " "Ya got good booze, some good folk too." With the year of his age creeping up ever so quickly, and his days as one of the most wanted criminals on the Gulf Coast a bygone era of regret, Guillermo sought an area void of the papers of his face, void of the bounty on his head, and far, fringe regions of western Texas, nestled into the Rio Grande was the perfect place. It was discreet, and had a high enough population to blend in with hoping his now-aged face would block recognition. After years in the grueling years in the prairies and plains of the midwest, tucked in the shadows hiding all trace of himself from bounty hunters and rangers seeking the prize for his head, the isolation had finally broken him. The town was his return to civilization, and while he didn't live in the town proper his little tent on the outskirts of the town limits kept him connected, and with his secret hidden for the time being, he will stay for as he can.

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♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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