Buckle started to lose his mind; he felt sanity ebbing away in almost physical convulsions. His eyes fixated on the creature, that he had earlier thought to be a surgically altered corpse. It was real sure enough, and hideous at that. Slowly, he stepped back from it and sat himself down on one of the pews. Taking a deep breath, and wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, he attempted to regain his composure.
"So, Mr. White, are there many of those 'things' out there?" He asked. "Because I be thinking that you should've sent for the God darned Army, than for a few gunslingers."
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The fishes aint biting like they used to.
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Duc de Canard said
Old witch?! I am offended.
Bertil is not a very nice man, I'm afraid. I didn't plan for him to be that way, but everyone thinks he's a dick so I thought I better make him act as such ;)
The longer the moot raged on, the deeper Bertil descended into boredom.
If that old witch would just shut her mouth and let us get on with it, he mused to himself, then I'd be free to return to Escgor, and try my hands at my wife's new woman in waiting. Pretty, that one, and there's nothing like a young pretty wench to make a man feel young again, that much is true. He chuckled aloud, but quickly coughed to cover his blatant disinterest in the moot.
It wasn't that he hadn't paid due attention, it was just that the Jarls seemed to have spoken to the point that nothing much else needed saying. Jarless Crowsfoot had made a fair case though; the old man hadn't an heir to Bertil's knowledge, and his knowledge was deep as far as everyone else's lives were concerned. It paid to have ears to the ground around your rivals, whether they were fur merchants or Jarls. Not that Henrik's lack of a son was secret. The more Bertil thought about it, the bigger his grin stretched across his face.
Perhaps when Henrik drops dead, I'll have a stab at this crown nonsense. Norsia's riches would know no bounds with me at the helm, that's for sure, he thought to himself; his grin quickly becoming a smirk.
It was true that the merchant-Jarl had big plans for Escgor. Within five years, he had steadily turned it from a forgettable backwater to a booming economy. Trade was his key, and to get trade, one had to be prepared to make friends with everyone. It didn't matter that usually one friendship was aimed at hamstringing another; as long as all parties involved failed to realise someone was losing out, then no one got hurt feelings. Hurt feelings were bad for business. With this in mind Bertil suddenly revived his interest in the moot, and started to study each of the Jarls long and hard as they talked. Were any of them really fit for the throne?
Beron had done great things, as far as Bertil was concerned. He increased external trade links, allowing all kinds of new goods to flood the market, and Bertil was always there to capitalise on the trends of the consumer. Whether it was buying bulk supplies of Elven silk, or spices from Highathar, it didn't matter, as long as there was variety and demand, House Reenburg would always be front runner to the table of commerce. Henrik seemed likely to go in the other direction however, and this may cause hardships for a time, but as the Jarless had noted; he was old, and soon someone else would step forth, ready to capitalise on the disasters of his decisions. That someone could very well be Bertil. He flashed his smirk again, despite himself.
Yes, he thought, perhaps one day, when the time is right
For now however, all the wily merchant could do was bide his time; watch, wait and buy. That wisdom had gotten him this far, and he had plenty of faith that it'd take him further still.
If that old witch would just shut her mouth and let us get on with it, he mused to himself, then I'd be free to return to Escgor, and try my hands at my wife's new woman in waiting. Pretty, that one, and there's nothing like a young pretty wench to make a man feel young again, that much is true. He chuckled aloud, but quickly coughed to cover his blatant disinterest in the moot.
It wasn't that he hadn't paid due attention, it was just that the Jarls seemed to have spoken to the point that nothing much else needed saying. Jarless Crowsfoot had made a fair case though; the old man hadn't an heir to Bertil's knowledge, and his knowledge was deep as far as everyone else's lives were concerned. It paid to have ears to the ground around your rivals, whether they were fur merchants or Jarls. Not that Henrik's lack of a son was secret. The more Bertil thought about it, the bigger his grin stretched across his face.
Perhaps when Henrik drops dead, I'll have a stab at this crown nonsense. Norsia's riches would know no bounds with me at the helm, that's for sure, he thought to himself; his grin quickly becoming a smirk.
It was true that the merchant-Jarl had big plans for Escgor. Within five years, he had steadily turned it from a forgettable backwater to a booming economy. Trade was his key, and to get trade, one had to be prepared to make friends with everyone. It didn't matter that usually one friendship was aimed at hamstringing another; as long as all parties involved failed to realise someone was losing out, then no one got hurt feelings. Hurt feelings were bad for business. With this in mind Bertil suddenly revived his interest in the moot, and started to study each of the Jarls long and hard as they talked. Were any of them really fit for the throne?
Beron had done great things, as far as Bertil was concerned. He increased external trade links, allowing all kinds of new goods to flood the market, and Bertil was always there to capitalise on the trends of the consumer. Whether it was buying bulk supplies of Elven silk, or spices from Highathar, it didn't matter, as long as there was variety and demand, House Reenburg would always be front runner to the table of commerce. Henrik seemed likely to go in the other direction however, and this may cause hardships for a time, but as the Jarless had noted; he was old, and soon someone else would step forth, ready to capitalise on the disasters of his decisions. That someone could very well be Bertil. He flashed his smirk again, despite himself.
Yes, he thought, perhaps one day, when the time is right
For now however, all the wily merchant could do was bide his time; watch, wait and buy. That wisdom had gotten him this far, and he had plenty of faith that it'd take him further still.
Yeah I'm waiting on others to make an effort, I feel like it's only me and Gunther who are pulling this along. No offence intended, I know life can get helluva busy.
Bertil laid back in his chair, lazily. If this was a tense situation, upon which the very future of the Kingdom depended, he did not seem to burden the significance. Kings came and went as far as he saw it, whether by age, the sword, or in Beron's case, madness. Though recently a Jarl, and a member of the country's highest nobility, Bertil was ever a business man. Henrik Havarr was a solid option; he had the years and the experience to lead as King. However, from what Bertil had gathered of the man over the last decade, he did not know him as what one would call 'strong'. Always grovelling to the King's every whim, Henrik laboured tirelessly to his superior's benefit. Now without someone above his station, would the old man know how to approach those below his?
Looking around the room at the other Jarls, Bertil sensed that perhaps Henrik, despite his possible flaws, would be the best choice. A gambling man, he was sure that the others would rally to him. What mattered most, was that Norsia had a head, before weakness came to make victims of them all.
Stroking his neatly trimmed goatee, and leaning forwards as if waking from sleep, he cast in his lot. "Henrik is an honourable man, and a noble warrior of great renown. Though I am new here, when compared with some of your ancient and legendary blood, I believe he is the right man to lead us." Leaning back into his chair, he raised a pewter goblet to Henrik and bowed his head.
Looking around the room at the other Jarls, Bertil sensed that perhaps Henrik, despite his possible flaws, would be the best choice. A gambling man, he was sure that the others would rally to him. What mattered most, was that Norsia had a head, before weakness came to make victims of them all.
Stroking his neatly trimmed goatee, and leaning forwards as if waking from sleep, he cast in his lot. "Henrik is an honourable man, and a noble warrior of great renown. Though I am new here, when compared with some of your ancient and legendary blood, I believe he is the right man to lead us." Leaning back into his chair, he raised a pewter goblet to Henrik and bowed his head.
Buckle watched with bemused interest as a stranger clad in red walked up to the church. He was a man, and the moment the two locked eyes, Buckle felt a deep dread emerging in his chest. Before he could muster up a word or two, the man in red carried on towards the church. Buckle eyed a heavy metal gauntlet, tipped with claws for fingers, secured snugly to man's left arm. This was already turning into the strangest job Buckle had undertook, and he once sat up all night watching a cave because some Indians down on one of those depressing reservations were certain a spirit was emerging from it nightly to take their children. He didn't see any spirit, but he saw the dollar bills they threw at him afterwards.
"Well I'll be," muttered Buckle in a gruff voice, "if that ain't one strange individual."
Buckle.
Buckle dropped his cigarette, drew his revolver and turned in one fluid movement. Darkness greeted him, and aside from a few intermittent noises from the natural night life, he saw and heard nothing. Passing it off as a feat of his imagination, the retired bounty hunter holstered his pistol and looked at the church. With a sigh and a shrug, he made his way towards the meagre structure, and placed his hand against one of the doors. It moved on rusted hinges, but he was careful to keep things quiet. Before he threw his lot in with a bunch of crazies, he at least wanted to know more about the situation.
Peering in through the opening, he eyed the preacher. He was a haggard old man, but with the deep fire of passion burning in his eyes, and Buckle knew there and then that this man was either terribly ill of mind, or he was genuinely troubled by something; something as real as the howling wind. After listening to the old man talk of Paradise's peril, and how time was not a quality in abundance, he was startled by the sight of the preacher throwing onto the floor the body of a half-naked roughian.
"This... is a vampire," the old man proclaimed.
Buckle stifled laughter, and took a step back but allowing the door to shut as silently as he had opened it. Vampires? Was the old bastard as desperate as to kill a homeless man, play surgeon with his face and then pass him off as a thing of legend? Whenever Holy men were involved, reasoned Buckle, anything was possible. Feeling that this was one party he wanted no part in, the bounty hunter turned to leave. Fighting children's bedtime stories was one thing, but murdering innocent folk was quite another - Buckle had done enough of that in his time, and the bitter after taste it left had never leaved him, no matter how good the money. As he started back down the path through the graveyard, he suddenly became aware that he was being stalked.
Foot steps sounded behind him, and he gripped his pistol. Easy now Buckle, let 'em think you've got the jump. Pulling back the hammer of his trusty 44., the bounty hunter listened intently. He hadn't heard the church doors open, though it was possible someone had slipped out with great care - but it would have taken a few seconds, they wouldn't have been right up behind him. If they'd rounded the church as he was walking away from it, then he'd of heard their feet crossing over the dried earth of the graveyard. This was odd indeed, but what troubled Buckle more was the pace of the foot steps. There was the solid sound of a boot being planted in the ground, but it was accompanied by a dragging noise. Whoever it was, they were limping.
Why, Buckle?
Buckle sprinted forwards, threw himself to the floor, rolled onto his feet and looked down the sights of his pistol. A woman, pale and limp at the shoulders, with her head cocked violently to one side, approached him. Her face was a mess of broken bones and blood, and there was a large pooling stain on her abdomen. Her eyes are what really bore into Buckle though, for they were misty - as if they'd belonged to someone dead several days. He knew this woman, knew her well, and the impossibility of the situation froze him into inaction.
Then she vanished, as quickly as she had appeared. Buckle stood for several moments, his limbs locked rigid, and his heart pounding so heavily he was certain it was about to give up on him. The church doors started to open, and this shook him from his fear. He quickly dived behind a low-lying shrub, trying his best to conceal himself. Peering through the gaps in the branches, Buckle eyed the man in red leaving down the path. Keeping silent, he tried to soothe himself.
"That was not real," he whispered , "she's long dead. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault. This is just your conscience, see? It was not real."
After a few minutes, Buckle stood from his cover. A powerful yearning to walk into that church and ask the preacher more about the situation suddenly possessed him, despite his rational mind doing its best to get him out of the town without delay. Real or not, what he had seen didn't belong in the waking world, and if somehow evil really was afoot, Buckle wanted no part in it. That all said, however, he stormed towards the church, suddenly feeling that perhaps the old bastard had played some kind of trick on him. How hard would it be to dress someone up in- he stopped there. How would anyone out here know what she looked like?
"You ain't finding answers out here, so you best get yourself inside," he told himself.
Putting a heavy hand on the door, Buckle pushed his way into the building. There he saw the priest, standing over the deformed creature.
"Bill Furrows, a pleasure really," he said, walking up to the preacher. "Mind telling me about what exactly it is we're up against here?" Pausing, Buckle felt he'd better make himself for specific. "I mean, just saying for a second that the dead are walking, and that there are frickin' vampires flying around, what is the true picture?"
Realising he was making a confudled mess of himself, and suddenly becoming obvious to the buckets of sweat rolling down his forehead, Buckle breathed deeply. "Let me try that again," he said with a cough. "Are guns going to do us any good against whatever it is that might be out there?"
"Well I'll be," muttered Buckle in a gruff voice, "if that ain't one strange individual."
Buckle.
Buckle dropped his cigarette, drew his revolver and turned in one fluid movement. Darkness greeted him, and aside from a few intermittent noises from the natural night life, he saw and heard nothing. Passing it off as a feat of his imagination, the retired bounty hunter holstered his pistol and looked at the church. With a sigh and a shrug, he made his way towards the meagre structure, and placed his hand against one of the doors. It moved on rusted hinges, but he was careful to keep things quiet. Before he threw his lot in with a bunch of crazies, he at least wanted to know more about the situation.
Peering in through the opening, he eyed the preacher. He was a haggard old man, but with the deep fire of passion burning in his eyes, and Buckle knew there and then that this man was either terribly ill of mind, or he was genuinely troubled by something; something as real as the howling wind. After listening to the old man talk of Paradise's peril, and how time was not a quality in abundance, he was startled by the sight of the preacher throwing onto the floor the body of a half-naked roughian.
"This... is a vampire," the old man proclaimed.
Buckle stifled laughter, and took a step back but allowing the door to shut as silently as he had opened it. Vampires? Was the old bastard as desperate as to kill a homeless man, play surgeon with his face and then pass him off as a thing of legend? Whenever Holy men were involved, reasoned Buckle, anything was possible. Feeling that this was one party he wanted no part in, the bounty hunter turned to leave. Fighting children's bedtime stories was one thing, but murdering innocent folk was quite another - Buckle had done enough of that in his time, and the bitter after taste it left had never leaved him, no matter how good the money. As he started back down the path through the graveyard, he suddenly became aware that he was being stalked.
Foot steps sounded behind him, and he gripped his pistol. Easy now Buckle, let 'em think you've got the jump. Pulling back the hammer of his trusty 44., the bounty hunter listened intently. He hadn't heard the church doors open, though it was possible someone had slipped out with great care - but it would have taken a few seconds, they wouldn't have been right up behind him. If they'd rounded the church as he was walking away from it, then he'd of heard their feet crossing over the dried earth of the graveyard. This was odd indeed, but what troubled Buckle more was the pace of the foot steps. There was the solid sound of a boot being planted in the ground, but it was accompanied by a dragging noise. Whoever it was, they were limping.
Why, Buckle?
Buckle sprinted forwards, threw himself to the floor, rolled onto his feet and looked down the sights of his pistol. A woman, pale and limp at the shoulders, with her head cocked violently to one side, approached him. Her face was a mess of broken bones and blood, and there was a large pooling stain on her abdomen. Her eyes are what really bore into Buckle though, for they were misty - as if they'd belonged to someone dead several days. He knew this woman, knew her well, and the impossibility of the situation froze him into inaction.
Then she vanished, as quickly as she had appeared. Buckle stood for several moments, his limbs locked rigid, and his heart pounding so heavily he was certain it was about to give up on him. The church doors started to open, and this shook him from his fear. He quickly dived behind a low-lying shrub, trying his best to conceal himself. Peering through the gaps in the branches, Buckle eyed the man in red leaving down the path. Keeping silent, he tried to soothe himself.
"That was not real," he whispered , "she's long dead. It wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault. This is just your conscience, see? It was not real."
After a few minutes, Buckle stood from his cover. A powerful yearning to walk into that church and ask the preacher more about the situation suddenly possessed him, despite his rational mind doing its best to get him out of the town without delay. Real or not, what he had seen didn't belong in the waking world, and if somehow evil really was afoot, Buckle wanted no part in it. That all said, however, he stormed towards the church, suddenly feeling that perhaps the old bastard had played some kind of trick on him. How hard would it be to dress someone up in- he stopped there. How would anyone out here know what she looked like?
"You ain't finding answers out here, so you best get yourself inside," he told himself.
Putting a heavy hand on the door, Buckle pushed his way into the building. There he saw the priest, standing over the deformed creature.
"Bill Furrows, a pleasure really," he said, walking up to the preacher. "Mind telling me about what exactly it is we're up against here?" Pausing, Buckle felt he'd better make himself for specific. "I mean, just saying for a second that the dead are walking, and that there are frickin' vampires flying around, what is the true picture?"
Realising he was making a confudled mess of himself, and suddenly becoming obvious to the buckets of sweat rolling down his forehead, Buckle breathed deeply. "Let me try that again," he said with a cough. "Are guns going to do us any good against whatever it is that might be out there?"
Buckle rode into the town of Paradise, his battered and bruised mare exhausted from its long journey. He noted the creature's miserable demeanour, but decided that it was an improvement from how it was when he paid for it. He'd combed what he could of the matted fur into non-existence, and fed the thing better than it ever had been by its previous owners. That old bastard four towns over weren't lying when he said "I ain't a horse person, mister".
Leaning forwards, Buckle patted the mare's head tenderly. "We're here Daisy, my girl. Let's get you seen to," he said, cheerily. The horse seemed indifferent to his tone, but that wasn't surprising.
Dismounting, Buckle cast a few glances at his surroundings. Paradise wasn't much different to any other town this far out in no-man's land. Flimsy wooden structures lined the main road way, on which he now stood, and off in the distance he could see the silhouette of a church spire. There were few light sources coming from the windows of any of the buildings in sight, but this didn't seem strange to him, it was night after all, and he suspected most of the locals were asleep. He spotted a sign not far off, indicating a barn down a side street.
"Come on Daisy, let's get you to bed," he said.
The barn was, like the rest of the town, worse for ware and poorly tended. An old man, with no hair but a full beard of knots and grime, greeted him with a toothless smile. Buckle noted that there were a few horses present, indicating that the town wasn't doing so badly in terms of comers by. The hay seemed of good enough quality, and the meagre sleeping arrangements next to the old man told Buckle the horses were being seen to around the clock.
"Howdy, you stayin' long in our fine town?" The old man asked gleefully.
Buckle nodded and smiled. "That'd be an affirmative, old boy. How much for a week?"
"You hear to see the Preacher?"
"Yup."
"Then no charge to you," said the old man, scratching his beard feverishly. "Though, I do take donations."
Buckle nodded, and handed over a dollar bill. "She's an old beaten creature, but she's all I got to my name, so look after her."
The old man snatched the dollar bill, his eyes widened by the sight of it, and then shoved it eagerly into his mangy clothes. "You betcha sir, she'll get the best I can give, I assure you of that, oh yes I do. Names Tim Ranger, by the way."
"Buckle Peterson, a pleasure," replied Buckle, leaning in for a handshake.
Tim's face scrunched up in deep concentration, as if trying to recall something hidden deep in the tomes of his memory. Buckle grew uneasy at this, and his right hand subconsciously made its way down to his 44. Tim Ranger wouldn't be the first aged adversary wanting revenge for some of Buckle's less savoury exploits. Tim didn't seem bothered though, and started tapping his teeth with a finger whilst clicking his tongue before finally shrugging his shoulders.
"Think I heard that name, when I lived east," he said.
"Well whatever you heard, that ain't me you're thinking of," growled Buckle. He hastily pulled another dollar bill, and passed it over to Tim. "This part of the country is full of ex-cons. Last thing I need is someone recognising me and itching to settle an old score, you get?"
"Safe with me, Mister," said Tim, eagerly grabbing for the dollar with arthritic fingers. Buckle withheld it at the last second, and Tim seemed genuinely pained and confused.
"Let's start again. I'm Bill Furrows, understand?"
"I understand, Mister Furrows," said Tim with a wink. Buckle handed him the dollar, and then made for the door.
***
The church was a sad structure. Nothing Godly about it, as far as Buckle could tell, but then none of them ever were this far out. It was small, and feeble, with a considerable graveyard. Life weren't easy out here, but then it wasn't much better back in the cities. Buckle would know, he tried and failed in those depressing streets of concrete and smoke. There was a light source inside, and he could hear the gentle murmur of people talking. Before he started business, he felt he was entitled to one more moment of alone time.
Seating himself upon one of the more sturdier sections of the graveyard's picket fence, Buckle pulled out his tobacco and smoking paper, and rolled himself a smoke. Striking a match, and bringing fiery life to his little stick of joy, he savoured the sweet fumes with each pull. Zombies, spirits and vampires? he mused. Looking around the graveyard, he sure didn't see any creatures of the night, and he doubted he would. The crazy old preacher beyond the church's doors was probably just desperate to consolidate and increase his congregation. Churchmen were always trying to get more of something, whether it was wealth or power, and Buckle sensed this was no different. Still, as long as the old bastard paid the promised price, he didn't care.
Leaning forwards, Buckle patted the mare's head tenderly. "We're here Daisy, my girl. Let's get you seen to," he said, cheerily. The horse seemed indifferent to his tone, but that wasn't surprising.
Dismounting, Buckle cast a few glances at his surroundings. Paradise wasn't much different to any other town this far out in no-man's land. Flimsy wooden structures lined the main road way, on which he now stood, and off in the distance he could see the silhouette of a church spire. There were few light sources coming from the windows of any of the buildings in sight, but this didn't seem strange to him, it was night after all, and he suspected most of the locals were asleep. He spotted a sign not far off, indicating a barn down a side street.
"Come on Daisy, let's get you to bed," he said.
The barn was, like the rest of the town, worse for ware and poorly tended. An old man, with no hair but a full beard of knots and grime, greeted him with a toothless smile. Buckle noted that there were a few horses present, indicating that the town wasn't doing so badly in terms of comers by. The hay seemed of good enough quality, and the meagre sleeping arrangements next to the old man told Buckle the horses were being seen to around the clock.
"Howdy, you stayin' long in our fine town?" The old man asked gleefully.
Buckle nodded and smiled. "That'd be an affirmative, old boy. How much for a week?"
"You hear to see the Preacher?"
"Yup."
"Then no charge to you," said the old man, scratching his beard feverishly. "Though, I do take donations."
Buckle nodded, and handed over a dollar bill. "She's an old beaten creature, but she's all I got to my name, so look after her."
The old man snatched the dollar bill, his eyes widened by the sight of it, and then shoved it eagerly into his mangy clothes. "You betcha sir, she'll get the best I can give, I assure you of that, oh yes I do. Names Tim Ranger, by the way."
"Buckle Peterson, a pleasure," replied Buckle, leaning in for a handshake.
Tim's face scrunched up in deep concentration, as if trying to recall something hidden deep in the tomes of his memory. Buckle grew uneasy at this, and his right hand subconsciously made its way down to his 44. Tim Ranger wouldn't be the first aged adversary wanting revenge for some of Buckle's less savoury exploits. Tim didn't seem bothered though, and started tapping his teeth with a finger whilst clicking his tongue before finally shrugging his shoulders.
"Think I heard that name, when I lived east," he said.
"Well whatever you heard, that ain't me you're thinking of," growled Buckle. He hastily pulled another dollar bill, and passed it over to Tim. "This part of the country is full of ex-cons. Last thing I need is someone recognising me and itching to settle an old score, you get?"
"Safe with me, Mister," said Tim, eagerly grabbing for the dollar with arthritic fingers. Buckle withheld it at the last second, and Tim seemed genuinely pained and confused.
"Let's start again. I'm Bill Furrows, understand?"
"I understand, Mister Furrows," said Tim with a wink. Buckle handed him the dollar, and then made for the door.
The church was a sad structure. Nothing Godly about it, as far as Buckle could tell, but then none of them ever were this far out. It was small, and feeble, with a considerable graveyard. Life weren't easy out here, but then it wasn't much better back in the cities. Buckle would know, he tried and failed in those depressing streets of concrete and smoke. There was a light source inside, and he could hear the gentle murmur of people talking. Before he started business, he felt he was entitled to one more moment of alone time.
Seating himself upon one of the more sturdier sections of the graveyard's picket fence, Buckle pulled out his tobacco and smoking paper, and rolled himself a smoke. Striking a match, and bringing fiery life to his little stick of joy, he savoured the sweet fumes with each pull. Zombies, spirits and vampires? he mused. Looking around the graveyard, he sure didn't see any creatures of the night, and he doubted he would. The crazy old preacher beyond the church's doors was probably just desperate to consolidate and increase his congregation. Churchmen were always trying to get more of something, whether it was wealth or power, and Buckle sensed this was no different. Still, as long as the old bastard paid the promised price, he didn't care.
Captain Ahab said
Looks good, you sure you don't want some kind of backup weapon? I don't know how you'd reload a cap and ball revolver in the middle of a fight too quickly.
Nah. Six shots, and then it's time to grab the nearest blunt object and give it a few swings!
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