Tlaloc

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

^{In collaboration with @Cool Ghoul as Detlev Schäfer, @TaintedMushroom as Westley Maston, and @Archazen as Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne.}

Music

The Lord looks down from heaven
on all mankind
to see if there are any who understand,
any who seek God.
All have turned away, all have become corrupt;
there is no one who does good,
not even one.

— Psalm 14:2-3

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The scent of old leather, burnt oil, and the faint musk of gunpowder lingered over Ramos' office; a small cubby of justice betwixt a landscape of chaos. He dropped into his chair, his hand brushing past the disarray of papers, maps, and ink-smeared ledgers crowding the desk. He retrieved his worn notebook and dipped the nib of his pen into its inkwell, the dark liquid blooming like blood upon the page as he made to swiftly record the night's grim findings. He made no effort to ensure the notes were particularly legible for anyone but himself, so long as he could return to them later. He never deviated from this practice, this ritual: after assessing a crime, he would commit every detail to paper, no matter how small or seemingly irrelevant. His thoughts poured from his mind, each stroke of the pen exorcising the weight of the last hour until the ink ran dry. Only then did he pause, allowing himself a brief moment of reprieve.

He found himself looking upon his Bible, which lay unopened on the corner of the desk. It had been a while now since he had sought its counsel; a thin coating of dust had begun to form in testament. It's spine, though, was cracked and worn, showing the signs of repeated, long-lived use. It had been an old friend to him, a guide through the dark. But at some point along the way, he had found himself questioning: how long would it lead him through the dark, with the promise of light? It felt like false hope, and yet he longed for its comforts. It felt like a fool's errand, and yet he cursed himself, guilty for roaming astray. He was unaware of his momentary dissociation, but it washed over him. His eyes glazed over, his physical brain stalled, and the immaterial mind wandered. He found no answers in this empty state, but pressed the cross he wore around his neck and closed his eyes for a moment, whispering a prayer that tasted of resignation rather than hope.

Admist this brief moment, wherein Ramos was lost in himself, his gaze snagged on a figure: a dimly-lit apparition who lingered outfront the bakery. The figure stirred his perturbation, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that it was only Detlev. He cursed himself for his anxieties and returned to the door, opening it; feeling a sense of relief as the old ranger moseyed over. No matter how bad a situation he'd found himself in, it couldn't be worse than what Detlev Schäfer had been through. Despite being ground down by the harshness of the frontier, he remained a good man; a reliable man. Probably the closest thing to a friend that Ramos had in this town, even if he wasn't intent on remaining in Amistad for more than a few weeks.

"Dios te bendiga; I'm glad to see you," Ramos said with a heavy exhalation. “Do you have a minute?”

In a gesture of respect seldom-seen from the rugged man, Detlev cast his cigarette aside and extended a hand out towards Ramos — which was quickly accepted. "I’ve got several, if you’re willing to share what had you charging back into town like hell’s hounds themselves were nipping at your boot-heels." There was a hint of a smile on the older man’s lips — honest mysteries were far more his wheelhouse than monster slaying these days… likely a consequence of the scarcity of the former, and the overabundance of the latter. Now, with their formal greeting complete, and Detlev’s hand now free, in one sweeping motion he was once again bedecked with a cigarette, and reached up to light it. The old lighter took a few sparkings gasps, but ultimately sputtered out, failing to evoke a flame.

Ramos reached for his own lighter as he ushered Detlev in, immediately clicking the less abused igniter into action, and restoring his ally's font of dopamine.

"Your hands are shaking, Benjamín," Detlev offered upon entering, his gaze lingering on the other man’s extended hand, that telltale shimmer of curiosity briefly lighting his amber eyes up, followed by a slightly less intense glare of concern — his previous hesitation had been out of respect for his old friend’s position: if he were to march into the sheriff’s office unbidden and started throwing questions around, well, it wouldn’t exactly be a response befitting the hospitality he’d received thus far… He’d expected to have to make a strong case for access to the old Ranger safehouse, but Ramos had given him the key the very same moment he’d asked — there was trust there, that much was clear, and Detlev was loath to deny it the reverence it deserved.

Ramos didn't directly respond, waiting for the door to creak shut behind him. "Sit if you like," he offered, remaining stood himself, hands resting on his hips as he digested his circumstances. He approached the whiskey on his desk, and glanced up to Detlev in wordless offering.

Detlev’s eyes lingered on the bottle, then the man — he didn’t often imbibe, it wasn’t in his nature to dull his senses, but there was an unwelcome weight to Ramos’ movements, his fingers white-knuckled as he grasped the neck of the bottle. Whatever the nature of the illusive burden that sat upon the Sheriff’s shoulders was irrelevant — all that mattered was how clear it was to see. So, with a nod of his head, he acquiesced to the offer of a drink, and slung it back without a second thought: a subtle invitation for Ramos to do the same, should he need it.

“Two dead on a ranch not two-thousand yards out. Torn up to a shred. By the looks of it, the handiwork of a man, not a beast,” said the sheriff, knocking back a single shot. “Worst is, there’s been folk gone missing up the quarry way. I had my concerns before, but reckoned that people disappear of their own volition out here all the time. Couldn't find any trace before. But I’m startin’ to think it’s no coincidence.”

"Killing innocent folk belies a lack of perspective, more than anything else." Detlev offered — there wasn’t much feeling in his delivery, only a delicate undertone of contempt. "But a man operating wholly without perspective is dangerous in his ignorance… Though it may not be my place to advise you, I urge you to tread carefully in this, Benjamín: you hunt a monster who walks in the skin of a man, and on such hunts, one must be selective with their trust. I learned as much during my bounty hunting days… tell me, what will your opening gambit be?"

"I’ll get the lay of the land," Ramos said, dabbing the sweat from his brow: a bodily response that betrayed the cool of the night he’d just escaped. "But if this is as gnarly as it looks, ‘might have to mount a posse — should that be the case, I could really use a hand from an old friend."

"Then you have it." Detlev offered, the corners of his lips curling upwards briefly in an altogether slight but definitely present half-smile, indicative of seldom few years spent practicing the gesture.

A colossal crash echoed from the saloon, followed by a cacophony of smaller, lesser shatterings of glass, and both men were up on their feet. The rare moment of warmth that’d seemed so recent, so important, now faded, pulled out of their periphery by the cold, inevitable grasp of memory.

"¡A la verga!," Ramos barked. "Excuse me," he said, sparing no time in reacting, swiftly marching out of his office in the direction of the Kiskadee; his dominant hand hovering an inch or thereabouts from his waist-holster. He didn't stop to see if Detlev followed, but he doubted the ranger would stray too far.

Outside of the saloon, a groaning man was crumpled in a heap, the shattered remains of a window surrounding him. Ramos briefly appraised him, finding him to be carrying only minor scrapes, and to be bathed in the ripe scent of alcohol, and disregarded him.

"Enough!," he bellowed, blasting the swinging doors to the saloon wide-open. When the ruckus didn't immediately die down, he repeated himself, louder: "Hey, enough!!"

Twice was, indeed, enough. Ramos had a reputation for fairness in spite of harshness; and a call thrice would've been enough to have him blow his gasket. The townfolk of Amistad knew him well enough to gauge that today was not a day to test his moxie. Whether or not the comers-and-goers would maintain that same level of deference, it remained to be seen. With his warning call heard, and a stillness befalling the room, an exhale saw Ramos’ rage subdued. The castigator melted away, and the lawman returned. He scanned the room. Tables were overturned, chairs splintered, and a few patrons were still engaged in half-hearted grappling, though the majority had backed off at the sight of the sheriff. Big Jim, the burly fool with bloodshot eyes, stood by the bar, rubbing the back of his head and glaring daggers at a little guy across the room — a caravaneer Ramos knew not the name of, who stood poised, eyeing their surroundings like a cornered fox might. Ramos’ eyes narrowed. Big Jim wasn’t the type to start trouble unless he was deep in his cups. Ramos strode toward the oaf, glancing down at the glass shards scattered at his feet.

"You better thank your lucky goddamned stars I got here before McRiley," he said sternly, firstly regarding Jim. Behind the bar, there was a veritable chunk of a man; not the saloon’s proprietor, who must’ve been out back or otherwise preoccupied. "Now I’m only gonna’ ask this once; which of you jackwagons is responsible for this ruckus?," he demanded, looking around the room for an answer.

Maston's eyes began to roam, searching for any sort of alternative exit. He hadn’t necessarily started it, not in his own eyes at least. That didn’t mean he’d be confessin’ his part in matters anytime soon. He reached up to tuck his hat down, attempting to not look at the lawman who’d just barged through the door. Trouble on day one was certainly not what Maston was looking for but he’d be damned if it weren’t par for the course.

With the silence outstaying its welcome, Ramos let loose a haggard, disappointed sigh: "Someone better talk, lest you all fancy yourselves a night in jail."

"Sheriff, I didn’t mean no trouble, it’s these drifters, sir, they’re always out pickin’ fights," Big Jim bumbled, still nursing his mildly bludgeoned crown. The large man raised his sausage-like index finger first in the direction of Maston, and then in a sweeping gesture towards the other newcomers.

Ramos narrowed his eyes towards Maston: a face he didn’t well recognise. He waited for explanation. It could well be the case that Jim was underplaying his own part in this mess; alcohol was lingering on his breath, after all.

Maston damn near cursed aloud when the big man pointed that meaty finger his way first. Christ, all he’d wanted was a drink after arriving in town and a bed for the night, not all this malarkey. "Now that don’t feel too mighty welcomin’, a stranger blows in lookin’ for meal and board ain’t barely been here a’day and bein’ blamed for all this ruckus. S’a mighty fine town ya’s got here lawman," Maston said with just a tad bit too much sourness in his drawl.

"Well, I don’t mean you any disrespect, mister —," Ramos said, pausing expectantly, waiting for the stranger to conjure up some verbal identification, his words laced with saccharine insincerity.

"Mister’ll do," was all Maston responded with, a slightly belligerent tone taking form.

"Well, Mister," Ramos echoed, clearly a little irked by the lack of compliance. "Looks like you and Jim'll be sharing a bunk t'night." He beckoned Jim, knowing quite well he’d come and follow, tail between legs, as it wouldn’t be the large man's first night in jail. The newcomer, however, Ramos had no reason to trust, so he made to restrain him.

Maston almost made to bolt, he genuinely considered it for a second. Clearly this whole situation had gotten out of hand and it’d be just like him to make things worse, his hand twitched slightly, an itch in his trigger finger whispering dangerously in his ear. His heart rate ticked up a couple notches and a sense of anticipation built: "Ah hell." He spit through gritted teeth, exhaling with frustration. It took every bit of willpower to keep it in check, but Maston certainly didn’t need to make matters worse. Any other time he might’ve drawn, but that same feeling that had drawn him here made it hard for him to jeopardize his situation on the first day.

With that, Ramos disarmed the coachguard, restrained him, and firmly, but with no sense of belligerence, began his delivery from out the saloon. Maston, while not actively seeking to break free of his bonds, seemed to challenge the sheriff somewhat, striving to inconvenience his momentary adversary. Ramos was used to it. These types always liked to make a show, make sure everyone knew they weren't soft-like. But they all ended up in the jail cell the same; wasn't worth it to run from a lawman after a bar-brawl; best-case, you became a wanted man, and worst case, you found a bullet in your head then and there. It was a much more rational decision to take the slap on the wrist and accept detainment, which most often would see you a free man by next morn'.

Before Ramos could shuffle out of the door, Maston in tow, another individual made their presence known. Reginald cleared his throat, a subtle yet deliberate gesture to capture the attention of Sheriff Ramos. "Sheriff, might I request a moment of your esteemed attention?" he began, his voice carrying a tone of respectful urgency. "I discern that you embody the very essence of bravery and integrity: a steadfast protector of truth, a shining exemplar of unwavering justice. With such distinguished qualities, it seems only necessary that you would be inclined to address a few irregularities. Surely, such matters fall within the scope of a man of your remarkable stature, would you not agree?"

Ramos raised an eyebrow, nonplussed by the gentleman’s jargon. He decided that he’d let him run his mouth, see if anything of use would slip out in the process, letting his grip loosen on Maston for a moment, but keeping him in eyeshot nonetheless.

Without waiting for a response, Reginald pressed on. "Excellent, then: the first issue — there is an utter lack of tea available, a grievous oversight that has left me in a state of profound dismay. The absence of such a fundamental comfort is nothing short of a travesty, and I implore you to rectify this most egregious error posthaste." He took a brief breath, his eyes narrowing slightly as he continued. "Additionally, I have noticed the absence of any hourly chime from the town clock, and this simply will not do. Such neglect must be rectified immediately. Any town worth the merit of being recognized as one should have its clock tower be prompt and on time." Reginald’s tone grew more insistent. "This is a matter of utmost importance and surely falls within your purview to address. These are injustices that simply cannot be overlooked… I trust that a man of your caliber will see the necessity of these actions and will act accordingly." Reginald’s eyes softened slightly as he concluded, peering intently at the sheriff, ensuring the enforcement of his words.

A silence hovered in the air for a few moments in the aftermath of Reginald’s rant. The patrons, baffled by such behaviour, which was frankly alien in a place such as this, exchanged looks of befuddlement, awaiting the sheriff’s reply. It was anyone's guess how Ramos, overburdened by many a pressing issue that superceded tea and town-clocks, would respond to such demands. Whether in lunacy or genuine amusement, he cracked a smile, which became a chuckle, and then a throaty laugh. This was met by confusion among many of the patrons, but, for a fair few, it was matched with laughter of their own. As his laughter dulled, Ramos poked a rigid finger onto Reginald’s lapel: "Listen, silver spoon, you must’ve took a wrong turn; this ain’t Buckin’ham Palace, and it sure as shit ‘aint no quaint resort. If you’ve got complaints on how this town is administered, I suggest you take it up with Mayor Davis; but I expect he’ll tell you the same thing I’m about to. We’re tryin’ our damnedest to just about survive out here, and as you can see," he gestured to the debris around him. "Your problems ain’t one, two, three, four, or five on my list."

Reginald, utterly aghast at the positive uproar his plight had incited, took a step to the side, his eyes wide with disbelief. Convinced that his concerns were of the utmost importance, he was utterly baffled by the laughter that ensued. With a deliberate and cautious grace, he lowered himself into a chair, wincing internally though his face remained a mask of composure. The audacity of these common folk to live in such squalor and yet not aspire to better themselves was beyond his comprehension. It was an affront to his sensibilities. Yet, he reminded himself, this was their world, not his own. Could it be that his words, so reasonable in his eyes, were perceived as unreasonable in the current state of affairs? The thought gnawed at him as he pondered the disparity between his expectations and their reality. As he sat there, Reginald dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, a gesture of both frustration and an attempt to maintain his dignified appearance amidst the bewildering circumstances.

Whether summoned by the fighting, the smashing, the hollering, or the laughter, Ol' McRiley burst in from out the back door. "Well, what in the hell!?," he snarled, his eyes forming daggers at the employee behind the bar, then at just about every patron who looked complicit in the shenanigans. "Can a man not go to answer the call of nature for, what, ten minutes, without this place goin' t' shit?!"

"All under control, Mr. McRiley," Ramos said, as he reclaimed his restraint on Maston.

"Well who’s payin’ for my damn window-glass?"

"I’ll make sure your windows are seen t’," he replied. "Maybe Prince Edward here’ll lend a hand," he pierced a glance over at the Englishman. He then turned his attention to Detlev, who watched on from the doorway. The lever-action the man had previously held ready now rested over one of his shoulders, but still remained easily to hand, should the situation have suddenly changed for the worse. Ramos approached, speaking in a hushed tone: "Can ya'... Could ya' get a scope of these?," he tilted his head back towards the new faces in the saloon. "Need to get these locked up, then pay the Mayor a visit... If you can get an idea of what we’re working with, it'd be appreciated."

Ramos knew he asked something of Detlev that would likely make the old ranger rather uncomfortable, but he also knew him to be a good judge of character, and a man who, above all else, had an interest in protecting the lives of the good-natured folk whose lives were presently at risk. He gave his old friend a strained smile, a token of his gratitude. He'd pay him after all this was done; not that Detlev had asked for it.

Before long, Maston and Jim were safely behind bars in the back-room of Ramos' office. The sheriff was grateful he had two cells, as he could only imagine what round two would look like in such a small, contained space. He looked down at the sorry state of Jim, and was satisfied with what he saw; a man who let his bravado and his temper get the best of him, and nothing much else. The other feller, though, he wasn't so sure about. It'd be worth questioning him later to see if he knew anything about the killings. Something told him that this man wasn't quite a homicidal maniac, though.

"When I'm back, you an' me are gonna' have a chat," Ramos said, looking down at the coachguard. He didn't linger to hear a response, and made his way outside.

As he mounted Captain, he mapped out the coming day. Mayor Davis usually woke up good and early: five sharp. Ramos would have to be at his door then. He'd have some morning coffee, and inform the good mayor of all the night's gruesome events; or, at least, the ones that the mayor needed to know. Then Ramos would get dear Nurse Davis and bring her along to collect the bodies from the ranch, then he'd secure the perimiter, then he'd be back in Amistad to continue investigations. But he couldn't sleep yet; he hadn't the time for it, so he banished the thought of sleep from his mind completely. First, he'd find Guillermo.

I need rp advice.

<Snipped quote by Kuro>

bassically that but with memory loss, and no grief.

@Sky Blue

Maybe just start with "i forgor"

Blood Tides (BunniesOfDoom and Tlaloc)

Nils stood at the edge of the Tenio docks, his boots propped up on a battered crate, arms crossed as he watched the Maiden's Lullaby pull away from the pier. Bastards, he thought. He should've been on that ship... Hell — he was on that ship, until Captain Riley lost his patience; or as Nils would've put it, gave up on his ambitions. All because the good captain didn’t like him suggesting they actually do something other than smuggling crates of rum. Had they not already been docked in the port town, Riley might well've had Nils tossed overboard. Luckily for Nils, he was marooned in one of the most pleasant corners of the know world: Sun-kissed Xaegosti; where beautiful women, delightful food, and breathtaking, ancient architecture were all abundant. Though for the past few days he'd licked his wounds by playing the tourist for a little while, he couldn't help but get hot under the collar as he watched his best chance at finding the hoard drift away. Worst of all, they knew nearly everything he did, and he didn't have a boat, so the idea of them using all of his hard work, and him not getting a single silver coin to his name, was a possibility he couldn't bare the though of. He quickly sobered from the thought, smirking as he wondered how long it would be before Captain Riley realise his coin-purse was full of Xaegosti beach pebbles, and not two-months of pay. Hopefully, it'd be long enough for Nils to find his way off the island.

Nils and Riley been on the hunt for Cazaban's treasure for close to two years now. Sure, they hadn't gotten remotely close, but things were slowly piecing together. Day by day, Nils' confidence had redoubled. He'd find Cazaban's hoard, and he'd become the most respected and wealthy adventurer from Skaldvarr to Elqirza. That'd been the ultimate goal ever since he'd stepped board on a ship nine years ago, at the tender age of sixteen. The Maiden's Lullaby hadn't been the first, second, or third ship he'd pursued his aspiration from; nor was it the first that'd left him on a foreign island without as much as a good-bye. He'd worked many a job on many a ship, with his dreams of finding the hoard always superceding any other responsibility, which was seldom appreciated by his captains. He'd been a deckhand, a navigator, even once a chef (though that particular tenure ended very quickly due to a ship-wide case of food poisoning). He always ended up on his feet in the end — he had a way of talking himself out of trouble.

Nils sighed. The process would have to start again. No matter how many times he'd been knocked down, his tunnel vision had never deviated. Cazaban. The name lingered in his mind like a ghost; whispered among thieves, sung by troubadors in taverns, but no one ever knew what had become of the treasure the infamous vampire lord left behind. Untold riches, they said. Enough to buy kingdoms. Enough to settle scores. Nils had his own reasons, beyond just that of wealth, to take an interest in the matter — personal reasons. But, hell, the coin was damn good incentive on its own.

It'd been nearly twenty years now since Cazaban had came to his end; the legendary vampire-prince who'd brought every major power in the region to their knees. Not only had he cultivated an empire of brigands and swashbucklers, but he'd otherthrown the island realm of Morgorad, declaring himself its ruler. For all intents and purposes, he'd been the most powerful man in the world. Until Cazaban, the Khoralis Basin had been an untamed body of water, like it was now; a huge inland sea that was perfectly equidistant between a handful of empires and kingdoms, the most important region for trade in the entire world. Cazaban hadn't sought to crush trade between nations, but to control it, and he made damn sure he had a slice of every single proverbial pie that passed through his waters. He ruled through fear and intimidation, treating those who failed to conform to his rules with complete, unabridged ruthlessness. During his reign, he'd been responsible for death of tens of thousands of innocents; it was said that, during the many uprisings in Morgorad, he'd nearly halved the nation's populace. Eventually, for his tyranny, he was assassinated. Many had tried to pick up the pieces of his empire, but with his death, the cult of personality crumbled into ash. Now, as it was before Cazaban, the Khoralis Basin was ungoverned by any single power. Instead, it was frequented by many dozens of separate pirates; but ones that couldn't quite hold entire kingdoms to ransom. After the vampire-prince had died, thousands began to search for his riches. He'd accumulated an inordinate amount of wealth, and none of it was found. Evenutally, people gave up, lost interest, and reasoned that it was forever lost to the tides. Nils felt differently, and he'd spent the last decade of his life aggregating every single piece of information he could find on its whereabouts.

Having been lost in his own head for a few minutes, he realised that his former ship had now disappeared from view. He glanced around the harbour, hoping for some kind of opportunity to emerge. He was good at sniffing them out, and in a busy port like this, there was sure to be something. He hopped to his feet and began his saunter around, quietly seeking out a free ticket off Tenio.

After a while, he slowed to observe an interaction between two men at the beginning of a pier. The first was a tall, dark-skinned man, with thick hair, and tattoos covering every inch of his body. He had the look of a real swashbuckler — scars on top of scars, and towered over the smaller, older, bald gentleman, who, though appearing rather scrawny, had an equal measure of scars upon him.

"Where's Sotiriani?!," the taller man said, his voice incredibly deep.

"He - uh, he couldn't make it," the bald man replied.

"Couldn't make it?!"

"Think he lost his nerve," the smaller man replied. "Suppose after he realised that we actually go looking for trouble, the chances he'd have to actually fight a leech went up. I think he thought he was just coming along as insurance."

Ah, a leech - slang for the vampire corsairs that roamed the seas. These people were sailors, and by the sounds of it, they'd lost a member of crew to good old yellowbelly-fever.

"She's a beauty," Nils said with a sigh, approaching the two gentlemen with a glint in his eye as he looked over at the ship afront them, whose bell was ringing. "What I'd do to taste the sea breeze on her back."

The two men exchanged a look with eachother, perhaps a little mistrusting of Nils' angle.

Nils had begun his gambit. Yes, there was every chance these two men would take no interest in him, shoo him away, and that'd be that. But equally, there was a chance they might, in their desperation of being a crewmember short, test the waters; entertain the possibility that Nils was the answer to their questions. Of course, whatever they needed, Nils was — or at least he would pretend to be. Opportunity rarely comes to those who tell the truth all of the time, after all, sometimes you have to fake it until you make it. Or just keep faking it until it's made for you.

"You ever seen action, kid?," the older sailor asked. "We need an extra pair of hands to man the stakes, so to speak."

"As a matter of fact I have," he said, without any need to lie. Most ships in the Basin had a small team of dedicated vampire slayers, and those that didn't were pushing their luck. Nils had worked this station once before, though admittedly, he'd only been involved in a handful of scrapes with vampires — not on the level of these two gents, clearly.

"You lookin' to get off this rock?," the taller man said.

Nils grinned, and nodded his head curtly.

"Tell Ayita that Sotiriani flaked, but we've got a replacement," the larger man said to his comrade, before returning his focus to Nils. "Get your stuff and get on board. We're leaving any minute."

What Are You Listening To?

Hello I'm a fan of Percy and I know all about it. I want to make friends and experience new friends.

I don't know who Percy is, but I hope he has a pleasant day; and I hope you do too, Ericson10.

A Question About Tabletop IntChecks

@Cleveraptor I don't think you're going to have a lot of luck with your endeavor. Generally GMs have a particular game world in their mind that they wish to tell their story in, and they won't accept a character as-is that was made without knowledge of the setting. Certainly, it's a huge ask to expect a group or GM to base their world around the ideal character you want to play. It smacks of "I want to play an RP my way, but I'm too rigid to bend to anyone else's desires."

That said, There's no rule forbidding an interest check like that. So... Try it?

@BrokenPromise

This is assuming OP's character isn't designed for a standardised tabletop setting like Forgotten Realms in D&D 5e, which is fairly commonly used on here.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

As they clambered into the cramped confines of the transport, and the doors slammed shut, any prospect of ridding himself of these charlatans escaped Viszt. He was a part of their game now, whether he liked it or not. Perhaps he could spin things somehow, get the jump on them. Outsmarting them would be easy enough, by the looks of things, but the practicality of an escape attempt was questionable, especially when dealing with the swashbuckling type. Yes, he could wait until they arrived at the Basilisk, bide his time, and yell out for help the moment they became complacent — but if their cover was blown, they'd have nothing to lose, and shooting him dead would be a formality and nothing more. Perhaps, he considered oncemore, perhaps it was the excuse he'd been looking for. He'd grown to despise his work in recent months. Maybe, just maybe, these scoundrels would thank him for his obedience, pat him on the head, and drop him off in the next spaceport. No, he reconciled; truthfully, it was far more likely they'd simply shoot him in the back as soon as their business here was done. He'd have to make a bold move sooner or later. For now, he sat politely.

"ETA three minutes to the Basilisk... so, how long you three been on LRP here?," the Lieutenant asked, interrupting Viszt from his thoughts.

Having seen their methods once before, he imagined that if his captors' cover was blown now, they'd probably do something stupid, like shooting everyone else on the ITT and then attempting to commandeer it. He'd be shot by a blaster, or die in a fiery wreckage. Either way, not ideal.

“I asked them the same thing when they caught this womp rat sniffing around my chit card," Viszt said promptly. For now, he'd swallowed his fears, and he was able to speak without a shudder in his voice. “Can you believe the lengths these people will go to for a few credits?," he scoffed, hoping to appeal to typical Imperial sensibilites of aporophobia.

His deriding tone was met with silence by the uninterested Lieutenant, who didn't indluge the smalltalk; seemingly still waiting for his question to be properly answered.

“They told me it was need-to-know," Viszt said with faux-confidence. "Admiral's business. You know how Kara is. He could have us scooping bantha filth, and he'd have you thinking it was a matter of Galactic importance."

"You can say that again," the officer replied with a dry chuckle, seemingly buying Viszt's explanation. Thankfully, like just about everyone else on the Basilisk, he too detested Kara. "Don't get me started," he said — and he meant it. If he got caught talking ill of the Admiral, he wouldn't be an officer much the longer.

With that hazard neutralised, the conversation petered out. Silence fell over the ITT, save for the humming of its engine, and before three minutes had passed, they had arrived at the Basilisk.

The transport slowed to a stop, and the door slid open with a hiss. Fel was the first to disembark, pulling Zane along with him. Viszt glanced around, assessing the concentration of the others; but found that they were very adequately focussed. Everyone filtered out, the fake troopers' boots clanking against the metal floor as they stepped into the bay. Despite being a little flustered, they seemed competent enough — every time one of them averted their gaze from him, another seemed to have sights trained. He found it extremely doubtful that he would have an opportunity to run unless they were caught unawares by something else. For now, at least, he had some insurance. They couldn't just shoot him dead for the sake of it, so he had at least a modicum of power to exercise. And exercise it he would. Might as well try something. If he could get them split up, he might have a shot at survival.

“I truly appreciate your assistance," he said with a vacant smile. "Am I right in saying that you'll be accompanying me to the med bay?," he peered at Aellyn. "And I suppose you'll be headed to the brig?," he said, turning to Fel.

While he considered that this gambit might enrage the trio, these were issues they were going to be faced with regardless. He was throwing this problem at them hot — and seeing if they could grab ahold without dropping.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

C H A P T E R 1 : A M I S T A D , T X .
C H A P T E R 1 : A M I S T A D , T X .

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅▅

____________________________________ Benjamín Ramos Estrada ★ Ramos I: The Sheriff investigates a crime scene on the O'Noone ranch. ★ ____________________________________ Detlev Schäfer ★ Detlev I: An emeritus ranger reflects upon his legacy as an omen arrives in town. ★ ____________________________________ Edward Bennigan ★ ★ ____________________________________ ____________________________________	____________________________________ Guillermo Perez-rojas ★ Guille 1: An old outlaw has his sleep disturbed as a creature announces its presence. ★ Guille 2: The forlorn outlaw makes a stop on his travels back to society only to soon be met with someone during the continuation of his journey. ____________________________________ Jesse Li ★ Jesse I: A young woman bids her itinerant family farewell as she seeks independence in Amistad. ★ ____________________________________ GM Posts ★ The Query: A government employee and annoyed mayor discuss his purpose in Amistad ★ ____________________________________	____________________________________ Orin James Ross ★ ★ ____________________________________ Reginald Percival Hawthorne ★Reginald I: A gentleman of refined sensibilities steps into a town distant from home; not only in miles, but in spirit. ★ ____________________________________ Westley Earl Maston ★ Maston I: A disgruntled coach guard loses the last of his patience with his entourage. ★ ____________________________________ ____________________________________

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

Music

Ya han escrito las palabras en la arena
esta poesía de nuestro encuentro
que sangra y sale desde los huesos
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Late May, 1888.

The firmament lay bare; a perfect, cloudless night.

Before the day had surrendered to dusk, the sky had been gloriously cerulean. Now past nine o’clock, the hue had deepened into a gorgeous deep-sea blue. This corner of the Earth was no longer smiled down upon by its father star, and was illuminated instead by its many neighbours ‘cross the Milky Way. It was difficult to estimate exactly how many stars blanketed the Texas sky this night, but it was plenty enough to remind a man of his insignificance. As much as the rapturous beauty of the unfurled galaxy could ensconce the soul, it was paltry consolation for the end of the rainy season. Over the last two months, on regular occasion, the heavens would tear themselves apart above Amistad, and a great deluge would let loose without relent, lasting for days at a time. By the turn of the week, June would arrive, and with it, the Texan summer. Life was never easy in the frontier, but the summer months were among the toughest. Scorching sun, immobilising dryness — the kind of conditions that would leave workers dead in a ditch if they failed to keep adequately hydrated. Amistad was lucky enough, though, as ever since it had acquired town status a few years ago, it'd experienced some of the cooler summers in recent memory. The people were drought-ready, of course, with an emergency water tower sitting pretty on the edge of town; but its contents would have to be rationed if a drought ever came, and not everyone on the frontier was so good at sharing. At best, another summer meant another few months of tension and anxiety for the townfolk, who’d worry about the heat even when it went away on an ‘eve. That was one good thing about the days in the summer, though: they always ended. When night arrived, a soothing coolness settled over southern Texas. The eventide nip would never fail to be commented upon by the locals when it arrived.

“Mighty chilly tonight,” Deputy Beadle commented. It wasn't often that they were out in the wilderness at such an hour, so he'd left his coat at the office. He was left with nothing to warm his torso but a red-tartan shirt, so he'd taken to caress himself with both arms.

The immediate surroundings of Amistad were mostly scrublands, with little patches of hardy vegetation defying the odds and persevering in the arid climate; mostly mesquite and cacti. It was a flat area, but off in the distance there were rugged hills and rocky outcrops, some of which were home to quarries. It was these quarries, along with the many ranches, creek fisheries, and stream-fed farmlands, that had made Amistad such a popular destination for settlers. In only a handful of years, it had exploded from an outpost of four-or-five buildings into a place that housed a few dozen permanent residents, and many more who came and went. Even in Ramos' short time in Amistad, which had begun two years past, its population had almost doubled, and in addition to the ever-changing transient population, it was an impossible task to eradicate crime from the area entirely. There just wasn’t the manpower required to maintain law in the town wholesale, so he settled for keeping the good, hard-working folk safe; victimless crime and inter-gang outlaw business were seldom his concern. He saved his resources and his energy for when something real nasty reared its head, like it had on this night. He'd recieved a knock on his door not an hour ago by O'Noone, a local cattle herder, who'd led them back to his ranch around a half-mile from Amistad proper.

“Almost there,” O’Noone said, shaking slightly. On account of the work jacket he wore, the shakes didn’t seem to originate from the cold. “It’s, uh, it’s just over there, other side of the post.” The rancher pointed a quivering finger up past a line of fencing.

Ramos nodded as he held up his lantern, a powerful orange glow following him as he approached the fence. He handed Beadle the light-source as he hoisted himself over the barrier, retrieving it thereafter, using its light to study the horror beneath him. Beadle remained on the other side of the fence, but could see enough to turn pale. A mangled cadaver was face-down in the dust; a young man, by the looks of it, though barely recognisable beneath a motley of grotesque injuries. Large chunks of flesh had been ripped from his arms and legs, the bones 'neath exposed and gleaming in the dim light. Ramos turned him over to examine what was left of his face; a ruined mess, with one eye missing, the socket hollow and dark, while the other stared lifelessly at the sky. His throat had been torn into a ragged, gaping wound. Given the sheer multitude of lascerations, abrasions and bruises, it was near-enough impossible to determine what had killed the boy, nor how much of this had been done while he was still alive. Ramos examined what appeared to teeth marks amidst the mutilated flesh, as well as the grisly etchings of fingernails on skin. It'd be easy to dimiss this as a monster attack, but the markings looked eerily human.

"Tell me about the kid; how long did he work for you, who'd he know in town?," Ramos said calmly. As he did so, he looked to Beadle and nodded in the direction of the nearby sheds and barn, directing him without need for words. The deputy obliged, taking his own lantern around the ranch in search of further evidence.

“His name was Gus, — uh, Gustavo,” O'Noone mumbled. He had his hat in his hands, toying with it for comfort, like a child with a stuffed doll. He wasn't looking over at the remains, but off to the side, disturbed. “Only got here two weeks gone... Didn't seem to know anyone in town. Was just helpin' with some maintenance, and then he was gonna' be on his way.”

"Que descanses en paz," Ramos whispered, now looking at Gustavo's corpse. There was little he could do to grant the ranch-hand any dignity in his final repose. Usually, he'd rest a hand on the departed's face, closing their eyelids, and uttering a prayer. Today, he'd have to settle for the latter..

“What'd'ya think did it?,” asked O'Noone, his concern both evident and understandable. “I never seen nothin' like it."

"I don't know," Ramos admitted, standing up. "But I'll find out. Is there anyone who passes through the ranch, anyone I can check in with, ask if they seen somethin’?"

“Not really,” O'Noone said. “Sometimes, when their work slows down, the boys from the quarry lend a hand. But they've not been by for a couple weeks now. And there's that Guillermo feller who lives down the way, but he's never been any trouble.”

The air was cool and still; there was very little in the way of wind. Ramos looked around for any sign of something watching or waiting. He had a good draw; good enough to trust it if something came flying out of the shadow. But nothing came.

“Sir!!,” Beadle called out from across the ranch. “I found somethin’, sir!”

Ramos stood quickly, vaulted the fence, and hurried in the direction of the shout. He made note of O’Noone’s expression as he passed him by — seemingly genuine concern. Ramos hadn’t much reason to suspect the rancher. It would be quite straightforward, in O’Noone’s case, to get away with a murder such as this. A field-hand that nobody else in town knew… all he would have to do was bury him out in the brush, and the whole of Amistad would be none the wiser. That sort of thing probably happened a-thousand times a year across the frontier; shallow graves with no headstone, the final resting place of many a nameless drifter who would never be searched for, nevermind found.

Beadle, none the less pale than he was before, was crouched nearby a silo, examining what looked like a splattering of crimson-tinged vomit. As he drew closer, something caught Ramos's eye — a thin rivulet encrusted upon the curved metal of the silo. He squinted, bringing his lantern close. Dried blood. It had trickled down from the top of the container, leaving a trail that led to a small, splattered pool at the base.

"Look," Ramos said.

“Sweet mother Mary,” Beadle said, eyes wide as they traced up the side of the silo. “What sort of a beast does somethin’ like that?”

"The human sort,” Ramos posited.

“A man did this?,” O’Noone exclaimed, having made his way over. “You sure about that?”

Ramos didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the external ladder that ran up the side of the silo. Burgundy markings every few spokes, vestiges of handprints. He shone his light on them. The two other gentlemen gasped audibly. He braced himself and climbed, a cold sweat settling on his brow; he knew what he would find before he reached the top. He shifted the top hatch open, holding the lantern up to inspect the silo’s contents.

“W - what’dya see, sir?!,” Beadle shouted up.

”Just a second, Beadle,” Ramos said, twisting his neck to look down at O’Noone. ”You have any other missing workers? Family or acquaintances?”

“No sir,” the rancher confirmed solemnly.

”Beadle,” Ramos said as he descended the ladder. ”I need you to fetch the rangers. There’s another body up there; same sort of wounds, only it’s started to decay.”

Beadle’s eyes were wide. He’d seen plenty of dead men, but he’d never dealt with anything like this. He didn’t respond.

“So that’s two dead, could be more, at least a few days apart… same killer,” Ramos said, mostly mulling through his own thoughts, expecting little in return from his unseasoned deputy. ”Time’s precious. No telling if this could happen again, or how soon, so we’ve gotta’ act swift. Get some shut-eye, then ride out first thing. Mellon and his boys should still be over in Gordonstown. If you make good time, you can have ‘em back here this time tomorrow.”

Beadle allowed the fear to rush through him before nodding. “What should I tell ‘em?,” he asked, his throat dry; his words panicked.

“Just tell ’em what you saw. That’ll be enough.”

Beadle nodded, hurrying back to his horse.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Mr. O’Noone,” Ramos said. “I need you to keep safe tonight, you hear? You can either come back with me to town, or keep yourself shut up in-doors.”

“I -- uh, I think I’ll stay, sheriff,” the rancher rasped. “Got myself a shotgun. Don’t think I’ll sleep any means.”

Ramos nodded, tipping his Stetson respectfully.

On the back of Captain, his palomino-pinto mustang, he was back in Amistad in just shy of three minutes.

Down the dusty, unpaved roads, Captain slowed to a trot, then a walk. The town was still lively at this hour, 'specially the saloon, from which the usual ruckus sounded; the tinkling keys of honkytonk on tack piano, the boisterous banter of gamblers and drunkards. The denizens, all of them, were blissfully unaware of the killings, and Ramos envied them. One of the usual troublemakers was pissing up against the side of the bakery, and had the fear of God in his eyes when he noticed Ramos, but the Sheriff didn't venture to scold him. He had more pressing matters to attend to, that much was clear. Before he'd even set foot in his office, persons of interest danced across his mind. He'd have to be proactive over the coming days, get ahead of the danger, question anyone who he thought might have answers. Names came and went. There was Guillermo, the Californio who lived in a tent outside of town; he'd make a good start. Moreover, there were a fair few newcomers that'd captured his curiosity, among them; an imposing merc, a British gentleman, an emboldened preacherman, a lone caravaneer, and a tenebrous scholar.

It'd be, at absolute best, twenty-four hours before his deputy returned with reinforcements, so unless he was to persevere on his lonesome, he'd have to turn to the only person in this town that he knew for sure had seen something as grisly as what he'd just witnessed. He'd note down his findings, and then he'd seek out Detlev Schäfer; only a guest in Amistad, but a ranger buddy of his from a decade gone, and something of a role model to Ramos.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

Amistad, TX

1- The Kiskadee Cantina:
The busiest place in town; the local saloon. Ran by Ol' McRiley.
2- Morales' Eatery:
A proto-café where meals and coffees are served. Used predominantly by workers and travelers.
3- Haven Inn:
Accommodations for travelers and temporary residents, which make up a large percentage of the town.
4- Infirmary:
A small medical clinic headed by Nurse Davis.
5- St. Joseph's:
A Christian church; sometimes used as a community center. Currently lacking a permanent priest.
6- Town Hall:
The administrative center for the town. The workplace of Mayor Davis.
7- Sheriff’s Office:
The law enforcement center. Has a small jail in-built.
8- Bank:
A small financial building wherein townspeople may deposit money, or request loans.
9- General Store:
A central hub for purchasing food, tools, clothing, and other essentials.
10- de Groot's Barbershop:
A place for haircuts, shaves, and sometimes informal news exchanges.
11- Hadfield's Bakery:
A shop wherein bread and other baked goods are made and sold.
12- Rangers’ Safehouse:
A building used by Texas Rangers when they are in the area; also accessible by the Sheriff.
13- Schoolhouse:
A small, one-room building in which the town's children are schooled.
14- Campbell & Sons Blacksmith:
A workshop for metalworking, horseshoeing, and repair work.
15- Saw Mill:
For processing timber into usable wood for building, most of which is used in the town itself.
16- Assay Office:
A place where miners could have their precious metals tested and valued.
17- Livery Stable:
A facility for boarding and renting horses.
18- Depot:
A station where stagecoaches stop to pick up and drop off passengers and mail. Doubles as a post office.