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Author Topic: The Blazing Gun Saloon  (Read 30116 times)
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #250 on: March 10, 2010, 06:23:49 pm »

She curses, thinking this to be a most inopportune time to have just emptied her firearm. She ducked through the chaos to the side of the Blazing Gun and for the second time that evening, scaled the building. Once in her room, she reloaded and geared up with even more ammunition that she normally carried.

The extra ammo made geting back upon the roof a bit more difficult, but she was successful. Glad for the vantage point, she surveyed the little town. She saw the preacher making his way from his once-safety outside the barrier, and thought, suddenly, that she knew what was going on.

She wouldn't kill the men causing the maelstrom, that wouldn't help him. but she could certainly offer a little cover fire from the roof. He wouldn't do himself or anyone a lick of good if he got himself killed now that he was human.
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Action! Adventure! Possible Harlotry!
Abis do it for SCIENCE!
BrassGoggles 2012 Pin-Up Calander!
MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #251 on: March 10, 2010, 07:02:14 pm »

(OOC: ahem. Brantley's not going to die one of teh v-[benefits of his alteration was to make it possible for him to survive almost any wound or injury and heal up fast enough to stil be a threat sooner than any enemy could foresee.

And sorry, but the core is going to either the warehouse or deep space. Poor Meta apparently, even if she IS a goddess, has no inkling of what truly apocalyptic power is or is capable of doing; one does not destroy such a device. If one tries, one actually only succeeds in forcing it to detonate; detonating it in or outside of the containment field will destroy everything around it, including the earth, and ALL of the possible earths and all possible moons, and probably seriously perturb (if not destroy outright) the whole solar system. It's a STELLAR core, for pete's sake, and just what the name implies: the hyper-dense core of an exploding star.
« Last Edit: March 10, 2010, 07:51:14 pm by MWBailey » Logged

Walk softly and carry a big banjo...

""quid statis aspicientes in infernum"
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #252 on: March 10, 2010, 07:19:01 pm »

[[OOC: never said Meta was a goddess, just a woman with a few nifty trinkets that just happened to work out in this situation. I was just playin true to her and doing exactly what she thought she must. As a writer, I was trying to avoid yet another easy fix and liven the story up a bit. Things that don't go smoothly make for a more interesting read, and things were getting awfully un-westerny. Character conflict and shooting things both prematurely and erroneously seemed the way to keep the flavor.

But never you mind. I did what needed doin, and left you alone to do what you must. Meta's right by herself in her own mind, and that's the part i care about, as her author.]]
Logged
MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #253 on: March 10, 2010, 07:44:58 pm »

Brantley cursed, the wounds of six ricocheted bullets peppering his chest; if it weren't for the addition of the second, martian,  heart, he'd have been done for. He stumbled over to Miss Thalesia, checking her for vital signs even as he bled on her a bit. "Sorry 'bout yer dress, Miss...Thalesia." his vision blurred, focus going away and returning several times. She was fine, just knocked cold from a tertiary lightning bolt. He, on the other hand, was apparently hurt much more seriously.

One of the things done for Brantley by the Martian augmentation of his body to resemble that of a Gallifreyan was to make his body itself something of a timeship, slaved to whatever machine was transporting it and thus enhancing its ability to do so. To have damaged the beau (the lightnings took ample care of that job, he reflected bitterly; Meta had about as much understanding of the physics or the mechanics of it all, as a child playing with a toy wagon, who's never seen a locomotive of any sort, has of a gear-driven steam locomotive) To have damaged the beau in such a fashion damaged Brantley more than the entire cylinders of a hundred revolvers could have done.

Yeah, sure, you can destroy it simply, just shoot the thing! And then grab onto your nose, because that's all that's going to be left of you or your entire quadrant of space when the cosmic dust clears...which it probably never will, not for billions of aeons. Brantley knew there was only one course of action now. With his vision beginning to go dark around the edges, he programmed in the coordinates of the Warehouse's Stellar containment Lab, which had originally been designed to hold the Worldeater Worm, a being that ate  the plasma left over after its biologically-made nukes destroyed a planet.  the Lab had been open and static for a couple of centuries, since the creature had eventually succumbed to its own gluttony and consumed itself, and was often used as a destination for explosive cargoes.  

He finally put the call through to the committee, and got Sally past her hysterics  and to open the warehouse's anti-incursion failsafes. That done, he said goodbye, forever as far as he could tell, and flipped the toggle that set the Beau Rosin in motion. He then closed the containment field around the device (Meta had not, in fact, impacted the core; as Brantley said, that was already present within the event horizon of this future incarnation of the Beau Rosin's own collapsed-star power source. She had, however, damaged the controller housing, which had been left intact and connected to teh core by covalent tethering technology.**), and set his own devices to transport himself and Miss Thalesia away from the Beauthe instant the aged timeship broke into Committee theadspace, and gripped  her shoulders as his vision finally failed, and he slid down a long, slippery, whisper-and-scream-filled slope, into the darkness, where a tiny pinprick of white light slowly grew...

Outside, amid teh mayhem erupting within the town, the Beau Rosin reappeared, still as teh hovertank, and two of teh outlaws ran right smack into it, and were knocked clean off their horses, themselves knocked out cold. then the Beau showed teh three rings, and Kawhump-Kawhumped off into threadspace, fading away to empty air...then back it came, stopping just at the edge of visibility...

And then there it hung, apparently unable to go anywhere...

(OOC: I don't understand why it has to stop with te demise of teh stellar core; surely there can be oither threats/conflicts/mysteries to be solved?)

**-it means what it means. do I look like an MIT  post-grad to you? Wink
« Last Edit: March 10, 2010, 08:27:08 pm by MWBailey » Logged
Miles (a sailor)Martin
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Just a head full of random thoughts


« Reply #254 on: March 10, 2010, 09:12:50 pm »

(ooc) Sorry folks for being out of the loop for so long, the RW got in the way the last few days real bad, now to get caught up to now... :>)

Miles says" Thanks Jed you have been a real big help getting the temporary anchors set so she won't get out of cotrol in the ground winds as we tow her out tomorow. hang on a minute before you go ",Miles rummages around in a storage bin in the control area and pulls out a couple of cardboard boxes with green printing on them ," Here now I found  them darling "he says to the ship, patting the wall as he turns to Jed.               

  Noticing the strange look he is getting  miles says "the Areion and I have have been through a lot together and i think she is alive,so i talk to her she seems to respond better that way,"with a rather embarased look on his face, miles then says ,"As to the matter at hand, as it is so late, I would bet that the one and only restraunt in town is already closed ,

ding ding   ding dong.. repeated seven more times[/i

"eight o'clock,.. good time for supper, it will take me about ten minutes to get it together , only problem i have is i don't have any thing to drink here, If you could get us some water in this,'passing Jed a gallon canteen,"when you get back I should be done with the fixin's".  Miles lifts down a green painted steel suitcase out of the underside stowage.
 
 Jed returns to see Miles has set up two folding chairs ,a table with cloth, dishes,knife fork and spoon,water goblets and wine glasses,the table is set so both seats can see the doors yet the area is not easly oticed when a person first enters be cause of the Arieon hanging only seven feet above the floor. the smell of something resembling Shepheards Pie hits his nose as he enters the barn. On the far side of the table miles turns holding a pot in one hand and the other  clear ,seeing it is Jed he says"Have a seat "he places the pot in the center of the table on a trivet,and picks up a bottle of wine saying"I hope you don't mind red  as its all i've got at the moment... supper is eaten...
 Miles says as the walk to the door "I hope to see you in the morn say 'round seven at the saloon? as they step outside the barn closing the door,Miles offers Jed a cigar as he lights one up,then cups the end and watches the area,listening carefully he notices the wind and lightning seem to be less intense," I hope this is a good sign. Well goodnite Jed Sleep Well" he watches him head down the alley and turn toward the livery stable. Miles finishes his cigar and puts it out then steps back into the barn and after pulling in the latch string he clears away the table, Coleman stove . All of the remains of  C-Ration packaging he loads into a  silver canister and puts it back aboard the Areion,muttering" Next trip must get less anacronistic iron rations . he puts out the last of the lanterns and climbs into the airship and goes to bed.
Logged

Who you calling old, Sonny boy? Just because my birth certificate is on birch bark there isn't any reason to be calling names.
machinist for hire/ mechanic at large
Warning : minstrel with a five string banjo
Sgt.Major Thistlewaite
Zeppelin Admiral
******
Gibraltar Gibraltar


I am, therefore I think.


« Reply #255 on: March 10, 2010, 09:29:59 pm »

(OOC- Miles, you're a bit behind the action, but I'll go back and edit Jed's part to reflect his having had supper with you!  Wink )

O'Callahan drops to one knee, and pulls the brass powder flask from his pocket. He rapidly reloads the Sharps, and grasping it in his left hand, he draws the nickle plated Colt with his right. Continuing down the street, he kneels again beside the fallen outlaw, and quickly whispers the litany of Last Rites. He doesn't know if it will be of any avail...this is the first time he's shot and killed a man outright, without giving the doomed individual a chance to repent. "Too bad," he thinks, "but maybe he'll count anyway...if not, that's one I didn't rob Nick of his chance to have some fun with." Things are out of control here, and to take time to consider his Mission may be to forfeit the whole game.
Meanwhile, Jed has finally decided to take a hand, as he sees the preacher advancing down the middle of the street. He grabs a braided leather lariat from his pile of possessions beside his mule, and sprints down the street, hitting the dirt and coming to a sliding stop underneath the Beau Rosin. Rolling upright, he hog-ties the two gunmen who have knocked themselves cold, lashing wrists to ankles behind them, and then lashing the two together back to back for good measure.
Two more men on horseback emerge from the alley between the Mercantile and the Blazing Gun Saloon, and one of them spots O'Callahan. He hollers to his companion, "It's that goddamned priest bounty-hunter! Get 'im!!" The gaunt clergyman is known to the members of the Dead-or-Alive Gang ( for such is what they call themselves, grimly prideful that every member has such a poster) as they are well aware of his proclivity for taking men of their ilk. Whooping and shooting, they spur their snorting horses towards him at a full gallop. He stands upright, and, as deadly missiles hurtle past him, assumes the straight armed shootist's stance, and fires two shots, one apiece directly into each of their open mouths, blowing out the backs of their heads, and knocking them backwards over the tails of the charging steeds.
His hand flashes back down, thumbing open the loading gate on the Colt as he does so, and hangs it sideways, half in and half out of its holster. Bringing up the Sharps to cover the street, without looking down, he operates the plunger beneath the barrel of the revolver and ejects the spent cartridges, spins the cylinder once around, and replaces them with fresh rounds from his belt loops. All this is accomplished with the practiced smoothness that only comes from exhaustive repetition. This is his work, and he is very, very good at what he does. The big Colt jumps back into his right hand, almost as if it has life of its own. The reloading has taken less than three seconds.
« Last Edit: March 10, 2010, 09:49:44 pm by Sgt.Major Thistlewaite » Logged

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide, with that innate, untaught philosophy,Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, is gall and wormwood to an enemy.
Miles (a sailor)Martin
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Just a head full of random thoughts


« Reply #256 on: March 11, 2010, 12:52:46 am »


OOC ( sorry bout that things round home got totally out o'hand in the last week. I'll try to stay more up to date from now on.)

Miles wakes up and rolls out of bed as it starts shaking to the train passing nearby,  shaking his head, he starts,"What the heck is going on around here  they're isn't a railine through Purgatory yet,at least there isn't s'posed to be one." he starts to get dressed, going to the window he looks out at the San Francisco skyline circa 1905. looking down from yhe thrid floor he sees the trolly running past. hurrdly he grabs every thing he has and throws it into the carpet bag behind the door,grabbing the bag he starts down the stairwell as fast as he can ,thinking to himself how did I let the managment talk me into a third floor room, reacing the ground floor he goes to the desk and pays his bill,asking about a paper vendors stand in the area and leaves the building. thinking to himself what in heck is going on I'm no older than I was but here I am in SF as an 50yearadult when I should be about 24 or 25 dam n I need that paper. catching the trolley he rides it to Powell then changes to fishermen's wharf  as he arrives he sees the ferry docks and heads that way as he does a loud  whistle blows and he sees the car ferry start moving.   at the sight he stops dead  and is hit from behind by an elictrical shock and falls back wards accompanyed by the sound of ten or  twelve pistol shots in the distance as the lights go out , then the un-miss-able sound of O'Callahans big Sharps rifle.......

the sound of the Sharps firing not more than 30 yards away wakes Miles up,rolling out of the bunk he grabs his clothes yanking them over the pale greenish-gold union suit he was sleeping in. He then drops out of the central hatch of the Areion , grabbing his goggles and the .45-90 Winchester as he passes the war chest on the way,sliding the goggles on he looks around the barn,noticing  no  new holes in LI mode he trips them to IR and searches again. "Good deal he thinks to himself maybe I wont have to repair anything else after tonite",as he heads to the door and pulls it open an inch to get a look at the area just outside the doors. reaching up and pulling the collar on his jacket up so it is touching the brim of his hat in the back he then pulls the brim down, Miles slips out the door , thinking at least this way if I'm is shot from behind the reinforcement that Kevhein Silverhair did might save my old dumb ass like it did my young dumb ass 25 years ago. He starts up the alley keeping to one side so as to be able to dodge if he needs to. Upon getting to the end  of the alley he sees O'Callahan take his shots and reload, Miles shakes his head to himself yep he's just as dangerous as I thought.
 "Father O'Callahan how did you get back into town?" Miles calls in a low voice,and quickly curls into a ball just in case the preacher shoots before he figures out who's talking.
OOC Miles union suit and bridge coat and his hat are all three reinforced so that even a Sharps can't penetrate , and the carbon-fiber under plates in the vest spread the impacts out so unless he is shot from the front in the torsohe will only receive bruses or a broken arm or leg.
       Miles waits for a response curled inside his coat
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MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #257 on: March 11, 2010, 03:18:14 am »

Considering the prices on his head and the fact that he has faced the Dead or Alive gang before do not jangle much in Mad Jacks Brain, as he hears the gunshots and screams of a full-out no-holds-barred fire-fight. Whooping like a Comanche drunk on firewater and stoned on something the white man threw in it, he pulls the massive colt Walker at his side and the hand mortar that he favored, and rolled out through the double doors, taking one outlaw in the head between the eyes, and whoop n' hollering as he loosed the hand mortar, blowing a shell-hole in the street knocking two more from their saddles.

Seeing the Beau return and knock another two gunmen from their horses Jack shot two more (one in the shoulder, disarming him, and the other square in the heart as he raised his empty rifle to try and brain O'Callahan from behind. WAAAAAAAHOOOOOOO'ing like the madman he legendarily was, he grabbed the railing in front of the saloon, climbed up on  it, and sprang off, taking two more horsemen around their necks and carrying them off their horses and to the ground, shooting one, and yanking an iron-headed tomahawk from the back of his belt and chopping it into the chest of the other...
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Sgt.Major Thistlewaite
Zeppelin Admiral
******
Gibraltar Gibraltar


I am, therefore I think.


« Reply #258 on: March 11, 2010, 04:05:32 am »

Clem McKay piles out through the doors of the Silver Wheel, another of the bars and gambling houses of Purgatory, and pulls up short on the boardwalk, as it happens right in front of his half-brother, Jed Gunn. "Waal, little brother, I reckon it's time I showed ya the difference between a real gunhand and a pretender," he says, laughing. Jed says, "Clem, ya'll allus did have a mouth two sizes too big fer yew ta back up...I'se rode with Jeb Stuart, an' I'se plied my trade out hyere in the great wild West, an' yew know whut? I hain't never yet had ter kill anybody. Yer want ter know why? Hit ain't a'cause I'se pertendin' ta be a gunhand, brother...hit's a'cause I'm a shootist!" His hand flashes down, and he has the big LeMat in his hand before Clem has half cleared leather. Jed's first shot takes the pistol cleanly from Clem's hand. His next two knock the heels from Clem's boots, dumping him unceremoniously onto his ass on the boardwalk. Now sitting, Clem goes for his back-up, a .32 in a shoulder rig, and Jed fires again, creasing Clem's left shoulder as the bullet cuts the left side of his braces, which snap down and foul his hand as he tries to draw. Jed fires once more, finding the space between Clem's ribs and his arm, and carrying away the .32 and its holster. Angling the barrel of the LeMat upward, he cleanly shoots the two chains which hold a silver-plated wagon wheel to the porch roof, dropping it squarely onto the prostrate Clem. Clem now lies on his back, disarmed, with his head and hands through the spokes of the 90 pound wagon wheel on his chest. "Still got two more an' a shotgun barrel, brother...whar yew want 'em?" Theatrically, Jed raises the smoking barrel to his lips, and blows across it. "Phoooot!" Clem just stares, dumbfounded, as Jed holsters the big pistol, steps forward, balls up a stony fist, and knocks Clem out cold with a single blow to the middle of his forehead. "An' thet's fer pushin' me aroun' when we wuz kids," says Jed.

With that, as suddenly as it started, the melee is over. Four of the eleven are bound, two of them still unconscious, and seven of them are dead. The townsfolk emerge, and quickly form bucket brigades, and after a half an hour of frantic activity, the fires have been reduced to smouldering piles, no longer a threat. As dawn breaks, O'Callahan wipes his sooty face with the sleeve of his cassock,and his eyes follow the drift of smoke down the street and out past the livery stable...without encountering an obstacle. "The barrier's down," he announces simply, to no one in particular.
« Last Edit: March 11, 2010, 03:20:58 pm by Sgt.Major Thistlewaite » Logged
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #259 on: March 11, 2010, 06:08:53 pm »

Meta returned to the street in time to hear O'Callahan's words.

Looking to the horizon, she sees that it is clear, and that the sunrise is more glorious than she would have thought, in Colorado. It was a perfect morning, for any who weren't double-crossing scoundrels such as herself.

"Father..." she spoke softly. "This... this moment may not last. Oi might 'ave made meself an enemy av Brantley..." Her accent slipped through, evidence of a lack of sleep. "This wasn't really aboyt dat martian contraption... dis whole tin'... it wus aboyt feth, roi? feth in yer god an' feth in a better warrld an' feth in oneself, roi?"

For a moment, she was an open book. A lot of life and a lot of worry shone through her normally steeled and playful eyes.
« Last Edit: March 11, 2010, 06:11:06 pm by The Abiliegh » Logged
MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #260 on: March 11, 2010, 07:02:28 pm »

Once agaiun, as before, but behind Meta, the world split from crown to nadir as if it were fitted with a zipper, and out from between the two pieces stepped Brantley, the part of teh not-worl behind him stratified top to bottom in blacks, to browns,m to purples, to reds, orancgesm and finallyyellowish, eye-searing white, and then back down the darkness scale to black again at his feet.

Meta, he said, if I considered every damn body who injured me  secondarily while doing what they thought was right, damn near every person I call a friend would be my enemy. Live unbruised -- but next time, please think twice. Men aren't always wrong.

and there he stood, six bullet holes in vest and shirt, but no wounds behind them, as if he had changed clothes with a corpse...
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The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #261 on: March 11, 2010, 07:42:20 pm »

She spun on her heel, to face Brantley. "Dis as nothing' t'do wiv men." She noticed the tartness in her voice, and decided she didn't need to provoke another argument. "But, for waaat it's worth, Oi'm glad yer na injured."

And she waited. Waited for the world to make sense again, and for O'Callahan to speak. She'd a feelin' he needed to, as it seemed that much had changed.
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Sgt.Major Thistlewaite
Zeppelin Admiral
******
Gibraltar Gibraltar


I am, therefore I think.


« Reply #262 on: March 11, 2010, 08:22:33 pm »

O'Callahan smiles..the expression is beginning to look more natural on his thin face. "Faith...and hope. Faith I had, or more like simple assurance...never doubted the way of things. But hope...that's another matter."
He turns, and spots the storekeeper from the Mercantile nearby, with a bucket still in his hand. The clergyman points at the church with the rifle in his left hand. "Brother, I see this town has a church, but I haven't noticed another man of the cloth around here...where's the preacher?" The man answers, "He was a Presbyterian...couldn't resign himself to our ways around here. He left two years ago. We don't have a preacher."

"You do now," Father O'Callahan says, matter-of-factly. "I'm staying here. I'm done with bounty hunting, and, as far as that goes, I'm done with the Church. I'm going to try saving souls the old-fashioned way from now on, for however much longer the Almighty grants me." He motions Jed Gunn over to him. "Here." He offers the scruffy pistoleer the deck of cards. "There are eleven less to account for now, but maybe you can use them." Jed, however, shakes his head and responds, "No, thankee, preacher...bounty-huntin' hain't fer me...this fellow hyere," and he indicates a distinguished looking man with a goatee beard, wearing fancy embroidered and conspicuously clean buckskins, "this feller says his name is Bill Cody, an' he jus' happent ta be hyere..got stuck with th' rest of us, an' was a-stayin' at the Hotel yonder, an' he was a-watchin' when I faced down ol' Clem thar..." Jed indicates Clem, still unconscious, still under the silver wagon wheel, but now with wrists firmly bound. "He says he kin use a feller whut kin trick-shoot like me in his "Wild West Show" he's a-startin' up back East. I reckon I'se a-gonna take 'im up on thet offer." "Hmmmm," muses O'Callahan, "Well, in that case..." He tosses the deck to Brantley. "Paladin, you tell the Vatican I'm done...they'll have to find somebody else to do this job." To Meta, he says, "There is no way I can adequately thank you for opening my eyes to hope again, Ma'am...but the Almighty sees everything...I have a feeling you'll get a proper reward, someday...just remember what you've seen here, and know that your part in it was a big one. In the meantime..." He reaches into an inside pocket, and pulls out a card with a number scribed on it, and a barrel key taped to it. "This is the number and the key to a safety deposit box in the First National Bank in Chicago, Illinois. My needs have been simple...most of the money I've made in the last twenty-five years is in there, should be several hundred thousand dollars by now...it's yours. You don't have to play the whore anymore, Meta...unless, of course, you want to..." This last he says with a twinkle in his eye. "Me...well, I've got work to do." With that, he strides over to the doors of the church, breaks the padlock off with the butt of the Sharps, opens the doors and goes inside.
« Last Edit: March 11, 2010, 08:28:50 pm by Sgt.Major Thistlewaite » Logged
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #263 on: March 11, 2010, 08:55:09 pm »

She stared after the preacher, mouth agape in a small o of surprise. Eventually, she muttered a bit of the old language to the breeze, wishing to the christian god that O'Callahan could keep his new-found peace and thanking him in the most honest way she knew how.

"Leaba i measc na naomh dóibh. Go raibh maith agat"

She nodded to Brantley, then, composing herself once more. "Looks like I'm going to Chicago, doesn't it?" she spoke wryly, and a bit of shocked disbelief could still be heard in her voice. "But I seemed to be owed a good night's sleep first. I hope I didn't do any irreparable damage."

She strode back to the Blazing Gun and entered her let room through the door for the first time that day, taking a moment to appreciate the simplicity. And then she fell to her bed, and was in a blissful sleep before she hit the pillow.

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Gentleman-Adventurer
Snr. Officer
****
Ireland, Republic of Ireland, Republic of


Freelance Hero, and Beau Sabreur.


« Reply #264 on: March 11, 2010, 09:56:40 pm »

Wavering jets of distilled fire dance on the horizon. The wanderer, his hat pulled back, and eyes defying the red-hot sun that strikes at him with almost physical heat, scans his surroundings. All around, he sees nothing but dust, and scrub brushes too stubborn to die.
Hell, he smirks, inwardly. They remind me of me.
In the distance, he spots it. The town. Well, a town, anyway. Just another hitching post. Just another bed to leave unmade. He urges his horse forward. It was almost as dead-tired as he was. As his horse trots on, the stranger edges back the fold of his long duster, and checks the loads on his pistols. Then, this completed, he removes the old shotgun from its holster to the right of the saddle, and slots two shells into place.
You can't be too careful, he thought, snapping the gun shut. There's a chance someone in that town knows my name...

(OOC: Okay if I jump in? Haven't done one of these in a while.)
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"What do we do? You're asking me 'what do we do'? We do what we always do....We CHARGE, by thunder!" Captain Haephestus Burnside, of the "Reckless Abandon", shortly before a boarding action.

"You rampallian! You fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrophe!" Henry IV, Act II Scene I, WS.
Thalesia Turnblood
Snr. Officer
****
United States United States


One bathtub scene, coming right up!


WWW
« Reply #265 on: March 11, 2010, 10:11:08 pm »

[[OOC: Thank heavens someone knocked me cold! I've been out of it for days and am now preparing to go out of town until Tuesday. Yay for happy endings!! I promise to awaken with a hellacious headache when I return.]]
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Reality is messing with my fiction.
Have Coffee, Will Write
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #266 on: March 11, 2010, 10:18:28 pm »

[[OOC: you know... I get thanked for my unmitigated violence (on and ofline) more often than not. One must wonder if this says something about me...]]
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Sgt.Major Thistlewaite
Zeppelin Admiral
******
Gibraltar Gibraltar


I am, therefore I think.


« Reply #267 on: March 12, 2010, 03:16:18 am »

{OOC- Abi- I promised you a "corking good story" when I lured you back here. I've just gone back and read through the whole thing, and, you know what? It was one!  Cheesy Good job, everybody!
~T                                                                                                                   }
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MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #268 on: March 12, 2010, 07:06:55 am »

(OOC:Jump right in, Adventurer. I don't know for certain how many will stay on for another round, but there might one or three.

Brantley answered Meta, "none that I can't fix, or that ain't fixed already. You might go lookin and find jack and give him a hug or two, is all. Old fella needs 'em.

Brantley nods to the Preacher, and says, will do, Collector-- uh, I mean, Preacher. The Brotherhood will miss you, brother. Then he turns to Cody and says, Mister Cody? That right there is a deck you could stake a lifetime on. be careful with it, and may it serve you well.

Brantley looks after the Preacher for a bit, and watches him break into the church and go inside and make himself at home. Then, he looks up at the still-just-barely-visible RTAF Beau Rosin, and removes the blackbox from his duster's right waist pocket, twiddles two knobs, turns to the east, flips two toggles, squints at the unit, holds it up to his ear and rattles it, looks at the gauge again, then WHACKs it on the nearby horse-rail. The machine makes a weirdly-expressive WHIIIIRRRRrrrrrrrHONK! noise, and the ghostly hovertank in the sky makes an all-too-characteristic Ka--WHUNKF!Ka--WHUNKF!Ka--WHUNKF! noise and fades from view, while simultaneously the RTAFBeau Rosin airship (blimp) of Mad Jack's timeline re-materializes where it was a day and a whole other story ago, but this time, when anyone cares to look, it will be sporting a new-fangled 4-lunger diesel engine.

MW looks around, sees nobody but some bounty hunter-ish fellow ambling his horse up the street, and calls out, "Jack?"

There is no answer...

"YO, PULSIFER! yer ship's back together again!" Jack comes to the door of the saloon, and says, "hell, Brantley, just leave 'er there an' come on in fer a drink!"

"I do believe I'll do that, Jack." He squints up at the clearing sky, and watches as three sparrows fight in mid-air over a sprig of russian olive 'way up in the gyre of a up-draft.

CLOP...CLOP...CLOP...CLOP...PBBBBBBHUHHH... the sounds of horse coming to a stop and snort-exhaling behind him and to his left cause him to lower his gaze and turn in that direction. A duster-clad gentleman who actually sort of resembles himself, brantley sees, wearing a few days beard and a wide-brimmed hat instead of Brantley's top hat and goggles.

Brantley nods to the fellow, pockets the blackbox, and says, Howdy, Stranger. Welcome to Purgatory, Colorado. I was just about ter go across the street and have a drink or three with a friend of mine; you're welcome ta join us. wonder if he's another lost soul, or just passin' through? Brantley wonders as he half waits and half ambles across the street to the promise of a beer...
THE END ?
OR
A  
'NOTHER BEGINNIN'?
« Last Edit: March 12, 2010, 07:32:34 am by MWBailey » Logged
The Abiliegh
Zeppelin Admiral
******
United States United States


Wench with a Wrench

The_Abi
« Reply #269 on: March 12, 2010, 07:33:14 am »

[[OOC: Hrm... I'm actually sad that we seem to have ended, lol. Shal we start another, or shall we choose a new setting/theme and start another?]]
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Thalesia Turnblood
Snr. Officer
****
United States United States


One bathtub scene, coming right up!


WWW
« Reply #270 on: March 12, 2010, 02:16:07 pm »

[[OOC: Perhaps the stranger on a horse is the beginning of Thalesia's Happily Ever After. Which means, alas, that I really must get back to working on the story that may or may not eventually pay me a pittance in royalties. Gosh, the life of a writer is so glam. Wink

I'm more than happy to help in anything that will distract me, though! I'll keep checking back for the next round!]]
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Sgt.Major Thistlewaite
Zeppelin Admiral
******
Gibraltar Gibraltar


I am, therefore I think.


« Reply #271 on: March 12, 2010, 03:33:03 pm »

{ OOC- I think maybe more of a chapter ending, or "Book One" of an anthology-the best stories work both ways. Purgatory is a perfectly good setting for whichever way we want to go from here, to stay in the vein of Weird West, and this would be a great place for new characters to jump in, without the restriction of being trapped....onwards! Grin }

Father Kevin surveys the interior of the chapel. There is a quarter-inch layer of dust on everything, but it appears to have been well constructed, and there is no evidence of a leaking roof. He moves to the front. There is a simple wooden cross affixed to the wall behind the pulpit, but none of the elaborate decoration or violent imagery often found in a Catholic church. That suits him fine. Simple and straightforward. A small noise catches his attention, and he turns to meet the present inhabitant of the chapel...a little grey mouse, standing on the corner of the pulpit on its hind legs, twitching its whiskers at him inquiringly. "Don't worry, little fellow...this can still be your home. We shall likely be "as poor as church mice" together, but I think we'll get by..." He walks back down the aisle between the pews. "I'm going to go get a broom from the mercantile, young Mister Mouse...but first I'm going to go to the "Blazing Gun" and get some breakfast...it has been ten years since I've had a meal, and I'm feeling a bit peckish." He exits, and closes the doors behind him, but doesn't lock them. "These doors will never be locked again," he says to himself, "the doors to a house of worship should never be locked." Maybe after breakfast he'll have a whiskey- he still has a fair amount of cash on him, so he may be poorer, but he's not broke. And as for the whiskey...he smiles...he's reformed, not dead (and then he laughs out loud at the literal truth of both those things,)....and he is, after all, Irish.
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Gentleman-Adventurer
Snr. Officer
****
Ireland, Republic of Ireland, Republic of


Freelance Hero, and Beau Sabreur.


« Reply #272 on: March 12, 2010, 10:06:15 pm »

Taken somewhat aback by the cheery greeting, the stranger swings himself down off his horse, and ties it up at a hitching-post, with room for it to get at the trough of water. His spurs clink rhythmically as he walks slowly, cautiously across to the bar the man had indicated. He pauses by a board showing a number of "Wanted" posters, and examines each woodcut-face in detail. Eventually, he seems satisfied, and continues his walk. As he raises a hand to shove open the door to the saloon, a stray gust of wind blows open a fold of his duster, and a slight gleam of silver shines in the noon-day sun.

The door creaks open, and Hiram Carson walks into the Blazing Gun Saloon.
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MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #273 on: March 13, 2010, 04:20:39 am »

[[OOC: Hrm... I'm actually sad that we seem to have ended, lol. Shal we start another, or shall we choose a new setting/theme and start another?]]
We have a newcomer, all dressed an ready to go; we could start in on another, and see if it goes anywhere...
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MWBailey
Rogue Ætherlord
*
United States United States


"This is the sort of thing no-one ever believes"

rtafStElmo
« Reply #274 on: March 13, 2010, 04:56:46 am »

MW Brantley sits at a table his cig case pocket device open and running; a sort of halo-ish blue nimbus has enveloped his upper torso whre it rises above the table, the tabletop for a radius of approx. 2 feet, and the blackbox, which has currently been opened (screws and various other small fasteners residing in a shotglass beside a much-larger glass mug of what looks to be a finer-grade dark lager.Brantley sits atthe table , adjusting various timy components with
1. a screw driver
2. a small device that looks like a cross between a medium-sized hypodermic-needle body (the old metal kind for which several sizes of needles were once available), and a small hand-powered drill.
3. A hammer; Brantley's a fine, meticulous Engineer/inventor/mechanic (also a Holy Paladin of the Left Hand* and a time-traveling customs agent, but only the time-traveling is pertinent at the moment) but his temper does have its limits, hence the wildly-out-of-period brass-nickel-copper-and-mahogany blaster at his hip, not to mention the rather huge Gurkha Khukri at his other hip).

"Howdy stranger, pardon my mess, just making a few adjustments here; Bob at the bar, there'll be 'appy to pour you what you're cravin'. Jack, go take a peek at the Beau, and see if she's the way you want 'er."

"I trust you, Brantley," the fellow addressed as "Jack"   replies, "you're crazy as a bedbug and you complain a whole lot, but ain't no better airship mechanic, even if you are a bit unorthodox," he said, nodding a hello to the stranger at the bar.

Brantley goes back to work, closing up the blackbox and re-applying its fasteners. when he finishes that task, he takes a long pull on the lager in the mug, and then adjusts and fiddles with the settings on the device, all the while casting several glances at the mug on the table in front of him; after about a full three minutes of this, the mug is suddenly joined by a second, except the new arrival is full, with a foamy head. Then a second, then  a third, and then the fellow at the table behind Brantley stands up, reaches over Brantley's shoulder, grabs one of the full mugs, and puts it on his table, which everyone suddenly realizes is empty of the two empty mugs and one half-mug that were there a minute before. The man says, that's about enough, Paladin Boy, I was enjoyin' my beer! Where'd them others come from?"

"Oh...around..." Brantley answers, vaguely, finishes his first beer, then starts in on one of the newly-arrived ones, as does Jack and just about everybody else at the tables...


-------------------
*though one would never guess it from his appearance: tan duster, Black-on-charcoalgrey three-piece suit, tophat, and chrome Willson's goggles around his neck; slip-on black wellingtons on his feet, and no priest's collar, with salt-an-pepper, balding hair, and a wide handlebar moustache of teh same color.
« Last Edit: March 13, 2010, 05:06:53 am by MWBailey » Logged
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