GM Spiderbeard's One Shot RPG Tour (Inactive)

Game Master Barvo Delancy

The rail rips through the vortex, heading right for Pimsoil's face, but is unfortunately deflected aside by some unseen force.

The spirit waves her arms around wildly and a whirlwind begins to pick up at Vada's feet. She lurches into the air but grabs onto the door frame and yanks herself back to the ground!

Eileen is up! Simon you can queue your action if you want.

Simon grins maniacally, shouting his actions: "PARRY! THRUST! FEINT! GUN!!"

Revolver: 1d10 ⇒ 6
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 4
Damage: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (1, 2) + 1 = 4

Rapier: 1d10 - 2 ⇒ (7) - 2 = 5
Wild: 1d6 - 2 ⇒ (4) - 2 = 2
Damage: 1d6 + 1d4 ⇒ (6) + (2) = 8
do you still Ace your rolls if you have to roll two dice and only one of them maxes out? Well, just in case: Ace!: 1d6 ⇒ 2

As the spirit manifests from the ring, three competing thoughts flash through Eileen's mind:

Ghosts - Every. Damned. Time.
Shouldn't have lied to us, Vada.
Still think I'm crazy -now-?

Shaking off the momentary distraction, Eileen darts through the chaotic and steamy room, using the steam and the machinery to hide her approach. She crouches behind the massive engine, preparing her attack.

Simon continues his battle with the mechanical beast, side-stepping a massive fist that slams into the ground. Pimsoil affixes a steely eye on Simon. He appears to struggle as Simon begins to lift from the ground but he then gives up with a "bah!".

Simon, having one hell of a time, stabs his rapier into the clockwork monster and fires off his gun. Neither seem to have much effect. Eileen creeps along the wall.

Simon and Pembleton are up!

Not me, I don't think - I just acted. It must be Lottie's turn

Yeah, I've also gone this round.

Annnd somehow I didn't get the notifications. SIGH.

Lottie moves up a little bit before hollering at Pimsoil. "Oi! Nobody is impressed by yer mumbo jumbo you mincing flapadoodle!"

Pimsoil looks briefly irritated by otherwise ignores her. Vada tries to shoot the weird fairy-spirit with her gigantic gun, just barely missing.

Snarling, Eustace chants more words and equipment flies around the room to begin to encircle him as a strange form of armour. His clockwork monster hammers down at Simon, but misses again. Although it is enormous and intimidating, it hasn't been particularly effective thus far.

The fairy floats across the room for Vada, hands outstretched and murder in its eyes.

No damage to anyone. Everyone is up! Pembleton please make a weird science roll in addition to your actions.

Used to people falling or running after a couple of attacks, Simon, frustrated, roars: "JUST DIE ALREADY, YOU TIT"

Revolver: 1d10 ⇒ 4
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 3
Damage: 2d6 + 1 ⇒ (4, 4) + 1 = 9

Rapier: 1d10 - 2 ⇒ (6) - 2 = 4
Wild: 1d6 - 2 ⇒ (4) - 2 = 2
Damage: 1d6 + 1d4 ⇒ (2) + (3) = 5

well, shit

Weird Science: 1d10 ⇒ 9
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 5

Palamedes gets to his feet immediately, turning back and looking for Pimsoil as his targeting device comes back online. Pembleton prepares to target Pimsoil with the rail gun.

I'm going to take the three shots with some PP here. Before I do, I can't recall: is there one Wild Die for all three, or three Wild rolls - one for each shot?

My understanding of the bolt power is that it's rolled like autofire on a regular gun, meaning you roll once for each shot plus one wild die, which can replace one of the regular ones if needed.

As she prepares to strike, Eileen's gaze briefly flicks towards the spot where she left the ring, then to the spirit hurtling towards Vada. A moment later, though, her attention is drawn back to Pimsoil by the collection of debris beginning to coalesce around him. Sensing that there's no time to waste, Eileen ducks low and springs through the steam, pouncing at Pimsoil from behind.

Going with a wild attack here, too.
Fighting: 1d8 + 2 ⇒ (6) + 2 = 8
Wild: 1d6 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6

Damage: 1d6 + 1d4 + 1 + 2 + 2 ⇒ (6) + (3) + 1 + 2 + 2 = 14
Ace!: 1d6 + 14 ⇒ (3) + 14 = 17

Keep in mind Bennies are available for rerolls if you hate what's
coming up.

Gunshots fire endlessly as Simon completely loses his temper, missing wildly with his attacks.

Eileen's blow marks a major change in the fight. Pimsoil had completely ignored the girl, focusing his various protections against a frontal assault. Her knife embeds itself deeply into his back, drawing a shriek of agony.

Pembleton is still up!

Playing his Curious Hindrance...

Raising his strange weapon to fire, Pembleton's head cocks slightly at this curiosity he notes and he instantly forgets his angry mission of vengeance for the attack on Palamedes. It may seem cold to one who does not know him, but these turns are frequent with Sir Ian; he is a man who is irresistibly drawn to things he does not understand at the expense of almost everything else.

Finding himself pulled towards the engine, he looks to take the shots at Pimsoil as he moves between pillars for cover. Blue electricity crackles in the air as he waddles quickly forward - but with young Miss Eileen suddenly in the picture with her brave attack, he turns sideways and targets the automaton instead.

Spending 3 PP for 3 shots, all at the automaton.

Sir Pembleton's Rail Gun: 1d8 ⇒ 6
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (4, 2) = 6

Sir Pembleton's Rail Gun: 1d8 ⇒ 3
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (1, 6) = 7

Sir Pembleton's Rail Gun: 1d8 ⇒ 8
Ace: 1d8 ⇒ 5
Damage: 2d6 ⇒ (6, 5) = 11
Raise Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 1

Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 1

Take a bennie for that, Pembleton.

A couple of Pembleton's attacks don't quite manage to do damage, but finally he manages to blast the clockwork monster properly, his rail gun ripping through its head and sending shrapnel all over the room! The rest of the creature collapses into a pile of various parts.

"HEY POSH FOOZLER YOUR DAYS ARE UP!"

Pimsoil continues to ignore Lottie's attempts to goad him, and Vada blasts another hole through the spirit which seems to do nothing.

Eileen and Pembleton are up! The clockwork monster is dead.

Can we know his parry, or would you prefer to keep that secret? I ask because that's relevant both to rerolls and knowing whether or not we get a raise on the attack (and thus need to add an extra die).

As the head explodes on the automaton, Pembleton winks expressively at Simon as he waddles quickly past to the engine proper. With his faithful hound back in the mix, he forgoes a shot at Pimsoil on the way in order to investigate the area he finds unsymmetrical.

Investigation: 1d4 ⇒ 4
Ace: 1d4 ⇒ 3
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 4

Meanwhile, Palamedes goes full-tilt at the floating villain, lashing out for the throat.

Bite: 1d6 ⇒ 2

I'll use that newly-earned bennie on a redo.

Bite: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 5
Damage: 1d6 + 1d4 ⇒ (5) + (2) = 7
Raise Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 4

TOP SECRET. His parry is 7.

Eileen's eyes are a bit wild as she presses the attack, relentlessly slashing and stabbing at the figure before her.

Another wild attack, plus 1 for the team-up bonus

Fighting: 1d8 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 2 + 1 = 11
Wild: 1d6 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 2 + 1 = 7
Ace!: 1d8 + 11 ⇒ (6) + 11 = 17

damage: 2d6 + 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (5, 1) + (4) + 3 = 13
Ace!: 1d4 + 13 ⇒ (3) + 13 = 16
Yikes.

Fighting: 1d8 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (8) + 2 + 1 = 11

Wild: 1d6 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 2 + 1 = 7
Ace!: 1d8 + 11 ⇒ (6) + 11 = 17

damage: 2d6 + 1d4 + 3 ⇒ (5, 1) + (4) + 3 = 13
Ace!: 1

(Best "Holy Grail" voice) JESUS CHRIST!

@.@ Ain't no benny helping THAT out.

Several things happen at once.

There's a whoosh in the room as Eileen realizes that something has happened with THeodosia's angry spirit. Her spirit coalesces over the ring, and spinning into a wild vortex, she is sucked into it.

The fairy locked in a battle with Vada lets out a shriek of anger. WHAT HAPPENED?! I'M TRAPPED! TRAPPED!

But more importantly, Palamedes lunges onto Pimsoil, bearing the man down to the ground. He screams as he kicks as the clockwork hound, and thrusting out a hand, he violently thrusts Palamedes back several feet through some telekenetic power. But in doing so, his back is entirely exposed to Eileen, who spins him around, and with a wicked backhand slash, opens up his throat.

His eyes go wide in shock and he paws at the air for a few moments before crumpling to the ground, dead.

However, whatever was trying to get Eileen to go to Constantinople is now a large, angry fairy, and she spins from Vada on the rest of you. YOU FAILED ME YOU MISERABLE B@!+# I'LL KILL YOU ALL!

Simon and Eileen BOTH drew jokers and get a +2 to all trait tests. Pembleton is up. The ring fairy is cranky, but Eustace is very, very dead.

Since Eileen is basically on the opposite end of the room from the action now, I'm gonna keep that interrupt in my back pocket for the moment.

Also, with Pimsoil's rather abrupt end, is his swirling debris vortex still in effect?

Before I go, I'm waiting for what my successful Notice roll comes back with.

Simon is entirely crestfallen when the automaton crumples into scrap: "Dammit old man - will you stop stealing my kills!"

He takes a deep breath, preparing to charge forward to take on Pimsoil, but is brought up short by Eileen's sudden appearance and violent attack. He wavers then, feeling a bit like he's lost his purpose, when he hears the challenge from the fairy.

Suddenly perking up, Simon whirls about to see... A fairy? Where did that come from? Grinning again, Simon shouts: "Don't mind if I do!"

Revolver: 1d10 + 2 ⇒ (2) + 2 = 4
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 3
Damage: 2d6 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (4, 5) + 1 + 2 = 12
Raise Damage: 1d6 ⇒ 2

Uhh... 21 to hit and 14 damage?

Rapier: 1d10 - 2 + 2 ⇒ (2) - 2 + 2 = 2
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 2
Damage: 1d6 + 1d4 + 2 ⇒ (6) + (3) + 2 = 11

BANG

Simon's shot ends the fight as quickly as it began. The strange semi-corporeal fairy creature that had been in Eileen's ring crashes to the ground in a very unfairylike manner, a hole in the back of its head. There is a strange sighing sound in the air, and it dissipates before you into golden dust. The ring still remains and within it, presumably, Theodosia's spirit in her new home.

End of Combat

Vada stalks into the room, wild-eyed. "I... I... what?"

Eileen cuts an objective unsettling figure as she stands in front of the dead body with a bloody knife in her hand. A splash of blood from Pimsoil crosses her face diagonally from chin to forehead, cutting right between wide emerald eyes that are still wild with the tension of the fight. Spots of red also mar the rich green of her dress.

Looking up at Vada, she straightens and says, matter-of-factly, "Toldja we needed to go to Constantinople." She shoots a knowing look at Simon and rolls her eyes, as if to say, can you believe this lady?

As she walks towards the spot where she left the ring, she pauses briefly to waggle the knife in Vada's direction and adds, as an apparent afterthought, "Oh, thanks fer the pig-sticker."

She kneels down and scoops up the ring, then strolls back towards Pimsoil's body. Still shivering a little from the adrenaline, she sets about searching his still-warm body for anything of note.

"Dammit old man - will you stop stealing my kills!"

Sir Ian chuckles quietly to himself, vaguely hearing it outside his focus. Simon is an excellent shooter, but it is the privilege of the old to torment the young.

Pembleton never saw the fairy; if he had, he'd have assumed that it was some energy attack Pimsoil had put forth. Faeries? Poppycock.

He shoulders his rail gun now and continues to inspect the engine.

Simon's self-satisfied grin slips a little as stares down at the fairy at his feet. Poking gently at the body with his rapier, he frowns in confusion and looks up, glancing from Pembleton to Eileen: "What...? What the bloody hell is going on?! Is that the ring from that ruddy museum? What?!"

Eileen, despite being somewhat shaken by both the violence and the overt display of magic, does her best to seem nonchalant. Without looking up from Pimsoil's body as she searches it, she replies.

"Like I said - sometimes they're not people at all, 'least not anymore. Hard to tell. Never seen that happen, but...well, shouldn'ta been lied to."

Pembleton, who has no idea what either Simon or Eileen are talking about, expresses as much as he continues to stare over the jutting piece of the engine.

"No idea what you're on about," he calls, "but I believe I may have found something." He points at the device. "Notice how everything about this flying machine is rounded, cornered, entirely symmetrical? This part isn't." He seems somewhat perturbed by this, but shakes it off. "If there's still a bomb of some sort... I'll bet my pension that it's right inside here."

Palamedes, having gotten his footing, joins Eileen near Pimsoil's body and sniffs it at length. In his processors, he logs the scent.

As the group tries to gain a sense of what happened, Eileen gets to work patting down Pimsoil while Pembleton inspects the engine.

Fitting his fingers along the side of the engine, he detects a seam and after some effort realizes that there is a false side attached to it.

Eileen pats down Pimsoil. He is not carrying much of note beyond a fine suit and some money, but he does have a small book which has been mostly ruined thanks to the blood and gunshot. Leafing through quickly you gather the following:

- Pimsoil was an agent of an organization he refers to repeatedly as "the Council"
- His actions were to satisfy some sort of augury about a disaster in Morocco to destabilize the country and its child ruler
- He had been working with Theodosia's alter-ego Prudence to plot the bomb
- Almost everything with the plan had gone wrong beyond actually placing the bomb on the ship as Theodosia and Prudence worked at parallel tasks to different ends
- The last couple of entries were him searching the ship for the bomb before deciding to risk using his own powers to locate it. There's a lot of swearing about you lot ruining everything for him.

With the information learned, the old soldier compels the stronger, younger Simon and Eileen to remove the panel so he can assess the inside. His chubby fingers produce a pair of small, round glasses, one lens on the end of a small scope of some sort.

Let me know what kind of roll you need here after we learn what's within.

With a quick glance to make sure no one is looking, Eileen deftly tucks the money away for later. She stands, looking over at Vada to gauge her reaction.

As she makes her way over to the panel, Eileen waggles the small book in her hand and calls, loud enough for everyone to hear: "Huh, looks like he wanted to go to Morocco so he could blow up the ship there an' hurt the crown."

Though resisting the strong urge to double down on I told you so's regarding the detour, the ring, ghosts, and the supernatural in general, she follows Pembleton's instructions and works on getting the panel free.

Weird science for this kinda stuff Pembleton.

Weird Science: 1d10 ⇒ 5
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 5

I'm gonna hit fast-forward here.

The group crowds around as Pembleton removes the case, and finally - the interior is revealed to you. It's almost insultingly simple, a mass of dynamite rigged to a mechanism that appears to trigger when the engines cool to a certain point. Considering the volatile nature of the engines and massive amounts of fuel, it's enough to trigger a spectacular explosion.

Disarming may have been a trick, but Eileen's ring appears to have a new occupant as Theodosia has taken the place once occupied by the strange spirit, and has an interest in setting things right.

With Theodosia's advice, Pembleton expertly disables the bomb which appeared to be rigged to detonate shortly after landing. Having no further issues with the hijacked flight's destination (aside from the incredible inconvenience to the passengers) you complete the rest of the trip to Morocco in relative safely, earning yourselves the finest quarters on the ship for your heroism. Parkes manages to retain at least some of his dignity but the stories from this ship are likely not to help his career in the future.

Whatever Vada's plan was to land in Morocco, it seems to have worked as the airship is not flooded by local police and instead can land normally. With a cheerful wave, she goes off to begin her new life.

Using Simon's contacts, it is a small matter to find a boat sailing back to London. A good four days after you defeated Eustace Pimsoil, you arrive in London, and your mysterious employers are ready to meet you with a carriage. It takes you through the streets of London to a poorer neighbourhood where rows of identical shabby houses sit pressed together unhappily.

Stepping through one, you enter a sparsely furnished home where an elderly woman dressed in extremely out of fashion clothes sits. She smiles.

"Well done then. That was rather a cock-up, wasn't it?"

Welcome to the denouement where you can ask any final questions and determine the fate of your character falling out from this. Congratulations for finishing our first game!

I'd like to think that Simon spends the rest of the trip trying to get Vada to go out with him and failing spectacularly.

I don't think Pembleton would have any follow-up questions. He'd blow off any supernatural discussions as tricks from Pimsoil, who, while he may have had a certain Crowley-esque air, was clearly a Savant making Savant-like effects in Sir Ian's mind. For Pembleton it's all been wrapped up in a nice little bow that he can process, with the ship and passengers saved and Mother England once again nestled in safety. God save the Queen and all that.

What he would have a lot to say about is his praise for his colleagues. Simon didn't turn out to be a prat after all, but rather a fine shot with a courageous heart; Lottie clearly a very useful and superior tool for information-finding; and Eileen, who surprises him most of all because of her age, a most capable, stout and heroic soldier. I'm sure he would use the word soldier quite often when playing up his companions, for as affable as he is, he's also quite happily narrow-minded about things.

Pembleton would be quite ready for future adventures, and silently hope for very little downtime between them. I imagine that in the end he either dies on one of them, having saved a companion for harm, or simply falls over in his dear wife's garden as Palamedes lays down beside him, slowly ticking away it's own clock before his time runs out.

Eileen, on the other hand, would be full of questions. She wouldn't be the first to speak, but when she did, she'd want to know all sorts of things, such as:

Who are you? (the woman in the house)
How did you know about me? How did they know about the ghosts?
Did they know about the ring? What WAS that all about?
How did they know about the bomb plot?
Who ARE the Council of Shadows?
What was the group meant to do upon reaching Constantinople?
Why were the recruitment messages conflicting? Were they sent out at different times?

She will have found herself unexpectedly attached to her traveling companions, despite her initial wariness.

As Eileen lists off her questions, the older woman smiles. "I am Miss Fairweather, consider me your contact as members of the Watchmen. Let me explain the Watchmen briefly. Understand that what I tell you is for your ears only. The Watchmen are the, ah, action-oriented branch of the Clockmaker's Guild. We are an organization dedicated to standing against evil, darkness, and destruction. Our purpose is to work out of the public sight, and to keep at bay the unspeakable evils that lurk in the shadows."

She takes a moment to choose her words carefully. "We are... guided by the Gyre. It is not just a clock, but it is The clock. A gift to Queen Victoria at her coronation which never worked as intended. Rather, it allows us to... foresee future events in vague. From it, we can react to problems before they happen. Vaguely - interpreting the movements of the Gyre is an art rather than a science."

With shaking hands, she refills a cup of tea. "Your mission had a ... complication. Miss Sparks' dual nature results in two separate auguries, both of which were communicated to you by different members of the Guild. Thankfully it came out all right on the other end. Now as for your other questions, that ring was an oddity. We believe that it was a Peri that had for reasons unknown become trapped in that ring and you just happened upon it. Maybe. They are considered benevolent spirits except in extreme circumstances, which appears to have been the case with yours. Its need to return to Constantinople was likely a way to unbind it from that ring, which appears to now contain the spirit of Miss Sparks. The origin and meaning of that ring is of great interest to us, but we cannot be sure what the thing is yet."

She sighs. "As for your arrival in Constantinople, an agent of ours was to meet you there to ensure that the ship arrived safely and your mission was complete. The fact the Council of Darkness sent an agent was astonishing and frankly something we would have never sent initiates to if we had known. The Council of Darkness, well..."

Miss Fairweather sets down her teacup and stares at you all. "Monsters are real. This is the essence of the truth: monsters are real, and they want this world. Why do they want it? We can't be sure. But they are monsters, and unlike us. They do not have goals, but rather hunger.. they are hunger. The Darkness have worked their foul deeds for Aeons and the Clockmaker's Guild are what stand in their way. The Council is an organization of the most powerful and ancient monsters, including this sorcerer you encountered. Their agents work to control the flow of history and bring about an agent of chaos, which will return us to the earlier Dark Ages of ignorance, and slavery. We are in an eternal chess match against them - and with the Gyre, we can peek just enough ahead to counter their actions. Or so we hope."

With her explanation finished, she smiles thinly at you. "You have all done exceptionally well. You will receive tend pounds each for living expenses and other sundries, and return to your lives such as they were. We have another mission in mind and will contact you when the time is right. Dismissed."

The End

Congratulation! Please gain five experience points (which puts you each at 25 total) and gain an advance. I will post in discussions.

Welcome to Coffin Rock

The smoke is so thick in the office that you can't see a damned thing 'cept the cherry of the ranger's cigar and his hard, cold eyes. His voice is stone-ground, and he takes his time getting to the point of this whole mess.

"So let me tell you about Coffin Rock. Boom town that went bust in the Colorado foothills. Something's gone wrong there, and I reckon you folks are the ones to find out just what that is." His lips make a wet smacking noise as he enjoys his cigar a little more than is appropriate in mixed company.

"Was some little nothing town in a nothing territory until a fella called John Daly took an interest. Rich yankee tryna get richer spent some money on an expedition and out by Coffin Rock they struck a copper vein. Good one too - called it the Crooked Earth claim. So Daly finances a mine and soon he's purtnear the richest man in the area. Finances the town too, buys half the damn place. Builds a mansion and you ain't gonna see no mansions in Colorado I'll tell you that much. But a greedy man is never satiated, and he starts financin' more claims. Sets up more mines, but he didn't take no advice and these mines play out out at a loss. Silly bastards throws good money after bad for a few years."

His rambling speech is broken off by a hacking cough he drowns with a shot of mountain howitzer whiskey. "Hck. Coffin Rock starts going rotten. Good portion of the town absquatulates outta there but enough stay on, reckoning a good claim'll come up soon enough. Never did. The Crooked Earth claim plays out, and John Daly owning half a worthless town without a penny to his name. That's when things go weird. John Daly's mansion burns down with all his papers and deeds. Marshal Bryce strings up some drunk for the crime but nobody believes it. The feller what came to me with this information was scared half to death. Said that folks are goin' missing, there's "creepy spooks" about the town, and some religious folks set up weird, and all manner of nonsense. Damn fool got hisself shot but that town put a scare into him. So I asked around, got a feller who is hoppin' mad about how he invested some money into Daly right afore he died and the mansion burned down. Wants to know what happened - and here you are. Get to the town, find out why everything went all wrong, and if you can see if Jack Love's investment into the Red Rock claim can be recovered. You're setting out tomorrow. Gotcha a map. Coffin Rock is easy enough to spot thanks to the morbidly-shaped bluff that's its namesake. And piece of advice. Colorado is taken from the Spanish for "colour red". Your posse would do well to give this some serious consideration when you enter this place, may just keep your sorry lives."

=====================
Ten Days Later
=====================

The road from Dodge City out to Colorado isn't a well-trod one. Although Kansas has been the sight of endless guerilla fighting between the North and the South, Colorado lives at the edge of the battle. Its borders are lined with miserable small dens of sin where the soldiers take their comfort. The roads are dangerous enough, outlaws and things we don't talk about openly have been known to prey on travellers. Maybe you met some, maybe you didn't. We're telling a different story today.

The flat plains seem to go on forever but after enough day sin you start to spot the outline of the Rocky Mountains to the west. Coffin Rock is a distance south of Denver, and the roads get harder and less travelled as you go deeper into the territory. Finally, you spot the bluff which, sure enough, is shaped just like a coffin.

A wooden sign has been hammered into the dirt with COFFIN ROCK written on it in chipped black paint. The wide street yawns before you, with a few people milling back and forth. Already the fact anybody has showed up to this godforsaken town has attracted some interest, but nobody seems to want to come over and say howdy.

You peer down mainstreet which is lined with buildings on either side. Staring down you spy a theatre, a library, a barbershop, an office of some kind, some derelect house, and a saloon on the corner of the next block down.

Please start with some introductory posts to describe your characters. Include some backstory if you want.

After that, it's a case of picking a location and telling me you want to go there. A map is in the linked images above with all of the town locations. You're at the southern edge of town right now.

Okay let's prompt what I want from an introductory post. You're going to post two scenes:

The first scene is a bit of backstory, something to establish your character. Perhaps it's what brought you to Dodge city and what you're looking for in the first place.

The second scene is you riding up to town where you can establish what you've been like to deal with on the ride, what you look like, and what your motivations are as you approach Coffin Rock.

Fort Smith, Arkansas. Not that long ago.

"YOU DOG! YOU PUTA! YOUR MOTHER WAS A WHORE AND YOUR FATHER THE VILLAGE DRUNK! BASTARD! BASTAAAAAARRRRRD!"

The insults the Mexican spat forth did no good, but made him feel a little better. Judge Isaac Parker had pronounced him guilty of horse thievery and banditry and, like Judge Parker notoriously did, had set the sentence at death by hanging. And so he kicked and screamed and spat venom as he was dragged away, making a show of it in his fury. The bailiffs had to bash the sides of his knees with fists when he lifted them on either side of the doorway exit in a futile effort to stop their progress.

Joaquin Diego Rigoberto Santiago Ramírez was guilty of the crimes he'd been charged with and several others that he had not. The lumpy, brutish, almost disfigured man they called Il Brutto was now notorious in the region, much to his pleasure; it gave him a sense of pride of accomplishment that only the truly base among us can appreciate. That he could add to that notoriety by roaring at the judge and spitting at the bystanders in the street outside only made him feel bigger. He had killed, robbed, cheated, burned and assaulted, and the infamy he had now for it was better than where he had come from, even though it had meant his neck.Il Brutto was infamous.

And then, he wasn't.

What happened in the jail cell following the conviction is a story unto itself. For now it is enough to know that it involved a jailhouse blade, a preacher, a deck of cards and a demon, and that the result was Il Brutto was suddenly free... and instantly forgotten. The cost of infamy had been his doom, and the price for his freedom was his infamy. This would seem oddly fair a greater man, but Joaquin Ramírez was not a greater man. What he was at that moment was a scared man, and one sent stumbling from that cell back to freedom like a newborn calf trying to get its bearings. He went only with his clothes, a gun, four bullets and Hoyle's bible of the unspoken.

And a dragon crawling in the back of his head.

***

Coffin Rock. Present day.

"OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH....!"

Il Brutto is relieving himself on the town sign, and he is singing.

"ON A TEN-DOLLAR HORSE AN' A FORTY-DOLLAR SADDLE! I MAKE MY LIVING BY A-PUNCHING CATTLE! COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE-YIPPIE YAY...! You like that, eh, Stuthman..? Hehhehheh... COME-A KAY-YI-YIPPIE YIPPIE YAAAAAAAY....!"

Il Brutto waggled his member in Stuthman's direction as he pissed on the sign, irritating and brutish as ever. He sang loudly because it amused him to irritate them on their long, boring journey. Joaquin didn't have a horse and had to walk or ride with one of his companions, and getting under their skin with his terrible voice passed the time.

As his boorish chuckles died off alone, Joaquin finished up. The sun and the heat did not bother him - el dragón saw to that - but he was glad to be done with the boredom. Whatever had to happen here, at least it wouldn't be boring.

The Mexican brushed some dust off his poncho and sauntered back to the horses, his dark eyes peering out under his wide sombrero and the twin shortened shotguns crossed at his waist clacking slightly as he walked. Leaning easily against it, he peered out over the town and spoke after shoving some tobacco into his ugly maw.

"Piece of shit town, Senor Stuthman." Some of the black fluid dripped down his chin. "Piece of shit town, piece of shit state. Pro'lly piece of shit people, eh? Hehhehheh..."

WON'T BE A BORING PIECE OF SHIT, HOSS, drawled the thing crawling in the back of his skull. I'LL BET YOU THE RANCH ON THAT...

For the first time in a long while, Il Brutto fell silent.

The Ranger's office, before the others arrive

"What am I supposed to do with you, Stuthman? I've got people all over town screaming about how you've lost your mind - showing up at funerals and gravesides, trying to stab or shoot their dearly departed. You know we don't actually have a problem with the Harrowed in Dodge City, right?!"

Breathing shallowly - hardly daring to breath at all, really - the smoke from the Ranger's having set off a coughing fit when he first came in that has left Mr. Stuthman with red-rimmed eyes and a tickle in his throat. Hoarsely, he say: "Just fi -i-hi-heh-hecch - find me a job - I have made reparations to those families, but now I have nothing left."

Looking skeptical, he replies, "I dunno... I've got a job that'll take you out of town, but you already look about half-dead - I doubt you'll even make it there. Then again, at least you'll be outta my hair if ---"

The office door suddenly crashes open: "HOWDY, RANGER! What's this about a -- HEY, WHO'S THIS ASS-HOLE?!"

Smiling thinly at the mess of a man before him - He literally looks like he was kicked in the face by a horse - Stuthman's hands tighten convulsively on his rifle.

Grimacing, the Ranger begins "Il Brutto, this here is --"

Interjecting, somewhat primly, "Mister Stuthman." And, hoping to cut short any further discussion of the matter, adds "The Undertaker" as if that were sufficient explanation of his character, background, and recent history.

And, indeed, you heard rumours of an embalmer who, likely high on his own chemicals, thought one of his 'clients' came back to life. Supposedly, he went insane, made a mess of the body, before spending the next two days screaming about the dead returning from the grave and busting into funeral homes and churches to put the bodies back where they belong.

Brutto's grin spreads even wider: "Oh - you're that ass-hole."

**********

Coffin Rock. Present day.

His sleep having been particularly disturbed the night before, Stuthman is slouched in his saddle, pointedly ignoring Il Brutto (it's not like it's the first time he'd seen the man's penis waved about). Stuthman takes sip of water and silently stares at the town, looking for all the world like a man who's either preoccupied by the screaming match inside his own head, or someone who might happily burn this town to the ground and be done with it. There's no gleam of excitement or enthusiasm in his gaze - just resignation.

With a quick intake of breath, his raspy voice begins: "Let's go to the sa-hahehehhh - or, maybe thahhahhheheh - thehehhehehh oh Jesus Hehehh... Hehhh..."

Heaving, dry, not-quite-coughs, wrack the man's body until he's bent forward over his horse's neck. Thin, clear saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth, mirroring the darkness on Il Brutto's lips, as he struggles to catch his breath.

Even though it was well past midnight in Dodge City, light shone brightly from a single window of the Great Western Hotel. The staccato patter of typewriter keys provided an irregular counter rhythm to the steady drumming of the rain outside as Caroline Caldwell, oblivious to everything but her work, poured out words on to the page.

*clickclickCLACKclick*

It had already been a year since she came out west, after the "incident" that had led to her indefinite hiatus from the Tribune. Her editor had been all too happy to see her go, and her family likewise - all the better to avoid an embarrassing scandal.

She had grown up in a respectable family, the sort whose name still carried a certain amount of weight back east, and she had gone to all the right schools, met all the right people. Her trajectory was smooth and her ascension all but frictionless, greased as much by her family's connections as her own innate intelligence. It was scarcely any time at all after her graduation (with full honors, naturally) before she found herself employed by a major newspaper, and after a short obligatory period working the hum-drum society and crime beats, she became the youngest war correspondent in the publication's history.

*CLACKCLACKclickclickCLAKclickclick*

On the battlefields of the protracted war between the states, she saw suffering the likes of which her sheltered upbringing could never have prepared her for. Her regular dispatches from the front lines, while immaculately professional, contained in them some hint of her disgust and horror at the tragedy she observed. Beyond just understanding the facts of the war, she wanted her readers to understand the nature of the war itself, the mud and blood and smoke that a dry recitation of names and places couldn't convey.

*clickclickclick*

Her interest in the human side of the war led to an investigation of conditions in the field hospitals. She had heard whispers among the enlisted men of wounded soldiers whose condition inexplicably worsened, of men who had been expected to pull through abruptly sickening and dying. Having witnessed the atrocious conditions in some of the camps, she was prepared to be outraged by sloppy treatment and poor hygiene in the medical unit.

What she wasn't prepared for was the figure she saw one night moving among the wounded when no one else was awake. Its shoulders were hunched and its posture stooped like those of an elderly man, but it smoothly glided from cot to cot as though it were barely touching the ground. Occasionally, it would bend down over a particular soldier and linger for several moments, as if whispering a secret meant only for the two of them. The sleeping soldier would shiver violently and let out a low moan, seemingly in the throes of a nightmare, before going slack, and the figure would move on to another cot.

It wasn't until the stranger turned and Caroline got a look at its face that she completely grasped the wrongness of what she was seeing. She couldn't make out much, but those details she could see froze her in place. Its mouth stretched far wider than any man's should. In place of eyes it had only black hollows, and in each there was a tiny pinprick of light that shone like the eyes of a cat no matter which way the stranger's head turned.

*CLACKclickclickCLACKclick*

She had been so started that, despite herself, she let out an audible gasp. The stranger whipped its head around and, upon spotting her, hurried out of the tent. Her need to get to the bottom of this mystery immediately overrode her fear, and she hurried after the figure. It was only at the edge of camp, at the very periphery of the light cast by the fires, that she saw the figure crumble. Its shape dispersed into dozens upon dozens of rats of the sort that she'd too often seen gorging themselves on the leftovers of battle. The seething, squirming mass sank to the ground and scattered into the dark.

*clickclickclick*

Her editor, of course, hadn't believed a word of it. Hysteria, he said, brought on by prolonged exposure to the horrors of war, and really, he was to blame for exposing a young woman of such...delicate constitution...to such terrible conditions. Wouldn't she be more comfortable back on the society beat, covering the parties and engagements of the city's better sort?

Her response to this suggestion would have been unprintable.

At the urging of both her flustered editor and her family, she took an "indefinite leave" from the Tribune and was sent out west - ostensibly to relax in the natural splendor of God's own country and forget about the barbarity she'd witnessed. More importantly, it got her away from people who might hear her wild stories and start to talk.

*clickclick*

She sat back, brushing her dark hair from her eyes as she stared at the page in front of her. In the year since, she'd heard plenty of stories out west - things people didn't like to talk about or places that all the townsfolk simply knew to avoid. She sought out these mysteries, sometimes writing stories about them for less "reputable" publications under a pen name. She kept records, documenting everything so that when she finally returned, she could lay the indisputable evidence in front of her editor and claim both her vindication and the journalistic accolades that would surely be hers.

With a small, satisfied exhalation, she pulled the sheet from the typewriter, placing it at the bottom of a stack of papers with the heading "The Beast of Coleman's Hollow". One more case to add to the pile.

She'd been contacted recently about another opportunity - something out in Colorado, she gathered. That meeting had brought her here, to Dodge City. Her work for the evening concluded, she stood, snuffing out the light on the desk before retiring to bed.

She left the rest of the candles burning.

***

Coffin Rock. Present day.

Still not entirely accustomed to riding on horseback, Caroline sits uncomfortably in the saddle. Behind her, a hard black case is strapped to the horse's tack along with the usual supplies and necessities.

Despite the brim of her hat, she raises a hand to shield her eyes, as much from her uncouth Mexican companion as the glare of the sun. Pointedly ignoring his antics, she surveys the town, taking in what she can with a reporter's eye for detail. She's seen many towns like this one – haunted shells of what they used to be. But haunted by what?

Her reverie is broken by the sound of Stuthman's hacking. Her brow furrows in concern as she wonders, not for the first time, if it's truly wise for a man in his condition to be making this sort of journey.

“Ah – yes. Well. I suppose we should make introductions or people will talk. The saloon seems as likely a place as any to get the lay of the land – and it would be nice to sit on something that isn't moving.”

Great introductions everyone!

The sun is starting to get low in the horizon as you ride onto the main street of the town, trying to get a sense of the place.

BONGGGG

A church bell peals mournfully, its ring sounding out over town and echoing into the hills. The horses don't seem too pleased about it and start to get restless.

The question is where to go first. The notes given to you by the Ranger include a list of establishments in town that may be worth investigating. The crossroads you're at shows a theatre, mayor's office library, derelict house, assay office, saloon, and hardware store ahead of you. To your right you can see a school house, hotel, and the church.

For common knowledge, roll smarts. Add +2 if this is something your character should be good at.

I'm just gonna add +1 - Stuthman's got a rough knowledge of church and religion, but mostly only about last rites and funerals.

His breathing back under control, Stuthman dabs a handkerchief at his lips, nodding his agreement to Caroline's suggestion.

BONGGGG

Common Knowledge: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6

Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, Stuthman unconsciously stretches a hand toward his rifle, finding some reassurance in its nearness. Taking a shuddering breath, he croaks: "Wrong time of day for church services. Maybe a" his hand convulses on the stock of the gun "funeral?" Here he closes his eyes and shivers slightly.

Opening his eyes a few seconds later, he finally turns to look at his companions: "Maybe we should see what that's about?"

Caroline notes Stuthman's reaction to the prospect of a funeral but offers no comment. Instead, she surveys the street, trying to gauge the mood of the town.

"Well, I wouldn't want to intrude. But...I suppose it couldn't hurt to check, at least."

She glances over at Il Brutto for his reaction, devoutly hoping that the man hasn't exposed himself again or something equally unseemly.

Leaning against Stuthman's horse, Joaquin chews his tobacco and glances up at the reporter.

"I don't need religion," he replies with some moderate disdain in his voice for it. "God and I already got an understanding." He rubs his throat absently, but brightens again. "Saloon's a better idea, and I want a drink!" He slaps the hindquarters of Stuthman's horse. "All that coughing, Señor Stuthman needs a drink too, eh? Drinks on Stuthman, Señorita Caldwell! Hehhehheh..."

Grinning black, broken teeth at them both, he sends a glob of brown juice up ahead of them and heads into the town.

Shuddering with every toll of the churchbell, Stuthman walks his horse in Joaquin's wake, though his eyes look gravely toward the church.

Notice: 1d6 ⇒ 2

Basically, if Mr. Stuthman sees anything that looks like a funeral, he's going to veer off toward the church.

Remember this is savage worlds and you get a wild die on every trait test!

Wild Die: 1d6 ⇒ 2

Still not quite sure where to go you wander around a bit, trying to get an eye for what's going on. What with the church just being at the end of the street, you head that way despite Il Brutto's thirst for some of the ol' Kansas sheep dip.

As you head down the street you pass the mayor's office which is derelict and boarded up. Just past that is the town hotel. The sign has peeled to the point it now just says "Cry Me a River" and is open but shabbier'n hell.

Past the hotel is the church. The white church stands alone at the end of Daly Street past the hotel. Its tall, thin steeple is an unusual sight in churches out west, and from it hangs the bell you just heard. Huge stained glass windows are embedded in three of the walls. Double doors are the only apparent entrance.

From within you hear the sounds of prayer, but there's nobody entering or leaving the church and the door are closed.

Notice: 1d4 ⇒ 1
Wild: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 6
Ace: 1d6 ⇒ 2

"Fehhh," Joaquin intones, rolling his eyes after glancing upwards. "SHUT YOUR SCREECHING, SENORA! SOMEONE GONNA GIVE YOU SOMETHING TO CRY ABOUT, EH?"

Oh God, I'm so sorry everyone. He's got the Mean Hindrance. I want to punch him in the face.

Swaggering onward without another thought, he groans again as Stuthman slows at the church. "Senor Stuthman, the wine there, it's no good. God, he serves only the cheap stuff." He thumbs over his shoulder down the street, the proud owner of only one dollar. "The saloon, it's down here, I think. Come, let's keep going..."

Unable to pay his own way, he pauses hopefully for an answer.