The 12th of December, 1879 is proving to be a rather unpleasant day. A slushy rain patters against the train car window, while an unremarkable stretch of the Nevada Basin and Range province passes by beneath a cloudy sky. The Denver-Pacific rail car on the other hand is well lit and warmed against the chill outside, with morning drinks warm in everyone’s hands lending a cheery atmosphere to the experience. The car is about half filled with a variety of different passengers, all heading South East to the last major stop on the line at Cedar City—less than a day’s travel if the conductors are to be believes. Thanks to Grimm’s edict of ’77 the rails don’t go much farther than that, and travel to California, and the Maze beyond is left to the traditional methods of feet, hoof, and wheel.
As you’d expect on any train in the west the car is mixed company; young and old, men and women, rich and (relatively) poor, but a couple stick out more than usual...
A few track changes later he finds himself here, road weary but finally approaching his destination. Miraculously he has managed to keep hold of the funds he was given or managed to beg before leaving his ‘homeland’, and his sister should be only a few more weeks away--assuming he can find a coach or some other group heading West to Shan Fan where his sister told him he could find her.
Michael is humming a tune to himself then sings the first few lines while cracking a smile, he's close now, so close to his target he can taste it.
"I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill..." He looks over to William and nudges him.
"And o'er the moor and valley..." Seeing that William doesn't want to join in he ruffles the man's hair.
"Pff I know you don't like trains much Will but we'll be off it soon I'm sure, let's go over some things about our target shall we."
Michael and William begin to discuss the information that they know about De Meeuw, it isn't much but it's a bit to talk about while taking William's mind off of his distaste for trains.
Reclined with derby hat pulled down to shade eyes that betray a late night the day prior, Raveneau has his arms crossed over his chest. His overcoat lies open over his once fine but now wearing black suit, shirt opened at the throat. At his waist are a pair of revolvers, positioned more to be readily seen than for ease of retrieval... but there is still an air of danger around him. A slight smirk marks his jaw as he looks around the carriage and takes in his fellow companions.
In a corner seat of the passenger car a pale man sits alone, the other passengers apparently giving him some room lest they take his colic. His gaunt face leaves cheekbones pressing out like ridges against the pale plain of his face, and clothes that are clearly too large hang from a skeletal frame. The clothes look like they were fine once, but are now a bit worn, and oft mended. Some of the tailoring looks like it might even cover bullet holes. To speak to the apparent violence of the man's life, a pair of revolvers are strapped to the man's thighs; positioned for quick draw and tied down for the same reason. The tooled leather is worn from use, though whether from putting the irons to use, or mere practice or wear is not evident. The belt around the man's waist is loaded down with loops, every one of them filled with a fresh pistol cartridge, enough of them there to hold off the entire Sioux nation for a day, should the need arise. It looks incongruous on a man so wasted, and yet he wears it like he has forgotten it's there, so used to it has he become.
In hands curiously steady, for a man appearing so close to the reaper's calling, he holds a letter, which he scans and rescans as the miles roll by. A strange mix of laconic indifference and nervous energy subsumes the man's manner as he eyes the letter, casts his gaze out the window, and ignores the passengers nearby.
With his derby tilted slightly to block the rays of sunlight flooding through the nearby window, and one ankle carefully crossed over the other thigh exposing a finely patterned sock, Mr. Beauchamp reclines in his chair perusing the local Gazette. His sleeves are rolled up neatly, his pants are pressed with meticulous creases down each leg, and his shoes seem newly polished. Occasionally he twists the waxed end of his mustache as he reads, but mostly his hand is occupied twisting the golden ring about his finger.
Throughout his perusal of editorials and obituaries, the man continues to glance over the top of the drooping paper at the ailing gentleman in the corner seat across the aisle. Whenever the man notices the gaze, T.J. quickly resumes his reading.
He lifts the small cup steaming on the end table beside him, testing the liquid's temperature before taking a swig. His face tightens at the sip and his body shudders as if trying to shake off the experience. Needs more sugar. He decides, quickly reaching for some more cubes and glancing again quickly in Abram's direction. After a few more sips, the man pushes the cup away, resigning to the fact that no amount of sugar will make that stuff palatable. He also resigns to the nagging within his chest.
With a frustrated sigh, he folds the periodical as he rises, tucking it beneath his left arm. He presses the wrinkles out of his shirt with his free hand, and straightens his cap before covering the distance between his seat and Abrams. Reaching the grouping of seats he tips his hat at the sickly gentleman, inquiring "Might I join you, sir?" He remains standing, paper neatly tucked and demeanor slightly stand-offish.
"If you wish."
Abram gestures to the seat across from him, but then quickly returns to the letter in his hand.
With a nod, T.J. takes up residence in the new seat, reclining as before with one leg across his knee, but no longer needing to angle his derby for shade. He unfolds the paper with a flip, and resumes reading. There, he tells himself defiantly, or rather tells someone undefined I'm here now. If it's not enough, then you have to direct this.
The two men look like an odd pair, Michael has short brown hair tied up in a pony tail that is quite well groomed. He is wearing a dress shirt usually reserved for going to functions which is spotless. On the table is a Fedora that he would usually be wearing. Strapped to Michael's chest a little above his waist is a revolver.
Next to Michael is an African, William. Unlike his compatriot William is not clean shaven though has kept his hair short. His clothing is kept well though is just serviceable. Creased in a lot of areas but doesn't seem to be dirty. William is busy chewing on some Tobacco while he is leaned over listening to his friend. Across William's chest he has a holstered revolver.
The pair are talking to each other as equals, rare in these parts for such a friendship to take place.
William didn't so much dislike trains as he disliked sitting around inside. He'd always much preferred to be out and about doing things, or if he couldn't do that at least be outside participating. Even when they rode wagons he either liked to drive, or if that wasn't an option, sit up front, or ride on the roof; it wasn't claustrophobia, just a certain type of restlessness, his own manifestation of Michael's own drive perhaps.
When Michael ruffles his hair he knocks his hand aside in embarrassment. "Still another day Michael." he observes, spitting tobacco juice into the railway provided spitoon. "an' all we know is he's meant to be operating in Cali'. 'aint much to go on." he observes sourly, lounging in his seat.
A few minutes ago an odd rattling became audible within the car. The staff of Denver-Pacific seems to notice it as well, for the friendly conductor in your car moves over to a covered panel at the front, opens it and flips a switch. Armored shutters drop down over the windows with a heavy thunk. Without explanation he moves over to the front seat where he'd been resting a few moments ago, and flips it over, revealing a secret compartment.
"Dont worry ladies and gentlemen, just taking precautions." he informs you all with a wink and a smile, before pulling a Gattling rifle from the compartment, and taking up position at a well disguised gunport.
Peeking out the narrow slits in the armored window you see mounted figures standing atop a rise to the trains right. Indians!
As you ready yourselves for trouble there is a deafening screech, like nothing you've ever heard before. There's no doubt it's the locomotive's wheels grinding on the tracks--the brakes thrown so hard you smash into the seat in front of you.
There's pain, a dizzying sensation, and then the whole world tumbles around you, slamming your body up and down like beans in a maracca.
Everything goes dark for a while.
You hear screaming. Not the screaming of your fellow passengers though--more like the howls of the damned. Ghost rock. You'd know that sound anywhere.
As you try to clear your vision you feel the heat of the burning ore nearby. You force your eyes open and find yourself lying in the shattered debris of the rail car. the entire roof--what was a few moments ago the right wall--has been torn off, and as you struggle to your feet you see beyond the shredded walls of your compartment, the rest of the train sprawled out along the tracks like some infernal iron snake.
Surrounding you are piles of burning ghost rock and the mangled corpses of your fellow passengers. Surely this is Hell.
A man runs by, screaming and blazing with flame. He suddenly stops beside your car, his cries tapering off as three arrows slam into him from the train's right, ending his misery. The Indians are picking off the survivors!
Reeling as he comes to, Raveneau puts hand to brow and it comes away bloody. Blinking his eyes into focus he sees the Indians coming back around and swears "Merde" before he reaches into the shadow of his self and touches the darkness lurking there. A quick review of where he lies before with a snap of his fingers...
Spellcasting: and
...the area is plunged into darkness. From memory he stumbles over the detritus and corpses to a spot in the carriage slightly more defensible and hunkers down.
The rear half of the carriage is plunged into darkness as an unnatural sphere of inky night comes into existence with the snap Raveneau's fingers, and a hysterical scream from one of the other survivors. Raveneau, Jean-Luc, and Dr Dione are left to flail in the darkness, while Michael and William lie in a pile on the edge, William having thrown himself protectively over his friend. T.J. and Abram remain in the light, though the bulk of the car's bottom protects them--and indeed everyone else--from the Indian's fire for now. A few other survivors are stirring, groaning from their own bumps and bruises, a woman whimpering in the darkness.
Michael gets up slowly feeling his muscles click back into place "Oh ho ho, that's the Indians for you." His smile cracking to one side of his face. "Thank you Will, I can always count on you. Will? Sleeping on the job are we ha ha"
Michael shakes his friend awake and helps him up. "Time for a good fight don'cha think? Those redskins have managed to get it is a right little trap. More power too them, I say we're better there. Let's show am a good time."
Michael whispers audibly to anyone he sees stirring "Oi, anyone want to help us take out our aggressors? I'm up for killing a couple myself."
A light tenor with a slight french inflection replies "Anyone speak their language? might be they ain't after all of us" the implication clear. However Raveneau does seek to put one of his revolvers in hand... just in case.
Ughh... wish I had my rifle..." William mutters as Michael drags him to his feet. An arrow flying over the car's wall, impacting into what used to be the roof makes him reconsider, ducking back down to keep out of sight. "What's the plan?" he asks, looking around at the other survivors as the shadowy sphere nearby fades away. He shakes his head at Raveneau's question.
Beyond your own compartment the shrill cries of burning ghost rock are punctuated here and there with the sounds of human suffering, and the war cries of indians. Another couple arrows fly over the compartment, one continuing on over the other side, the other burying itself in a seat cushion.
Initiative, Round 1: Michael (AD), Black Stick (AC), Raveneau (KS), Dr. Dione (QH), Abram (10C), T.J. (5S), Indian Braves (3S), Jean-Luc (3H)
Michael gives a tap to Williams shoulder "A revolver is still a wonderful gun, now ..."
Michael does a quick survey of the area.
"The horses are in kind of a problem, I don't think Snowy and Beauty deserves that. Will do me a favour run over there and calm them down."
Michael draws his gun "I'll cover you and hopefully be joined by the oh so many brave souls out here!" Mike says with his volume getting audibly louder.
"All of you who join me, let us see that our friends in red know the pain of a bullet to the head." Mike smirks and his silly rhyme.
"Keep your guns close and your hands steady and you will all live through this day, let us fight for all here, to protect those weak and broken. The strong rise up to combat the oppressors. Ha ha, Let's go!" Mike finishes with a laugh aims his gun trying to pick out an Indian and drawing their attention away from William who is running to calm the horses.
Michael doesn't believe much in his speech, he doesn't really care that much for the others around him but he knows full well that the others will do. Hope in a bad situation can turn men into ferocious fighters like a cornered animal, Michael knows this and plans to exploit it. Though his voice and face betray nothing.
Michael remains in cover to protect himself from incoming arrows. He tries to spot whichever one is their leader. Looks the man in the eye with a devilish grin showing that there are those that can fight. A defiant man standing here is proof of that. Micheal points his gun at that Indian showing he's next.
T.J.'s head is swimming. Luckily, a year of taking blows to the head has taught him some tricks at cutting through the thick fog of such concusions. Keeping to his knees, he curses whatever brought about this mess, as well as himself for deciding to travel west. He's not certain what God thinks of the language, but hopes he takes circumstances into consideration when judging it.
His first objective is finding out where the attacks are coming from. From the relative cover of the car where his body remained, he scans through the smoke for any of the natives loosing their arrows.
"Stay down!" He yells over the screaming of the ghostrock, noticing that the indians are picking off the obvious targets and hoping to introduce a bit of reason to panicked minds.
He can feel his muscles tensing, as he anticipates having to cover open ground; which is when he remembers that he had purchased a derringer on advice of a friend for just such an occasion. His right hand reaches for the holster at his side, seeking whether the gun remains.
Abram comes to, a gouge on his head indicating he must have cracked it on something when the train went to hell. He looks around, taking in the carnage and damage, as well as the dead, injured, and dying.
What happened? Natives... derailed the train I guess. All these people dead; figures. The healthy get busted up and die and a guy like me, living on borrowed time, and overdrawn at that, gets to live with nothing to show for the accident but a bump on the head. It's a Cursed Earth indeed.
Hearing only the hooting of the galloping horsemen and the screams of their victims, Abram pulls his guns from the leather and while taking cover in the wreckage takes two shots at passing enemies.
Showing remarkebly steady hands for a man that looks like death rolled over, Abram takes aim and fires two deadly accurate shots.
Pre Hell.
A well dressed man in a new eastern styled suit divides his attention between the windows and the paper bound journal before him. The windows seem to be winning.
With a sigh he stands and retrieves a Gladstone bag from the overhead rack and places the journal inside. The words "New England" and "Medicine" can be made out on the cover before the bag closes.
He settles back in his seat, sweeping his coat out of the way as he does so. He wears neither gunbelt nor holster. This marks him as a greenhorn far more than the New York suit.
He pays attention, though not too much to Mr. Abram. Noting the sunken cheeks, the red rims to the eyes, and the poor coloration. "He seems stable enough, whatever is eating him is taking its time. Perhaps I will 'accidentally' drop my journal as I pass. Give him the option to ask me..."
Boom
His eyes click open in the smokey darkness. Without conscious thought he has grabbed his bag. Head over teakettle as he is his first thoughts are to note and begin to file the screaming. 'Ghost rock. Groaning, four voices, sound strong. Whimpering, not good.'
[ooc]QH
Moving by feel and sound Dr. Dione tries to make his way forward or at least into the light.
"Who's Hurt? Call out!"
...
Then he notices the Indians. "bugger"
...
Diving into cover near Michel the good Doctor draws a Rupertus pepper-box from the gladstone bag.
"How many?
Michael lines up a shot on one of the braves and squeezes the trigger. The bullet catches the brave in the shoulder, and sends him tumbling from his horse.
The obvious leader of the raid, a veteran brave with an impressive headdress seems... somewhat disconcerted by Michael's incapacitation of his man, and general intimation. Seeking to address this, he draws his bow back, and looses an arrow at the smiling man's head.
The arrow speeds it's way to Michael's head, clipping his ear as he ducks to the side. Nevertheless his ear has a nasty slice through it, and stings with pain.
Abram's shots splatter grey matter over the countryside, taking out two more indians leaving only the veteran and 4 other braves.
Dione takes his bearing, shuffling up against the thick bed of the train car for cover as he draws his gun. While T.J. tries to orient himself.
Initiative, Round 1: Michael (AD), Black Stick (AC), Raveneau (KS), Dr. Dione (QH), Abram (10C), T.J. (5S), Indian Braves (3S), Jean-Luc (3H)
Notice: - fail
Raveneau keeps hunkered down, especially with incoming fire drawing blood. Drawing one of his Colts he cocks the single action and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself.
Raveneau and T.J. prepare themselves, finding most of the good shooting positions already taken at either end of the train. They are forced to strain to brace themselves and shoot over the 'wall' at the indians.
The indians seem to have taken umbrage at Abram's brutal murder of two of their comrades, three of them taking shots at the sick hombre, while Michael and William attract one each.
Four arrows thunk into the train car, while William, exposed as he races back down the length of the train takes an arrow to the knee, stumbling and falling with a groan of pain, weakly clutching his leg. He remains conscious despite the pain, but all he can do is drag himself to the cover of the next car, putting him dangerously close to a heap of burning ghost rock.
The Indians meanwhile, ride on, putting them further from the hero's car as they start to circle back around.
Initiative, Round 1: Michael (AD), Black Stick (AC), Raveneau (KS), Dr. Dione (QH), Abram (10C), T.J. (5S), Indian Braves (3S), Jean-Luc (3H)
Initiative, Round 2: Michael (QC), Abram (JH), Dr. Dione (JC), Black Stick (9S), Indian Braves (9C), Jean-Luc (4S), Raveneau (2C)
"Oi, you there!" Michael points the Indian who shot William. "I hope you are ready to meet your maker!" he says smiling at the man.
"Only I get to give William a smack in the head, not you!" Michael shouts as he fires a shot off at the Indian brace.
William drags himself to cover behind the cart, hoping Michael can draw the fire off of him.
T.J. pulls the miniature gun from its holster at his side, trying to draw a bead on the three natives shrinking in the distance. Before he pulls the trigger, however, he resigns to the futility of such an attempt. Why the hell did I buy such a small gun! he chides himself. The thought made much more sense in the city, but seems rather comical out here.
It's then that he finally hears the cries of the animals above the shrieking ghost rock. A mount would be decidedly more beneficial at this point than the toy in his hands. At that decision, he takes advantage of the lull between arrow volleys and takes off running toward the animal compartment, hoping to take cover before the next pass.
The indian jerks slights as Michael's shot goes off, but manages to keep his seat and maintain his position for the others, seems to have been a glancing shot.
Initiative, Round 2: Jean-Luc (Hold), Michael (QC), Abram (JH), Dr. Dione (JC), Black Stick (9S), Indian Braves (9C), T.J. (8D), Raveneau (2C)
Abram sees the headdressed man ride by and takes note. The leader? If he goes down the others might break.
He waits behind the cover of the seats, keeping the absolute minimum profile he can until the leader comes back within range. He then pops his head and shoulders, and both guns, above the cover to deliver both shots at the native commander.
Black Stick leads the charge back towards the train car, scanning it with bow drawn. That grip falters slightly as Abram's first shot buries itself in his side, but the second shot grazing his leg doesn't even seem to phase him as the bow swings around towards the sick shooter. The arrow hits him in the shoulder, making the world spin around him.
Michael's target struggles to keep his seat as blood trickles from a gash in his back. The other four meanwhile take aim at the only two remaining shooters. Their shots find only the side of the train however, though one quivers worryingly close to Abram's head.
T.J. takes the opportunity while the Indians draw fresh arrows to streak to the cover of the next car, finding himself pressed up against the train besides a semi-conscious William.
Initiative, Round 2: Jean-Luc (Hold), Dr. Dione (Hold), Michael (QC), Abram (JH), Black Stick (9S), Indian Braves (9C), T.J. (8D), Raveneau (2C)
Initiative, Round 3: , Jean-Luc (Hold), Dr. Dione (Hold), Michael (KD), Black Stick (9H), T.J. (7D), Raveneau (6C), Indian Braves (3D)
Round 2: Deuce of Clubs
Notice:
Kaboom:
These damn braves ain't fer quittin... Raveneau thinks as he notices the column of smoke. Gritting his teeth he stands up from cover and squeezes off a shot at the closest of the indians...
Shooting:
For: AP1
...before ducking back down.
Michael dashes forward to the next piece of cover getting closer to be within medium range, he flashes Black stick a devilish smile and draws his gun firing at him just after reaching his destination.
Raveneau climbs up to take a shot at the returning Indians, winging one as he rides closer.
Michael doesn't have to move far, or indeed at all, Black Stick and his warriors have just circled back to their original position. He seems thoroughly unconcerned by Michael's smiles and gestures, but the bullet is a bit more worrying, causing a grimace of pain, though he again shows firm fortitude, riding on regardless of the two slugs in him.
Michael draws Black Stick's attention once again as the brave rides past. He sights down his arrow at the foolhardy gentleman and releases. The shot puts a hole in Michael's shirt as he ducks back into the train car, while Black Stick leads the way further back down the train towards the sounds of Equine distress.
Initiative, Round 3: Abram (Joker), Jean-Luc (Hold), Dr. Dione (Hold), Michael (KD), Black Stick (9H), T.J. (7D), Raveneau (6C), Indian Braves (3D)
Michael before firing his shot stands up proudly, leaning over towards the Indian leader. His gun arm posed on his leg. "Oh look at you my brave man, sitting up on your horse hollering to the highest of high!" Michael says with his arms held up, convincing the man that Michael has nothing to lose. His eyes up to the sky.
"I can holler too my friend, ayayayay." Michael brings down his arm and shoots as Black stick as he does.
Black stick fires his arrow and goes after the Horses.
Oh come now I should be more interesting than some Equines!
Round 3: Six of Clubs
Grimacing Raveneau pops out of cover again long enough to send out another shot at the same brave...
Shooting:
For:
...but his aim is off.
T.J. continues his charge toward the animal compartment, trying to stay low and avoid any missile fire. With some other train patrons firing at the natives, T.J. feels confident in his low priority. He doesn't notice, however, that Blackstick his riding his direction.
HOLD
Seeing T.J break cover Dr. Dione shouts "Stay down!" before shooting at the Native chasing T.J.
T.J. sprints down the length of his car and reaches the next, the baggage car. It seems to be okay for now, but even from half a train car away the heat coming off of the animal car is quite ferocious. He is able to see from here a large chunk of Ghost Rock laying near what he assumes used to be the wheels of the car, but is now a chunk of molten, bubbling steel. The wooden carriage above has caught and the fire has spread, now engulfing this entire end of the car, and the sounds of the fire and paniced horses is almost deafening.
Raveneau pops up to fire off a wild shot at the swiftly retreating backs of the Indians as they ride on past, following their leader towards the end of the train. Dione similarly fires a shot at the lead Indian which misses. The braves spare a few parting shots for those still firing, while the rest of them try to pull themselves together. Michael earns himself another new scar as one of the arrows scrapes his arm.
The Indians seem to have lost interest in trading fire with the hombres of your particular car, riding off to easier pickings, arrows flying at some of the other cars and other survivors.
If he dares T.J. is able to reach the doors to the livery carriage and force them open, and is rewarded for his troubles by almost being trampled to death by about a dozen mounts which scatter to the winds. The owners of horses are able to calm down and round up their own mounts after some time, and extricate their baggage from the car in front of it which is already starting to smoulder from the pure heat of the adjacent flames.
After he's sure the Indians have moved on, Raveneau eases out from cover and sets off after his horse "Back here ye nag..." unwilling to let his most valuable asset run free.
Michael runs over to William first momentarily forgetting about his horses. Money can replace those, not so with his friend.
"Oi oi, Will you alright there, don't tell me a simple arrow will take you out?" Michael looks William up and down, and slaps him in the face lightly. "Ah you'll tough it out, we've been through worse. There is bound to be a doctor amongst these folks. I'll give him a couple of bucks for his trouble they always like money. I'll be right back, hang tight silly man. Beauty and Snow will be lost without us."
Michael makes sure to put William's gun in his hand so he can defend himself despite his wound. Michael then shouts out. "Any doctor's here?! We've got a wounded man here than needs your help."
Michael then dashes off rounding up his black horse Beauty and William's white horse Snow. Once he does he brings them back and ties them down near the car where William is likely still sitting. He then gives William a small punch to his shoulder and smiles at the man. "Stay right there Will I am going to get your rifle, I know you'll feel comfortable with it in your hands."
Onlookers can see despite the young man's bravado and antics he seems to really care about this African. Mike might have his own way of doing things but he means well by it at least as far as others can see.
Michael wanders off towards the storage compartment and holds his hand up waving. "Any of you gentlefolk need anything from the storage cart come with me, I am sure you all want your belongings back. Come one come all. More hands the merrier."
Abram stands, watching the backs of the natives retreat away.
"Wish I had my rifle. I don't take kindly to being shot at."
He holsters one of his pistols while reloading his pistol, then switching them and doing the same for the other.
At mention of going to the storage cart he goes with the others, looking for his bag, and now eager to have his own rifle back in his possession.