I'm sorry to spring that on you, and I have to say - it's definitely not because of any of you, but I'll have to take my leave from this game. My current job is a little more time-consuming than the last, and with more and more responsibilities and travelling, I'll not really have the time to partake in any meaningful capacity, and I've struggled a couple of times to write to the way Constance's concept feels in my head.
While the posts have indeed been slow, they've been masterfully crafted and I enjoyed every single one - GM, you have an amazing gift for writing horror, hands down, and a tip of the hat to you. All the rest of the posse - keep it up, and keep being amazing.
"Ain't easy sayin' goodbye, but it's sure better than sayin' nothing at all."
The sight of the man's preternatural calm as he announces their arrival sends Constance in a shiver, her carbine's barrel clamoring as it drags onto the ground. "Well, it comes a time...", she bites a lip in a whisper. "...everyone's got to pay."
Guts:1d6 - 3 ⇒ (3) - 3 = 0 Wild:1d6 - 3 ⇒ (2) - 3 = -1 Fear:1d20 ⇒ 9Not sure what to add to it?
"It ain't all that symbolic, darlin'.", Constance replies to the voice, bitter satisfaction oozing from her voice. "You were just sittin' in my spot on my balcony. You come in, you pay." Clearing the chamber from her gun, she glances at the enemy quickly turning into thick soup on the ground. Her eyes scatter towards the destroyed facade of her establishment, as rage appears to rise in her veins once again. "There's two more customers running towards the graveyard. When they answer our questions, at least we won't have to move them all that much.", her voice dictates coldly. "And present company excepted, I don't think the dead do much talking. Let's go. Then I want to see just what a mess they left in my place."
Constance stares at the passion pouring out of the preacher, conflicted feelings trailing in her palid eyes for a second. The gunshots and horror on the street, however, shakes her off her contemplation, as she grits her teeth.
"There ain't no son of Hell or Heaven that's gonna walk away from my saloon without payin' what he's due!", she shouts, the LeMat barking at the horned man. "I'm sending you back to where you came from, you cattle-headed bastard!"
Spoiler:
Fear:1d6 ⇒ 1 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 1
Bennies! Now 3/3
Fear:1d6 ⇒ 3 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 5
Shooting:1d6 ⇒ 5 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 2
Bennied Up Shooting:1d6 ⇒ 1 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 1 Damage:2d8 ⇒ (5, 1) = 6AP 1, might help if it he's wearing armor.
Haruto, your title as 'Unluckiest Cowpoke in the West' is now officially challenged!
As Herbert goes down, Constance bites her cold, bloodless lips. Can my words truly turn a sheep into a lion?, her first thought as she glances down to see the wound, yet notices it's not fatal. "The path you'll walk on is a difficult one, but your soul will thank you for it.", she adds, as her eyes lock onto the man standing in the hotel.
Her hotel.
Loading a bullet into her carbine, she slowly loads a bullet into the receiver, and with an aching arm, raises the weapon slowly at her own salon. "Get the hell off my damn property.", she hisses with spite. The gun barks, and the bullet quickly finds its mark with surprising accuracy, even for Constance herself. Aiming at the horned man.
"It's a good thing, then, that not wanting to pull a gun's the first thing that's needed here.", she scolds the man. "Take care of those who can't. It's never too late until you draw breath.", she smiles darkly. "On this, you oughta take our word. You can run 'til your boots are gone, and until your soles have bled all you got over the desert, and die alone in the darkness. Or you can die a just man. There ain't no other path." Putting her hand in Herb's, she stares back into his eyes. "There's folk in need, Sheriff Wilks. And there ain't nobody else who can lead them."
Reaching down to place the badge and pistol on the table next to Herb, she feeds six rounds into her carbine, then puts it on her shoulder. Reaching over to take a dainty bonnet, she gently fixes it onto her hair, before feeding the lever-action. "Now, I think this town ain't big enough for two posses from beyond the grave. I didn't pay to have that church built so that the first bastard can burn it the moment I'm gone." She turns to glance at the father, the bottle already in his hand. "Reckon that calls for some retribution from beyond, Father?"
Rolls/OoC:
Persuasion:1d10 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 6 Wild go Boom!:1d6 ⇒ 6 Wild go much Boom!:1d6 ⇒ 6 God darn it, Herb, accept the goddamn second chance! The dice demand it!:1d6 ⇒ 3A total of 21, or roughly 4 raises. This is prime origin story for Sheriff Wilks, Hero of the West, right here, GM!
Constance's gaze, pinned to Herb's dread-filled eyes, doesn't waver for a second as he tells his tale. As he finishes, she nods, her fist curled. "Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.", she whispers to nobody in particular, as her knuckles grow even paler. "I think this town's had enough of faithful sinners, Herb.", she answers a moment later, reaching over the table to grab her weapons. As she holsters her own revolver in her belt, she turns towards the young man.
"You've done a real evil, Herbert Wills.", her voice is merciless, imperious. Tearing the deputy's badge from his shoulder, she cusps it in her hand. "But so did I, a lifetime away. I came here to pay for what I'd done, and in a way, I guess I did. So let me tell you something.", she whispers, drawing the revolver she was buried with. "There's precious little justice in this world, Herbert Wills. You're going to spend every one of your remaining days on this land, caring for the folk of Thompson Spring, and washing out the blood from your family name. You're going to do what's right by them, and by the Lord." Dropping the ice-cold badge back into the frightened man's hand, the veneer of life around her face disappears with a snap, as she thrusts the revolver, handle first into his other hand.
"For if you ever do somethin' that ain't right, Sheriff Wills.", the harrowing voice rumbles out. "Justice will come knocking."
Thompson Springs. It was a small town, filled with small people with small, small sounds and weak hearts. And yet...
Constance's glare stares into Herbert's eyes, as she takes a quiet step forwards, the thudding of her boots akin the slow approach of death. I know what you want., she thinks at the rage inside of her, as she grasps at the hatred, the pain of her own death. Placing a pale, cold hand on Herbert's chin, she shakes her head. "What they said, Herbert... What they said was all true.", she whispers in a hoarse voice, before shaking her head. "Justice's a darn ragged b@#&$, and she always charges more than you can afford.", her hand darts around her neck, a dry, sad smile spreads across her lips. "Now tell me what you did, to me, to my comrades, and to my girls... and we'll see how much you owe her."
Constance's flesh begins changing, the waxen skin once again seemingly full of life. She shakes her head at the reverend, then smiles. "That's kind of you.", she says, placing a palm on his hand. "But I feel fire and fury isn't what's called for right now, Father." Tucking her newfound scarf around her neck once more, she starts walking softly towards the post office, pushing the door open with a jingle.
"Anyone here? I just want to know what's going on...", she speaks out, the sorrow and innocent confusion clear in her voice, but absent from her heart. Whatever spooked Thompson Springs, it's still here. Sleep with one eye open, and always stare whoever you're talking in the eye."I've been shot...", she cries out, looking to lock her gaze with anyone who looks her in the eyes.
Rolls/OoC:
Persuasion:1d10 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 2 = 6Eh. Good enough. Not lying about either part, though. Wild!:1d6 ⇒ 1
Right! That's pretty much it. I've mentioned I'd have a little busier week that usual, as well as the weekend, but I think I might've forgotten to mention that in here since I thought it's pace is calm enough to allow me to post in time.
As soon as I know what the Death Mask does, and what I need to roll for it, Constance will be calmly walking into the Post Office. Cheers, boss!
Grunting as she clutches the revolver under her chin, her broken arm dangling uselessly below, Constance nods, in between loading bullets into her gun. "I remember Thomson Springs.", the woman adds, before shuffling the pistol in her hip holster, and glancing at the ground. Spotting a worn, blood-covered bandana around the neck of a dead man, she untangles it with finesse, before gently placing it around her own, hiding the hideous scars of strangulation. "It was a fine town, of fine people.", she adds, as she slowly walks towards the post office. "'Cept the Marshall, and his posse. The bad seeds' been culled, gentlemen. The rest might not be spoiled yet."
Rolls/OoC:
Notice:1d6 ⇒ 2 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 5
[ooc]Alright, DM - Can you hit me with the actual description of what Death Mask does - you mentioned its the Edge that gives a Harrowed a chance to appear alive, unless I'm wrong, but I couldn't find that in either the SWADE or the Deadlands Book? Is that in some other splatbook? I picked that, since it's the most reasonable one to have, after all.
Constance pokes from behind the table, a stray shot from her revolver whizzing past the armed men, but her attention is entirely focused on the reverend. The hand with her almost-empty revolver clutching at her battered elbow, she glances in awe as the light coalesces around the risen man's hand, and is thrust upon their foes.
Is this a dream, a nightmare, or a memory., she ponders slowly, fingers clutching to stop the curdled blood oozing from her wound. "...Amen.", she utters, her eyes drawn to the reflection of the fire in the reverend's eyes.
Rolls/OoC:
Shooting+Wild:2d6 ⇒ (2, 1) = 3 Bennies!:2d6 ⇒ (2, 3) = 5Haruto, you and I have to settle down who's got the worst rolls this game. It's on.
Letting out a scream of pain as the table explodes into splinters, and her arm bursts in pain. The thick, molasses-like blood drips on the floor as she raises, leveling the gun at the man with the shotgun. Scream still at her lips, the gun roars once more, the bullet lodging itself into the lieutenant's ribs. As she ducks down once more, her eyes glance over Kristophe, the man's wicked knife flaying the beasts in the skin of man with a savage, vengeful grin. How did we end up like this..., a thought worms its way in her head, as she winces once more at the pain.
Rolls/OoC:
Soak:1d6 ⇒ 1 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 1
That's a Benny, Chief.
Soak:1d6 ⇒ 2 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 4I think that does it? Do I add a bonus for the
The large revolver in Constance's hands raises. The barrel points towards the man with death in his eyes raising the coach gun, as her hands pull the trigger with cold, stiff fingers. The bullet whizzes past the man's head, as her milk-lidded eyes squint in awe. I'm here for a reason, and getting shot by them isn't it., a surprisingly pristine thought shakes her out of her killing frenzy, as she dashes for the overturned table, the thuds of her sunday shoes clacking inbetween the gunshots.
Rolls/OoC:
Shooting:1d6 ⇒ 3 Wild:1d6 ⇒ 1 Not sure if I can choose to leg it after I shoot, but if so, I'll try and drop in cover. But I'm loving this so far, so descriptive!
The revolver in Constance's hand, gripped in a dead woman's vice-like grip, doesn't flinch from the sheriff, even as he's bowled down over his bleeding gut. "...Why...", a croaked whisper carries from her throat as she pulls the trigger, the revolver's roar muffling the rest of her faint accusation, as her hazel eyes turn away from the sheriff's whimpering form and onto the preacher.
Sorry for being brief on my first post, I thought shock, fury and not-yet-regenerated vocal cords might have something to do with it! Will get loquatious later on, dont'cha worry.
The woman's hazel eyes open, pale hand clutching at her bruised neck. Opening her mouth, only a raspy scream comes out, barely louder than a whisper. Payback.
Raising a large revolver, she points it at the Marshal, and pulls the trigger.
I've updated Constance's Stats to update the change to Streetwise. I'll also need to find the book in question with the updated rules, but I think it should be okay for now.
Great to hear back from you, GM. No worries on that front.
Let me know if there's something missing from me, though I'm pretty sure I covered all the questions on my end.
Don't worry - I've mentioned talking about good and redemption, but Constance won't hesitate to shoot someone who picks the latter when asked, "Your money or your life."
As much as I am a card-carrying member of the Formerly Democratic Gang of Bandits, and laughed out loud at the proposition, I think the democratic solution is a bit more informal, too - like pirate ships were!
The captain has the go when combat starts, but they did vote on the general approach, e.g., which course to plot and which ships to attack. And everyone (usually) had the freedom to leave port whenever they were in port.
Then again, I'd not feel even a tiny bit bad if we end up having a mysterious leader we forgotten all about.
So, if votes go, mine's for democracy, but I would definitely have no issue with the other.
Well, well. I've done my pondering for now, and I feel like I'm ready to post. I love it how we're deciding what happened between us and the others! Looking forward to see what others come up with for me!
Personal questions:
1st - A silver tongue can often be better than a silver dollar.
I feel like Drake's recklessness might've led him to threaten someone who damn well shouldn't have been left unthreatened. Constance's reply after the situation would be a long, hard, silent glance, as if she did what was required, but was disappointed nevertheless.
2nd - Ain't no string can hold my body down.
I feel Rev. Murphy might've had been the reason for Constance's disappearance. The feelings are definitely mixed, and the memory brings back both exasperation, equal parts at herself and Murphy.
3rd - [ooc]And when the dawn rolls up, I'm gone.[ooc]
It wasn't a single person, but a couple of young runaways who joined the gang briefly back in the day. Everything around them was simple, emotional, and somehow serene despite all the uglyness in the world.
The two left at some point with their share of the loot to settle in a big town, and Constance felt for a moment that she wanted what they had... but knew it would never be that simple for her.
Regarding the gang - I'm not sure about the leader. My personal preference is that we'd have gone around things based on consensus. Though a mysterious someone who we kept oscillating around due to their charisma, someone of whom we've forgotten everything about sounds like an interesting challenge for the GM!
Where we operated - Nobody seems like a master bushman/survivalist, so I'd imagine roaming from town to town, and jumping between borders often sounds great. Would also explain why everyone is from a different place, as we might've picked up some stragglers along the way.
Limits and MO - I hate to be the paladin of the group, period. Though, I imagine robbing stagecoaches (and trains! We need to rob a train, guys!) and banks is not just the most non-bad thing to do, it's by far the most profitable one. About the violence, I'd imagine innocents are out of the question by definition. Senseless violence, too. Doing someone's spouse in is just nasty, regardless of whether you just shot an innocent man or a woman.
Location - Truth be told, I don't know all that much about The States. Sure, I can play a mean cowboy (I've been told) when I do my research, but I don't know if Alabama is hilly or swampy, or where the biggest forest in Texas is. I'll take a long look at the Deadlands book itself.
Stats, memory and fear are in the profile. I've left the fear (hopefully) vivid, yet misterious, whereas the memory is, surprisingly for the tone, a happy one. One of a precious few.
I hope you have at least half as much fun reading, as I had writing it!
