Ferenc "Frank" Peregrine Smith's page

You alright?

"I'm okay" he lied. His heart was racing and he was cursing himself. Damn fool! Nearly got yourself killed trying to prove how tough you are. He leaned against the mule to catch his breath and looked down at Doc attending to the stranger. Like as got him killed, too.

The sheriff handed him the stranger's crossbow.

Keep it on you.

When he turned to talk to Cole, Smith spat on the ground. He tied the weapon the mule's pack and drew his rifle. As the Cole and Richardson went into the hut, Smith stared at the latter's back for moment, then shook his head, and walked over to inspect the graves.

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19

How many graves? How recent are they? Are they all for adults?

Disconcerted that the man won't shake his hand, Smith decided to make his move. Looking over the man's shoulder at he asked, "Is that your daughter? Mornin' ma'am." He tipped his hat politely in greeting the non-existent girl.

He's trying to get the man to look away of a moment. If he does so, he'll make a grapple attempt.

Bluff: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (10) + 3 = 13
Grapple: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

They'll find Smith is kind of stringy and tough with a gamey taste that can be covered up with ketchup.

"Just hopin' I could get a cool drink fer my mule and myself. Name's Smith. Frank Smith." Frank held out his hand to the man.

"Thank you kindly, but it's Greenville I'm coming from. Got turned around last night in the fog, I guess. Anyways, I heard they was looking for carpenters and the like up in Devil's Fork and thought I'd try my luck at gettin' a job."

Smith took off his hat and wiped his brow.

"Whew. Gettin' a might warmish. I don't suppose you've got a well where a feller might take a drink an' water his mule, do ya?"

Smith fought back the urge to grab his rifle. Instead he looked around for the speaker. Was it a woman's voice?

"Hello? Good morning! Sorry to bother you, but if you could point me toward Devil's Fork, I'd be much obliged."

Smith took the mule's bridle in his hand and set out toward the hut. He hummed a tune as he walked and then, in his loudest voice, sang:

"Glory hallelujah, I shall not be moved
Anchored in Jehovah, I shall not be moved
Just like a tree that's planted by the waters
I shall not be moved"

"In His love abiding, I shall not be moved
And in Him confiding, I shall not be moved
Just like the tree that's planted by the water
I shall not be moved"

Don't want anyone to think I'm sneaking up on 'em.

Smith caught the others' eyes and gestured to the graves. He reached to the pack on the mule and loosened the strap on the rifle's sheath, but he didn't draw his weapon.

"I'll go up, if you want me to fellers. Just an old man with a mule, nothing to fear. You can cover me from here."

Smith had spent a good part of the night hacking out shallow graves in the soil and helping Wilkins bury the... What were they? Piles of bone now. Whatever they were, he was happy to be burying them. At each grave, Doc said a prayer and Smith stood respectfully holding his hat over his heart. When Doc would finish, Smith would keep his head bowed and mutter words of his own, "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."

It was a toss-up whether he uttered these words for the benefit of these poor souls, or for his own reassurance. At each grave he left a pile of stones and fashioned a rude cross. He would, he vowed to himself, return sometime when the days were longer, brighter, and warmer, and move the bones to the cemetery proper where they could rest on consecrated ground.

He spent the rest of the night leaning against a tree, cradling his rifle in his arms and smoking the last of his tobacco. He dare not fall asleep.

When the sheriff set out to forage grub, Smith set out in another direction to do his own food-gathering.

Survival, find food: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10

"Just what in holy hell is goin' on here?" Smith's voice shook as he spoke. "I ain't gonna go stumbling round in the dark looking for that fella."

He moved over to where his spooked mule was pulling at the rope that kept her tied to a tree.

"Easy, old girl."

"What in the name of hell..." Smith shook his feet free from the tangled bedroll and aimed his rifle at the motionless stranger.

In his dream a man leans out a second floor window, his arms upraised shouting, "My Lord! My God! Who will spare the widow's son?" There are shouts and the man falls and the black-faced mob surges in on him.

Smith awakes to a scene as violent as his dreams, snatching at his rifle.

perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (4) + 4 = 8

initiative: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21

Smith tried to keep up with the card game and the drinking but by the third hand his eyes were swimming and his head aching.

"Guess I'm just not up to this tonight. Wake me when you want me to take watch." He bundled himself up in his bedroll while cradling his rifle and soon was snoring softly.

I'm doing a survival check for Frank to do his share in setting up camp, building a fire, cooking up a mess of beans, etc. This all assumes that nothing happens in the interim.

Survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (18) + 3 = 21

Frank lifted the pack saddle off of his mule and signaled to Thistle, "Come on. I'm gonna take Kurva here to some tall grass to feed her. We can gather some to use for bedding, unless you like sleeping on the cold ground." He gestured toward Thistle's large knife, "We can use that pigsticker o'yours to cut it down."

He paused for a moment to consider the bowie knife and its owner then bent over and drew his rifle from the pack.

"Er, don' wanna meet up with that bear's brother without some defence," he said awkwardly. "Gi-yup!" he tugged on the mule's bridle and started to lead her away.

Looking for a dry spot to at least build a lean-to

Survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Frank was feeling as wet and miserable as a body could and still not be drowned. He cursed the 'witch' for setting up household so far away from a hot meal and a dry bed, and cursed the sheriff for leading them around, apparently in circles, for the better part of the day.

The latter complaint never reached his lips. Though he never missed an opportunity to argue with Richardson, now wasn't the time. Smith held his tongue on the score.

"I can't see settin' up camp in this damp. If'n even we tried, I ain't got the proper gear for it. An' I just got rice an' beans an' salt pork for eating. And those need a fire to boil."

He racked his brain to remember if there was any shelter that might be in these parts. A cave, homestead, anything that might get them out of this rain.

Knowledge Local to see if there is nearby shelter: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (11) + 6 = 17

Is the fog something normal for this time of year, or should we be worrying?

Smith was wet and the cold was making his bones ache. He'd long since re-sheathed the rifle because he'd tired of carrying it. Besides, his hands were full just keeping old Kurva moving. The mule didn't like the weather any more than its master and would balk frequently. Smith got her moving again with slaps and a great deal of creative invective.

"Damn it, I hope that witch is the hospitable type," he glanced around at the thickening fog, "'cause it's damn sure we ain't gonna have a fire and a hot meal in these woods."

He rummaged through his pack and produced a small flask. He took a swig from it and offered it around.

"Here! Don' know what it is but it'll put fire in your belly. Anyone know where in creation we're at?"

survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (7) + 3 = 10

"...And no Smith, I was not given me the exact coordinates of the witch's domicile."

Smith gritted his teeth at the sheriff's words but said nothing. Back in the day Smith and some others kept the peace in these parts with diplomacy or, more often, quick fists. But most of those others were dead now and when Richardson showed up, fresh off the boat and wanting to be a lawman, they'd just dug a bullet out of Smith's shoulder from a outlaw who had the bad manners to bring a gun to what was clearly a fistfight. Frank had been more than happy to let the Englishman play sheriff. He figured he'd have rested up by the time someone got round to killing Richardson. Much to his surprise (and that of many others in Devil's Fork), the youth had a habit of not dying and the town, whether it liked it or not, had a 'real' lawman.

"Kis Kurva, ne félj!", he whispered to his mule, "A sheriff megvédi téged."

He chambered a round into his rifle, "Okay, I think I'm ready to take on some poor old widow." He glanced at the musket in Thistle's hands, "An' Thistle's got it covered if'n we're attacked by a varmit. You know how to shoot that, son?"

You said a couple rolls each, yes?

Knowledge Local: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (18) + 6 = 24
Knowledge Local: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (10) + 6 = 16

Survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (4) + 3 = 7
Survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (13) + 3 = 16

Thistle's look and words made Smith uneasy. A few days ago I wouldn't have let him near anything like that knife he's got. Now we all act like he weren't never touched in the head.

"Hmmph," he turned to the gear strapped to his mule, Kurva, "Folk didn't happen t'say where'n the river the witch were keepin' herself?"

He unsheathed his rifle, a Winchester '73, and hefted it over his shoulders.

"I'd say we split up and scout up and down the bank a ways, no further than shoutin' distance from each other," he glanced sidelong at the sheriff, "But I ain't the man in charge here."

Smith hesitated. He wasn't completely comfortable around his former charge. There was something still "off" about him that he couldn't quite figure out. Still, he seemed sincere in his desire to help them.

"Sure," he tapped out his pipe on the door frame, "We'll pack some grub and gear on the mule in case we end up stayin' out longer than need be. How are you at hostling mules?"

survival: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (17) + 3 = 20

Frank will pack up all his gear and bring along something to cook up a meal if they have to stay out for the night

"We'd best get movin' if we want to get there and back before dark. I'll gather my kit and meet ya'll out front." Smith drew deeply on the last bit of tobacco in his pipe, then picked up his hat and headed out the door.

Woods it is.

"Witch? Some poor old widow, probably. Still we should check it out before some damn fool starts blaming his rheumatism on her 'evil eye'." He started stuffing more tobacco into his pipe. "Don't know anything about this Abendroth. Ain't met anyone who does."

On the way to the church Smith greeted several townsfolk, even to stopping to chat with them, much to everyone's surprise. The most acknowledgement he usually gave to anyone was a nod to the men and a tip of the hat to the women. But Smith's curiosity had overcome his usual misanthropy. He wanted to know if anyone knew of this Abendroth.

He doesn't have the time to do the full Gather Information thing, so chatting with people is just a stab in the dark.

Smith watched the new arrivals make their way to the Crusty Cup. They didn't even stop for breakfast? He shook his head, Not a lot of sand in these folks if the whole lot of 'em are spooked by the woods like a group of school girls.

"We are meeting at the church now."

He acknowledged the sheriff with a nod and started to make his way toward the church. As he passed the wagons, he cast sidelong glances inside of them. And what did these folks bring with 'em?

stealth, to look into wagons without being obvious: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (19) + 2 = 21
perception, looking for anything suspicious: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (15) + 4 = 19

Smith had gotten up and walked over when the driver mentioned carpenters.

There's some shacks here and there that ain't got no one to claim them. They're a bit tumbledown but if your men know their trade, that shouldn't be a problem.

Knowledge Local, Woodsmen: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (5) + 6 = 11

Who's Abendroth? Do we know anything about him?

Smith followed the others outside the Crusty Cup. While the sheriff approached the lead wagon, Smith took a seat on a bench by the door and began filling his pipe. All the while his eyes were on the newcomers.

What kind of folk are they? How many of them are there?

Smith listened to the doctor carefully. Words like "acute encephalitis" and "necrotic tissue" were lost on him, but he thought he understood the gist of it.

So, ya sayin' it ain't rabies?

He poured out another cup of coffee for the exhausted physician before returning to his own cup. Smith had torn a slice of crusty bread into strips and was now dunking it into his own cup. When the doc finished, Smith was silent, turning over in his mind what might happen if there were more infected animals out there.

The commotion outside snapped him out of his reverie.

Well, Sheriff, care to welcome the newcomers?

Great, now we got strangers in town to stir things up even more.

Nope. I didn't realize the dice roller was built-in. Is there a guide to using the board somewhere?

Thanks. Looking forward to this.

The fever was coming more often now. It must be his age. The day before Smith could barely do more than lay in bed, shaking and sweating. When Richardson was knocking at his door, he couldn't even muster the strength to tell him to go to hell. He'd thought of telling Doc Wilkins about it, but the quack would probably have him just buy some expensive medicine that wouldn't do any good.

The fever broke some time in the night. He'd staggered out to the well and drew a bucket of water which he'd alternately drank and poured over his head. Despite his deep sleep the rest of the night, he'd awoken sore and weak. He choked down some corn dodgers and tea then staggered out towards the Crusty Cup for the hair of the dog. Along the way, Mrs. Montgomery spied him staggering along and shook her head in disapproval, "Drunk again."

He bit back on his curses. Better she think him on a tear than the town think him sick and weak.

Cole had eggs and fried ham waiting, and Smith thanked him for some whiskey in his coffee. He gulped down his food without manners and few words except thanks to his host, all the while taking in what the others were saying about the previous day's events.

Profession (carpentry) (upkeep to church): d20 = 1; +4 profession; TOTAL = +5

I filled out skills, gear, and added a trait. I think I've got it all, pending your acceptance.

So I haven't quite finished the character but I need to sleep and spent too much time on the background. But it is in the avatar's profile if you want to get a sense of my version of Smith.