In reply to Rofgia Beaucheveux (msg # 839):

Tracy echoes the brash Frenchman’s gesture; however, Tracy takes a small sip rather than a big gulp of his weak ale. Early in his time investigating, he had learned to maintain a greater sobriety than others in tavern settings—while still appearing to drink. That way, he could always maintain the rational edge over anyone from which he desired information. Besides, being a smaller man, alcohol had a more profound affect on his senses than average.

Tracy further wondered why the man had lowered his voice when asking to join their party. As such, he asks the barber a question in response, lowering his own voice in turn.

“Why the low voice? Should we keep this secret from your clientele?”

In reply to Tracy Windham (msg # 842):

"Non, non, it is not un secret, I just do not speak much of it. Before coming to this area, I lived une vie différente. I was the barber in the American town of Virginia City up in Montana, and I was once a part of a group much like yours from the look of it. We were vigilantes and adventurers, never afraid, exploring the lands, and keeping the town safe from threat," Rofgia says trailing slightly off in thought.

"I have lived tranquille while working my craft in Zion these past years, but I still desire just a little more... aventure!"

In reply to Rofgia Beaucheveux (msg # 843):

Tommy has been siting back listening to the men talk while enjoying the first half of his ale.

~ it's not quite the same as a pint of the Black Stuff at the Gateway on Barrack, but it does hit the spot after a long day in the dirt~


I for one Mr. Beaucheveux share that same desire...I guess we'll wait for the sheriff to giv the word about forming a posse for the return.
This message was last edited by the player at 06:29, Thu 20 Feb 2020.

The french pilot has worn a grand grin as he listened to the other men talk.

"C'est magnifique, tout le monde. With men such as you, Nouveau Zion will continue to prosper. The sheriff will most certainly be pleased. A votre santé," he adds, raising up and then draining his mug.

The silk merchant's enthusiastic statement and toast seem sincere, although they are directed at no one in particular. He avails himself of the momentary pause to summon the serving boy -- who now lugs a pitcher full of ale for re-filling the mugs of anyone who is ready for more.

"D'accord. Carry on, mes amis."

In reply to Alphonse Poirier (msg # 845):

Earnest raises his mug to Monsieur Poirier in response and takes a swig of the ale before continuing.

Adventure is a fine thing... but I'd really like to get a look in that cave. We may have to be wary of traps left by these bandits though...

He trails off, thinking about that problem.

In reply to Earnest Nicholas Samuel Ringgenberg (msg # 846):

Monsieur Poirier raises an eyebrow to the professor's comment. "Traps? Comment ca, monsieur?"

In reply to Alphonse Poirier (msg # 847):

Tracy knew very little French, but he figured that the airship pilot wondered the same thing that he did.

~What does the Professor mean about traps?~

Not wanting to simply repeat Poirier’s query, Windham waited for a response.

In reply to Tracy Windham (msg # 848):

Earnest stirs out of his momentary reverie.

Hmm? Oh, well, we've basically routed this gang out of a very good base... They know we will be back and that we'll check the cave. I wouldn't put it past them to leave a trap in there to exact a bit of revenge... I guess it's not very likely, but we should be careful none-the-less.

In reply to Earnest Nicholas Samuel Ringgenberg (msg # 849):

Poirier's eyes sweep across the men at the table. He seems surprised that no one seems interested in the professor's thinking, aside from a brief look from Monsieur Windham.

"Do you think, professor, that these bandits have honored their word to leave the hideout?"

In reply to Alphonse Poirier (msg # 850):

Tracy shrugs slightly, indicating his uncertainty before providing his own answer to the pilot’s query of the Professor. “I, for one, am not sure. I imagine they wouldn’t be surprised for a larger group of people to return once word reached the Sheriff. I don’t know whether they’d stay and try to fortify to keep their hideout or flee and attempt to survive somewhere else. The second option seems smarter to me, but I don’t know which they have chosen.”

In reply to Tracy Windham (msg # 851):

If they believe there's a treasure to be had then 'er a not goin anywhere..tell you that much.

Youv giv'n em a thumpin ana wouldn't surprise me if they were now less bold... but my money says we'll find em there

Do you think this Red Shirt will be willin to 'elp ya again? If it's his land then I'd surely think so 
This message was last edited by the player at 03:54, Tue 25 Feb 2020.

In reply to Thomas Pearce (msg # 852):

Earnest looks towards Tommy first.

I'm sure Red Shirt will join as long as he's healed properly.

Earnest looks back towards the others.

I suppose El Presidente could have been buying time to fortify their camp, but, as I said, it may also be a dead end that would trap them... I believe they will move elsewhere.

Earnest pauses to rub his chin.

But knowing that a group is bound to investigate... well, I have already stated my case... I guess it depends on how vindictive this leader is, anybody have a read on that? Regardless, we should go in carefully... there were several sections where a few men could hold off many men.

In reply to Earnest Nicholas Samuel Ringgenberg (msg # 853):

Rofgia listens carefully, soaking in every word as the men around the table discussed these caves, traps, and strategy. ~I have not felt this excitation in years!~

"Peut-être, a conversation should be had with this Red Shirt?" he interjected into the conversation with excitement.

In reply to Rofgia Beaucheveux (msg # 854):

Earnest looks to Rofgia.

Well, he was with us for this previous trip... it's how he was injured. What would you be interested in asking him?

In reply to Earnest Nicholas Samuel Ringgenberg (msg # 855):

"To ask him to join on another trip, bien sûr!" Rofiga said, eager to join these heroes and take on whatever traps or bandits that may remain in the caves.

In reply to Rofgia Beaucheveux (msg # 856):

Ah, well as I said, I'm sure he could be coaxed to come along as long as he's able.

OOC: As the conversation has stagnated a mite, the Judge is thinking it's time to fade-to-black here.

The Judge will begin Chapter 24 sometime in the coming week or so. Between now and then, players should confirm their character designs, with the knowledge that you can still make adjustments connected to any further play-testing as we get started in Ch24.

All Bennies will re-set when we start the new chapter (that is, they will re-set to your normal starting number); however, to conclude this Chapter, the Judge is going to conduct an Interlude, for which each player that participates gets one Benny added to their total to start Chapter 24. Essentially, an Interlude is a way for the players to narrate something of their choosing, independently.

Please read page 130, everything you need to know to participate is on that one page.

As noted earlier in this chapter before Rof and Tommy joined, the group was spending a few days in the towns, recuperating (especially Red Shirt) until the Sheriff follows up about a Return to Hidden Canyon. As part of that, each player should make a narrative Interlude post (could be more than one) for your character, per the card drawn by the Judge below. "Downtime" or "Backstory" should be self-explanatory; if you choose "Trek" it must be about something that happens in these few days here in the NZ towns.

Earnest   King Diamonds
Jake Nine Clubs
Rof Jack Diamonds
Tommy King Hearts
Tracy  Ten Diamonds

In reply to Judge Messalen (msg # 858):

OOC: A couple of players have indicated interest in their Interlude ... others haven't commented publicly or privately. The Judge requests that each player acknowledge the Interlude and indicate whether they intend to participate.

There is no rush to make your posts, but the Judge would prefer to verify participation.

In reply to Judge Messalen (msg # 859):

I'll be writing something for Jake. I'm movin' rather slow, though -- I just got around to reading up on Interludes in the rule-book a few minutes ago.

In reply to Jacob Richardsen (msg # 860):

OOC: Thanks, Jake.

As noted, there is no rush to post for the Interlude ... simply trying to confirm that:
1) everyone has seen it
2) whether each player plans to do one so the Judge will know what to expect and can follow-up appropriately

It is NOT required, any player can decline the Interlude if you choose ... you just won't get a Benny if you decline.

Jake awoke in a cold sweat, and he could tell that his hands were also trembling. He sat up on his cot and swung his legs around so that his bare feet were on the floor. Then he raised his left arm straight up into the air, and held it there. for over the years, he had discovered that doing so not only dealt with his blood imbalance, but it also seemed to calm his nerves when he had one of his "spells".

It had been the cornfield again. Shortly after the war he had suffered from a variety of different dreams -- nightmares, really --  that placed him on different battlefields . . . places where he could easily have died, and where many of his companions-in-arms had, in fact, perished. And back then, it had not been uncommon for different events to trigger his flashbacks during the daylight hours. But as of late, his flashbacks were limited to nightmare-dreams that had placed him back in of the cornfield outside Sharpsburg.

It was much the same each time -- just as had been the case that day, visibility was only a foot or two, limited by both the thick clouds of gun smoke that hung heavily over the battlefield  and by the closely-bunched corn-rows. Of course, you could walk straight down a furrow between the corn-rows, but that made you much more visible to the men wearing different colors than you -- and all the dead men sprawled in these relatively open areas tended to serve as a mute warning against doing as they had done.

After a short while Jake lowered his arm and picked up the makings for a quirley, but his fingers were still shaking too much --and he knew from experience that if he muled on ahead with his fingers acting the way that they were, he would spill most of his tobacco instead of getting it inside the paper. So, he put the makings away, and raised his arm up into the air again.

His brigade -- Hood's Texans -- had been attached to General Jackson's corps that day, on the far left of the Confederate line of battle. The fighting had started early that morning, and the Texans had been forced to drop their breakfasts -- the first meals that some of the men had the opportunity to try to eat for several days -- and form up. The Federal attack had hit Jackson's line like a sledgehammer, and there was a risk that the Southerners' flank would not hold. The Texans were hurriedly sent into battle to set things right.

Hood's fierce counter-attack -- Marse Robert had later said of these men, after a different battle, "The Texans always drive them" -- blunted the Federal attack and pushed the blue-coated troops back, but at a stunningly high cost in dead and wounded. Later in the day, when asked where his troops were, General Hood had replied "Dead on the field."

On the night just ending, Jake had once again dreamed of the young man that he had killed with his Bowie knife that day during the hand-to-hand fighting in the cornfield -- they had blundered into one another, with the Federal materializing out of the hazy gun smoke only a couple of feet away from the Texan. The other man had frozen, a look of shock and surprise on his face, and Jake had slain him. In his dreams Jacob could still feel the other's warm blood splashing on him, and could still see the pain and disbelief in the youngster's expression as he crumpled to the ground.

Jacob sometimes thought about that youngster whom he had killed that day -- wondering what his name had been, where he was from, and what he might have gone on to do if he had survived the war. The Texan had tried to convince himself that "It was either him or me" -- a platitude which worked well enough some of the time, but not all of the time.

By now his shakes had diminished somewhat, and Jake glanced around at his companions. He had traveled in Earnest's company much longer than he had the others, and he was pretty sure that the Perfesser knew -- or at least suspected -- about his dreams, and how they affected him. But he couldn't get rid of the idea that it was weakness on his part to still be bothered by such things after all these years, and he hoped that none of his other companions had noticed, lest they also think him weak . . .

---

OOC: Jake is suffering from what we know as PTSD, although in a much-diminished version of  what he went through soon after the end of the war. I have done no research on the issue during our game's time period, so I do not know if it was a recognized condition at that time.

I do know that by the time of the First World War (not as long after the American Civil War/War Between the States as you might think), "shell shock" was a recognized condition. You may also remember General George S. Patton getting into a great deal of trouble in World War II when he slapped an American soldier in a field hospital who was supposedly suffering from this condition, accusing the bed-ridden man  of cowardice.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:20, Thu 05 Mar 2020.

In reply to Jacob Richardsen (msg # 862):

Tracy looks up from his notebook. A resolute landscape stares back at him. Pencil in hand, he peers back down at his sketch, an impressionist rendering of the mountains and rock faces that Nouveau Zion presented him. In his mind’s eye, he watched his mother draw charcoal across her own journal, echoing the shadows of buildings and hills and whatever else struck her fancy. It was always how he remembered her.

The investigator sighs, closing his journal for a moment before opening it up to his rough sketch of the bandits’ hideout. Those caves were still calling to him. ~I wish there were a library here,~ he thought to himself. ~I remember that Taylor had a number of books in his shop; perhaps he has what I’m looking for.~ Removing a new notebook from his haversack, Tracy writes a quick note on the second page: “Research at Taylor’s shop.”

Later that day, Windham finds himself sifting through the crowded, disorganized shelves of books at Taylor’s store, along with the owner himself. Taylor seemed surprised at the investigator’s request, if only briefly. If the state of the shelves were any indication, not too many people inquired about historical tomes very often. After searching for a while, the twosome still could not find a tome addressing the history and legends of the caves and other physical features of Nouveau Zion. Disappointed, Tracy scans his final shelf of the afternoon. This time, however, one book in particular catches his practiced eye. He dusts off the cover, revealing a title that excites the amateur illustrator: Advanced Drawing Techniques. Although he wouldn’t learn about the caves for now, he wouldn’t be leaving empty-handed.

Having returned to Larsen’s, Windham sits outside. His journal open in his lap, he attempts to model some of the techniques from his newfound tome. Drawing his own charcoal across the page, Tracy sees his mother once again. He smiles wistfully, contented for now.

OOC:

22:26, Today: Tracy Windham rolled 1,5 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1,5.  Research, Taylor’s bookshelf.

In reply to Tracy Windham (msg # 863):

A light rain falls. It raises it's voice into a downpour and drenches the fields with the yet more water, giving life, but never quite enough of it.

We share the warmth of a blanket on the porch off the kitchen. We are finally alone in a house full of people. There is singing, holiday cheer and a collective determination to ignore the troubles of this world. Everyone inside is slowly giving in and losing themselves to the spirit of the day.

The heavier rain is now coming down off the tin roof just in front of us, splashing cold muddy water on our ankles. We raise our bare feet up under the cover too. She whispers her story of America to me, of a new life we will have there. It's the same story told all across Ireland. It's whispered to me with the unshakeable faith of a true believer, with a magnificent intensity.

She has something burning in her which is unstoppable. Desperate for something more than mere survival. She is beyond her 17 years, beyond anyone else I know around here. In a year we have moved from childhood friends to kissing in the barn to living entirely for a future far, far away. We plan and save and dream together. I smell the damp wool of the blanket, I've known it my entire life. In that future of ours it will always remind me of home. The warmth of her breath in my cold ear gives me goose bumps. I smell her hair as she turns her head.  Listening to her, watching her mouth, following her eyes. The feeling bursts through me: This is all I'll ever need.

"Gawwd I luv ya"  her whispering stops, she smiles with pursed lips, looks me back in the eyes.

"Ah know ya do but I'm not quite sure I luv you....Thomas Robert Pearce" she smiles a bit more as she uses my full name

"O really and why's that then" I return her smile.

She teases me "I'm just not sure you're serious enough about America to really be worth my love"

"Wouldn't ya luv me if I just wanted to stay home and raise a family right here, all this could be ours" I extend my hands over the dreary landscape

Her smile fades in moment of absolute seriousness:
"No I would not, that's not the type a man I'm interested in atall"

I reassure her yet again
 "Well I made an extra 5 quid fixing the Riley's water pump yesterday and it'll be 5 more next month when it accidently jams again and maybe 5 more the month after that if he doesn't catch on. I'll be workin on that big winch on the dock all next week too. So ya can be sure I'm takin it just as serious as one Frances Aileen Kennedy."

For a moment there is just us. Her smile returns, she gives me a wink and an unhurried kiss on the mouth.  Someone inside is calling for Frannie, our time is up for now, she pulls the blanket off and walks back into the kitchen.

A hard rain falls. In the fading overcast light I see it bucketing down in sheets above the cows. They lay in various groups about the field which used to be our neighbors' plots. It's not Black 47 anymore, the potato crop is no longer blighted but they are not here to receive any salvation. Evicted, their homes flattened, the land given back to the landlords, sold for raising cattle. So many gone, so many starved to death. All the while Ireland's home grown food is exported to Britain and they send us back ships bustin full of grain to feed the livestock. There is no future here for anyone....and but one way out for two culchie kids from beyond the Pale.

We'll be gone the day we have that passage money.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
OOC: The Irish famine was initiated by the famous potato blight but what is less known (at least by me until recently) is that the starvation and suffering was greatly exacerbated by policies of the controlling British government and it's upper class landowner aristocrats taking advantage of the disaster. The continued exportation of Irish grown food products during the famine is well documented.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:48, Sun 08 Mar 2020.

In reply to Thomas Pearce (msg # 864):

As his friends prepared for bed, Earnest sets up a space on the room's small table. Setting his lamp on it and a few stacks of paper retrieved from his trunk.

I hope you gentlemen don't mind, but I have a bit of work I need to do?

They both allow for the small bit of light as they settle under their covers and Earnest sets to work.

He arranges the papers of notes taken during his and Jake's time in San Francisco, adding titles and recommended reviewers. He adds another couple pages of notes about Nouveau Zion, the Mormon population, the local silk trade, the interesting topology of Zion Canyon, and especially Monsieur Poirier's balloon. He finally sets these aside and goes to his trunk for more paper; seeing one of his whiskey bottles, he removes that as well.

~ "Weak beer!" ~ He muses to himself, ~ There ought to be a law! ~

As he pours himself a glass, he realizes that there may be a law... Against whiskey and the like! Better ask someone, in case I need to keep this hidden!

He looks to see if anyone else is still awake, but they are all fast asleep. ~ Ah well, next time gentlemen. ~

Once settled, he begins writing a letter...

President Andrew D. White
Cornell University
Regent at Large, Our Lady of Angels Seminary

My Dearest Professor White,

I hope this letter finds you hale and happy! Apologies for the long gap in writing, but I have been quite busy! I trust   that Chancellor Wiggins is still behaving; I still find it hard to believe that a Reverand would engage in such activity,   but I guess we all have our weaknesses!

When I last wrote you, my comrades and I had just rescued Mr. Trayne from captivity (with the unfortunate loss of our Mr.   Oldman). Since that time, many interesting events have happened!

Earnest goes on to relate the investigation instigated by Xu Jie Jing and the eventual rescue of the Chinese girls from a life of prostitution/slavery.

I still believe that Mr. Xu had some personal interest in one of the girls we saved, but I guess I'll never know.

He continues the letter, relating the trip to Sacrameto and Promontory Point, the exciting balloon ride, and their recent foray to rescue Elizabeth Knight.

I worry that my friends and I may have to start a rescue business, since it seems that is what we are repeatedly called to do!

I have to say Professor, this life appears to have gotten under my skin... My plan to return once things settled down back there may be at risk due to the allure of this wild frontier and the wonders, and dangers, it holds!

As usual, please find my prepared notes on the subjects discussed above, as well as the things I have found along the way, enclosed. I trust that you will distribute them to our colleagues who would be interested in them.

  As always, your's truley,
    Professor Earnest N. S. Ringgenberg

He looks the letter over once more, then wraps it and the prepared notes up securely, addresses the package, and sets it aside to post with Mr. Taylor the next day. He finishes the glass of whiskey and looks over to his friend Jake, who appears to be having one of his bad dreams again. ~ We have been through a lot my friend, I wish you an easy rest... I think we've earned it. ~

With that, he blows out the lamp, and retires with the rest of them.

---

OOC: Point of interest, I actually did a search to find a real person to reference as Earnest's trusted friend and mentor. I was lucky enough to come across this fellow, who seemed to fit the bill prefectly!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrew_Dickson_White

In reply to Judge Messalen (msg # 858):

It has been a busy day for Rofgia Beaucheveux, shaving and trimming no less than 13 men in the afternoon after riding to Springdale for the day. ~There must be a fête happening soon for business to be so in demand today ~ He thinks to himself as he plops onto his bed for the night with an audible grunt. He leans back onto the pillow, his perfectly manicured hair pushing slightly out of place, and lets his weary eyes close slowly as he lays down to rest and his mind drifts into the evening…..

Rofgia opens his eyes and he is standing in a barber shop. His old barber shop. He glances out the window and sees a post with two planks of pine nailed to it: Virginia City, Montana. He looks around to see that he is in the back room of his shop, and then peers down to see that he has been cleaning his shaving razors. He flicks the blade in his hand, and the last water droplets on it splash into the wash basin below. He turns to dry his hands and then makes his way towards the door connecting the back room to the front of the business. On his way to lock up, he walks out to the front of the shop to find his last two customers of the day still in the shop, one taller gentlemen hunched down and speaking rapidly with a shorter gentleman:
“Those damn road bandits, they got three wagons last week…”
“And that Sheriff Plummer is just about as useful as a eunuch in a brothel….”
“At least we think we have the password…”
“The committee is meeting tomorrow….”

Noticing the intensity of the conversation, Rofgia attempts to back up but knocks his heel against a box on the floor, attracting the attention of the two men, who straighten up.

“Rof, we thought you had left for the day!” exclaims the taller man.

“No Monsieur Sanders, I am just locking up now. Veuillez m’excuser for interrupting you and Monsieur Edgerton.”

“Wilbur, he most certainly heard us, what are we going to do?” Mr. Edgerton worries.

“Hmmm, what to do,” Mr. Sanders mutters gruffly and then turns to his colleague, “No need to be afeared Sidney. It might be useful to let the French barber in on it. He talks to more of the townspeople than any of us do. Think of what he could learn,” turning to Rofgia, “And after all, he is known as The Blade for good reason. Rof...can you keep a secret?”

Rofgia nods hesitantly.

“Good,” Wilbur nods back in response, “Rof, let me tell you about the Vigilance Committee of Alder Gulch.”


And with a flourish, the room wisps into darkness. Rofgia begins to see flashes of subsequent memories, moving between scenes, as if flipping quickly through the pages of a book, accompanied by a clap of thunder with each turn of the page.


He is sitting around a table lit only by two lanterns. He can faintly see the well-kept beards and expensive coats of the other men sitting around the table. “Henry had a tilt-on with the bandits last Wednesday. We know where they're staying,” *Crack!*


A group of men are standing outside a rustic, open-room pinewood cabin. “Rof, are you ready?”  Rofgia leans in, “Oui,” throws the door open, runs into the cabin and throws a knife at a man holding a rifle in the corner. *Crack!*


Two men are standing on barrels underneath a cottonwood tree, with ropes connecting their necks to a long limb of the tree. *Crack!*


“Sheriff Plummer, you’re going to need to come with us.” *Crack!*


Rofgia takes one last look back at the town and then turns west, riding with the rising sun at his back. *Crack!*


Rofgia awakes suddenly at first light in Springdale. He gathers his equipment and belongings to prepare for his trip to Grafton. His routine is familiar, but this morning is not like mornings have been for the last two years. This morning there is a taste at the tip of his tongue which is not satisfied by his morning coffee, a tickle at the corner of his mustache which isn’t smoothed by the teeth of his comb. For the first time since he rode away from Virginia City, deep in his coeur, he can feel a want for adventure.
This message was last edited by the player at 20:33, Mon 09 Mar 2020.