Late Afternoon, April 11th, 1879. The Comanche Encampment. Good Friday.



Three days. It had to be three days that August Colby had been trapped here. He'd walked right into it, really. He'd followed the trail from the spot where the dead man had come back to life. But when the trail split, he'd followed the wrong tracks.

His snooping had lead him several miles from town. White tipis sprung from the dusty earth, over a score and a half of them. And then there were the horses. A whole herd of horses grazing about the camp.

The other thing he could make out are the poles. There were three of them spread around the perimeter of the camp, and each had a corpse lashed to it. The bodies looked like they had been there a while--crows had taken perch there, and occasionally pecked flesh from dead bones.

They'd come up behind him swiftly, no warning whatsoever. He'd been knocked over the head, and when he came to he found he'd been bound and shoved into a wooden pen, exposed to the elements. His on;y other companion had been an old Chinese man who called himself Zhang, who only wanted to talk peace. For the old man's efforts he was beaten and whipped. The second day after August was captured, the Comanche had grabbed the poor old Chinaman and dragged him out of the camp. When they returned, he was not among them.

The Comanche were angry and ill-tempered. Every one of them looked at him with scorn, and a few even spit on him. The chieftain of this band, an old shaman they called Pale Moon, wouldn't even look at him, leaving him to the care of two indians named Ghost Wolf and Charging Bear.

Ghost Wolf was a decent sort. Though he, like all his fellows, harbored a deep distrust of August, there seemed to be less malice in his voice when he spoke to the boy, as if he were more disgusted by the white man's actions as a whole than angry at August as an individual.

Charging Bear, on the other hand...

The Indian calling himself Charging Bear resembled the man August had met in town, being big, broad shouldered and clad in an old CSA army uniform. That was about where the similarities ended. This Charging Bear was a complete psychopath. He never seemed happier than when he was threatening to cut off August's genitals and feed them to him, and he always had that big rusty bowie knife close at hand. The other Comanche avoided him, and Ghost Wolf had told August flat out that he thought Charging Bear was sick in the head. August had gathered that Charging Bear was an Apache, and not a normal member of this band, but was kept around because he was excellent at "what he did." August didn't really care to find out "what he did"; he was certain it wasn't pleasant.

But it had been three days now, and August still didn't know what they wanted with him. They just...kept him around.

And then, on the third day, they brought a new prisoner into the camp. He'd been sequestered for the better part of two hours, but now they were being locked in the same pen together. The fellow looked like a dude from Back East, far out of his element. His nice duds had been stained and ill-treated, and he squinted at the world in the manner of one who is used to having spectacles. "Oh dear," he mutters to himself, and squints at August. "Is there someone else there?"

August had been keeping his head down and his eyes open, trying to figure out what they wanted from him.

Early on, he'd told himself he was just biding his time, playing the possum, and when the right moment came he'd be up and running.  (You bet he would - without a gun or a horse, in a camp full of Comanches, miles away from the nearest friendly face.  A long shot was better than no shot at all.)  But if there'd been a moment for that, it was starting to look like he'd missed it.

He'd said a prayer for Mr. Zhang, and every time Charging Bear comes by the pen, he wonders if he shouldn't maybe say a few for himself, too.

He sits up straighter when they put the newcomer in with him.  "August Colby, sir," he answers, and catches himself reaching for the brim of a hat that isn't there. "I'm guessin' they captured you too?"

The man squints at August. "I suppose I could make some sarcastic comment about such a self-evident situation, but I'm rather too grateful for this bright spot of luck in what has been, to severely understate the situation, a trying week. I am Dr. Oswald Franklin, man of Science and Walker in Dusk. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir." He extends his hand. "I did not see you when they brought me in. Have you been here long, or are you were you taken more recently?"

That's more five-dollar words than August is used to and he's not sure he follows all of it, but any company in here is welcome, even high-falutin Easterners.  He stands and shakes Dr. Franklin's offered hand.

"Three days so far, doc - don't know if that's long or short as you reckon it."

"Well, that's a relief." Dr. Franklin replies. "It means that they intend to keep us for a while before they murder us. Why did they capture you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Well, this doctor was a bright shiny ray of hope, wasn't he?  "Damned if I know.  I was heading out of town and must've rode straight into a band of 'em.  They ain't said a word about what they're plannin' - well, except that crazy bastard they call Charging Bear.  I know what he's plannin'," August adds with a grimace.

"What about you, they tell you anything useful?"

"Ha!" the gentleman laughs in nervous desperation. "I do indeed. They're planning on attacking the town tonight, and the chief wants me to make their warriors immortal before they do!"

"Tonight?"  People are gonna be killed while August sits here like a worthless caged dog.  He balls his hand into a fist, forcing himself to stay calm.

"Anyone know they're comin' aside from the two of us, doc?  And maybe this is a fool-headed question, but why the hell do they think you can do that?"  His voice rises on the last question; maybe he's a little agitated.

"From his insistence that I perform his insane miracle before sundown, that's my inference." The doctor replies. He sighs. "I don't know. My partner and I were traveling to the local cattle ranch to meet with a correspondent. We were being escorted by a couple of hands when we were attacked. During the struggle, my companion and I were separated. From what I saw, fewer riders came back than had gone out, so it's possible he gave them a good drubbing and they were forced to retreat. If he survived the assault, he might be able to deliver a warning to the town. But if not..."

He sighs again. "I was attempting to impress my captors with the marvels of modern science. One of my guards, Ghost Wolf I think he was named, took an interest in my photography equipment, and asked for a demonstration, which I obligingly provided. The chief, Pale Moon, took one look at the plate I developed and declared that I had the power to preserve the souls of his warriors in my pictures, and told me to figure out how to make a photograph that would take the wounds of his people into them. He said he'd had some sort of nonsense vision about me 'turning his fighters silver' or some such, and that would make them invincible. He then said if I didn't deliver, he'd have Charging Bear execute me." he shivers.

"Well, sir, I surely hope your friend made it."

August hunkers back down in the dust, thinking intently.  He's working against the clock now, and he's another soul to be responsible for.

((OOC: How physically secure is the pen?  Does it have a roof?  How many Comanches are usually nearby / in sight of it?  And has August noticed any potential vulnerabilities along these lines?  Just asking before this risks turning into 'August Colby, Worst Conman in the West'.  Let me know if you want any rolls.))

((OOC: The pen is open-air, and consists of some wooden posts lashed together to make a crude fence. Getting out of it wouldn't be hard. Getting out without attracting attention is the hard part. Make a Notice roll for more information.))

((OOC: 20:26, Today: August Colby rolled 9,4 using d6+2,d6+2, rerolling max with rolls of (6+1)7,2. Notice, including Alertness.))

The pen is near the edge of the camp, but still close enough to the center of activity that any great disturbance would draw a group of onlookers, so any escape attempt would have to be done quietly.

He's been fed about once a day since he got here...not much, but enough to keep him from starving. Ghost Wolf and Charging Bear have checked on him regularly, about once an hour or so. It's usually one or the other, not both. To keep him from leaving they have him tied to a stake with a strip of rawhide. It's been rainy recently (it is, in fact, raining right now), so the ground is muddy...part of his escape plan has been pulling the stake out of the ground to get free.

Except for Charging Bear and Ghost Wolf, the Comanche haven't been paying much attention to him. There's usually half a dozen or so around or within sight, though the camp is particularly active right now and August can spot almost a dozen braves around the area.

((OOC: What's your plan?))

August shifts closer to the stake and starts trying to worry it loose, without being blatant enough to draw any attention from outside the pen.

"I've gotta get out of here and warn Blackthorn, doc, and if you can help, all the better.  I want t'get us both out of this mess.  I won't ask you to put yourself in harm's way on my account, though, sir.  If you'd rather keep your head down and hope they let you go quiet-like tomorrow, I won't quarrel with ya."

((OOC: Various plans, all risky as heck.  But that's what Overconfident is for!  If Oswald will help, I'm thinking plan A is for him to agree to give the Comanches what they want, and put on a scientific 'ritual' as flashy and loud as possible, during which August can get free, sabotage things around the camp, and steal a horse.  How he can then rescue Oswald is, er, less clear.  Yeah, and my other plans are worse than that one...))
This message was last edited by the player at 18:06, Mon 05 Dec 2011.

"I am willing to help, even if it puts my life on the line. If the town isn't warned, hundreds could die. I don't want the deaths of so many on my conscience because I was too cowardly to act. Do you have a plan?"

((OOC: Roll Strength for me on loosening the pole. That plan sounds like one that might have a chance at working, if all goes well...))

August grins up at the doctor.  He might still be leashed to a post in the rain, not to mention half-covered in mud, but he's got a purpose now, and this is the best he's felt in days.

"Comanches are wantin' you to make some kind of mystic picture, right?" he asks, still working on the stake.  "Now I'm no man of science, doc, but is there anything you could do with your contraptions and devices and such to put on a damn fine show for them, make it seem like you're really doin' it?"

((OOC: 20:03, Today: August Colby rolled 3,13 using d6,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3,(6+6+1)13. Strength. Sheesh.))
This message was last edited by the player at 20:58, Mon 05 Dec 2011.

Finally some luck. The stake pulls out of the ground without a sound, and it's long enough to use as an improvised weapon.

"Well, I suppose I can convince them that to get a properly developed plate with the traits they want, they need to stay stock still for a few minutes or else ruin the picture. I can claim that I need to double-expose the plates with each of my cameras...I have an Epitaph Camera and a camera that can capture Aetheric phenomena, and then I'll need to develop the plates. I can keep all the warriors who want their picture taken occupied for, oh, about ten minutes, and then keep them in suspense for about 15 minutes more while I develop the plates. That should be harmless enough. Will 25 minutes be enough for you to execute your plan?" He stops, and considers something else. "My chemicals are flammable, as well. If one of us can sneak a small portion into a cookfire, it should create a small but alarming explosion. I might be able to incorporate that into my photo taking, or you could use them as part of your own distraction bid."

((OOC: Wooden stake stats: Str+d4, 2/4/8, Parry -1, Attack -1))

((OOC: Sorry for the delay, getting hung up on trying to make a plan work in my head (when everyone knows plans don't survive first contact).  How many fires are there around the camp?  How heavy has the rain been?))

((OOC: I'd assume one fire for every ten Indians in this band, so ten total. The rain recently has been low-to-moderately heavy. The thunderclouds seem to promise worse, but it hasn't started pouring yet.))