Carl Allans, Mad Irish Murphy

some mood music

Late Evening, April 11th, 1879. The bridge over Blackthorn Creek. Good Friday.

Carl and Murphy rode away from the hillock, the scenes of savagery still fresh in their minds. They had to find the rest of the war band. Or find out where they went. They needed to find the photograph, and the shaman who carried it. Following the trail of the Comanche that had attacked the Sutlers had led them here, the bridge over the swollen Blackthorn Creek.

The moon was full, but the light had to reach them through the thick clouds in the sky. A wet, chill wind blew across them from the east, carrying the scent of rain and a hint of ozone. Out over the east, clouds thickened, and jagged bolts of lightning sizzled into the ocean. The thunder was soft here, but growing louder. Another storm was coming.

They had a choice to make now. Which way would they head? Which would give them the best shot of capturing their quarry? Which way would lead them to the clues they sought to end the menace that threatened them?

Carl drags his gaze from the flickering horizon and the ocean vastness that always stunned something in him to snake-hypnotised rapture and looks over at Murphy.
"?"

The Irishman sighs and thinks for a moment.
"I don't think we have much time, Carl. The indians will be attacking soon. Hell, the might in Blackthorn already. Going to Ward, do some explaining, God knows what's going on between you and Whateley and Ward... it could get ugly. At least it'll take us time.
That scientist fellow, he took the picture. He told me he was suprised how it worked out, but it did. As long as the heathen savages are grey, they can't be killed. Church lead might hurt them, we don't know.
I know I shot a man right between the eyes and he didn't flinch. And that oughta hurt no matter if you using holy lead or not.

If we can find the camp, we may find the shaman and the picture. Destroy it, that'll make them vulnerable. Scare 'em off, most likely. Even if the shaman's not there, we might be able to get word to the indians their camp's threatened and delay the attack.

Not that I suggest killing women and young folks!" He adds, hastily.

Carl listens. "Him 'scapin might've warned 'em off town," he mentions, tone low and even. If the fire and the devil-sacrifice was distraction and natives were concentrating their attack on the ranch...

He considers the latter point carefully, though. If - if - they traced the camp quickly enough, it might work, at less risk to them if not to Ward. On the other hand, Ward did have more backup than an Irishman and a couple of ponies.

Carl had an idea the Bible wasn't too hot on killin', but the rules were somewhat fuzzier on the subject of hostages. He was pretty sure heathens didn't count anyhow.


[[roll for knowledge of local terrain?]]

((OOC: Sure. Make Common Knowledge checks, with a +2 bonus. Success will grant you a +2 bonus on Tracking checks made to find the camp, or +4 on a Raise. You both can roll.

Finding the camp itself will be a Tracking roll, with a +2 bonus for tracking more than 5 individuals but -4 for the recent rain, for a net -2 on the Tracking roll. Finding the trail will take an hour, or half an hour on a Raise.))

[[08:58, Today: Carl Allans rolled 5,6 using d6+1,d6+1, rerolling max with rolls of 4,5. where would they go?]]

Carl gestures over in the direction of where the camp was before the Injuns got stirred up, shifting his grass stem a bit to talk. "They'll be in that hollow north-east of th' creek, or 'round what's left of 6 shaft, shelter wood an' water."

Either way, they'd be moving a little north, saving the cowboys some precious time by catching the trail above where the original camp had been.

((OOC: Are ya'll waiting on me for something? I was waiting for Murphy's rolls...))

Sorry for the holdup!

21:45, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 17,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of (8+8+1)17,4. Common Knowledge.

That is a raise!

21:47, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 2,15 using d4,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 2,(6+6+3)15. Tracking, unskilled white chip.
21:47, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 3,3 using d4,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3,3. Tracking, unskilled white chip.
21:47, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 3,2 using d4,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3,2. Tracking, unskilled.

Grmpf. Down to 3 whites now, but at least got something out of it!



"Aye, Carl, figure you're right about that." Murphy is untypically silent, it might be that Carl's silence is rubbing off on him  but really, he's just looking for signs that their assumption is correct.

After a while he stops and points:
"Look there, Carl - I'm not a trapper, but don't these look like tracks of an indian warband?"

They do indeed look like the tracks of a warband...and it splits here. Splits into three parts.

One group, about fifteen or sixteen strong, is headed toward town...that would be them Carl and Murphy saw on the hill.

The second group, about the same size, looks like it's heading deeper into the ranch lands...going for the herds!

And the third tail, the largest group of all, with about 20 distinct prints, is going along the creek. They must be heading to the mine.

All the trails are several hours old...made before sundown. Before Murphy had even left the ranch the first time.

They had less time than they thought. The Indians were already on the warpath.

[[Carl Allans rolled 0,6 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of 2,(6+2)8. trackin'. Huh. Apparently Carl can track when he's not hungover...]]

Carl nods, crouching and double-checking that yes, those that passed here were all braves, or at least of a size to be men. Comanche afoot, save for the gang headed for the ranch. What were they playing at?

He points at the tracks heading for the mine, pausing very briefly then using words. "Way it was playin' Ward, Injun Snake God's after somethin' down th' mine. Shaman'll be with those, reckon?" Carl looks off at the dark. He'd sooner round up a group of hostages - or better, horses - than go anywhere near the mine, but whose task was fetching the desires of a heathen god, if not a shaman's?

The mine. That bloody mine. A shiver runs down Murphy's spine. Hadn't the whole thing started when they put the yankees to work there.

He nods. "Aye. Bloody hate that, but aye. Looks like you were right after all."

Carl makes a quick turning-over gesture with his hand, heading to remount. "..." He swings up.

The thought of actually entering the mine brings a sudden slickness across the wrangler's skin and he realises he's cold-sweating. Good thing the breeze was blowing chill against his face, taking the scent of fear away from the unfamiliar horse. (Pa sobbing in fear of the simple evening dark during a fit of black shakes, down the mine somewhere in his mind: too shit-terrified to keep the lantern he clutched to lit for fear 'They' would see him, yet flinching, whimpering, lashing out like a wounded beast at every least imagined sound in the blackness.) Carl waits only enough time to see Murphy ready and sets heels to Idjit's flanks to run as fast as is safe in the wan grey of moonlight.

The Dust Adders ride, following the trail. it crosses the creek at one point...a lot sooner than Carl or Murphy would have suspected. In fact, the trail moves across the creek a good quarter mile from the main mine shaft.

((OOC: If the two of you want to follow the trail, you'll need to ford the creek, which is swollen from the recent rain. That will be a Ride check, -1. Fail, and you have to find another crossing. Crit fail, and you get swept off the horse))

The Ranger's horse baulks at the idea of going into the water, snorting in alarm. Carl frowns a little and 'bends' the animal almost side-on into the current with a boot held against the horse's side, using a smooth pull on the reins to turn Idjit's head upstream.

Once Idjit realises that the only way he's going to get out of the water any time soon is by trusting the creature on his back, he's more than willing to go wherever Carl directs.

[[Carl Allans rolled 3,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3,1. fording.
Carl Allans rolled 12,2 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of (8+4)12,2. white chippit.]]

11:46, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 3,7 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 4,(6+2)8. Riding, white chip.
11:46, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 1,3 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 2,4. Riding.

Murphy can't help but think back to the last time he crossed the creek.
"Come, now, Embarr, be a good lad", he coerces his mount on and slowly the horse steps in, neighs, but then pushes on through the water.

On the other side, he pats the horse's neck. "Well done, lad. Uh, Carl", he looks at his fellow Adder, "with all what's going on I forgot to mention something. I ran into a dead union soldier not too long ago, was singing the Battle Hymn of the Republic and all. I tried steering him towards the Comanche. If we run into him, maybe you let me do the talking."

The two cowboys manage to pick up the trail of the Comanche on the far side of the creek...until it vanishes. Looks like they started covering their tracks just after they got to shore.

((OOC: I'm sure Carl remembers that soldier quite well...;)

Make Notice checks for me, please.))

Carl tenses, it being his opinion that dead Yankees weren't worth talking to, but gives a brief nod. If it saved time and ammunition, Irish could talk. Otherwise he'd just rope the thing and see how well it stood up to being dragged.

The wrangler shifts his attention to the sudden strange lack of tracks and the slight nervous movements of his mount, keenly missing Hosanna.


[[Carl Allans rolled 4,0 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 5,1. Notice ]]

A Carl looks about, he notices things done to obscure trails...brush pulled through mud to obscure tracks, covering a wide area to obscure movement, and pulled in different patterns to avoid giving away directions. But why go to all this trouble? Surely anyone following them from town would be able to guess their destination...the mine's location wasn't any sort of secret, and if they'd wanted to hide their trial why wait until after leaving the creek?

Unless they knew another way in. A secret way that avoided the main mine shaft and the cave-in altogether. One that could be hidden until it was too late and they could do whatever needed to be done.

Just adding my notice roll here as well...
20:25, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 6,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 6,1. Notice.

Murphy scratches his head.
"Well, this is weird."
That is quite the conundrum, my dear chap. Is what actually rolls through his head.
"We could really use some tracker now."

Carl frowns and nudges his mount into a walk a little downcreek, not wanting to be between Comanche warriors and whatever they feared might follow - or between the bait for an ambush and a nice place to blunder around half-blinded in the dapples under the scrubby trees.

[[Cautious is as Cautious does...]]

When Murphy's caught up he points, then fights, hard, within himself to remember speech is possible and how it is done, since Murphy was not a miner, nor a miner's son: "They're goin' deep - them all together any while'll need a draw fire t'pull air down. Git 'round up that way we'll smell it."

Carl nods at Embarr - as a cowpony the horse'd know and dislike the scent of Injuns and their unfamiliar horses, associating them with fights; approaching the area at large downwind, the horse would give away the presence of any Comanche on guard at the surface...or the whole gang of them, if they were just sending the shaman shimmying down an open fault.

[[Any better ideas?]]

Murphy thought about that.
"Aye, could work. Could work. If they don't have some magic for that as well."

He takes off his hat and scratches his scalp.

"Suppose...." he starts, then trails off.
How much time do we have left?

"What if...." he starts again, to again trail off and stare into the distance.

"How would they have found another entrance? Must be known somehow. You can't just walk around and stumble across it. Well, you could, I guess. But still.
Is there a cave or some hollow or something like that about? You know, something were a man could fit into? Maybe the cavein opened a passage from that into the mine."

((OOC: remembering details of the local area would be a Common Knowledge (Smarts) check, +2 for your familiarity with it.))

20:59, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 13,5 using d8+2,d6+2, rerolling max with rolls of (8+3)11,3. Common Knowledge.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:44, Mon 03 Sept 2012.

[[Yeah, I thought there'd be another one of those...
19:56, Today: Carl Allans rolled 3,6 using d6+1,d6+1, rerolling max with rolls of 2,5. local knowledge. + 8 from a compulsively-added red chippit (because he's Carl and this is his 'back garden', and also I have impulse issues *hopeless*) -> 14 ]]

Carl shifts his grass stem a bit, watching the night, and looks over at Murphy to show he's listening.

Not directly, but Murphy and Carl do remember who might.

Gabby Clarke, the local eccentric, was caught panning for silver around here a few times. Gabby was a sad case...he'd found the initial silver that got Blackthorn founded, only to have his claim snatched away (along with about a dozen other miners) by trickery by the Wendell Mining company. Since then, he'd been panning up and down Blackthorn creek, trying to find another place he could strike it rich. He kept panning long after the mine closed.

Both of the Dust Adders remember being part of bands sent to clear him off...he remembered the glares Gabby gave him after Gus or Nathanial told him to move along, often with one or two blows in the process.

And they remember that, just a couple weeks ago Gabby, while deep into his cups at the Grand Bull, had bragged about finding something that would "show them all," something that would "bring prosperity back to town," but that he couldn't do nothing until he'd "firmed up his claim."

And then he'd paid for his drink with small chips of Ghost Rock.
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:10, Mon 03 Sept 2012.

Murphy looks at Carl.
"Hey, what about Gabby Clarke? He might have found another way in."

Carl frowns in thought - he'd been musing as much himself, but if there had been any prints from Gabby's mule not washed away by the afternoon's rain the Injuns had probably obliterated them along with their own. They didn't have time to go roust the man out and cajole/beat any information he had from him, not even abandoning their mounts back in town and running a gauntlet of Injuns to secure fresh ones.

[[he has a point, y'know.]]

Think. Keep moving. Carl closes his eyes a moment, maps out the depressions and rises of topography that lie like the knuckles of the land, the cracks, scars and callouses of worked-out ore and abandoned scree and what knowledge he has of the veins of mineral beneath. Last time they'd seen Gabby off he'd been not far north of here, and the time before, coming down out of some scrub cover up that way...Carl pauses at a sudden thought and nods at the creek. "Photographs - waterproof?"

PM
This message was last edited by the GM at 21:50, Mon 03 Sept 2012.

PM PM

In reply to Carl Allans (msg # 29):

"Not sure, Carl. The fancy book man wasn't sure what would help, exactly. Release the essence or something he said. Still, once we have the picture, we can figure that out, I guess."

There's a small nod to indicate Murphy's been heard, then Carl sets the chestnut walking again, heading northward. Keep moving.

"Was a place I found as a kid, got down there by a fault - large enough for a man, jest about. Was old Injun stuff there." But that was in daylight. "Reckon passages off that're likely t'lead unner the mine-" Carl falters, swallows hard on the urge to hyperventilate at the thought of tunnels in the dark, becoming lost, disorientated. (Pa's screams in the throes of delerium tremens, broken glass across the hardpack floor from the lamp. Violence, terror and the dark.)

"-if Gabby ain't gone through the side o' them exactly, could be the Comanch' have knowledge of the Injuns before. We find which way they went," Carl gestures around at the damp, smoky brushwood they're not short of. If the Injuns would sooner suffocate than run/climb out into ambush at that they could take torches in at their leisure.

"Ought leave horses back a way," Carl mentions, since with the recent cold end-of-hibernation weather any pit would be liable to contain vipers.


[[Yeah, we're doomed.]]
This message was last edited by the player at 22:52, Tue 04 Sept 2012.

"That sounds... promising."

Murphy's tone is not exactly enthusiastic.

Carl leads on at a trot, wary and alert. Eighteen years, but he could no more forget the landscape than his own skin: sure, some things changed in the detail like grey hairs suddenly found amidst dark brown, but that ridge, these rocks...and here was where they'd last seen Gabby off from, and still no sign of Injuns.

Down along a low hollow running wet with recent rains, the smell of damp earth and ore trace, the horses snorting reassurances back and forth passing under the darker shadow of rough rock faces. The trail rises a little, turns rocky and ringing underhoof. At last the wrangler halts and dismounts, concentrating on the feel of the ground through boot-soles without socks and not the speeding thud-thud-thud within his chest.

Holding up a hand to signal Murphy should give him jest a minute, Carl takes the rope and paces over to a rocky patch, crouching awhile to orientate himself then moving over to what's clearly a disturbed faultline when he drops to the other side, 18" lower.


[[so, d'you want Survival for torchmaking knowhow, Notice for the right spot to decend when adult-sized, Climb to get far enough down to tell if, well, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClwIj3x24Q4 or...?]]

The crack in the ground has a faint breeze coming from it, rustling the bushes around the edge. The breeze seems to come from below the ground like a damp breath, and the faint wail of rushing air sends gooseflesh rising on the cowbows as they near it. The stones poking around the gap resemble gnarled, broken teeth, like a giant maw ready to bite down on anything that enters it.

((OOC: All three seem like worthy skills to roll, yes. You get a +2 bonus on your climb check for using the rope to descend.))

Carl gestures to Murphy to hitch up and brushes aside the undergrowth, pausing a second to let a spider flee across his hand and abseil into the dark. There's clearly been some human modification to this part the fault untold ages ago, glyphs half-erased by time and seeming like the urgent scrawlings of a madman in the moonlight.

When Irish has caught up, Carl indicates the place and goes to fetch some oilier wood, stripping the top and making a crude well to be stuffed with charcloth, drier scraps of grass and undergrowth and pine pitch, if they're lucky. Another likely bit of wood is prepared for use in case.

Carl looks into the caliginous depths, secures his rope, takes off his coat and heads down at once, as-yet unlit torch through his belt. Not thinking, because if he ever considered going down a hole in the dark, he would become paralysed.
Breathe. Keep moving.


[['k...huh. Apparently being terrified makes Carl good at things (before he starts getting crazy penalties for actually being underground, anyway).
07:04, Today: Carl Allans rolled 2,7 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 3,(6+2)8. torch-fu.
07:06, Today: Carl Allans rolled 19,1 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of (6+6+6+2)20,2. Notice? He's super-observant! Does such a very good place to get down - with Carl's example - help Murps' Climb check any?
07:07, Today: Carl Allans rolled 2,11 using d4+1,d6+1, rerolling max with rolls of 1,(6+4)10. climb! Murphs, if you've got rope there (you ought to with the basic Dust Adder kit, I think) assume he's indicated to bring that, too]]

some mood music

The breathing chasm swallows Carl up, buffeting him about as he descends into the depths. Something slithers across the floor in the pale moonlight from the shaft. The glyphs he passes take on a sinister aspect, as if the mad scribblings of a dead race were trying to warn him of his impending doom.

The chamber seems to be much like he remembers it...glazed pots of intricate design shoved into rough niches in the walls...but there's a major difference now, too. Carl's keen eyes catch spiderweb cracks in the floor of the chamber, hinting at danger. Once false step, and the unwary could break through the floor itself and hurtle down who-knew-how deep.

((OOC: The super-observant lets you notice the unsafe floors of these chasms.))

OOC: I guess now's not the best time to mention that Murphy can't climb?

"Oh, Jesus... that is steep..." Murphy whispers and crosses himself.

What ye gonna do now, lad?

Can't let Carl go alone down there... I'm the one who talked him into it. the Irishman mutters.
He wipes his sweaty hands on his shirt, then gets the rope and ties it around a trustworthy enough looking rock.
He crosses himself and gingerly lowers himself over the ledge.

14:41, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 9,1 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of (4+4+3)11,3. Climbing, unskilled, white chip 2.
14:41, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled -1,0 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of 1,2. Climbing, unskilled, white chip.
14:40, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 0,2 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of 2,4. Climbing, unskilled.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" He exclaims as his arms have to carry the full weight of his body and in a sudden surge of panic he kicks with his feet against the wall, causing a small avalanche of pebbles to rain down on Carl.

"Now look what you've done, you fool!" he mutters to himself and takes a few deep breaths, counting slowly to 10, then he descends, slowly, but steadily.

He's shaking and his shirt his wet from sweat by the time he's down, but he made it.

Carl trusted to his boots against vipers, tapping his heel as hard as he dared against the floor to give the reptiles plenty of time to slither away.

Murphs scattering pebbles across his head and shoulders sends a jolt of raw fear through the wrangler, instincts screaming that this is it, the walls are caving in to crush and mangle and leave half-alive in the darkness, the darkness where- can't breathe...

But Murphy might be in danger.
Keep...
the wrangler reaches for the rope and uses his grip and weight to steady it, even before his brain registers that there is air and ability to move.
...moving.

Carl takes in a long, shuddering breath and sets to lighting the torch as Murphy makes the last few feet, giving him an 'all right?' look and a nod at the destabilised floor.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:23, Sat 08 Sept 2012.

The slithering things glow faintly in the dark...whatever they are, they aren't natural serpents, but Carl isn't able to get a good look at them before they scatter.

((OOC: Using the rope gave Murphy a +2 bonus to his climb check (see posts above), so you made it the first time. I refund your chips. If you want to search the area, make Notice checks.))

Carl casts a glance about for indicators of recent disturbance, just in case, but can't concentrate when it involves the idea of standing still down here.

[[Carl Allans rolled 2,1 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 3,2. Notice? Oh, wait, should that have phobia penalties already? In which case Carl is minus observant...]]

15:21, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 7,2 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 7,2. notice.

As Carl grapples with his terror, Murphy takes his torch around the chamber, making sure to avoid the weak places in the floor. The pots draw his attention first. Made of fired clay, most of the pots have elaborate geometric patterns - zig-zags, concentric squares,  triangles, swirls. The pigments shine in his light, polished to a gleam. There are other items in the niches...bowls, stone knives, arrowheads.

And, in one of the niches, buried in the wall, a skeleton.

Murphy crosses himself.
"Sorry to disturb your peace, brother", he says earnestly.

He carefully touches one of the bowls and grabs an arrowhead.
"What you make of this, Carl? Indian burial ground?"

He tries the point of the arrowhead and shakes his head.
"Wonder if that's why the Comanche went on the war path. If the mine's holy ground to them, they're bound to be unhappy."

Carl looks towards the light and the skeleton currently illuminated by it, pale. (Teeth.)
"Karrencaws. Long gone," he rasps, then frowns a bit at Murphy handling the heathen grave goods.

"Mebbe Snake wants some idol o' their'n," the wrangler allows, looking away from the deceptive flicker of shadow over the bones and flicking the redundant length of rope ready to hand. It's about then he realises he's eaten his grass stem at some point; there's a soft snort at the foolishness as he looks around, then back to Murphy, holding up the end of the free length. "?"

Murphy grabs the rope and looks around.

15:50, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 7,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 7,4. Notice.

"Aye", he replies, then points to a rusted old spike that somebody has thrust into the side of the wall a long time ago. He ties the rope around it and gives it some tugs and pulls.
"That oughta hold. I hope." He grins at Carl, hoping it looks reassuring.

Murphy's grin at Carl is short-lived, as the ground he's standing on suddenly collapses out from under him...

((OOC: Roll Agility at -2, please.))
This message was last edited by the GM at 19:23, Sun 09 Sept 2012.

Carl reacts without thinking, throwing the lit torch into the first passageway, hauling back thattaway and grabbing for the little Irishman in the same movement.

[[20:25, Today: Carl Allans rolled 16,-2 using d10-5,d6-5, rerolling max with rolls of (10+10+1)21,3. floor collapse! That is some raisins, I think - may I share 'em with Murphs?]]

((OOC: Yes. Murphy goes from a -2 to a +2 on his Agility roll))

22:05, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 9,3 using d8+2,d6+2, rerolling max with rolls of 7,1. Agility.

Murphy grabs on to Carl as well and together they stumble backwards.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph...." Murphy says, again, after he caught his breath, the coughs from all the dust around.

[[how much of the floor went, there?]]

Carl is silent and tense as a strung wire, looking off into the dark along the passageway. After several moments of hearing nothing but rockfall, his own heartbeat, laboured breathing and Murphy's coughs, he stoops to hand Murphy the torch. He picks up the man's fallen hat, smacks him upside the head with it and replaces it where it should be, then goes back to listening awhile to be sure the unwary step hasn't attracted unwanted attention.

A bead of sweat shivers its way in starts down his spine as Carl tries his best to pick out the sounds not of their making. Unfortunately, what he's not sure he doesn't hear turns the rapid thudding painful in his chest. There's something out there. There ain't. (Teeth. Finger-bones strung on dried sinews, reaching...the young miner screaming down 7 shaft, lungs emptied over and over in wordless agony, unreachable...prayer faltering to sobs and awful silence beyond the rock.)
O Mary, Mary help me.


[[Carl Allans rolled 1,0 using d6-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 4,3. Notice? Nope. I don't think Carl is going to be noticing anything but 'I'm underground, I can't get away, I'm trying really really hard not to hyperventilate' any time soon, really...]]
This message was last edited by the player at 21:05, Sun 09 Sept 2012.

"Ow", Murphy protests, quietly, "wasn't my fault..."

23:08, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 7,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 7,1. Notice.

He puts on the hat correctly, then peers into the darkness.

Just like that time in Tooreenfineen... With less Bloody Saxons abound, though.

The crumbled section of earth forms a crescent rip three feet wide and almost seven feet long. Murphy can't see the bottom of the hole he nearly fell into, even with his torchlight.

As the echoes of the collapse fade, Murphy could swear he hears slithering from down in the hole, and the faint rattle of angry snakes...it's a good thing he didn't fall in.

Aside from the new hole in the floor, the only way out of the burial chamber is the passageway Carl tossed his light down when he grabbed the Irishman.

And suddenly the pair is aware of more grinding, and the bit of floor they're standing on begins to sag...

Carl gestures for Murphy to take the torch - carefully this time - further along the passageway, hastily leaning around the doorway to reach for and untether the rope before following. They'd use it to mark the next way out. Couldn't be far.

Murphy takes the torch and walks ahead, gingerly as if walking on eggs.
"Don't be afraid of no snakes, Carl. You remember Saint Patrick, don't you? Us Irish have a way with snakes..." He offers his friend a reassuring smile.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:48, Tue 11 Sept 2012.

Carl looks up, bemused, then gives Murphy what might be the trace of a grin. Snakes were one thing he'd never been scared of.

"Rattle end's the tail," he manages, moving past the place his younger self had stood and stared at the darkness, then turned back and run stumbling for the sun. It's something of a running joke: Murphy's first encounter with a rattlesnake had been confusing for all involved.

Carl edges carefully past Murphy so that at least one of them's not getting fire-brightness in their peripheral vision, looping the rope into a coil over his less injured left shoulder. He moves normally, though he's still frog-belly pale and Murphy will hear the ragged edge of someone forcing themselves to breathe deeply whilst the wrangler's close to. Carl nods at the wall, touching it lightly but clearly afraid to tap it. "Don't like close spaces."

Murphy shakes his head. "Why didn't you say so, Carl? Jesus, I wouldn't have said anything about going down here, then." He has an idea and his face lights up with a smile.
"Hah, that's only half the truth isn't it? I knew a feller once, back in the Old Country. Was downright scared when he was inside someplace. But we were always hiding out from the bloody saxons, and you don't do that out in the open, you know? So I ask him, how he does it? And you know what he tells me? 'When I'm in there with friends, it's not so bad', he says. 'It's the being alone with you thoughts that's so bad, when the world's closing in on you', he says."
He stops and grabs Carl's shoulder, the uninjured one, all serious at once.
"Well, mate, you're not alone in here. I'm right with you. We're gonna have it nice and cosy in here, and then we'll be out in the open in a hurry."


OOC: Not sure if there's anything I can do to alleviate Carl's claustrophobia. Persuasion, maybe? Or straight spirit?
22:17, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 6,2 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 6,2. Persuasion?
22:18, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 16,3 using d10,d6, rerolling max with rolls of (10+6)16,3. Spirit.

Carl shrugs a little - it was a good suggestion, though now they'd need to find another exit soon or some way to avoid the Injuns and follow them to theirs.

The phantom pressure on Carl's chest increases as Murphy talks, until Carl has to speak. Oddly, these words come more easily and feel less like bleeding; Carl concentrates on shaping them as he scans the dark ahead. "Cave-in that shut the mine killed 'bout fifty people. Weren't the first time there'd been rockfall - mine always had been dodgy, 's the rock 'round here, but it'd been holdin' well awhile an' Wendell wanted to push on fast t'the heart of the lode, even though there was coal trace 'n firedust comin' up." Carl tries to see where there's no seeing, swallows."Mostly they died together. Friends, strangers, fathers, sons - daughters, in 'least one case...Wendell pulled out in a hurry, no surety, bastards wouldn't even help us dig."

"Was Blackthorn dug for them - everyone, freedmen to Widow Bradshaw, though she passed out early, corset-faints - day'n night, goin' at the rock with picks, barehanded, whatever. Saved some o' them, 'cludin Pa, but only got close enough t'hear the rest die, closest 'bout twice the length I am from you now. Couldn't even hold a lamp up f'them t'pretend it was the sun." Lacking much tone, the speeded rhythm of the tale is all that carries the echo of that awful helplessness and dread of dying closed-in in the dark.

As the floor fees reasonably solid where they're halted, and since no unnameable things appear from the dark ahead, Carl risks a look back at his companion, equally serious. "Ah will not let you die here, an' we'll catch th' shaman if'n it means goin' to the centre of the Earth or all to Hell, that's all. You want t'help, pray for me, 'cause fucked if I remember how."


[[Carl thinks Spirit! ...though maybe Murphy needs that roll for himself to keep from second-hand trauma at the ramble there...not that Carl wasn't claustrophobic before the cave-in, but yeah, dying a terrible terrible death together doesn't help]]
This message was last edited by the player at 22:47, Tue 11 Sept 2012.

The tunnels the pair enter are narrow and twisty. There's struts holding up passages here...this was once part of the mine, the parts that got played out early, it seems, because there's a layer of dust everywhere. The paths cross and recross themselves, turning the area into something of a maze.

((OOC: Make Tracking rolls at -2 please.))

[[07:51, Today: Carl Allans rolled -6,-6 using d4-7,d6-7, rerolling max with rolls of 1,1. white chippit.
07:50, Today: Carl Allans rolled -6,-6 using d4-7,d6-7, rerolling max with rolls of 1,1. trackin'. THE DICE GODS SAY NO. Oh, and naturally those're -8 if the mine itself brings a situational modifier to the claustrophobic one, but it's sort of academic. Didja answer Murphy there?]]

In reply to Carl Allans (msg # 60):

((OOC: I figure that would be something that should be worked out between you and Murphs, as you're both PCs. RP is the best method for that, rather than die rolls.))

[[Righto. Hopefully Murphy'll realise Carl means it, then. What's the tracking penalty for, by the way? Orientation? Dust's a great print-holding surface and we have a free-burning fire hazard light source]]

((OOC: Mostly the penalty reflects the difficulty of orientation and the fact that a lot of these tunnels loop back in on themselves or dead-end, forcing backtracking.))

11:36, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 9,5 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of (4+4+3)11,(6+1)7. Tracking, unskilled white chip.
11:36, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled -1,1 using d4-2,d6-2, rerolling max with rolls of 1,3. tracking, still unskilled.

Murphy hadn't known the particulars of the cave-in... it was a hushed secret, nobody in town liked to talk about it all that much. And he understood why. Best to forget such a thing.
"You're not the only one who lost friends, Carl. It's always tragic. It always hurts. You always feel responsible, even if there was nothing you could have done.
The bloody British", he notably doesn't use "Saxons" there, as he usually does for the English oppressors, "they came one day and busted a few of me mates and meself in a tavern. Blocked the door, then started shooting. So we shoot back. So they..." he smiles a sad smile, "so they start burning it down. Good structure, that tavern. Solid stone walls. Nice thatched roof. Small windows. Only three of us made it out there, Carl. Just the three who was small enough to climb out the chimney. Burnt off me arse hairs, I can tell you that!"
The crude joke is ineffectual in hiding his grief.
"Boy, did I feel guilty. For them to die in such a way and me to live. But you have to carry on, pick yourself up and remember them, honor them. That's what me father used to say. You have to trust an Irishman on this, Carl. We know loss and sorrow.
Wasn't too long before a garrison of the British burned down. Bad storm, they say it was. Bad storm. Gave them lots of trouble finding recruits after that, too."

He nods, his lips tight, then breaks into a smile again at Carl's promise not to let him die down here. "Didn't plan on dying down here or up there anytime soon, mate. Got a beautiful daughter and another kid on the way. Flora would kill me if I'd die, you know. Trust me, you don't want to see her get mad. Wouldn't like her when she's angry, me Flora. But I'll be happy to pray with you."

He kneels down and holds out a hand for Carl to do the same. It takes a while, but when it becomes clear that Murphy won't relent, he follows suit.
Murphy takes Carl's hand and prays a Hail Mary, waiting for Carl to repeat line after line.
After that, he gets up and points into the darkness. "I think that tunnel turns about back to where we came... better to go there, don't you think?"

Carl gives Murphy a look that's hard to read, though it's not the feral blankness that occasionally stares back from Carl's direction. Inwardly, he's bemused one of his own would take him for a man shackled to his own grief...but then a lot of the town assigned him his father's traits, and words never were his strength. Perhaps he should still feel guilt, though a quick search of his soul doesn't find any, just horror, fear and traces of bitterness against all owners of mines.

He resolves to remember Murphy's story the same way he'd take in one of Charlie's, even though he'd be liable to point at Norway if asked to find England on a map and in ignorance assign the Irish all the British Isles. Enslaved by a Queen and then by the Yanks, it wasn't much of a life the Feen had had elsewhere. The comment on Flora gets a soft snort, but the marriage-bond is something for which Carl has the utmost respect. She'll get him back. Ranger, you'd better be there helping her.

Carl is biddable, though tense, and Murphy will feel the tremor in the other man's fingers peak and finally lessen as he stumbles through the prayer. He remains on the floor a few moments as Murphy gets up, clenching his fist against the surge of panic as he realises he's lost all sense of direction underground.

"Shaman won't be back there. Dint come in this way or near it; they'll have got in where Gabby did, past th' cave-in." Trust Murphy. Carl forces himself to calm enough to map the ground - tons of ground - above them, calculate distances by the Irishman's estimation, then points away from possible escape and safety, deeper into the dark.

Some Mood Music

The sharp-eyed Murphy manages to lead his friend through the tunnels. After about half an hour, the duo find their way into caves Carl can recognize better.

Occasionally, the pair hear something slithering in the darkness...it's too deep and too cold for snakes, but that's exactly what it sounds like...

((OOC: Roll Notice, please))

22:15, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 3,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3,4. Notice.

[[21:05, Today: Carl Allans rolled -2,1 using d6-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 1,4. with the white chippit of annoyance. Phobia back down to Minor levels thanks to murphs, but still rolling like a brick...]]

some mood music

Murphy turns around at the sound of scales on rock, and spies two sinuous shapes rearing up behind him, hissing and rattling their tales. They look exactly like rattlesnakes, except for the horns protruding from their heads and the faint reddish glow from their scales...

((OOC: Draw for initiative!

Spirit snakes: 10H))
This message was last edited by the player at 08:01, Thu 13 Sept 2012.

[[Carl Allans drew the single card: AS ]]

13:34, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: JD using the Deadlands system. Initiative.

Turn Order:
Carl: AS
Murphy: JD
Snakes: 10H

Carl looks back at the rattling and shrugs the rope off his shoulder to take a semi-experimental cast at the devil-snakes.

[[18:52, Today: Carl Allans rolled 1,-2 using d10-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 4,1. white chippit of annoyance. Last impulsive chip, I swear...he's mostly seeing how they react, since they're not quite like real snakes.
init. 7C ]]

The snakes slither through the rope without being noticeably slowed. It's hard to catch a long sinuous object with another long, sinuous object.

---

Murphy is up next!

Murphy tuggs on the small silver cross he wears on a necklace around his neck.
"Holy Jesus on his cross..." he whispers, then takes a step forward.
"I am Patrick of Ireland! I have banished you from the Emerald Isle, and now I banish you from these caves!"

Yes, a stupid idea, he knew. But what else was he supposed to do against spirit snakes than pit his wit against theirs?


15:02, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 6,5 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 6,5. Smarts Trick, White chip.
15:02, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 2,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 2,1. Smarts Trick.
Stray, if you rather see this as persuasion - same dice.


15:03, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: 9C using the Deadlands system. Initiative.

Edit: activating Arcane Inspiration, the Protection Power.
09:40, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 11,5 using d10+2,d6+2, rerolling max with rolls of 9,3. Spirit!



This message was last edited by the player at 07:42, Sat 15 Sept 2012.

At the sight of the cross, the snakes writhe and hiss, but they also halt.

"Impudent!" One of them hisses. "Vile! These halls belong to Tezcatlcoatl, not your white god!"

The snakes slither together, entwining about. It looks almost as if they're doing some obscene serpentine mating dance. Two twists of smoke form around them, caress them...and then vanish. The snakes peal apart, looking around the tunnel in apparent confusion, their tales rattling angrily.

"You have won this round. You will win no more. Mictlantecuhtli shall take you to his solemn realm!"

With that dire pronouncement, the serpents slither back where ever it was they came from, vanishing from view like the mist they'd conjured.

((OOC: Mirror Serpent's Brood rolled 4,3 using d6,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 4,3. Resisting magic. They fail it, so they can attack, but since they can summon other snakes, they thing that perhaps they can bring in more, and see if these serpents can do what they can't.

Mirror Serpent's Brood rolled 2,3 using d6,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 2,3. Look, mummy! More snakes! That's a fail for both. Looks like Saint Patrick really can eject the snakes from here...))

Carl watches all the strangeness in stoic silence...which lasts about three seconds after the devil-snakes disappear before becoming a mirthful silence. Carl eventually leans on the wall, helpless with about equal parts soundless laughter and soundless 'ouch' at the effect on the injuries across his ribs.
"..."

Murphy grins wider than ever and turns around to Carl.
"Hah! I can't believe that worked!"

He kisses the cross,then makes the sign of the cross himself.
"Sweet and holy St. Patrick! I shall offer all all the candles in Father O'Rourke's church for you!"

Carl semi-seriously holds up a finger in an 'except one'/'not all' gesture - it wouldn't do to slight the little church's patron (and the patron of all miners) underground, if only for form's sake - then claps Murphy on the shoulder, grinning. Whether it was the cross or the invocation, someone was looking out for them, and the challenge from the heathen devil-snakes alone showed they were on the right track.

The wrangler waves "Saint Paddy" back into motion once they've both got a hold of themselves, clearly in better spirits. If Heaven and the holy saints preserve them so far as getting out, the Irishman is likely to get more than a few drinks coming his way for the tale.

some mood music

The duo move into more familiar caves. Deathly familiar for Carl...he knows he's been here before now. Just a bit further, just another turn, and they'll reach it...the heart of the mine.

The chamber here is huge. Four separate shafts intersect intersect at this cavern...Murphy and Carl have come through the southernmost shaft.

The northernmost shaft is blocked by debris. Piles of stones still linger, despite the best efforts of the rescuers, so long ago. The piles are larger than Carl remembers, though, and there are more supports in place. There's a mine cart half-full of rock near the blocked passage, and signs of fresh pick work. Something dark sparkles in the torchlight.

There are a few unlit lanterns ringing the cavern. It looks like most of them still have oil and can be lit.

((OOC: So...what next? There are two open passages, one leading left and one leading right. There's the cave-in itself, which has sparklies of some kind still gleaming in the wall...right next to the blockage. You could, conceivably, try to clear the blockage...or you can just search the area.))

Visibly tensing as he fights down sudden nausea, Carl sets about collecting all the oil that can reasonably be reached in one lantern, pausing often to listen with the air of being ready to run like hell.

[[23:38, Today: Carl Allans rolled 1,1 using d6-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 4,4. Notice? Nope.]]

They must've got turned around in the tunnels a bit to end up here rather than further northeast. Carl strains to hear anything definite over the thud of blood in his ears, but the echoes are deceptive. There might be anything out there.

Bone burns.

A thought to hold on to. Carl stays a moment on a pile of stones, trying to ignore the rock above, every hair of his skin trying to stand on end, listening.

00:30, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 5,2 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 5,2. Notice.

Murphy looks at Carl, cocking his head. "What was that?"

Sounded like a rattling, but it was just a pebble dislodged by Carl pulling lamps down. Most of the lamps are half full...it doesn't take long for Carl to get his lamp full and lit, and to prepare a second lamp for Murphy so they two don't have to carry open flames.

The sparkles in the wall are small white specks set in a dark stone...Ghost Rock! This looks like the place where the bushwhackers were set mining the wall...there's fresh score marks here, less than a week old. It looks like some effort was put into clearing the cave-in...the lamplight flickers as the pair look at the blockage, indicating a breeze from the rocks. Air is getting through the blockage.

Carl straightens where he sits, holding his breath and looking the same way as Murphy, every fibre of him ready to pelt it back into the leaner shafts, away from potential dust.

[[23:56, Today: Carl Allans rolled -1,2 using d6-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 2,5. listenin'. Still nothing doing...]]

Carl's not eager to have more than one flame using air at once, but accepts the lit lamp. The odd, jarringly organic little noise has started up again and Murphy might notice, after a couple of tense halts, that it's actually the wrangler himself, unconsciously grinding his teeth for want of any reachable source of fear.

The Dust Adder indicates the flickering of the light in patches, feeling very sick, but can't seem to bring himself to touch the still-packed stone of the rockslide.

Murphy eyed the Ghost Rock veins wearily. Sure, there were untold riches, but he didnt care. Much. The mineral had a strange appeal and he reached out a hand, slowly.
Then something screams in the back of his head and he pulled his fingers back, real quick.

"Alright, alright,..." he mutters. Then, to Carl: "I think we should be extra-careful with open fire around here. You think there's an opening up there? I might be able to squeeze through."

Carl nods, then holds up his lantern as enough light and offers Murphy his rain-damp handkerchief as a snuff if the man's in need of something to put the torch out with.

"First sign o' boney walker, we run back that way," he says, not a plan but a statement. Fire was the only weapon against that one, but fire near Rock dust was a mix for a sudden lack of coastal Texas. "Reckon Snake c'n keep it down but not control it - ain't bin attacked, Injuns might be close."

The idea of crawling through tiny spaces draws a helpless shudder down Carl's spine and he swallows on the surge of terror. Dry heaves would be about the least help down here. "'ll come," he manages, casting the light on where the blockage is probably thinnest (Pleas for light, prayers running down to mumbles, Home In Glory, and in the background always the screams) but indicates his ear to draw attention to their first warning of trouble. There were still dead back there, as well as red men.

The Ghost Rock vein sparkles, but even a quick glance from someone with a trained miner's eye can see that it's not large, and might produce maybe a few pounds of the stuff per day spent chipping at it. Of course, the closer the vein gets to the cave-in, the larger it is, and a lot of effort has been spent clearing it up.

There are holes in the rubble. Small holes, to be sure, but holes nonetheless. Not large enough for a full grown man to pass through, however. It would take at least a few hours working at the rocks to get a hole wide enough to wiggle through, if it's just the two of them working.

((OOC: Do you want to split the 4 man-hours it'll take to clear the blockage between the two of you?))

"I had not expected to go into the mining business... Flora's going to have me head if I rip this shirt..."

He looks at Carl. "Think we got time or should we try to find some other way? I'd hate to dig through all this and then find out the Comanches have already attacked the town."



OOC: Yeah, 4 hours seems a looooong time. Isn't the fight in full swing already? Or are Carl and me lagging behind?

((OOC: From where you guys are now, the fight will already be over, for better or worse. You and Carl are about an hour ahead of the rest of the group, considering the time it took you to get to the mine in the first place and the time you spent in the maze of tunnels.))

Hmm... still. Gotta take care of that shaman and the picture.

Murphy unbuttons his vest and shirt and puts them on a clean(ish) rock in the mine.
"I won't hear the end of it from me Flora if I rip that shirt", he explains.

Carl sets the lantern down and tries listening to the rock of the tunnel floor itself, but can't make anything of that, either.

[[yeah, there was a lunchtime roll there that also failed, and he's on the verge of going all -5 on me again...but then "Saint Paddy"'s about with a ready supply of Murphy Slaps, so it's all good...]]

He shrugs a little at the question of time, not uncaring - Hell no - but since the only other way to reach the same spot as Gabby would be to go out, trek back where they started from on foot and search all over the hillside again or wander taking potluck down the tunnels - not a thought Carl was going to dwell on - the time difference isn't so great. So long as the town's defenses held, they held.

He'd rather have more reassurance they were near the shaman than simply not being attacked by the blasphemous collection of Christian bones and the fear, fury and despair that seemed to have stayed in the walls of this place, but you worked with what you had. Carl looks at his own mangled shirt, removes his weaponry and boots (made for riding), and rolls the sleeves.


[[Anything we can do to lessen the time? Also, if there's any kind of overhang or unstable shale at all Carl'll want to get it propped - anything down there from the Yanks' efforts?]]

((OOC:

@Murphy - Indeed. It's quite important to catch up with the Shaman.

@Carl - Yes, get more people. It's 4 man-hours, which means that more people working on the blockage will shorten the time (you'll clear it in 2 hours between the two of you). This whole mine was built assuming around 4-5 PCs going through it, and the challenges just get harder from here.

But as for the Yankee efforts, that's why it's been cleared enough to actually get through in a few hours, as opposed to a few days.))

[[Ha! That's a strange thing to build a mine for...och, they'll catch up. Fetching anyone would take as long anyway. Besides, Carl and Murphy are a perfect team for this, claustrophobia aside: anything large and fiendishly powerful will inevitably attack Carl, leaving Murphy free to present himself and scare away any injuns and smaller boojums the way he does best...

I meant more in the way of "any propping material about".]]

((OOC: Ah. Yes, there's propping material there...that's part of the time spent. There's no roll required here...just need you to tell me if you're going to spend the time or not. Looks like the pair of you are determined to go at this, but I'll wait for Murphy to confirm.))

sure, lets do this!

((OOC: So...do you want me to move this thread forward, or wait until the various combat threads are resolved to see who might join you while the two of you are working?))

OOC: I'm fine with putting this thread on hold for a few days to see how it goes. The only question is: Do we expect any help to come?

[[What he said. Carl doesn't expect anyone to turn up, at least.]]

((OOC: Wildcat knows the two of you went off to chase down the Comanches and might send people your way. They'd know that, at least.))

((OOC: Carl had a suggestion that I liked...while you guys are busy moving stones, why don't we run an Interlude? Draw a card, which will set the tone of the interlude. At the end, I'll let you have your choice of a free fate chip or free adventure card. That way we can delve into the backstory of the characters a bit and not have these two characters silent for a while.))

15:49, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: 4C using the Deadlands system. interlude.

Murphy: Clubs are a Tragedy.

Describe a tale of tragedy or misfortune from your hero’s past, featuring one of his Hindrances if possible. If the teller has a dark secret of some kind, hint strongly at it, drop clues, or otherwise give the rest of the group a glimpse into your hero’s dark side during your narrative.

Perhaps you can feed me some bits from Murphy's outlaw past? Or something to do with the rebellion he was involved in?

Carl: Spades are a Victory.

Tell the group about a great victory or personal triumph in your adventurer’s past. How did it affect him afterward? Was there a reward?

What about rescuing Jesse from his potential date with the hemp necktie? Or something from Carl's militia days?

After an hour or so of back-breaking work, Murphy's body is covered in sweat and grime. He staggers a few steps down and finds the little flask in his vest pocket, taking a quick sip, then apparently has a different idea and takes a rather large swig, making him cough.

"Oy, and you used to do this sort of thing for a living, did you? Danger is double, pleasures are few wasn't nearly as figurative as I thought it was. Mind if we take a short break?"
He offers the flask to Carl.

"Can't be good for your wounds, either, mate. Figure we'll still catch that bloody shaman? We'd better be, I'm not moving the whole mountain for damn nothing."
He grins and chuckles, then takes another sip.

The two spend a few minutes in silence until Carl, quite uncharacteristically is the first to break silence, asking Murphy why's he always in such a good mood.

That seems to sober up the Irishman.
When he speaks again, it's in a quiet soft voice.

"Me father took me and me brothers to meetings of the Brotherhood when we were wee lads. Michael, the youngest, he was just four. We never liked the Saxons, you know? Too pompous and all. But the Brotherhood, they taught us to hate them. Told us all about them, too. How they were raping and pillaging all of Ireland. About that Bastard Cromwell. That's with a capital B, mind you, mate.
So a few years later, when I was maybe 14, Micky was around 12. And John must've been 16, we all were itching to show it to Bloody Saxons. We helped with bombs, fixing the fuses and that. Small hands were usefull for that, you see? But one day, just being in the background wasn't enough for us. Johnny had stolen a pistol off of a drunk British soldier in a tavern. He used to help out there with the dishes and such. So one day, we thought, we'd kill us some Saxons, start the great uprising on the Emerald Isle and be heroes to be sung about for centuries. You know, boys' dreams."

He takes another sip from the bottle. "Guess it doesn't matter what happened. We failed, of course. Johnny got one in the leg, but the rest of them, oh, they came after us like bloody hounds after a wounded fox. We ran into the woods, then split up. Johnny went one way, and me and Mickey, we went that way. Told us we'd meet up again down at the creek.
We knew the place. Got there, waited for an hour. Johnny didn't show."

Another sip. "Now, you can't let your brother just disappear and never have him seen again. We knew the Saxons had him, but we had to see, too. Maybe free him. Told you, young heroes and all.
We did find them. They were in a little glade, not too far away. They'd bound Johnny to a tree and took turns beating him. Five of the Saxons. Even brought the wounded man in a cart, his leg bound up. Guess the bullet had just grazed him.
But, you know, in the cart, they had boxes of ammunitions, too. And I thought maybe a rifle. So I tell Mickey to stay put while I go around and get behind the cart. Then things turned ugly."

Again he takes a long sip and tears are in his eyes. His voice almost breaks when he continues.
"So I make it round the glade when the bastards - no capital B this time, mate, they were just regular Saxons - they start stringing Johnny up. His face was a bloody pulp and there was foam at his nose when he was breathing. But he was still still breathing. They put a noose around his neck and pull him up a tree branch, legs kicking and all, when little Mickey comes running out with a stick, charging at the Saxons. They let Johnny go and laugh, then Mickey swings his stick right between the legs of the first soldier, hitting him square in the balls. Another grabs him and he bites him.
Then a third one shoots Mickey right through the heart.
That's when time slowed to a crawl, mate. I froze there, couldn't move a finger. The fourth was their sergeant or something. Had a saber and he went over and cut Johnny's throat."

A tear runs down his face.
"I had matches in my hand. Didn't even notice that before. I lit one up and threw it into the cart. There were rifles and ammo there. And hay. Lit right up. The wounded man on the cart yelled and the others came closer. I ducked back and somebody saw me and instead of pulling the guns out of the fire, they start shooting at me. I just ducked behind a tree. Then I hear that big explosion and a wave of heat washes over me. Ammo blew up. Blew up quite nicely. Didn't kill them all at once, but they were all caught in the blast."

There's a heavy sigh. "That was a real good saber", he then says.
"I was sitting in the grass, holding me brothers, crying like a little babe. Not sure what to do next. Couldn't let them lie there. Couldn't carry them. Couldn't bury them. Night came and I was still sitting there.
Then the most peculiar thing happened. The little folk had heard me crying all the time and they came to me, comforted me. A little fairie kissed me and took away me tears. Haven't felt like that never again until I met me Flora."

He smiles, the sadness seems to fall off of him like a heavy coat casually dropped over a chair.

"They said since I was so loyal to me brother, they'd help me to never be sad again. Did more than that, too. Helped me build a little stretcher and I put me brothers on it and dragged it back home. Me mother was crying her eyes out for days. Me father slapped me twice in the face, but he was proud about the five Saxons. 'That's still three in our favor, son', he'd say. Me father always kept count of everything.
Ever since then, I try to find the good in any situation. Most of the times I can. Sometimes it just takes a little harder trying."

He stands back up, groaning. "Come on, these bloody rocks aren't moving themselves. Pity, really."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:37, Mon 01 Oct 2012.

Carl shakes his head, accepting the flask and taking a long, hard blink at the taste of fierce poteen. "Worked horses since I was jest barely thirteen - if'n Pa knew I was down here, he'd level Comanch' right 'n left to come drag me out."

There's a small twist of smile as he returns the liquor - if Murphy's ever made the connection between Carl and the violent old miner occasionally found roaring at people in front of the Red Eye or sending the neighbours running for cover with various missiles out at the edge of the original settlement, the image is quite terrifying. Carl's slightly amused to see Murphy start at his look as though disturbed by an audible question, but his face becomes serious and attentive as the tale unfolds.

The wrangler listens - something he's good at, perhaps better than most - and hears and commits to memory the names and deeds of boys he never knew. A brother's death in battle was a sacred thing, after all. As an uneducated man it never occurs to him to question the appearance of the Good Folk, accepting the tale as it's told without judgement or comment. Murphy does get a clasp of the forearm only half-disguised as a hand up, though, Carl's look an assurance that no matter how hard it gets Murphy is not and will never be alone whilst a Dust Adder draws breath.

The two fall back into a working rhythm; Carl watches Murphy’s hands and forearms as rock is pulled and passed and propped, concentrating on the shape and weight of each boulder - not the stone overhead, never the stone overhead - and ever alert to any sound of movement other than their own. The lantern flickers just slightly, drawing Carl’s thoughts to the little Feen’s tale of murdered brothers and comrades smothered and burnt alive: it was grief he understood and respected, but he was aware the other man’s sorrow went deeper than he could know. All those dead, all that working and cursing and pleading to God, and only exile to show for it. Carl couldn’t imagine how a man drew breath with that and his heart not bleed away, kowie-nookshas or no.

Reckon this country would’ve gone a little crazy if we’d lost the war he muses. With all that Yankee propaganda about Abolition, from about halfway in until it was clear the Lee Plan was achieving emancipation without gross destruction, Carl figured they’d have had to replace the word ‘negro’ with ‘tree ornament’. Assured of God on their side wherever they invaded, He alone knew who the Yanks would have thrown their conscripts at next - The Sioux, the French, the King of Siam? The thought stirs up a memory, clear as the air that day, sharp in the lungs with the scent of dry grass and warm horse:

Percy riding over the ridge at a gallop, the dust smoking behind the figure of low-crouched boy and mount, stark against the tawny hills and a sky so blue its vast perfection could not help but squeeze the heart. The cattle Carl was checking up on startled at the hollering and drummed themselves in a short-lived clumsy thundering into the vale before the kid's shouts became intelligable:

"Carl! Carl! It's over! We did it! We aren't rebels any more, we're citizens of our own free nation..." The boy had drawn to a halt as Carl eased his grip from the ancient gun that lived slung over Hoss' pommel, in case he had to go make like an army at no notice.
"?"
"...a ceasefire, but they're withdrawing all over - they're going home!"

Percy had looked quite daft and very young, his face pink and hair all-which-way from plunging off without a hat. Then in the distance, as the wind bought it, the church bell ringing. Independence. Carl had indicated they should swap horses if the lad meant to ride crazy all round the ranch and looked back to the landscape, not daring to believe because hope bit so keenly it stung his eyes.

The cows wandered, grass bowed in rippling waves, seeds drifted in the breeze and high overhead one hawk called for another in a tongue not even Injuns knew. Nothing had changed, except everything. Victory.

((OOC: These are excellent. Both of you may pick your choice of Adventure Card or Fate Chip. Do you want to do another interlude for more chips/cards?))

Murphy's got plenty of chips so I'll take the adventure card... and I wouldn't mind another interlude, at least if it's not again a tragedy. :-)
And yes, I'm changing Murphy's OOC color. Orange and Coral are too close for my eyes.

22:19, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: 3C using the Deadlands system. Interluding Interlude.
Ugh. Another tragedy, I take it? I'd rather pass. Murphy starts sounding more morose than William.

22:21, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: AS using the Deadlands system. Adventure card.  That's the Ace card!


This message was last edited by the player at 20:23, Tue 02 Oct 2012.

((OOC: Go ahead and redraw, then. Draw until you don't have a club.

Same for Carl...draw until you have something other than a spade.))

22:50, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: KH using the Deadlands system. Another interlude.
22:50, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: 8C using the Deadlands system. Another interlude.

((OOC: Hearts — Love: Speak fondly of the character’s greatest love—lost, found, or waiting on him back home. What is her name? Where does she live? Why is the traveler not with her now?))

[[Aw, c'mon, don't y'all want to hear about the time Carl "defeated" a train? Heh...as a note, my internets are frayed and slow today.

21:34, Today: Carl Allans drew the single card: KC using the Deadlands system. interlude, maybe.

Hmm... *headscratch*]]

Minutes blur, the pair working quickly. Keeping mostly silent now in case it turned out there were natives within earshot of their echoes, the darkness overhead starts to weigh on Carl. He concentrates on the work and the sting of sweat against various injuries, trying to think of anything but being surrounded by rock like a flea in a fold of the Earth's own fist, or how much air they have.

Carl tries to trick his mind into believing the darkness above was just piled wood, dense but safe...which took him again to wondering where the yellow dog he'd run with as a child went.

The smell of drying wood, bark and boy and fur, the arm he could move without pain driving a long needle to the elbow buried in the dog's coarse ruff. Both of them staring, eyes and ears upward as Pa raged and struck the logs about overhead, Buff's fangs a long bared gleam in the dark. Boy and dog had dug another way out long since, in case the bottle demon ever got far enough to get its steely-like claws on their hid hides, but it didn't usually go at the woodpile more than ten minutes together.

Roaring blurred into a vaguely obscene noise as the bottle demon withdrew, doubtless off to attack some furniture. The sound of splintering made Carl glad he'd got out of the tiny, confined cabin with its trap-corners and had time enough to untie Buffalo, who stayed hitched outdoors at night ever since the 'wretchid part-coyote mongrel' had tried to maul Pa in defense of Carl. The boy shivered at the memory of true murder burning in the brutes' eyes and nudged space enough to curl with his just-barely-a-dog as a pillow. At length the two beneath the woodpile slept, the drunkard's scarcely human howling just a distant storm.

There was another attack on the woodpile hours later, a uncertain half-dream of smashed glass and pleading...then later still, more pleading, this time with enough aching remorse that Carl waited until the last word had cracked away to nothing, awake, then slowly - so slowly Buff would not wake and the snores against the pile outside confirmed his father slept - shifted to wriggle belly-down one-handed from his refuge. Carl then set his back to Pa's side to keep him from falling in the mud, and dozed.

The next he'd known was light, and a hand reaching for his face. Carl had flinched, then stared up, wary and silent, as yet oblivious to the bruise purpling his cheekbone save as a stiffness under the skin. Pa didn't ask if his only son was frightened of him: that unconscious movement had said everything.

What happened next left stabbed at Carl's heart across Time, because Pa's eyes - striking, pale eyes, but not grey like his mother's - had got bright and filled with tears. It was an awful thing, to be ten years old and see your father cry.

"I won't never see her again," Pa had whispered, running his hand over a toppled log because he didn't dare touch his son. "-boy, I'm a-goin' to Hell." Carl had heard the anguish in that voice, but even then he knew that it was no apology, just an assurance of punishment. Pa would fight the Bottle Demon again and again, until he was so worn down as a mortal man he would lose, and Carl would likely wind up whipped black and blue again, if not beat insensible.

The boy knew by now, however, that being punished had little link to deservin', and that though Pa was not the world's best father, kin was kin, and Saul Allans was the only Pa was his. It wasn't much of a descision to make, for all Carl loved his mother (safe now, and if she could be anything but a saint, beyond the world of sinning) and wasn't keen on hidings.
"Then I'll go to Hell with you, Pa," he'd said, and made up a hug as best he could with one arm shooting pain and an awkward position in the mud.

He could tell that Pa was shocked, but what was there to say? At last the big man just put an arm around his skinny frame and held tight, warmth surrounding Carl along with the wretched stench of sweat, smoke, staleness and alcohol. Pa's scent. As the light grew and the tension eased, the miner started to sing, quite softly as he had when Carl was a tiny dark-headed scrap of a child:

#...There's darkness down the mine, my darlin'
dirt and dampness in the deep
And your daddy works the mine, my small one,
so we get our place to sleep

Sleep before the moon comes, wake before the dawn
And then it's to the mine I'm bound
We'll walk in the meadow and mists above
And you'll never have to go, underground

There's danger down the mine, my darlin'
Three-foot seams're plenty tight
And your daddy works the mine, my small one,
for our heat, our lamp, our light

Sleep before the moon comes, wake before the dawn
And then it's to the mine I'm bound
We'll walk in the meadow and mists above
And you'll never have to toil, underground

There's ghosts all down the mine, my darlin'
but I'll not let them have thee
When your daddy quits the mine, my small one,
we'll go off and sail the sea

Sleep before the moon comes, wake before the dawn
And then it's to the mine I'm bound
We'll walk in the meadow and mists above
And you'll never have to die, underground...#

Carl finds he's whistling softly under his breath, unsure whether it makes him comforted or sad. Still no clue what happened to Buff, though. He was pretty sure that Pa would have told him if he'd killed or eaten the dog - their relationship was often strained, but it had never been dishonest.


[[Carl Allans, defining 'crazy loyal' since 1859...]]
This message was last edited by the player at 18:20, Sun 07 Oct 2012.

OOC: That is awesome. So...Murphy? where are you on your interlude?

Been awfully busy these last few days...

Murphy's laboring alongside Carl for days - or so it seems. His thoughts jump here and there, never settling on any specific memory.
He takes a short break to wash down the dust with a few sips of his bottle and his wedding ring clinks softly against the flask. He taps it a few more times against it, a smile creeping on his face.

Oh, Flora,...
He had fallen under her spell the moment he'd laid eyes on her. The others had made fun of him, of course. Well, not all the others, Billy was usually too serious for that.
She flirted with him, of course, but she didn't take him serious. Just another suitor who'd fallen for her, easy to manipulate.
That changed when the barkeep had slapped her around in public. A few days later, the barkeep was hanging naked upside down from the balcony.
And then they'd taken off. Well, it hadn't been quite that easy, with the Major asking for 5 grand in exchange for Flora, money Murphy neither had nor intended to pay.
But then again, it hadn't been that hard, either. That they'd send Billy after them had been a godsend. Under all his rough exterior, he had a big soft heart.
For a second he wondered whatever happened to the surly gunslinger.

But then his thoughts were back to Flora. His Flora. His beautiful Flora. She had changed his life. Well, enabled him to change his, leave all the pain and death behind. After leaving his friends and family behind in Ireland, Flora had been a new home for him.
Ironic, considering she was Scottish-German and not from the Old Country. His mother would drop dead if she knew.

She had given him a gorgeous daughter in Rose and soon they would have a second kid. A boy, maybe. Little Michael, perhaps?

And now they were in danger. And he was slacking off here.
He chortled a laugh, then slapped his face, playfully, like Flora sometimes did when she was pretend-angry at him.

Back to work!

Observing Murphy awhile when he finds he's working alone, Carl gently takes the flask and checks Paddy's focus on it waved this way and that. Then gives a small nod, satisfied, and gives it back to him. "..."

Couldn't resist this for the Mood Music...

Some serious progress has been made, and it looks like it won't be long now before the two Dust Adders clear the path.

((OOC: Did you want a chip or a card, Murphy? Also, do the two of you want to do another round of Interludes?))

I'll take another adventure card...
19:59, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: QH using the Deadlands system. Adventure card.

I'll go an update the appropriate thread.

I'll have a go with another interlude:

20:00, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: AD using the Deadlands system. Interlude, got H before.
19:59, Today: Mad Irish Murphy drew the single card: 5H using the Deadlands system. Interluding.

D? What's that?
It'll might take me till next week. Got to prepare a speech for Sunday and it'll eat the time for longer posts.

((OOC: Diamonds—Desire: Tell a tale about something your hero wants (or already has). It might be a material possession, recognition, a political goal, or even a trip he wishes to take to some amazing destination.

If you want to discard the card you drew and redraw to something more useful, I have no problem with that.))

[[ Yesterday Carl Allans drew the single card: AH using the Deadlands system
- whilst avoiding another club, 'cause Carl's "normal" is so screwed up tragedy is hard. I got somewhat crazy from analysing 1,124 fragments of mostly cattle bone inspired! Though I suppose this sort of counts as tragedy, too.]]


Murphy idly playing with his wedding band brings Carl's thoughts around to the man's family. Flora was all that was right with a woman, for sure - even loved Paddy enough to give him food made with her own hands, no reason. What is that like, to be loved so much?

It wasn't often Carl regretted that he'd been a stranger to courtin', but he did rarely chance to wonder. Thing was, the only woman he could ever picture wanting to marry was Blossom, and he knew that wasn't right. The wrangler had always figured God wouldn't make the races different if'n He wanted them to mix-breed; it hadn't bothered him when he was damned for sure, but now... Carl frowns a little, shifting rock. He'd have to ask the priest.

It wasn't that he loved her, exactly: Carl didn't know what love of the marriage kind was supposed to feel like, but his gut knew it wasn't possible to give to something owned, like a horse or a slave, no matter how close you got. If she was free...if her body was hers to give, not rented for her nearness (the fucking thrown in to keep the transaction honest, because hope could be poison in a brothel. They held to idle dreams in the hours he paid for her to sleep, hid them in the folds of sheets and the ceiling-cracks of filthy rooms, because that was safe)...he would like to meet her then. Then he might love her.

Carl allowed himself to imagine how it'd go, in spite of death stretching lazily around like a plump harlot herself. He'd haggle and pay and force as need was, and they'd throw her out to him, wary-eyed and uncertain. He'd give her such funds as were left and take her down to the nearest settlement where her own kind dwelled,  on a spare horse (providing she didn't run) with an old saddle. He pictured her sitting awkwardly astride, frowning as a gritty wind toyed with loose tendrils of her hair. He'd motion she was free to go...and then she'd smile, truly, believing. Joy in its purest form touching the earth.
God could keep all His angels if he could see that.

Then, because it was just wishing and because he had seen flashes of her will even in her whoredom, startlingly strong, Carl imagined her laughing and slapping Hoss along, urging her mount after...and they'd come home to Blackthorn. He'd find her somewhere to stay, somewhere to work - something with her hands so she could have a trade, or maybe with the horses.

After seven months - he figured it would take that long, two seasons to understand being free and wear away the idea of there being any debt or expectation - maybe she'd come out and take a deep breath of a wet spring like this of an evening, all in a work dress or maybe in trousers, but beautiful.

Then she'd see him, and raise a hand, all serious, asking him with her gaze: do you still want me? ...and he'd take and kiss those slender fingers, taste his hometown's dirt in the ridges of her skin. Telling her yes, forever. She'd pull him in, over to whatever pallet or awkard, narrow, maiden's bed she'd slept in and...they'd be married in the sight of God, at least.

Carl shakes his head slightly and thinks about Old Carson's horse, who had the poll evil. So long as the old man kept scraping the pus and boiled the water with the walnut leaves as per demonstration, the mouldy bread charm should heal the sores and save the beast. Carl didn't trust Carson, however, and suspected he'd left the poor gelding in halter too long...another reason to make it out of here.

...not that he was sure that Chinese whore would still be there or even alive if he got to the railhead this summer. He'd found her the last time she'd been sold, though - finding out 'Peach Blossom' was simply slang for 'whore', or specifically 'frequently-scrubbed cunt' in Chinese in the process. Moving rocks in the flickering dark with little chance of seeing tomorrow's sun, he wished he knew her name.

((OOC: Awesome. Card or chip?))

Thinking about Flora had helped to pass the time while Murphy and Carl had moved half the damn mountain.
"Christ on his cross", he laments as he pushes a particularly heavy rock down the slope, "aren't we through yet?"

If there was a pot of gold down there, somewhere, that what'd he be wishing for, anyway.
Fucking leprechauns never showed up when you needed them, though.

Murphy reflects upon this notion a little. There had been a time, when all he ever wanted was a free Ireland. Free from Saxon occupation, anyhow. Sure, he had been born and raised into the Brotherhood, but the wish for freedom was in his blood.
And while he still wanted a free and indipendet Eire, he hadn't done anything towards that goal for a few years now.
It wasn't the interrogation by that buffoon. That's quite the conundrum, my dear chap.
It hadn't been the death of his father. The flight to Germany, then the States, neither. There had been that incident with that Saxon colonel, on route to New York, to prove otherwise.
But it had been before he'd met Flora.

No, it must have been his time in the army. All that bloodshed of brother fighting against brother had somehow driven him from the path, centered him on himself.
Flora had just given him a new home.

Whatya gonna do now, lad? Yes, there was something gnawing at him. He was happy, despite everything, here in Blackthorn. But he was itching for something... something greater. Make a name for himself. As much as he was looking forward to their second child, he kinda felt weighed down by it as well. He was like a ship, ready to sail, but the anchor was dropped and entangled in a reef, holding him back.

"Fuck the conundrum", he muttered. Right now, all he wanted is to get this bloody tunnel open and get that damn bastard shaman and the fucking picture. And then he wanted to be in Flora's arms and sleep for a week.

He stands and stretches. "Tell you something, Carl. When we're through here and then find out, there would've been a perfectly open passage, just a nice leisurly walk not half an hour away, I'll withdraw me earlier statement. Then I will fucking kill every comanche I find, Carl. I will put out an open letter to the newspapers in the whole fucking country with an invitation to Comanche to get here, too. Then I will take one of these bloody rocks and I'll bash their fucking skulls in. And then I'll fucking block that nice open passage with their dead bodies so that everybody will have to use this fucking path we've fucking cleared here. And they'll have to call it the "Allans-Murphy-Tunnel", because, if they don't I fucking swear to Jesus I will bash their skulls in as well. And I might use the same fucking rock I used for the indians, I don't care."

Murphy spits and mutters something in Gaelic, then goes back to work.

((OOC: Nice piece. Soon you guys should be getting reinforcements, and I'll move this thread forward. Card or chip?))

Well, both Murphy and William have spent a card now. Do I  gain another opportunity with another card? Otherwise, I'll draw a chip.

((OOC: The chapters are drawing to a close, but since you and Carl have been using these interludes to collect chips and cards they will transfer over to the new chapter, so either option is open.))

Card, then.
3S - Shakin’ in thar Boots
“I won’t just shoot ya. I’ll kill ya good!”
Play in a combat situation. Your character does or says something so intensely horrific and intimidating that it brings the area to a standstill. All other characters, friend or foe, are Shaken.

updated the Adventure card thread.

[[Carl gets a red chippit. Murphs amuses me no end...he's right, though, everyone better find this goddamn tunnel...]]

Carl palms away the sweat-diluted blood seeping from the partly holy-healed tomakawk wound to his skull, leaving the top left-hand quarter of his face a savage red. His lupine grin clearly echoes the sentiment.

"See, brothers?" comes an ethereal voice from behind the wall of rock. "This is why we're dead...they just didn't care to put the effort in...it was too hard for them to clear the tunnel, so they just left us to rot..."

Carl jerks his hands away from the rock they're working on, drawing his knife and indicating that Murphy should beware of grabby deadder-hands, ready to cut at any that appear as he resumues shifting stone. The only indication that the phantom accusation really did hit like a Comanche war lance to the chest is a slight tightening of the jaw.

You ran out of air. It was nice to have warning, though. Every rock so far he'd been expecting a sudden bloom of undead arms and teeth.

"We ran out of food." The ghostly voice says, in answer to Carl's unvoiced justification. "There was plenty of air. Weeks worth of air. But only the dead and the dying for food."

The voice's reply to his thoughts makes the hairs stand up straight on the back of Carl's neck, but he neither stops shifting rock nor drops his guard. He snorts at the accusation. A kid can survive a couple weeks on less'n that. He was pretty sure Irish was well-aquainted with that fact, too.

Still, there couldn't be much moisture back there, and it was only so long you could live, licking at the rock. According to Dog Charlie a man who ate corpses could get 'all kinds a sick', too. Y'all must've died like rabid dogs, he thinks with sincere pity, swallowing down on the horror. But Blackthorn did its back-breaking, bloody-fingered best day and night without Company help; you just died before we reached you.

Carl takes a moment to rub his face wearily, then scratches at the line of his jaw, mentally adding 'shave' to his to-do list after 'kill Comanches' and 'sleep'. No point getting riled by ghosts, if that was even what they were. Want us to post your bones to Wendell? he wonders, a mean smile just catching in the corner of his mouth. "Prob'ly jes' the Snake foolin' with us," he tells Murphy.

"Don't know about that, Carl..." Murphy answers, seemingly lost in thought.
"Oy! We're sorry what happened to you, we truly are. We're stuck here ourselves, traped by an evil Comanche shaman. Maybe he's the same who did this to you... any idea, where we could find him? To take revenge? And then we'll get a priest, give you a proper burial and all."


<smal>sigh. did i ever not roll 1 on a red chip?
09:17, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 1 using 1d6, rerolling max with rolls of 1. red chip adding.
09:17, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 5,5 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 5,5. persuasion! or smarts trick. same dice.
</small>

"Are you?" The voice whispers. "Are you really? No, you don't know what it is to be trapped down here, slowly losing everything that made you a man. Lost to hunger, lost to fear, lost to the madness of never knowing the sun. We know why we're dead, Patrick Murphy. We know who killed us. We know you came from the outside, and still remember what it is to have a sky full of clouds for a roof. And we know the Indian wizard with a pouch full of souls stands before the dark heart and sings. We can hear his song from here."

There's a faint rattle, like bone being dragged across stone.

"If you want him, come and get him. We'll have a party. A feast with you and Saul's boy as the guests of honor."

((OOC: 00:41, Today: Dead Miners rolled 11,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of (8+3)11,4. Resisting trick. Sorry, Murphy. That's not going to fool them.))

"You let him be," Carl growls softly, trying to ignore Murphy's doubt. The ghost's words make him strongly aware of his own thirst, the cooled sweat and blood on his skin, the lack of- no.

I knew you. I knew all of you. Do you even remember your own names? I know there was somethin' bad down there...Pa always claimed they over-packed the charges, threw y'all to it. But it's an Injun thing, an' that was Wendell. Y'all can set blame on me for bein a mortal man, not fast or strong enough to reach you, but Paddy's nothin to do with it. You let him be..

"They sound nice enough, though." Murphy whispers.
At Carl's incredulous look he shrugs and adds: "Called me Patrick Murphy. Well, maybe not nice, but, you know, respectful."

Somewhat louder, to the ghosts: "Alright, I'm sorry. No offense meant, mate. Is there something I can do to make amends? Because we really need to get to get to the indian wizard. Or a lot of folks will die."
He licks his lips.
"Folks you know will die. Now, you might bear a grudge against some of them for not being able to save you... but you don't hold the same grudge against their wives and children, do you?"



Persuasion: Total of 7.
10:46, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 3 using 1d6, rerolling max with rolls of 3. Another Red chip. Well, it's not a '1'...
10:45, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 4,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 4,1. Persuasion.

"Our grudges run deeper than the mine that killed us. Blackthorn will die screaming. Find your Flora, Patrick Murphy. Put your gun to her head and blow her brains across the wall, then do the same to Rose. Or we will make a special effort to make them linger, in revenge for disturbing our rest."

((OOC: I refund you your chip...Persuasion will not be effective on these things. They are Hostile, and no amount of persuading is going to change their attitude or make them helpful.

They are, in fact, attempting a Taunt Test of Will against you. 01:11, Today: Dead Miners rolled 4,1 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 4,1. Taunt. Roll Smarts to resist.))

20:18, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 5,4 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 5,4. Smarts resisting Taunt.

"Well, fuck you too, you bloody bastard!" Murphy shouts, his voice indignant, not really angry.
"Jesus Christ, we were just trying to help you buggers! Don't go around making threats against me family, I tell ye!"

He turns to Carl: "Can you believe the nerve of this fucking bloody guy? I wanted to do this peacefully and respectful, but man they forgot something: Never rile up an Irishman! He's probably a bloody Saxon, too."
The last part, of course, is yelled at the dead miners through the small opening.
"Okay, Carl: What do we do now?"

I got Danger Sense, in case they try a sneak attack or something...

Carl shakes his head slightly. "Ain't a man. Jes'...fear n' sech, in the walls. Echoes." Carl sketches the coils of a snake briefly in the air as to what's probably amplifying those remnant scraps of pain and disease and thirst-crazed rage.

The question gets some thought, Carl absently rubbing at his throat, then makes a shifting motion at the remaining rock, holds up a finger then spends a second or so just staring at the dark. "..."

He moves up the pile of remaining rock first, though, motioning Murphy to wait a moment. "Could be they'll have gnawed each other mostway to dust last time Snake had things up," he suggests, ignoring the walls and the tremor building under his skin. The hunger of the dead could never be appeased, after all. Carl sets his left hand to the rock, knife ready.

Y'all know me. Saul's boy, y'all remember that much. Remember him drunk? Took me 'til I was twenty-one to be able to take my father in a stand-up fight, but I survived. Didn't mind it none, was just my hide and he's kin. That's the most toughness I got, just a mortal man.

The Snake cursed me to death, care o' Nate, but I survived. I set down dissent among my brothers with my blade: they will not break. I got took off my horse and bit by an un-dead cougar, and blew out its brains. I fought ghost-snakes and a sorcerer and a stitched-up man that didn't die, and came out living. I armed my town against the Comanch', got them ready, and when my mount was shot from unner me, I fought the men who could not be hurt by weapons.

I fought Charging Bear, and undid his devil-sacrifice of torture. I stared down a vam-pire, and healed another with my life blood to turn against the Injuns. I have been much wounded today. I have bled. I am bone-terrified of this place, yet I am here, and I will go on until I've got the shaman and stopped this shit and everything that threatens my home.

"If there's anythin' left o' any Blackthorn men back there, you take this chance to pull free o' the Snake, remember what you were. You fight it, not us, an' we'll help you. Or y'all can git in my way."

[[20:46, Today: Carl Allans rolled 0,1 using d8-3,d6-3, rerolling max with rolls of 3,4. intimidating the walls.
20:49, Today: Carl Allans rolled 10 using 1d6, rerolling max with rolls of (6+4)10. red add. -> 11 Even if it doesn't help, it's still funny.]]

Murphy swallows, hard.

"I'm with you, Carl."
The he begins to pray, quietly.

"Jesus Christ, bring to bear me guardian angel, and all the angels of heaven, against these forces of evil that seek to cause trouble for us.

Saint Michael, be me protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. "

He keeps repeating that whil climbing after Carl.

some mood music

The battle had been won. Augustus Spotswood's amazing Animal Control device had routed the Comanche before they ever got close to the ranch house, or the grazing herds in Dr. Ward's care. The Dust Adders had cheered him on, and not a single life had been lost!

Then the device broke down. Ah, well. Such were the perils of the New Science. Augustus was simply glad that it hadn't suffered a catastrophic failure and blown the ranch house up!

While he'd been demonstrating the practical uses of his genius device, more members of the local chapter of the Enlightened Society of the Weeping Moon had arrived, as well as a lady in a terrible state of distress who called herself Marina and claimed to have been attacked by Comanche on the road. The Society members had taken her in to let her convalesce.

The Society members seemed to have reached a solution to whatever their argument was about. Dr. Ward approached Augustus with a quest:

"The root of our problems lies at the heart of the Wendell Mine, Mr. Spotswood. We have won a temporary respite, but unless the Aetheric Entity known as Tezcatlcoatl is laid to rest once more, Blackthorn shall never know peace. I would like you to accompany me into the depths of the Mine. Your sonic devices have already proven effective against aetheric entities, and may prove to have use against more corporeal dangers."

Naturally, Augustus had agreed.

Now Mr. Spotswood, Dr. Ward, and a group of five Dust Adders (including Mike Bennett and the giant Tex) were plumbing the depths of the mine. It was well after dark now, and the mine was seemed to close in around the group.

Mike put up a hand. "I hear somethin'," He says. "Sounds like some fool doin' some heavy liftin'."

"Ain't we near where that Bone Thing is?" Ned, one of the more panicky members of the group, gulps.

"Quiet!" Heavy Henry (a rather rotund man) growls, not at all quietly.

"We are near, yes," says Spanish Joe, who really doesn't look quite Spanish to Augustus (more like a half-breed Indian). Good tracker, though. "We should be cautious."

"Hurr Hurr Hurr Hurr," booms Tex. It's rather unsettling, the way he laughs at the slightest thing.

"Mr. Spotswood, you may wish to ready one of your devices." Ward says. "We are nearing the lair of a particularly dangerous crature, a conglomeration of bone and sinew that has attacked my men several times as we have attempted to retrieve Ghost Rock from the veins here. Perhaps you may be the one to finally lay the thing to rest."

((OOC: Augustus, since you never actually rolled for the Gadget, I'll say that you still have a use of Gadgeteer available to you. You have, unfortunately, used all the Ghost Rock Mike gave you.

Carl, Murphy, make Notice rolls at +2 to hear the approaching gaggle of not-very-stealthy cowboys...))

Augustus straightens up suddenly at the sound of his name, instantly losing interest in the curious basalt cross-bedding visible in the nearby wall of the mine.  "Hmm?  Oh...my...   Bone you say?"  Wires and brass jangle as the svientist unlimbers his odd sonic weapon.  "No doubt given animation by some Aethetic Entity?  That would certainly correlate with the supposition of the Ghost Rock within the mine acting as a....."  He trails off and begins wonding the weapon's key.  The tension causes the forks at the gun's mouth to begin a soft, eerily harmonic hum.  "Hush...  The Doctor has explained it all...  No, its all very scientific...  Well...some is still hocum, no doubt, but we shouldn't be rude...."

Carl pauses, though it's too late to stop the rock rattling down their scree pile and confusing the echoes: he stands straight, ready to deal with grabby deadders beyond the rock, sure he heard something, somewhere, but not where or what. More tricks.

[[Carl Allans rolled 3,2 using d6-1,d6-1, rerolling max with rolls of 4,3. Notice?]]

OOC: 10:16, Today: Mad Irish Murphy rolled 6,2 using d8,d6, rerolling max with rolls of 6,2. notice.

"Carl, wait. There's somebody here, in the mine. People, I mean. Can't you hear them?"

"I Hear Talkin'." Tex rumbles. "Sounds Like Mad Irish."

Ward frowns. "What is Mr. Murphy doing down here? He's supposed to be helping defend the town!" He mutters, then calls out "Patrick Murphy! Are you down there?"

Carl straightens sharply, staring at the dark over there at the sound of Ward's voice. Then just as sharply switches his attention back to the rock, imagining a flicker of filth-encrused bone through the chinks in the stones.

"I believe its called Gaelic," offers Augustus with pedantic helpfulness towards the frighteningly large Adder, "Mad Irish is a bit derogatory and quite unfair to such a beautiful language."   Weapon humming quietly, the scientist steps up nearer Dr. Ward, "Mr. Murphy is another of your men?  An Irishman?  I do hope he  hasn't run afoul of this bone...thing...."

"Oh." The big man says. "Garlic. OK."

The rest of the Dust Adders snicker and chuckle at that. "Naw, he's talkin' 'bout Mad Irish Murphy," Mike says, "Who, yes, is Irish, but we call him that 'cause he's also a bit crazy."  He turns and shouts into the darkness. "Irish! That you down there? You alight?"

"Well, now they bloody show up... you alright, Carl? I'll go get them." he whispers.

Then he slides back down the small slope of rock and pebbles, grabs his shirt on the way and heads up the shaft toeard the group.
"Aye, it's me, Murphy. Would you keep it down?"

Carl makes a grab for Murphy's arm when he realises what the man's about, but too late. Carl stands on the scree pile trying to hear anything over his own heart as the little Irishman hurries into the dark, hoping like Hell that really is Mike with Ward, because if he goes and leaves this rockface untended, sod's law says that's precisely when the walkers (crawlers, probably, injuries like that) would manage to get through. Singing out in this place of all places doesn't even occur to him.

So Carl stands sentry and waits, refusing to shiver as the cold draught licks at the sweat and blood on his skin. Silently, he prays.

"Ah, another colorful Western sobriquet."  Augustus attention drifts away again, his voice dropping to carry on a conversation with...well...  Possibly himself.  "No, its traditional.  A bond of brotherhood thing I suppose.  Historically, warriors have long given each other amusing nicknames as a show of comradeship...  No, I do not wish to have a nickname...  Well, I'm not a gunhand for one...  No, it isn't, its a sonic amplification and modulation device."  As the Irish fellow gets nearer and makes hus request, Augustus's attention lifts again, slowly focusing in on Murphy, "Keep what down?  Have you seen it then?"

Murphy is still closing the buttons of his shirt as he comes closer into the light.
"Whats the craic, Tex. Mates", he nods to the Dust Adders.
"Doc", to Ward and a polite nod to Augustus.
"Patrick Murphy, how are you."

He looks around for whatever equipment the group brought with them.
"Good thing you've came. We're almost done with clearing the tunnel and get that picture, but we could use another pair of hands or two. Oh, and we've just found the angry spirits of the miners that got buried alive a few years ago. Not sure how to get past them, but between us and them, we should be able to do it."
He flashes a big grin.
"Why are you here, anyways?"

This thread is continued on the "Chapter 16.1: The Serpent's Belly" thread.