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.