April 8th, 1879. South Texas, CSA

The interior of the saloon is wooden and crowded. Wagon wheels festooned with candles form chandeliers above the tables crowded with men and women taking dinner. Behind the bar, above the rows of liquor, is an impressively wide mirror, reflecting the whole room back at visitors. In one corner is a compact piano, with a negro piano player plinking out "The Entertainer." There's a game of poker being played to the right, and a stairwell heading up to the Saloon's rooms for rent on the left. A man with curly brown hair wipes glasses and fills orders, while a busty blonde swirls around the crowd delivering drinks and meals and skillfully avoids errant hands.

Outside, the wind whips and howls through the streets as the sun sets. Father William O'Rourke had just arrived in town and was enjoying a nice meal. Sure, he'd not expected to find such a hamlet...he'd lost the trail he'd been following and it was only blind luck that he'd found his way here. But here he was. It seemed like such a nice place.

And then something entered the Saloon. Something like the bastard offspring of a scarecrow and a kitchen sink, with gangly brass limbs and what looks like a burlap sack tied around it's head.

The music ends in mid note. The entire population of the saloon stops whatever they're doing to stare at the new arrival.

It walks up to Father William, who happens to be the closest person to it. It holds out its hands, which are clutching shards of glass plaintively.

"self;object: angel." It says. "Object: sky, present verb: falling."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:21, Sat 14 Nov 2009.

O'Rourke had been thankful to find civilization once more. Tracking had never been his strong suit and during the lonely ride out of Del Rio the priest had allowed his mind to wander, struggling with issues of God's purpose and provision as he made his way to the next town. At some point, he had returned his attention to his surroundings only to find that he was riding across hard packed caliche that showed no sign of recent passage. He'd mouthed a prayer and headed southwest, believing that he'd reach something: a farm, a ranch, even a town in Old Mexico, before his canteen went dry. The Lord had been faithful and O'Rourke had breathed his thanks when the town had come into view.

He hadn't realized how famished he'd been until he'd smelled the food in the Grand Bull. He'd found a table near the door, as was his habit, and began to eat, halfway watching and listening to the gathered patrons. Having only a few sets of clothes to his name, he'd entered the saloon with his collar on, noting with amusement the way some of the crowd quietened down as he ordered and took his seat.

He'd been focused more on his plate than anything, but when the piano halted, O'Rourke knew something had gone wrong. Glancing up, he half expected to hear raised voices and the beginnings of a confrontation, but not what he saw.

O'Rourke had heard rumors about astounding machines being loose in the west and had certainly seen an invention or two that surprised him with its capacities, but nothing like what now stood before him. Although he sensed that it evoked fear from some of the people in the saloon, O'Rourke had the immediate impression that it meant no harm. It only wanted to speak and share its concerns.

Struggling to remember his grammar lessons, O'Rourke looked closely at the glass pieces that it extended to him. If he understood rightly, it thought itself an angel.

"Well, friend," O'Rourke answered, "These pieces. They came from the sky?"

The "angel" continues to offer its pieces to the priest, unnaturally still for anything that speaks. For a moment it looks like it's just run down like that, then something under the lumpy sack flares with aa pale glow, remembering this response, recording.

"statement: true. Surface existing, ended; fragmentation; sky of surface fallen; ended." it hisses and whirrs softly into movment, realising the priest isn't about to take its bits of sky from it. The glass goes on the table and with a birdlike tilt of the sack the automaton starts to rearrange the fragments, slowly but with absoloute precision, so that they reflect light, preferably that from outside.

"Sky falling...warn..." and here the thing's voice changes as the hiss and static roar increases like a storm wind through a parched land, seeming to come out of the static rather than over it:
"...and I have heard the voices of apocalypse; silence is coming."
It leaves a perfect patch of sky on the table, sack pointing at the priest.
"God says: shepherd, you must help the Nameless, save s-" *clunk* The thing's whole body twitches and trembles, voice reverting to the clear, androgenously mechanical tones of before, the static subsiding: "static error."
*bzzzz*
"Query: location spatial-temporal object: self?"

The entire room is still staring at the pair. Expressions range from confusion to amusement to pants-wetting terror.

When the Thing starts talking about the Apocalypse, the blond barmaid gives a quiet shriek and drops her tray. This seems to be some kind of signal, because at her squeak the people who had been playing poker start yanking out pistols and pointing them at the machine. No one's firing yet, but the tension in the room rises uncomfortably.

The machine awaits the priest's answer completely oblivious to any danger from the small metal objects being pointed at it, if it's even noticed them. It is also made of ricochetty, ricochetty metal.

Robert Micklethwait had had a very strange day already. Lost paths, dying soldiers, rain, and strangely cheery undertakers had made this a day to remember. But the scene inside the Saloon topped it all.

Standing right inside the door the lawyer walked in was a group of people, staring at the doorway with mixtures of shock, horror, curiosity, and confusion.  This was because, standing just two paces from the door, was a large, spindly thing, looking for all the world like a scarecrow made out of tooled brass fittings, a burlap sack over it's head.

Standing next to the Thing, looking calmly at it and speaking to it in a soothing tone, is a man with red hair and a preacher's collar.

Standing behind them, around the remains of a poker game, four terrified men hold pistols trained on the brass construct, looking for all the world as if they're about to start firing away...

[[OOC: Welcome to the party, Robert. :D]]

OOC: can I assume I recognize it as a Clockwork construct?

"howdy boys.  You might want to put away those smokewagons.  It seems friendly enough at the moment, and it'd be a shame for someone to get hit by accident."

17:20, Today: Robert Micklethwait rolled 10,9 using d8+4,d6+4, rerolling max. persuation

[["steam" would be more accurate for the majority of its movements, but it uses the greater part of its own smoke, too - the faint mournful humming it makes if you listen closely enough is ghost rock burning away in there.
The rest of it, including the aetheric recording device that lets it learn emotional response, is a mix of clockwork, filament-guided static electricity - unless the storm gets worse it'll get less crazy once it can earth itself via its shell, currently malfunctioning - alchemy and pure black box-ness. I wouldn't be surprised if the thing had a feather or a handful of beads wired into its little heart, random but essential.
edit: aaaand with that observation Mr.Micklethwaite has instantly noticed what the thing's player and the twitchy folk have completely failed to...GM, given that the largest fuel storage space and easiest target happens to be the thing's upper torso, what would be the effect of exploding between 2-3 pounds of ghost rock in a pressurised system containing flammable substances? That is, are we talking a smoking crater where the end of the bar used to be, or critical saloon existence failure?]]

The thing turns its sacked head to the new human talking nearby and tries out the unfamiliar word:
"Howwwwwddddyyyy..." *tssh*
This apparently occasions a thoughtful pause. "Define unknown value: howdy?"
This message was last edited by the player at 11:33, Tue 10 Nov 2009.

The boys lower their guns, but don't put them away.

"You didn't hear it before!" One of them squeaks. "It came in here all strange and crazified, talkin' about how the sky was falling and the Apocalypse was on the way! That there thing is dangerous!"