The game will begin in the small town of Marshall's Corner (fictional) in a rural county in southern Georgia, Deerfield (fictional), located east of Macon, Georgia. It is a very rural farming region known for corn, hogs, and moonshine. Marshall's corner is your usual town; dine stores, grocery, gas station, post office, local bank, courthouse, sheriff's office, and school.

The sign entering town says welcome to Marshall's Corner, home to 236 of Georgia's finest people. Aside from corn their are peaches, of course, it is Georgia after all. Likewise the town boasts 'world famous' pulled pork and bar-b-queue ribs, peach cobbler that brings a tear to the eye, 'loaded' sweet tea, and the Corner Hall, a dance club featuring bands four days a week.

It is Sunday, June 1, 1922. The midday heat in Georgia is both hot and humid to the extreme. And you are in Marshall's Corner. Why is that? Are you traveling? Sight seeing? A local resident? Or something else, something more...you.

The Savege family were old money...not filthy rich, just respectable old money.

Bas' older brother inherited most of the families assets. Bas received the old family home and land in the country.

Most of the land he's leased out to local farms. A large plot around the old home, he's turned into an airfield.

(Can expand on this more later if needed. At work right now)

Not for the first time did Dai miss the cool climate of the hills and mountains of his homeland. Not to mention the refreshing ever-present rain. Stopping to read the sign at the town border, he wiped his sweating brow and adjusted his satchel, wishing he could spare a sip from his canteen and wondering where he might refill it, or find work, in this sleepy little backwater. He looked over at the peach orchard by the side of the road and smacked his lips at the thought of sinking his teeth into one of the juicy fruit hanging just out of his tantalous grasp, both physically and legally. Brushing off his daydreams and turning his mind to more practical matters, he set his feet and let them take him into yet another unknown. The last three towns had taken one look at him and run him out for vagrancy and disreputation. Perhaps this town would be more friendly, but he didn't really expect it and steeled himself for the strangers welcome he was all too familiar with.
This message was last edited by the player at 18:12, Thu 07 Apr 2022.

Jake finishes the lunch his sister Ethel has prepared. One advantage to boarding with her family in Marshall’s Corner is the meals just like his Mamma’s. He thanks her and reminds her he’ll be staying at the jail for supper, doing his turn as jailer the next two nights. Sheriff Ham LaMont’s wife will feed him and she’s a good cook but it’s not like home.

The young deputy takes a roundabout way to the sheriff’s office in the basement of the courthouse in the middle of town. Ham likes for his men to be seen around town some to remind any miscreants that the town constable isn’t the sole defender of public order around. He strolls a couple of residential neighborhoods, politely greeting homeowners relaxing on their front porches in the afternoon heat and nodding at the kids playing quietly in the shade of old oaks.

He turns down past the red brick school building where he acquired his formal education and strides along one end of the business district, passing the five and dime, the tea room, the movie house, and the livery stable (now selling gasoline from a pump out front) along with other small stores. Most of the shops are closed on Sunday afternoon and the warm, sultry weather means there are few town folk on the sidewalk, but Jake greets a few acquaintances, most of whom have known him since he was a boy, and his Daddy and Grandaddy before him.

He rounds the corner by the Brill Building where about half the county’s  lawyers and realtors and accountants have their offices, and turns into the town square, a green lawn surrounding the courthouse and giving space to the Johnny Reb statue and the Civil War cannon, the water trough by the hitching rack, and more old oaks that shelter a few benches for loafers and codgers and courting couples.

Jake circles behind the building to the entrance of the Sheriff’s office across the street from the Sheriff’s house and attached county jail.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:33, Thu 07 Apr 2022.

"Hell's bells, Hardwick!" Scott cursed softly to himself as the car rolled to a gentle halt and a final splutter in front of the gasoline pumps in the service station just south of the crossroads that defined the city of Marshall's Corner. The town was too small to be on his itinerary, but the car had been making kachunching noises and soft growls under the floorboards for the past ten miles and he was grateful that it had gotten him this far. But none too pleased, nevertheless. It was not his vehicle. It had been assigned to him by the Committee to Elect T.W. Hardwick as a pool vehicle to make a scheduled run through likely precincts that need a bit of a pep talk to get them thinking the right way. And by the sounds of things, unless one of those grease monkeys was an engineering genius, he was stuck in this little podunk town at least overnight.

Maybe longer, he revised his estimate as the car gave a sudden belch of fuel and a loud backfire before visibly settling an inch or two on its suspension.

He signed deeply, opened the car door, stepped out onto the running board, and down to the blacktop surface of the filling station forecourt. He pulled his hat from the passenger seat and jammed it on his head. He badly wanted a smoke, but even he knew better than to light up in front of a gas pump.

"Can I get some service here?" he called to the two stalwarts in the side garage who were looking at him, dumbfounded as if he had just arrived from Mars rather than driven from Macon. Just over the horizon, really, but a million miles away as far Marshall's Corner was concerned.

In reply to Bastion Aric Savege (msg # 2):

Bas and his chief mechanic, Charlie Long, were elbow deep in the engine bay of the newest gem to his tiny fleet of planes. It was a Davis-Douglas Cloudster, only a year old, and in pretty rough shape. It had seen use of a long distance delivery vehicle fly from Memphis, Tennessee to Albuquerque, New Mexico twice a week for the last nine months.

"It's the carburetor again." Charlie said. "Might as well go into town and order a new one. Hell, order a whole set. These carbs have all been over tweaked, running real thin, old owner wanted to save money more than lives evidently."

In reply to Dafydd Taliesin Morgan (msg # 3):

Dafydd Morgan was dry. The days were hot and muggy here in the heart of Dixie. Looking about the little town there wasn't a lot to take in. The sign on his was way in had stated that there were several hundred people living in the town. It looked to be somewhat less, but then, a busy town never looked full before lunch.

A nearby brick building had big windows displaying lumber, nails, tools, paints, and work clothing. The sign over the windows read 'Morgan's Construction Outfitters'. Dafydd smiled a 'my lucky day' smile an felt it was a good sign. He sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. In the window there was a sign that read 'hiring strong hands and back, apply within'.

In reply to Jake Westley (msg # 4):

"Your back. Good." Beatrice Levine said as she stood up from her desk. Her clutch in one hand and a hat box under the other arm. "I'm off to take a girt over to Anne Marie. She is due any day now and I missed the shower on Saturday. Earl and his tournaments. I mean, sure, he catches a lot bass. But all he ever wins are more damned lures. You're on the phone for now, sweetheart."

With she headed for the door.

"Oh, and if that farmer, Hoover calls again arrest him as a nuisance." She said suddenly before walking out.

In reply to Yoland Thomas Scott (msg # 5):

An older man walked out of the garage. He had the look of someone who had seen to much of the horrors of this world. Most likely a war veteran. Many, to many, men had the light of goodness get snuffed out of their hearts in that storm of blood and tears.

"Names Franks. Bill Franks. It's my station." The man said offering a greasy hand to shake. "Want we should take a look under the hood. Seems like you have a bit of trouble brewing."

Dai swiped the hair out of his eyes and used the window with the sign to try and make himself look somewhat more presentable. Brushing the worst of the road-dust off his jacket, he squared his shoulders; there was no time like the present and having a job, even a temporary one, would certainly help him secure decent lodgings. With nary a backward glance nor hesitation, he entered the building and looked out for a cashier, teller or proprietor. "Hello there." he introduced himself in his broad Welsh accent, to whichever he saw first. "Dai Morgan; that's me. I'm looking to speak with someone about your help wanted sign?" he made the statement a question.

An old man stepped up and looked Dafydd over. He nodded, as if he had figured something out that others had missed.

"Pay is a dollar fifty per day, paid at the end of the week on friday evenings." The man began. He was taller, broader of chest, fuller of belly, and much older than Dafydd. But he still looked like he could knock fella's teeth right out. "I'm Hal Morgan. We work here. From eight in the morning to five in the evening. You take your lunch at noon, be back at one. And never late. You'll load logs, lumber, bricks, and boxes into a wagon, drive it to where it needs to go, and then you'll unload it. And you'll do this without wasting my time. I pay in cash. I don't give handouts. But, there is a room in the attic with an outside door. Your welcome to one of the beds there. You'll share with two others if you do, so no heavy drinking, no fighting, and no whores. Gambling is alright so long as there is no cheating. Still interested?"

Dai could scarce believe his luck. "Still interested?" he repeated, only a hint of incredulity creeping into his voice. "Every word you just said was music to my ears Mr.Morgan, sir. I'd be glad of the bed and the pay and I don't slack, you'll see. I rise early, so if there's aught else you need doing around the place, I'm a dab hand with a wrench and I'm not one to put off doing whatever needs doing; all's needed is the asking." He shifted the weight of his sea bag so he could offer his hand to seal the deal, a genuine and honest smile on his face. "Now, if you've a horse trough I can splash off some of this road dust in and show me where to go, I'll set to working immediately, sir. If it pleases? You can show me the barn when the work is done; there's no rush to be settling in and the sun waits on no man."

Bas wiped the sweat from his forehead and gave Charlie a nod.  "Yup, hate to see people abusing a beautiful machine like that," he said.  His eyes seemed to lift to the sky and glaze over a bit as he thought about the skies of France...which only led him to think about Sybille and his child.  He coughed to cover the oncoming emotions.  Charlie just kept his head down as he knew Bas well enough to know what was going through his mind.

"Well, guess I better wash up before heading in to town.  You need me to pick up anything else for you or do you want to come with.  I am sure they have some peach cobbler ready," he said as he walked away. "Meet me at the car if you're coming," he finished.

Bas cleaned up a bit and headed to his fairly new Hispano Suiza H6b...



OOC: leaving the end open to see if he comes with or not.  Either way, I/we will drive in to town to order the part or two or three lol, and maybe get a bite to eat.

"Hey, Beatrice," Jake says, as he enters the office. He listens, nodding appropriately, to her explanation and responds, "Ohkay, Bea, buh-bye now."

He checks out the rest of the rooms to sind if Ham or any of the boys are around, not surprised when he finds nobody. He hangs his hat on the coat stand and sits at Bea's desk, picks up the stack of wanted circulars and pulls open the bottom drawer to use as a footrest. He leans back in the chair and pages through the handbills, half his mind musing on whether to invite Lucia or Cleone to the movies Friday night.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:39, Tue 12 Apr 2022.

In reply to Dafydd Taliesin Morgan (msg # 12):

"Come on." Old Morgan said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded order form and handed the yellow paper to Dafydd. "Throw you things behind the counter. Fill this order, find the items by their lot numbers. Each item is in a place identified by its number. Place it all in the wagon out back. That door over there. Be quick, but be careful too. Then go to this address and drop it off. County map is under the seat with a rain coat and a flashlight."

He took a step away as dafydd opened the paper and then looked back at he man while stretched out a hand to give Dafydd a pair of quarters.

"On the way out of town stop off and grab you some sandwiches for the day. And a big jug of water. It's gonna be a hot one." With Morgan went on about his business.

Dafydd opened the order form and began reading;
30 2"x4" boards, 8 feet
short barrel of tar
short barrel of wood stain
2 cases of 10 penny nails
case of roofing nails
10 sheets corrugated tin
..................................

He sighed. Time to put in some work.

In reply to Bastion Aric Savege (msg # 13):

Bas pulled the car in the lot between the back of Morgan's Construction Outfitters and Marshall's Corner Parts and Machining. He was glad to have made the drive alone. It let him clear his thoughts on the way in. As he got out of the car he noticed a new man at Morgan's loading the delivery wagon. It reminded him that he needed to go in and pick up some things to fix those steps at the backdoor of the old family house.

As he entered the backdoor of the parts shop he was assailed by the smells of hot oil, scorched metal, and cheap tobacco. Several men were sweating over lathes, drill presses, and band saws as they fabricated plow shears. probably for the farm west of his family's place.

"Hey, Bas, come on in." Pete Melgrove said as he walked into the back. He set a cardboard box off bottle of lubricant to flush filings from the the machines. "Lube came in. Anything you need fellas? Come on up front Bas. I'll get you squared away. Carburetor still giving you trouble?"

In reply to Jake Westley (msg # 14):

Jake had just poured a cup of coffee and sat down to read the paper out of Macon when the phone rang on the tenth word he read. The word was now, of course.

Picking up the phone Jake replied with the usual 'Sheriff's Office, this is' greeting. On the other end of the line Martha at the phone co-op said is was on Melba Hoover, she needed the Sheriff, that her husband was missing. Jake took the call.

Melba Hoover was frantic. Her husband, the notorious caller from earlier in the morning had come into town to look for the Sheriff to report that he had come across the body of a man dead for ten years. But it wasn't dead anymore. According to her husband. She said he was last seen buying rope at Morgan's Construction Outfitters.

Jake lifts the receiver off its hook. "Deerfield County Sheriff's Office, this is Deputy Westley. Afternoon, Miz Hoover." After the caller has spoken a few words, he sets aside the newspaper and sits up straight, his brow furrowing.

"...uh-huh...uh-huh...No, ma'am, I haven't seen Mr. Hoover, but I only just got back from dinner.

"Now who was it exactly buying rope at Morgan's, your husband or this dead man--uhh--formerly dead man. And did your husband recognize him?" He pulls over a notepad and a pencil and begins making notes.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:43, Tue 12 Apr 2022.

Hank grunted as he settled Mrs. Harcourt on the slab.

She had been a wonderful woman but in her 70 plus years had never seen a piece of pie she didn't like.

He rubbed at a sore shoulder and tried to ignore Myrtle's amused smirk. Twenty years ago he'd have flipped a hoss like Mildred Harcourt and downed a beer with the other hand but father time had worn away a lot of that power in recent years.

"I want ya to be extra careful on the makeup this time Myrt. Mrs. Harcourt was a real nice lady and her family will appreciate it."

He didn't add that Mildred had let him hide out in her basement twice. Lied straight to a BOI man once even and never batted an eye.

She wasn't just a friend, Mildred Harcourt was "Owed".

It was one of those odd moments in life that brought men together. Or, in this case, Dafydd was loading the last of the cargo into the Morgan delivery wagon as Bas came walking out of the back door of the machine and parts shop. The two men just happened to look up at one another when Jake entered the back alley on his way to investigate the reports that Mr. Hoover was after a living dead man with his rope. Henry had just entered the back lot to his recently opened mortuary. He needed a moment to clear his thoughts with a bowl of cherry-apple tobacco. Mildred had been a way to avoid of life in a small concrete room.

The men all seemed to be facing in toward one another. Each facing from a cardinal direction, as if that had anything to do with what would happen next. Jake faced south as Henry faced north, a casual nod passed between them. Dafydd was facing east to look at Bas, whom was facing west. Forming something of a small quadrangle of men all facing to center, a superstitious man might had flinched or looked away at the last moment, they were a taken aback when a small, dust covered grate set in the ground suddenly lurched up out of the ground.

A hand, gripped the end of a muddy rope soon followed the grate. Then another hand shot into the sun light to claw at the edge of the opening.

Henry squinted at the grate as it moved out of place.

'What the hell...'

Dai was about to nod a round of friendly 'hellos' before getting on with his chores when the grate lifted. Not one to stand idly by when somebody might be in trouble, he moved forward to help. "Hold on there boy, let's get you out of that hole. Rope or no, a body can always use a hand." he said cheerily as he stepped forward and looked down, bracing his legs in preparation to haul whoever it was up and out.

"Hey Pete," Bas said and then nodded a greeting to the others in the shop.  "Yup, that carburetor is just no good.  Charlie wants me to order a whole set of them..."

He was just beginning to make a little small talk with Pete when...time seemed to freeze.

That moment when the four men faced each other seemed to touch something within Bas...so much so that he was a little slow in reacting.

"Aye, here now," he said, "Let me give you a hand hauling him out."

Jake is just opening his mouth to say 'Hey' to Mr. Savage and Hank Clark when the grate clangs back int the dust and the hands reach out. As the others step forward, his mouth still hangs open until he says, "What th' Sam Hill..."

Reflexively, his right hand drops to the butt of the revolver strapped around his waist.

The opening for the drain was small, almost to small to slip the man through. He was older, covered in mud and sewage, and smelled to high heavens. He only used one of his arms to help pull himself along as the others lifted him from the hole. His other arm was busily yanking on a rope that wrapped several rounds along his hand, wrist, and forearm. One he was on his feet it was obvious he was wearing overalls and work boots, that the man was a farmer. But was the rope tethered to to make it tug at the older man so?

Scott has been explaining the funny noises he has heard from the engine of the car, and the proprietor is making understanding grunts, tossing in technical terms every now and then that Scott just knows are adding five dollars to the bill with each utterance.

But it's not his car, and he has an expense account. His primary need is to get it fixed.

"Do what you can!" he adds brightly at the end of their discussion. "I'll go get some lunch and come back in an hour two, see how things are going. Thanks."

Wandering out into the street, he catches sight of a group of men pulling a skinny old fellow out of a sewer grate. Now that he's well away from the petrol pumps, he takes out a pack of Luckies and lights up, blowing out a thin stream of grey smoke with a contented sigh.

"Hey, fellas, what's up?" he calls as he approaches the group. Though he stops well back as soon as he gets a whiff of the bedraggled man.

"Well now, there we are sir." Dai said in the slightly louder tone reserved for the infirm, elderly and very young, politely ignoring the stench of the waste pipe. He said it with a smile on his face to take the sting out of any unintended insult. "Let's see about getting you cleaned up, aye?" The Welshman turned to the others gathered, still having not introduced himself. "What do you say boys? Anyone know where the hose is? I'm still learning my way around." Without waiting for a response, he turned back to the older man and looked down at the rope entangled around his arm. "Well, then, what's that you've got there? You want me to help with that?"

Hank took his hand out of his sweater pocket and stepped out on to the sidewalk.

"Watch it fellas, he's tied off to somethin' that's still down there, mind you don't hurt his arm."

Jake takes a step forward and peers at the man, trying to destermine his identity. He knows pretty much everyone in Marshall's Corner and most of the surrounding county, but the caked on filth makes it a challenge.

"What are you staring at boy? Been calling the Sheriff all morning." The older man said. "Bought time one of you fellas came along. Here, take this here rope. Mind you, don't let go of it or Earl Lancing will get away."

It wasn't lost on anyone that Earl Lancing had died of a heart last Tuesday and had been buried out by the Methodist church last Thursday. So, why was he up and walking around in some underground drain today?

"GodA'mighty, Hoover, what you been doin' down th' sewers? Melba's about crazy worryin' over you," Jake says as he reaches for the rope. The rope's filth doesn't faze this farmboy.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:27, Thu 21 Apr 2022.

This heat.
It was killing him.
Never experienced something like it in the Netherlands or South Germany.
Yes, Munich could be a hot place in the summer but THIS heat plus the humidity....

Old Wilhelm sweated all over, thick pearls running down his neck and back, gathering at a place where a doctor might take a look at but no one else.

He was constantly wiping his forehead with a handkerchief but for no use.

He looked back, then marching forward.
Yes, he travelled on foot.
Looking back.
Wiping his forehead.

Was someone following him?
An observer could come to this conclusion.
But there was no one.

Marching.
Wiping.
Looking back.

"Marshall's town. Good God, a place to rest, maybe for a short while, getting out of the heat."
He told himself.

Wilhelm entered the small town without further hesitation, looking for a place for having a drink and what not.
This message was last edited by the player at 16:56, Fri 22 Apr 2022.

It seemed the man had plenty of support from the others. Bas reached his hands out and grabbed the rope and gave it a pull.

"What are you on about.  He's dead and buried..."

Scott smokes his cigarette and watches  the mummers play with amusement. He has no idea who Earl Lancing is, but assumes he’s  a sneak thief the old boy chased into the sewer. He stays well back from the smell, moving to get a good view as Earl is dragged out into the daylight.

"Careful, now, when you pull him into the light." Hoover said. "He is crazed. Well, dead and crazed. He will attack. Nearly took my arm, he did."

Hoover held out a rope burned and muck covered arm offering Daffyd the rope even as it tugged at the farmer's arm. The man wasn't as weak as anyone would have guessed.

"Here young man. Anyone that can load them stacks can handle this dead man."

Why does he keep calling the man struggling at the end of the rope dead? Scott grinds out his butt and steps back a big pace,  He’s beginning to suspect some kind of local film flam or Snake Oil pitch.

“Even revives the dead!”

Wilhelm found a local store, Morgan's Construction Outfitters, with one of those iceboxes selling on those entirely American novelties; the Coca Cola soda. The bottle was cold to the touch and covered in beads of sweat. The drink was lively with tiny bubbles and sweet to the palate. A true delight on a sweltering day, or what the local farmers often referred to as 'swamp-ass weather' due to the sweating. Mopping his brow as he walked into the shade between Morgan's and the next building, he found he could thoroughly with those sentiments.

Up ahead a small group men had gathered. They were assisting another man emerge from a hole in the ground. A whiff of the muck upon the man gave rise to the nature of the material the man had been crawling in. He seemed to be yanking a rope wrapped around one wrist. Something most curious. Though, Wilhelm did find that the Americans were an even more enigmatic nationality than the Italians.

Wilhelm looked at the ice-cold bottle.
"Coca Cola", he said very quietly.
His pronounciation was way off, he didn't know these two words, didn't know the beverage at all.

The man didn't care, it was ice-cold, could have written Poor Piss on the bottle, he simply pressed it against his forehead and his neck.

"Look at these poor bastards", he said to himself even more quietly, "working in this heat."

He enjoyed the bottle, observing what happened over there.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:59, Mon 25 Apr 2022.

Dai gladly took hold of the rope and as unfazed by the filth as the deputy, offered the end to Jake. Wrapping his arm around the rope to secure it, he set his feet once more and squared his broad shoulders, expecting to pull in a literal dead weight and looked at Jake for readiness before he began hauling. He mentally shrugged off the talk of dead men moving around and attacking as being the ravings of this older gentleman who was clearly a little touched; who else would go spelunking in a sewer and talk such nonsense. "Ready when you are, butt." he nodded to Jake.

---

Spoiler text: (Highlight or hover over the text to view)
OOC: FYI, "butt" is a Welsh colloquialism common to South Wales and is contemporary to the last century, give or take (or at least it is to the old boys in their 90's that I know from there!). It's short for "buddy" and akin to calling someone "mate"; not quite a term of endearment, but it's a casually familiar one. Dai isn't calling anyone an ass or otherwise being insulting and such would be clear from his tone and expression, though it wouldn't be outside of possibility to take offence from a misunderstanding. Just wanted to clear that up before questions were asked!

---

Jake stops before he takes hold of the shit-dripping rope. He removes his hat and gunbelt and hangs them on a fencepost. Then he grabs the rope and nods to Bas and the stranger.

"All set"

It took three of them working together to muscle the person on the other end of the rope through the drainage port. The tunnel beneath was little more than a yard square and filled with decades of mud, sewage, and whatever else. Once it was out in the sunlight, the person was odd, and as sure a the sun will rise, it was indeed wearing a suit the was missing large portion along the back of the pants, shirt, and jacket just those fitted around corpses in caskets. It moved with an odd sort of shuffle, its eyes were dimmed and looked rather dull. But, it did indeed see them. After a few heartbeats it launched itself awkwardly at Dafydd. Grabbing with both hands it grabbed the Irishman about the neck and tried to pull his face close to Dafydd's neck.

Jake yanks on the rope to pull the man’s head away from the Dai. He flips a loop of the rope around the upper arms and torso of the figure and bends the rope into the sort of hitch he’d use on a recalcitrant yearling.

Hanks eyes narrowed when the suit came into view.

He stepped out of the door of the funeral home and called out to the men corralling the muddy man.

"Pull him in here. Let's get him hosed off and find out who's grave he robbed."

Unsurprisingly Hank took this kind of thing seriously and his voice showed it.

Scott continues to watch with mild amusement. The fellow with his ass hanging out of his pants is putting on quite a show and the guy with the rope could be part of a wild west rodeo. He glances around, wondering if there is a place nearby he could get a cold soda pop and watch from a shady spot.

Without warning Hoover produced a small revolver from his pocket. It was small Stevens and Co. .32 caliber. He immediately stuck the muzzle to the things head and said, "Now, damn it, you settle down or I'll put one in your dead skull."

Thrashing against the ropes, the struggling and no-so-dead corpse flailed about wildly trying to get at Daffyd again. One of its hand struck the revolver which caused a single shot to be fired. The report wasn't particularly loud, but it was surprising. The corpse suddenly acted like a corpse and fell to he ground unceremoniously.

"Well, jumping Jehoshaphat!" Hoover shouted and dropped the pistol. "It killed itself!"

"Goddamit, Hoover, you just made a whole lotta trouble for ever'body," Jake says with a sigh. "Mr. Savege, will you please get the names an' addresses of all these men? Those two yonder too, I reckon." He indicates Scott and de Vries where they're standing a bit apart from the others, watching.

He picks up Hoover's little pistol and retrieves his own hat and gunbelt. Then he addresses the mortician: "Hank, I expect you better get Lancing's body over your place until th' coroner can take a look at 'im.

"Hoover you're under arrest. Let's get over to th' jail. We can hose you off before we go in. C'mon."
This message was last edited by the player at 04:27, Tue 03 May 2022.

Scott's not quite convinced that the man actually shot himself. It looks a whole lot like the other fellow (Hoover they called him?) had pulled a gun, pointed at the bare-assed guy's head, and then pulled the trigger. There might have been some flailing about there, but the sequence was pretty clear: gun, point, shoot, dead.

And now the young sheriff is taking names.

Scott has a moment when he just wants to leg it, but there's nowhere to go until his car is fixed. And it seems that he's now a witness to a potential murder investigation.

Shoot! Why did life need to get this complicated?

He puts a professional smile on his face and lights up another cigarette. He takes out his wallet and extracts his business card and his driver's license to help speed up the investigation.

"I expect the coroner will show up as soon as I remember where I put the stupid hat with "coroner" stitched on it."

He shook his head at Hoover.

"Be right back with a bag and a board."

He spoke to Dafydd, "Mind giving me a hand young man?"

As Jake made to sort out the situation Hoover just there staring. He was intent and then pointed and shouted "Look!"

Without warning the man with the hole in the side of skull suddenly stark to shake. Then the eyes seemed to start looking about. A groan escaped the corpse's mouth. Then it began to try and get up.

(OOC: everyone needs to make a sanity check. thanks.)

Dafydd cried out when the half-dressed and sewage covered man lunged for him and choked as it gripped his neck. When the sharp retort of the gun firing sent his assailant to the ground he leaned on his knees and tried to gather his wits, just focusing on breathing. When the officer started asking names and addresses, he began to panic; this was not a good start to his debut in this town. He should have known his luck at finding a job and lodging so quickly was going to turn around and bite him in the karmic rear end. At the sight of the, definitely now, corpse twitching and finding its feet, that low level panic at involvement with the law began turning into sheer terror at the dawning of his supernatural awakening. His eyes went wide and he stumbled back and away. "Wha- What the bleeding hell?" he stammered.

OOC:

00:43, Today: Dafydd Taliesin Morgan rolled 81 using 1d100.  Sanity (vs. 75)

Whel'p. Not a great start to the inevitable downward spiral into insanity. :D

Was this part of the show? Scott drew in a sharp breath as the dead man (dead twice over?) started to move. The gunshot had certainly looked real. The big hole in his head looked . . . nasty. And now he was trying to get up again?

The political organizer stepped back a pace or two. The scene seemed too surreal to connect fully with the triggers of fear that were sounding in the back of his mind, but he was pretty sure that if the corpse actually climbed to its feet and started trying to bite folks again, Mrs. Scott's eldest boy was going to be headed towards the horizon at a high rate of knots.

06:30, Today: Yoland Thomas Scott rolled 30 using 1d100.  SAN roll vs 60.

Seeing what was happening at the hole in the ground ?? Wilhelm shouted out:"Was zur Hölle ist das denn?"

In his terror he simply forgot where he was, his new home, the United States of A, big A, yes Sir, and they speak English over here.

Wilhelm started shaking all over and tried to start the sentence from the beginning:" What the hell is happening over there?"



14:17, Today: Wilhelm de Vries rolled 20 using 1d100.  sanity roll.
This message was last edited by the player at 12:17, Wed 04 May 2022.

"Godamighty!" screams Jake as Earl Lancing tries to rise yet again. He stomps on one end of the rope wrapped around Earl to pin him to the ground.

"You all grab onto th' ends a this here rope an' keep him down! Earl, you stay still now! You're undr arrest! Don't go resisting! Stop, dammit!"

Reluctantly, Jake draws his revolver.

Jake Westley rolled 94 using 1d100 with rolls of 94.  for Sanity 50.

It was a moment in time that none of them would ever forget. Especially old man Hoover. The old man seemed to make a squeaking noise and then just collapsed to the dirt in front of them. Dafydd had the sinking feeling of incredulity pushing down on his shoulders as if the weight of the world were suddenly there. It was overwhelming. Jake looked at Hoover. He didn't seem to be breathing. Then his eyes shot back to the corpse that was moving, after dying twice now, and once in front him only moments ago. He drew his pistol but lost track of what to do next. The others seemed transfixed as the horror of the moment seared its memory into the dark recesses of their minds. It was unnerving, let unavoidable to look upon.

Hank had started to leave but now he turned and stared at the moving corpse.

15:04, Today: William Henry Clark rolled 35 using 1d100.  SAN 65.

He blinked a couple of times and then headed into the Funeral Home to retrieve the aforementioned body bag and also a shotgun.

Scott shivered as if somebody had just walked on his grave, but the dead man seemed very . . . dead . . . now. So that was that. He looked around the town for a place to get that cold drink but waited patiently where he was for the deputy to collect his particulars. In his experience, moving rapidly away from police officers tended to get them riled up, and there'd been enough gunplay already this morning.

And until his car was fixed, he had nowhere else to be anyway.

A hand shot out and gripped Jake by the ankle. The corpse used this as leverage to drag its body up onto a knee. It reached out suddenly to hoover, gripping his overalls, and pulled itself up onto its feet. It looked wildly about and seemed to inhale.

There was a raspy exhalation of embalmed lungs and putrid stench, the thing grumbled out, "Must feed and feed. It burns."

Hoover screamed in panic and shock and collapsed to his knees. Henry had just made it to the door with the body bag and his father's old Greener double barrel when the thing spoke. He dropped the bag and immediately began fumbling buckshot loads from the his pocket.

Jake yanks his ankle out of the thing's grasp.

"Stop!Yerunderarrest!" he cries and swings at Earl Lancing's head with the barrel of his heavy revolver.

Jake Westley rolled 93 for Fighting 50%.

But the deputy is off balance as he strikes and misses, stumbling away a couple of steps.