Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Z'Greel, Oct 17, 2012.

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  1. The colonists are drawn to the town of Moonshine in search of a better life, as the small town if well known for its vast mineral veins, hidden in the mountain ranges close to the town, just waiting to be mined. Of course, with wealth comes both traders and bandits. Some time after the town was established, the settlers discovered that there was a strange aura to the town, dangerously vicious at night, but dormant during the day.
    When groups of miners started disappearing, the remaining settlers bound together a rag tag group of people with different skill sets, to try and find the missing miners, and discover the source of the strange activities. Some of the group are doing it for money, some are doing it for the town, and yet others are doing it simply to survive.
    After two years, there was no sign of the miners, and many horrifying creatures emerged from both the mines and the surrounding area. A beacon of hope for the remaining settlers emerged in the from of a mysterious design, carved into the side of the mining mountain. This carving, loosely translated by a friendly Native American, was said to mark the mysteries of the treasures inside. The only problem is that the Native who translated the design was suddenly cursed into a deep sleep by some mysterious force.
    Yet with all the things happening in Moonshine, people seemed to catch a bit more interest in it. Traders hoping to sell all sorts of things that might help, people coming to see the horrifying creatures or simply people wanting the excitement of fighting such things. And lest we forget, bandits trying to use all that was happening in the area to hide themselves and their activities.

    Deputy Smith steps out of the Sheriff's office, looking down the dusty streets of the small town of Moonshine. The town was in a rather bad shape, seeing as it's main income had disappeared with the miners. Though, apparently, someone had seen some of the miners in the next town over, Southfire, and Smith had gotten the task of checking it out, to see if they were truly there, or if it was nothing but an empty rumor.
    As he walked along the road, towards the stables, he started rolling himself a cigar. It wasn't exactly going to be a short, pleasant trip through the prairie, though at least the tobacco would make it slightly more bearable.
    As he got onto his horse, he remembered something though. His revolver had broken down during the last attack, in a rather bad situation. He had to fix that before he left town. Luckily there was a gunsmith in town.
    He parked his horse in front of the shop, climbed off it and walked into the store, a bell over the door announcing his entry. As he spotted the owner, he almost regretted not having shaved or anything before his trip. "Morning Miss Tourney. I don't suppose you've got the time to have a look at my revolver? It doesn't revolve after getting a bit beaten up in the last attack."
  2. Alaster woke up knowing that he had failed his mission to take some of the supplies. His employers would not be happy. He picked up his things and put them either on his back or in his pack. This wasn't according to plan. It's either he would try to find the doctor or go back to the boss. He didn't like the people who employed him. He didn't want to face them so he had only one choice, he had to follow the doctor.

    The last thing he remembered was him saying that he had to go to Moonshine. Alaster has heard about the town before but only in rumors, so he didn't feel as if there was anything to worry about. That day he rode out on his horse, Rose, to a camp not too far away. It took him till night to reach there and he met a couple of people there.

    "My name is Alaster, what is yours?"

  3. The short boney shoulders of the young woman behind the grease stained counter suddenly pushed forward. Large, doe-eyes shot like lightning over his visage, taking in everything familiar about the man standing in her lobby. Once her skittish paranoia was sated, the petite-tar-hair girl smiled wide, showcasing teeth that remained white despite the lack of dentistry. As she turned her bean-pole body, she pointed a similar revolver at him. This would have been a semi-threatening act; if the cartridge wasn’t popped open and her fingers weren’t running over the barrel in search of imperfections. </SPAN></SPAN>

    “Tha’ piece is gonna get’cha killed, sir…” Her light blue eyes washed over the gun he held out with an expert sense. Wave after wave of observation taking in the guns worn body and broken chamber. “Best’s for now is dec’ration” Her honey sweet voice filled the air in whispering laughter as she turned her body once again to face the far wall, tinkering with the gun she still held tightly in her skinny fingers. </SPAN></SPAN>

    Felicia Tourney was more or less a child protégé, though the only person who could have spread the word of her excellent skill was dead or of bad nature. Joseph Tourney, her adopted father, taught her everything she knew. </SPAN></SPAN>Felicia was orphaned around the age of nine, found by the traveling gunsmith, who stumbled upon the girl passed out face down on the dusty road into Moonshine. Over time, the elderly gunsmith grew to care for the curious girl, trying to keep her safe from the dangerous dealings he did with bandits and other folk who would easily prey on her fragile body and soul. He raised Felicia as his own, teaching her as much of his trade as he could.

    It was taboo for a girl to know so much about gun craft, but Joseph poured his knowledge into the young lady, letting Felicia absorb as much as she could. Surprisingly she learned it all and even itched to experiment with crafting ways that her father had never even dreamed of. </SPAN></SPAN>

    Felicia hopped off a short step stool that helped her look more or less larger than she actually was. Her brown leather boots hit the floor with an audible ‘clunk’ as she landed, her giant mastiff, MacGuiver, lifted his drooling maw and yawned from the other side of the room. The brindle colored dog would have gone completely unnoticed, if not for his loud, rumbling snores that only seemed to grow in intensity as he fell back asleep.</SPAN></SPAN>

    “A’new gun would feel good in’yur hands” She took a short step out from behind the counter, her thin body only tall enough to barely reach his shoulders. Her cropped black hair framed her face in scraggly ribbons, an adorably uneven set of bangs being forced over her thin eyebrows by her thick leather top hat.</SPAN></SPAN>

    Felicia was an odd bird, caring not how she was seen by others of the town. She dressed herself in a strange mix of clothing, that was truly a sight to see. Felicia bordered the garments of a street walker- donning a loosely fitting, brass embroidered leather skirt that had a taffeta in-lay, barely reaching her knees. A tightly bound leather corset held her posture straight, small brass fixtures decorating the front and accenting a wide leather belt that hung around her waist. Hanging off the belt were many leather pouches and cases, varying in size and purpose. </SPAN></SPAN>

    It was obvious that she had made her own clothing- not bothering to go to the town tailor or outfitter for help. She was even independent enough to craft her own jewelry; a melted, mashing of metal hung around her neck by a long thin chain, falling gently into her milky white cleavage. </SPAN></SPAN>

    “ ‘Ere, take this one. It’s not brand new, but’ill work better than that piece-a-scrap”</SPAN></SPAN>
  4. Jack took the gun she was holding out to him and studied it a bit. "Well, it'll get tha job done, Ah suppose. Still, that gun's been wiff me for a long time. 'N now I gorra get used ta a new gun while goin out a'town." He holstered his new pistol in the holster on his belt and shrugged slightly. New guns always took a bit of getting used to. And getting used to them while being under attack, by bandits or monsters, wasn't exactly the best circumstances to do so.

    "Well, how much do Ah owe ya, Miss? As Ah don't suppose ya do charity work 'ere, or accept scrap fer guns?" He asked with a bearded smile as he reached his hand into his vest for his wallet.
  5. “That new gun’l work just as good as the old one! It’l form fit t’your hand quicker than the breast of a harlot!” Felicia smiled, snapping her fingers as he reached into his vest. “Don’ worry about it, I’ll re-use the scrap from the old hunka-junk.” She exchanged guns with him, working her fingers over the broken piece with curiosity filling her eyes. </SPAN></SPAN>

    There was an awkward silence in the room for a moment, not even mutt made noise. </SPAN></SPAN>

    “So… what’cha gunna’ go out’a town fer?”</SPAN></SPAN>

    “My names is Alaster, What is yours”</SPAN></SPAN>

    The small camp was dreary and dark, large towering boulders and canyon ridges surrounding the bordering wooden fence that stood rickety on broken posts. As the newcomer rode in a couple heads turned, the most interested face though, was an older man by the name of Grit.</SPAN></SPAN>

    “What’s a boy like you doin’ ‘ere?” Grit questioned, walking up the newcomer and holding his calloused hand out for a sturdy shake. “the name’s Grit, nice to meet you- though I doubt you’ll be want’n to stay long; we’ve got a bit of a situation goin’ round.”</SPAN></SPAN>
    The older man turned his head and coughed, spitting out his chewing tobacco with a disgusting guttural hack. </SPAN></SPAN>
  6. As the lady started examining his old gun, Jack wondered a bit if he should object or not. A broken gun in exchange for a new one was a good trade for him, and apparently she was happy with the old one. He decided not to complain, as his pay wasn't exactly the greatest.
    After a bit of silence, she asked where he was going.
    "Some folks said dey saw some a'dem lost miners in Southfire. So da Sheriff is sendin me over ta check if its true or not. He's gettin old, ya know. Not all that fun fer him ta travel so much anymore. But he's still damn good at shootin, so Ah see no reason ta try ta make him step down or nuthin." He ran his hand through his hair, shoving his hat a bit back as he did. "Can't really blame him though. Ah don't exactly love ridin across da prairie mahself. Nothin ta do, an gettin attacked a whole friggin lot." He frowned as he spoke
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