- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- I'm pretty open ended, I usually try to stay out of fandoms though. Genres that make you think are a definite plus.
Tarr remained in his coffin for a moment after being pushed into the corner of Boxcar 18. Silence had drenched the room after the sliding door of the train was closed on him. There was no steps or voices, but the man wanted to make sure he wouldn't be on the receiving end of any snags. The whole operation was enough of a gamble. He didn't need to risk any more on the mixed rumors of the dead rising in one of the storage holds. He had almost decided to take his leave when the unmistakable sound of the door assaulted his ears. To his surprise however, the steps that followed were not the heavy boots of the rail workers he was familiar with. This was something else.
“Sh-Should we be in here? We’re supposed to board the train come morning.” The voice was that of the Gunsmith, the same woman who had given him that brick of a revolver the night before. But what was she doing here?
Another pair of footprints echoed lightly within the box, but the sound of the woman's Dog was no where to be heard. John thought on taking his exit with the sound of the familiar voice but decided against it. Until he knew the Identity behind the other pair of feet, he'd stick to playing dead. A good decision considering it wasn't more than a minute before the strained sounds of struggling rattled within the space. “Aint good for much, are you?” The second voice was that of the Hessian. An almost gentle tone echoed from his lips as the exchange took it's course. "Reckon no one'll ask if I say you ran away."
Felicia attempted a scream but it was muffled. The sound was almost lost within the confines of the car much less to anyone lucky enough to hear it outside. Even from within a pine Box, it didn't take a doctor to understand how this exchange would play out. The Irishman considered his options. For a fare bit more than a glancing thought, he considered on leaving the woman to her fate. She was sickly sweet, innocent and far too often stupid. Always giving the damned the benefit of the doubt and ignoring her greater instincts to the tune of good graces. If she were to walk this path, she would have to callus over. If those scars happened sooner rather than later, she might yet survive. "I'm gonna eat you alive..."
Then again, the Hessian might just kill her here and save everyone the witness. After all, who'd believe the testimony of the dead?
Placing a finger along the edges of his teeth, the Irishman tasted blood against the tip of his tongue. The clasp that held the lid was a simple mechanism and it took but a drop of crimson to unbind. The well oiled hinges of the Undertaker's work shifted silently as the box was opened. He had made his decision. The Irishman had enough problems sleeping at night without the prospect of being haunted by something like this. The scarred outlaw cycled the action of his Winchester and leveled it at the head of the Hessian. Unlike the opening of the coffin, the unmistakable chime of the weapon echoed audibly against the confines of the rail car.
"Reckon no one would mind if I put a hole in your face..."