284 years ago, Carolina Coast, Roanoke Colony

"Where is it, show me!" White pushed through the dense brush, thorns tearing at his face in his haste. Crashing into a clearing he found his men clustered round a wide beech tree. Several leaned upon their musket buts, eyes fixed on a set of crudely carved letters, 'CROATAN.'

"What do you figure it means, Mr. White?"

"Croatan... it's what the savages call themselves." White ran his fingers across the message, the only sign of life to be found in a colony of more than a hundred Christian souls. "Has there been any sign of the natives?"

"No sir, but you know how they are, could be they're watching us now."

White's eyes peered through the surrounding green seeing no sign of life not even the flit of a bird or rustle of a rodent. "Nothing..." He leaned down to say a prayer to the almighty and his knee struck something sharp. Gloved hands scoured the leaves to find the source of the prodding. They emerged with a half rotten skull of an animal that shouldn't be.... His men stepped back in fright, some touching their crosses for protection against the unnatural thing before them.

"What is that, Mr. White? A devil?"

White analyzed the skull, long yellow incisors like a rabbit or rat, but lurking behind these wicked, curved fangs like a serpents lurked. Crowning the monstrosity were a pair of antlers, twisted and mishapen like the thing itself.

"Mr. White?... what do we do?"

"Search the area," replied the old explorer his eyes locked with the black sockets of the thing before him, "if you find anything... else, bring it to the colony then we burn it. We burn it all."

"What about the colonists, Mr. White."

He let the skull drop, "the colonists are dead."

Land of the Chained

Cast

-Earl Tyler Taylor, Archetype: Sharpshooter

-Dr. Henry Shaw, Archetype: Doctor

-Alexandra, Archetype: Indentured Prostitute

-Temitope, Archetype: Yorùbá Slave

Posting Guidelines

1) Try to stay in 3rd person limited perspective. We can't hear your character's thoughts so show them, don't tell them. There are some exceptions to this rule notably things like dreams and visions.

2) Longer Post =/= Better Post. One paragraph can be completely sufficient depending on the circumstances.

3) If you spot a historical error or anachronism, point it out in OOC, ESPECIALLY if it is mine. No one will be butthurt, we all make mistakes and none of us are history professors.

4) Try to post 1/week bare minimum, more if your character is on centerstage or is involved in a high pace scene, such as a gunfight.

5) If your character is not with the maingroup give your post a time and place header.

6) Sometimes a game bogs down, sometimes players can't get to the next set piece smoothly and quickly, sometimes you just need... a MONTAGE



If the group decides to travel, train, wait or do anything that requires time lapse then anyone can tag the bottom of their post with what I call a Montage Request. Use a syntax like this MONTAGE REQUEST: <what you want to do>. For example, MONTAGE REQUEST: TRAVEL TO ATLANTA or MONTAGE REQUEST: HUNT FOR SMALL GAME. Think of it like fast travel in video games. If no one objects to the montage request in the OOC then I will either transition the group to the new time/place or the montage will be interrupted by some kind of unanticipated encounter.

7) If you have any question or issue or if you're getting writer's block just ask for help in the OOC, that's what we're here for

Feb 13, 1874 Auburn, New York

Harriet came awake in a start, around her a tight dark room filled with wide eyes. They awaited her words, words which had come too late to save Philidelphia, to save her dearest Fredrick. In the Oracle's mind shards of the vision passed like cannon shrapnel through her skull bringing pain with it, tugging at her nerves like a pupeteer at an unruly marionette. Lee, the savior of the South, she could see his statue, emblazoned in bronze. It reflected fires, a city burning... no not a city, but crosses... burning crosses... the Klan.... The screams oh Lord the screams. And watching it all from squinty eyes, Satan, taking the guise he so often did in her visions, a horned serpent with the twisted rack of a stag and the sinuous contours of a rattlesnake. The demon watched the carnage as it coiled about great bronze Lee's legs, tongue flicking in pleasure as if tasting the burnt flesh on the winds. She steeled herself against the pain, grown'in up a slave had taught her that much.

When her wincing eyes open they were placid, calm, no hint of the horror she had beheld to disturb her flock. She reached along her bed and found Nelson's hand where she knew it'd be, but she kept her eyes on the room, on her soldiers, her friends, her family. On faces hollowed and scarred by ten years of war and want. Phrasing her words as delicately as she could she told them the truth, "Richmond will be next... And if we don't save them, we will all fall and the future... will belong to the Serpent."

Feb 13, 1874 Outskirts of Richmond, Virginia

Hot blood spat onto Alexandra's face. For a moment, she wasn't exactly sure what had happened. Pressing a hand to her face, the beads of blood smeared across her hand. In front of her, a lifeless body started falling to the ground, blood still spurting from the wound in its head. Alex watched as Aminata's body hit the ground; it made a kind of a muffled 'crunch' sound against the rock and broken branches. The shouts of her pursuers were dull in comparison, and it was all Alex could do but to stare in disbelief.

Just like that, a bullet flew past her ear. The ringing was unbearable, but it was enough to snap Alex back into the moment. Forest. Forest in every direction as far as the eye could see. Deep shades of greens and browns, a late evening sun gleaming off the leaves. In another time, Alexandra might have admired the scene, but her gaze shifted back to Aminata. She was dead, nothing Alex did would change that. She forced herself to turn away from the body and run.

By now, the men were almost upon her. Alex could see them moving between the trees around her, and they could see her. Her bare feet carried her as fast as they could, the feeling of dry dirt and leaves between her toes, felt somewhat liberating. Stray bullets flew around her; each of them missing their mark. It was a wonder that they had managed to hit Aminata. Alex continued to run. Aminata had bought her time, no doubt she would have been dead without her. Then again, without her, Aminata might have made it out.

The plan had been a solid one. No one knew of Alexandra's skill with a lock, so getting unbound and out of their shackles would be easy, what they hadn't accounted for was one of the wagon guards at the back of the group who had decided to lag behind to do his 'business'. They had successfully escaped their bindings and cage, but the moment that guard saw them about 300 feet behind the main group, it was all over.

They ran, and for a moment they had almost gotten away, but Alex tripped, slamming her leg into an unearthed tree root. Aminata, could have left her behind and escape with her life, but no. She immediately spun around to help Alex up, and that's when it happened.

Alexandra's leg was suddenly filled with pain remembering her fall. She could feel herself growing more and more exhausted by the minute. The men were further away now, how she had gotten ahead of them, she hadn't the faintest idea. Feeling absolutely spent, she stumbled to a stop and slumped herself into a small dip in the ground. Her chest heaved in exhaustion as she gulped in air. Face and hair still matted with Aminata's blood. Sweat dripped from her brow, and her ragged clothes clung to her damp skin.

Alex couldn't hear the men anymore. Surely they hadn't given up? She peered over the ridge of root and dirt surrounding her. Nothing. She slipped back down, still heaving. Maybe she'd rest here until dark.

Feb 13, 1874, Slaughter Farm, Outside of Richmond VA

Temitope had been planting crops all day. The heat was terrible, and she felt as she often did that this day on Slaughter Farm would be her last. It was a fitting name for the farm, on account of the slaves who drop dead from overwork. The Slaughter Family can't help their name, but they sure do embrace it. Gad Slaughter, the Master of the plantation, didn't care about his workers. At least with the Callejas, they felt the need to protect their property. The Slaughters thought themselves too lofty to care about the lives of their slaves.

Temitope watched her overseer, Caleb Slaughter, some cousin or whatnot of the Lord of the Manor, patrol with his whip in hand. Caleb was a younger man who took great pleasure in practicing his whipping arm, although the general consensus was that he was but a boy and that his father, Overseer Peter, was a much more fearsome man. One of the slaves, Temitope knew him by the name of Baba, boasted how he didn't know he had been struck by Caleb Slaughter's whip until it was pointed out to him by his wife.

Temitope just had been planting for hours and stopped to wipe the sweat from her brow when Caleb turned his attention on her. "Hey, Paula," he called out. "Get yourself back to work, girl. Won't have me no slackers on my watch. That's not what the Old Man pays me for."

The Yoruba slave rose from the dirt and walked towards the man with a proud stride, and with English laced with a Jamaican accent, she spoke, "My name is Temitope, of the Yoruba people. Paula is a dead woman. You kill my freedom, but you do not kill my spirit." She grabbed the whip from his hand and struck him across the face with the butt. Caleb fell to the ground, his nose gushing blood. "I am not dead," she repeated as she began to whip the Overseer. "I am NOT dead! I am Temitope, and I live!" They cried in unison, slave and master.

The slave blinked to see Caleb standing over her. "We got a problem, girl? Do I gotta use this thing?" He cracked the whip, and Paula's head lowered to the ground, her hands resuming the process of planting seeds.

"No sir, I'm working the farm. Excuse me, sir."

"This will sting a fair deal."
As his patient sat on a wooden stool, Henry pressed a soaked rag into his shoulder. Flinching, the patient dug his teeth further into the leathery belt in his mouth. Henry slowly wiped his rag around the man's reddened shoulder, which was encrusted by a thin dark brown layer of dried blood. The man was nearly six and a half feet tall, with skin like boiled leather and tree-trunk arms that were nearly as big as Henry's waist. His face bore a contast scowl, with a beard that held a film of sweat, and eyes that had began to water. Although he groaned into his belt and his hands balled into fists, he remained unmoving. As Henry swabbed the man's infected wound, he spoke to him. Not of his wound, the treatment, or following procedures, but of the weather.

"Awful storm we had yesterday, hm? I heard it tore some of the shingles off of the church." He dunked his rag into a bucket of water, wrung it dry, and soaked it in alchohol once more. "The Dancing Horse's basement was flooded, and so Richard is selling the barrels down there for a third of the price." He continued to clean the wound, until it was suitably free of any scabs, and had been scrubbed raw. "I don't fancy myself a drinking man, so I've steered clear. I advise you do the same. Nothing good can come of drinking basement-water infected brandy. You'll be back here the same day you visit." He began to dab a yellowish paste from a bowl on to the man's shoulder, before wrapping it in gauze, and then wrapping all that he had done in bandages.

"There. Right as rain." Henry said cheerfully. The man stood up, rolling his shoulder around, adjusting to his bandages. Rubbing his shoulder, his scowl became a grin.
"Thanks, Doc. I sure owe you one." He reached into his pocket, handing Henry a dollar.
"Only doing my job. Do be careful the next time you fall off of a wagon. That was a terrible scrape, and waiting to see me only made it worse." Henry said. The man nodded like a scolded child, before shaking Henry's hand and stepping out of the office and into the dry afternoon that awaited him, eagerly advancing down the road to The Dancing Horse.

Henry briefly cleaned his hands up to his elbows, put away his instruments, and exited through the back door of his office. In his back room, he stored most of his supplies. It was a room about three times the size of his office, and three times more cluttered. There were crates lined up along the wall that were stacked to the ceiling, as well as spare stretchers, tubs of medical equipment, shelves of books, medical illustrations, chemistry sets, and any other imaginable tool that could be of use. The air was dusty and hot, and the room itself was dim and without windows. In the back of the supply room, there was a locked door. Henry had long since memorised the maze, and maneuvered about with surprising ease for a man witha cane. Reaching the back, he unlocked and opened the door. Naturally, this door led to another door. A trapdoor.

The third room of Henry's building was only slightly larger than a closet, or a very small cell. Inside, there was a torch on the wall, a crack along the ceiling, a rug on the floor, and a thick, wooden chest. Underneath the chest's oaken lid, there lay a revolver. Underneath the torch, there were a few darkened specks of blood from an encounter years ago that had been washed away. Underneath the rug, a trapdoor. And underneath the crack, stood Henry. He pulled the rug aside, opening the trapdoor. Before lowering himself down the ladder, he sparked the torch with flint and steel he had procured during his quick walk through his supply room, and began his descent. It was a short climb, only ten or twelve rungs stood between him and the sandy ground. He turned right, and began his walk through the earthy tunnel.

His was one of five tunnels to Harriet Tubman's bunker, and it was the one used the least. Used mostly to transport emergency patients from the bunker to his office, his tunnel was also the smallest -- Barely big enough for two men to walk abreast . The bunker itself served as the headquarters for The Railsplitters, and apart from Tubman's quarters, the meeting room, and the restroom, it held six rooms. Although mostly used for storing weapons, food, and plans, the bunker was a haven for The Railsplitters. One of these six rooms served as an infirmary, where Henry and two other doctors worked, almost as if in a makeshift hospital. While patients were far from rare, the infirmary was the least visited room -- The Confederacy seldom disabled or wounded their opponents. The Confederacy shot to kill.

Henry quickly advanced through the tunnel, gliding over the dirt, with the only sound being his cane tapping the soft earth below him. He was scheduled to meet another patient, who was a fellow Railsplitter. Although he had neglected to learn what he would be treating, it was likely only a visit for medicine or an evaluation. Anything more severe, and it was more likely that the patient would visit his actual practice, which was much more well-equipped. Making his way through three sets of locked doors, he found himself in the bunker. The headquarters of The Railsplitters.

Bustling with life as usual, workers hurried about in hushed voices. Although they were five meters from the surface, there was a strict "No Shouting" policy implemented. After all, one could never be too careful. Nodding to a few friends, Henry made his way through the room, entering the infirmary. There, he was greeted with the same sight as usual. Twelve cots, three cabinets, and an operating table. In the room sat two familiar faces. Francis, a Railsplitter who frequented the infirmary in the hopes of being treated with opium, and Doctor Jeremy, one of the two doctors who worked alongside Henry. Greeting them both, Henry stood by the entrance, waiting for his patient. It had been an uneventful day thus far, and Henry absentmindedly hoped it would change soon.