Town Main Street

The sheriff came storming back out of his office, his hands at his face and rubbing vigorously as he drew a deep sigh. This was too much to deal with Angpetu was going on about some guy that could apparently escape death, he had a body on the ground being watched over by his inept deputy and now as he stopped in his tracks he saw a face he did not know carrying yet another body. Grabbing his hat off his head he tossed it in the ground and stomped on it.

“God blast it, mother loving, dagnabit. I’d beat the devil around a stump to pass the buck on this here damned blowed up situation!” he exclaimed out of frustration before yanking his hat off the ground and swinging it through the air. “Now what in tarnation happened to this here bloke? You know what, dun’t care a continental. Fuck it, this burg done gone to hell in a hand basket and I am apparently yur’ tour guide through the boil on the butt of humanity known as Brogden,” he snapped before he actually took note of the newest arrival and grumbled.

“Marshal, yeah, well he be gone. Up and flew the coop. I guess he didn’t want ta’ wait for no burial and the formalities. He figured he just go ahead and stroll on down to hell of his own accord. You want answers, you can talk to Ang in the office cause I am washing my hands of the whole situation. I just jail them I don’t have no need or want to go chasing those that won’t stay dead,” he said as he waved his arms around like he was half crazed.

“Sean, you take that body and the lead this here, who were you?” he asked Twain before waiving the question away. “Know, what, don’t care. You follow Sean and take them bodies to ol’ Seamus and get them nailed in a coffin before they decide to join the last bloke and have a good ol’ fashion hoe down in the middle of me town!” he said before pushing passed the group and heading towards the saloon. “I need a drink….”

Sean didn’t know what to think or what to say he just stood there confused and nodded quickly as the Conner told him what to do. “Right boss, see right to it,” he stammered before grabbing the body and lifting it over his shoulders. “Yeah. Um, this way,” he said towards Twain and began slowly trudging off towards the undertaker.

The Sheriffs Office – Back Room

Angpetu looked around slowly, shaking her head as she heard the sheriff start yelling in the street. She had warned him he didn’t want to knot but he didn’t listen and now he was doing what several had done in the past. Gone to have a drink and pass off the information as only a drunken dream from the night before. Rubbing her temples she looked at the two new additions in the back room and rolled her eyes. Having to bring one into the fold was enough, now two more on top of this Cyrus character?

“Yeah, swifter than you can imagine,” Angpetu muttered under her breath before turning her attention to Cyrus and nodding at the information he gave her. “Actually, yes, very helpful,” she said. Her eyes narrowed and she went over the information both in her head and verbally as she began to walk in circles.

“Okay, not damaged really by lead, so that could mean any of them. Too damned dry out here to be an Asrai. Went down but was back up in an hour means not an elder but old enough to know what he’s doing. Didn’t move out of the way of the bullet, so ain’t no Daemon(pronounced Day-mon). Inuits be friendly, especially out in these parts. Pengallen would have left their body and just went off with their head,” she muttered as she continued to walk.

As the sheriff quit his rant the place got quiet and Angpetu could hear a whistling sound coming from out back in the darkness. “Nakani, son of a bitch,” Angpetu growled as she stopped in her tracks. “Okay, you – go find me a couple of bottles of liquor and some rags. Then follow us,” she said to the woman that was there in the back with them.

“You,” she said to the Sioux. ”Follow the sound of that whistling but don’t attack him, trust me, just ready a knife or ax” she sad in Sioux before directing her attention towards Cyrus. “Next time you fire, aim for the knees. We gotta keep him from running,” Angpetu quickly said as she loaded with rifle with an oddly colored cartridge that looked like it was made out of some strange metal composite. Grabbing the handle of the back door she flung it out to open and looked around slowly as she brought the rifle up, stepping out slowly.

“Do not let him touch you, no matter what,” she warned as she began to walk slowly out the back door towards the sound of the whistling. The moon was high in the sky and it was a cloudless night, she hated hunting at this time of the day but they didn’t have much of an option at this point. She just hoped they listened to her because she didn’t want any more dead on her hands than the one she was after. It would take a bit to find Westbrook but once they did they would find him with his back to them pummeling a man with his fists in the chest as he had him pinned on the ground: straddling him. A soft glow would come from his hands every time his fist connected with the unconscious mans bare chest where the shirt had been torn away. The sound of the whistling growing louder and louder as they got closer. It wasn’t coming from Westbrooks lips but seemed to be swirling around him as it did.

“Hold it right there Nakani!” Angpetu called out as she took aim with her rifle. Westbrook held his hands up in the air and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glowing like his hands were a moment ago and a deadly grin coming over his features as he slowly stood up and turned around to face the group fully.

“Well my my, if it ain’t a Kin Bane,” Westbrook chuckled. “Out of your league here girl,” he added as his fingers fanned out and from the tips of each finger bone seemed to grow out of the flesh and slowly curved into sharp claws.

“Well, let’s just about that Nakani,” she said as she held her position.

Mark Twain let go off Paul Blake, and the dead man toppled over onto the sheriff's floor. He jutted an accusatory finger at the night chilled carcass and complained, “I had found this man dying without a license, not paying his taxes, and swilling copious amounts of gin.”

“I went to confront him about it, but found him quite handicapped, so I figured it was more of this uniforms forte,” He nodded slightly not talking to anyone in particular. He perked a dark brow of recognition and cocked a thumb over at Maeve, “oh and my nurse over here can confirm my story and sign any more of the legal papers should it come to that.”

When Twain saw that nobody was really listening and were rather preoccupied with a low whistle, the doctor fit his hands into his trouser pockets and stood upright, “well I’m glad we have this settled then!”

He watched silently as the group quickly hurried off to take care of something else. In the back of Twain’s mind he felt the itch of curiosity, and the urge of adventure. With a glance to the left, and then a stare to the right, he spun on his heel, patted Maeve a good luck pat on the shoulder followed by a sly grin, and exited the building.

---

The chill of the moonlit night contrasted the day’s sun, and the gentle breeze bellowed under Marks dark city clothes, sending a wild energy down his spine and perking the corners of his sly smile. After what seemed like a short journey, he surrendered his shoulder onto a large grey rock and leant on it as he observed the group that had left the sheriff's office.

His blue eyes released its gaze from the shadowy group momentarily as he scanned the otherwise wild grass of the flat lands he now found himself in, the silhouette of the town backed by the moonlight in the distance.

Only devious things take place at night so far from home, He thought to himself as he turned his attention back onto the group.

Sure enough soon the pounding struggle of an aggressor was made known by shouts and taunts, and even the pointing of a gun. The words of the people in question were blurred by the soft breeze in Twain’s ear, but otherwise understandable.

A soft spot in Mark’s heart suggested to leave this scene for a quieter one by the warm glow of a lantern next to a hot bath and even more pleasant company. However, the thought was quickly rebuked by a vulpine grin and the sense of adventure that so often swelled in the Doctor's chest.

After all, Mark thought to himself while he continued to watch the scene unfold before him, You only live twice.

Bill raised his eyebrows as the sheriff blew through the office like a hurricane. The lawman was obviously having a stressful day, but this talk of men who wouldn't stay dead? That was confusing. Clearly, the bounty hunter's killing shots hadn't been quite as lethal as they all would have liked. Would have taken a real clever man to play opossum and fool so many people, though, and Bill found himself wondering just what kind of town the sheriff was running here.

Well, nothing for it but to talk to this Ang person, whoever that was. This whole business was crazy, but he had nothing else to go on, and he'd be damned if he'd give up his hunt now after coming so close. The marshal stepped into the back room to find it empty.

"...Huh." Whoever Ang was, they seemed to have left through the back door, seeing as how it was open into the night. What was more, there was a sound coming from that direction - a queer sort of whistling. Something about that noise sent a chill down the old man's spine, and a thought pushed its way to the front of his mind: That ain't natural. He pushed it back down just as fast, took his rifle from his back, and stepped through into the moonlit night to follow the noise.

Bill had seen a lot of things in his long life: a lot of death, pain, and misery. He'd had a lot of long chases, a lot of bad scraps, and a lot of hungry nights. He'd heard wolves bay for his blood and stared down the barrel of Confederate rifles. But something about that night, how big the moon was in the sky, how twisted all the silhouettes of the buildings seemed, how shrill that godawful whistling was... it spooked him.

He wasn't following long before he arrived on a disturbing scene. A small group of people were facing down a solitary figure - one of them, the woman he'd seen earlier, was pointing a rifle at him. At the figure's feet there was a man, unconscious, his shirt torn away. Whatever the strange man had in mind for that poor soul, Bill was prepared to guess that it wasn't wholesome. The whistling was coming from nearby, though nobody seemed to be making it - more like it was just emanating from around them.

All these things were more minor details, however, compared to the two things that grabbed the Marshal's attention. One, the figure's face was unmistakably Westbrook, and two, he was armed in a way Bill had never seen before. There was something on his fingertips, long, sharp, like claws. The old lawman didn't much want to see what the killer could do to a person with those.

Bill took aim at Westbrook's center of mass, steadied his rifle, and announced his presence with a shot. What happened next, nothing on this earth could explain - Westbrook swerved away from the bullet, faster than any person should be able to move. Cursing, Bill loaded another shot and yanked the bolt back on his rifle, taking aim once again. Something queer was going on here, and Bill would find out what it was just as soon as this murdering sonofabitch was dead - not one second sooner.

Maeve walked behind Mr. Twain; the doctor, not the author. Once they were out in the street it seemed the chaos had not ended with the death of John, but had escalated to something entirely different. The Sheriff seemed a mess and the bodies were piling up and no one seemed to be paying much attention to John or the man Mark had. For a moment she pictured a dime western in which some hideous villain would start yowling and shooting blasts into the air while the law men hollered back and the women and children dove for cover.

If there is one thing you can always find in chaos, it is opportunity.

Maeve knelt down next to John, the red and black of her skirt puffing about and getting that tinge of dust that seemed a daily battle out here. She wasn’t complaining. It was better than the filth you could never clean out of the city. She wrapped her fingers like a claw around a chain on John’s neck and with a quick whip of her wrist she pulled it free of the dead man. She dug through his pockets like a pro, masking her movements as if she was adjusting him for the pearly gates he’d never see. She didn’t waste her time looking through what she’d attained and instead pushed all of it into the tight confines of her corset. She’d figure it out later.

As she stood she gave John a little kick. She had caught the fuss about Westbrook not being dead and for just a moment she hoped maybe John wasn’t dead either. She didn’t want to have to torture his wife. She’d never been fond of hurting women for their husband’s faults. God knows how easy it is to get caught up with the wrong man. John didn’t move. She assumed they were talking in metaphors or something about the dead not being dead, she’d just have to accept that there was no more thoughts to steal from the stiff. She kicked him once more for good measure. Yep, he was dead.

She smoothed out her skirt, mind set to follow Twain to talk to the Sheriff but as she looked around the street she realized Twain was gone. The body he’d been carrying was being shuffled about by the puppy dog deputy who was, surprisingly, handling this situation even worse than the Sheriff. The Sheriff at least knew what he wanted as he walked purposefully towards the saloon howling back something about needing a drink.

She should probably go back to work. This was something of a rush for Brogden. Everywhere she had ever lived, death makes people thirsty. The thought made her smile, until the weird atmosphere permeated herself and she became more conscious of her surroundings. She watched as the Sheriff disappeared into the saloon and then glanced around the street. It appeared she was alone. It would have been growing dark but the moon hung high enough for her to make out the shapes of the main street, the most welcoming light flooding from the Saloon. Her smile was replaced by a chill as she instinctively rubbed her bare arms. She thought she heard something of a whistle, but immediately following was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

It rattled her from her hallucinations of monsters coming out of the night. This wasn’t tumbleweed terror of the unknown; nope, those were real life bullets. She hiked up her skirt and quickly ran towards the Sheriff’s building, slamming the front door as she went. She looked around at those still gathered in here, appearing a bit surprised. One, someone had left a native in here practically unsupervised and two, she had a straight line of sight to the back door and the darkness. She thought about bolting the front, but who is to say these occupants weren’t the trouble makers?

“Who the hell is shooting now?” She wasn’t asking anyone in particular and she was keeping a steady eye on the backdoor. She pulled up her skirt to the garter and palmed a collection of throwing knives, keeping them at the ready. She silently cursed her luck. Stuck in a Sheriff’s station and her rifle was in the Saloon, with the Sheriff. Someone was having a serious case of the monday’s.

Just where are you taking him... Ah... The man with the woman following behind had arrived at what could be described as the law enforcement building in the town - Roy could tell because above the door was a massive sign which read 'Sheriff'. He could only assume that meant that it was a building occupied by the law enforcement entity of the town. The sheriff of the town, or perhaps a deputy, came storming past Evans, who was hiding behind a tree on the side of the road. He was talking something about dead people to another man, who seemed to himself be some form of law enforcement. I'm sorry... what? Dead people walking? What is all of this about... Roy could tell something was off and it wasn't just the talk of dead people walking, it was like a sixth sense he'd developed in Africa... He could tell there was danger, he just didn't know what it was.

He looked up at the tree, it harbored some sturdy-looking branches, he looked at the truck and began to climb. Placing his feet in footholds and pulling with handholds he scaled the, oak?, it was probably an oak tree. He'd reached a particularly stable branch near the top and set himself up. This may be too much... but I feel safer in up here... I have a bird's eye view over the town now... He could see a great many things. The group behind the sheriff's building took his notice over other going ons in the town. There was a man who everyone was looking at, judging from their body language, the single man was hostile... or perhaps the group was - they were the ones at the law enforcement building. They're probably the good guys... What the bloody hell is that?

The soldier took notice of a whistling... It sent shivers down hhis spine. He had already unclasped his Enfield revolver from the right side of his holster-harness... He drew the weapon at this point. It wasn't long after that he heard the gunshot... He reared his head around and saw a man, who was older - in his fifties? - He held a rifle and had taken a shot at the man behind the building. The man... He has claws now... What is this? What have I stumbled into? I'm in America right? Is this what it's like here? People with claws? Dead people walking? I think I prefer Africa... The man with the claws dodged the shot... How the hell? Evans reached to his back and procured an Enfield rifle, made sure it was loaded. He braced himself against the tree, aimed an took a shot - the man dodged again, he took another shot - he dodged again. I'm running out of bullets... One more! He took a third shot, the man dodged, well... mostly. Roy's last bullet caught him in the left foot. One hundred and fifty meters... How is he able to do that and what is that God-awful noise...

Behind the Town

Westbrook dodged and rolled out of the way of almost every attack that came his way, only one was able to hit and it landed in his foot but he did not cry out or even flinch. He just grinned towards the group that was now forming near him, an evil grin as the whistle picked up more around him. Angpetu stood her ground, taking slow aim and waited for him to attack her. She had dealt with his kind before and there were many out there that were much faster than him but sadly he was still faster than her. It was something that could not be helped right then. She fired her rifle, the whizzing through the air and cutting through the sounds of the whistle as it did. The shot missed, going past his ear as he leaned to the left. Lunging at her she rolled onto her back, holding her rifle up to block his claws but they sliced through her hands and she dropped them.

She felt weak as his claws wrapped into her shoulders and dug into her flesh but she let him. She did not fight the attack stilling her body as she slowed her breath and taking the pain and the feeling of the life force draining from her being. He took joy in the drain as a cold curl came to his lips and his eyes locked with hers. It all happened so fast and it seemed that Angpetu had just given up and accepted the attack. In a way she had but as she lay there, his eyes burrowing into her soul as he stole precious heart beat after heart beat her hand slipped down and pulled a dagger that seemed to be bladed not by steel but by a dark rock, looking similar to the arrow heads her people had used to centuries. Thrusting it up, she cut into his belly and pulled the sharpened rock through his gut, his intestines spilling out over her before he finally let her go and sprang back trying to hold his innards in.

Angpetu crawled backwards and stumbled to her feet, her body covered with his blood as she held the makeshift blade in her hand. Westbrook looked down at his hands, slowly pulling them back to see the damage before falling to his knees, stunned by what had just happened. He had gotten over confident; a flaw that all the kin seemed to have when they were in mid-drain of the herd. The whistling seemed to die down around the group as Angpetu took long and slow ragged breaths, trying to compose herself. It wasn’t over and there was still more that had to be done but at least he had been rendered unable to move anymore to get out of the way. Looking back up at Angpetu, his eyes wide with disbelief, she could only smirk at him.

“Flint dagger, works wonders on your kind,” she said as she held the blade up and moved it to gleam in the moon light. “Someone shoot him!” she yelled, her rifle having spilled a good twenty feet from her. She wanted to finish him but it would take several bullets to do it before she could complete the job. She didn’t know these people but now with Westbrook injured as much as he was, she knew a child could take him out with the right shot. “Aim for the head and the chest!” she added as she took a step back to make sure she was not in the way of any bullets coming towards the Nakani. Whatever bullets would hit would kill him but not a permanent death, which would have to be handled before he resurrected again. Gripping the blade tight in her hand she waited to do what she knew had to be done.

Cyrus nodded toward the Sioux woman. She seemed altogether desperate for their help, but that didn't matter to Cyrus. What mattered to him was ending his war.

This man's cruelty would soon be at an end, and Cyrus was determined to be the one to put him in the ground. "Aim for the knees, it is." He said, stepping behind the Sioux woman, but before he stepped outside, he stopped in his tracks as a thought popped into his head.

He didn't wait to see where she was heading as he took off, heading for the Inn, out through the front door of the sheriff's office.

He burst through the doors of the Inn, so suddenly, causing a ruckus and a stir from those quietly seated and enjoying their day. Taking quick steps towards the upstairs, Cyrus ignored everyone's gazes.

He made his way up the staircase, rushing along, till he arrived topside. There, he walked along the rails till he came to his room. He fumbled for a moment with his pockets, before producing a set of keys and unlocking the door.

He swung the door open, abruptly, and stepped inside. There, on the chair was another firearm; a colt open top. It was his pride and joy, and he would use it to put down Westbrook. He was an excellent shot with it, even better than with his single action colt army. He had worked harder and had this one longer, as it was perfect for riding and shooting with. Only now, he would be standing still and shooting.

He wrapped the belt around himself, putting it over his other gun belt, while hurriedly walking downstairs. He shut his door behind him, nabbing the key and pocketing it.

He ran downstairs and out the door, walking into the street. He had little idea where everything was happening, but it wouldn't be difficult to find. The sound of gunfire and a strange whistling was coming from behind the town, away from the prying eyes of the townsfolk.

Cyrus ran towards the sheriff's office, slipping through a small separation in the buildings and walking out back, still following the sound of whistling and gun fire.

The whistling was eery and strange to Cyrus. It was so loud and was lasting so long. If it had been in shorter succession, Cyrus would have thought it to be a mortar shell or rocket, overhead.

He ran past fences and doors, till he walked upon the scene. He slowed down to a walk, seeing that Westbrook was wounded. He had arrived just in time to hear the Sioux woman yell some words that caused Cyrus to smile with satisfaction. Before anyone could comprehend what was going on, his weapons were drawn and firing.

Bullets tore through the body of the man, as Cyrus unloaded both pistols into him. It was a slow talking guns rapidity as he cocked one pistol, while firing off the other. He pulled back one pistol and stuck the other forward, firing shot after shot.

He kept getting closer and closer after each bullet, making sure each landed in their prospective spots and tore through this abomination. Before he knew it, he had gone through every bullet and he heard the disappointing sounds of clicking.

A glare was pasted across Cyrus's face as he eyed the results of his shots. He let out a low growl towards the abomination, before emptying the cartridges from each pistol and beginning the process of reloading.

"I'll see you in hell, Westbrook."

Roy watched the scene unfold from his perch. He was nearly one hundred and fifty meters away, but he had a basic idea of what was going on... Wait just a bloody second! I don't know what's going on! Well.. Maybe I have a better idea now... He began to reload his weapon, slipping cartridges into the trap on his rifle. Dead men walking... A mysterious man with claws who can move faster than anyone I've ever seen... I don't fucking know what's happening! that was about when the woman was caught.

From the distance she seemed to have been caught by the man's claws. This can't be good... Blimey, what is that noise..? He raised his, now reloaded weapon again. The woman's arm shot upward and a knife sliced through the man, or at least part of him. She yelled something about shooting and that was about when the other man appeared and began to unleash hell upon the clawed man.

Christ alive! Another man had two... Pistoles? Either way, he unloaded them into the man's chest, blood splattering everywhere. "Have another" Evans wasn't convinced that that would do the man in. He took aim and fired, the bullet meeting its mark - the clawed man's head.

Westbrook growled looking towards Angpetu, starting to move his legs to try to rise from his knees but it was too late. Suddenly he was chest was hit again and again with bullet after bullet. It took what was left in the Nakani to say upright as each one pierced through his flesh and into his body but remained where he was on his knees, still refusing to die. The bullet that seemed to finish the job was the one that came from another direction than the first spray of them and penetrated his skull. The man stayed there for a moment before toppling over to the side, the side of his face pressing into the dust and dirt of the ground below him. His eyes still open but the whistling sound had finally ceased.

Angpetu took a deep breath, at least the worst was over with for now but she knew Westbrook wasn't dead yet, at least not in a traditional sense. Walking over to him she squatted down and took a look. Even as she looked at him the wounds seemed to close. Shaking her head, she stabbed the dagger into the mans throat, moving it left to right and then sawing through the bone of the spine, severing his head from his shoulders. Taking the head she rested it on his midsection and pulled a lighter out of her pocket she rose and lit his clothing on fire before turning and running back some what.

"Cover your ears!" she called out to the group that was there as her hands came to the side of her head. "And brace yourself," she added as she dropped to one knee with her back towards the body. It seemed odd but it was quickly explained as the flesh of the Nakani caught on fire and a screaming whistle came from the lips of the severed head. It lasted only a moment and then the body erupted as if someone had shoved a stick a dynamite into the chest cavity. As it exploded the bits and pieces of the body turned to ash and rained down from the sky.

"I hate that part," Angpetu grumbled as she stood up and dusted herself off, sheathing the blade back on her hip and wiping her hands off on the crimson scarf she wore draped around her next. Stepping over towards her rifle she picked it up and rested it on her shoulder as she turned her direction towards the person that was closest to her, Cyrus.

"Nice shooting," she said as she turned back to look at the scorched earth where the body had been. "That was a Nakani," she said motioning over towards where Westbrook had been. "Nasty bit of Kin, fast as hell, only thing that really puts them down like the rabid dogs they are is flint and fire," she said in a flat tone and spoke as if it was an every day occurrence; like she was sitting down trading pie recipes with a neighbor. Shrugging slightly she glanced around. "Now, where did that last shot come from," she said as she looked towards the direction it had come from and seeing a bit of a perch that was out of the way from the rest of the group. Giving a way in acknowledgement before resting her hand back on her rifle.

"So, any questions before I go seek out someone to stitch up these claw punctures Westbrook was so kind to give me as a parting gift?"

Usually at this time, Anita would be either half-dead with fatigue or completely buried in her texts. She was not one to come out into the town like this. Especially not this far out, by the sheriff's office. The Sheriff was a loud and wrathful man, and he put the fear of the lord in her quite fiercely. But regardless, she was here. Drawn by the commotion in town, as she was running her daily errands. She was on her way from having inspected one of the sicker townsfolk when the commotion went up and drew people into the field behind the sheriff's office. Gunfire and shouting, two noises that she absolutely deplored. Because of what she knew of the pain that came with, and of what she knew about having to deal with the resulting injuries. Bullets to be extracted, wounds to be tended and other such bloody labor to be done. And it would fall to her, in the way it always did.

But, that was not an appeal that drew her as she was being drawn right now. No, her intrigue was peaked by the distant people engaged in the firefight. All against one other person. Even from her distance, with her eyes, she could see that something was wrong. Different. The lone man's movements were too fast, bullets hit him and seemed to have no effect at all. The gunshots rung out from the field and echoed in her ears. She wheezed nervously, throat itching. She had to get closer, but the gunfire made her feel like her heart was going to stop at any moment. But she had to see, this was a marvel in its own morbid way. With bag in hand, she moved forward slowly, sticking to the brush and undergrowth as best she could. Her shoes and dress were getting dirty, she could feel, but her care factor had already fallen beyond retrieval.

She was close enough to see the man moving quicker than she could possibly imagine. His entrails being held in by what seemed to be will alone. No signs of shock, or the effects of blood loss. Curiouser and curiouser, as she saw the protrusions of bone from his fingertips. What on earth was going on here? She crouched low on the outskirts of the fight and reached into her doctor's bag, looking for her anatomical references. She must have left them back at her home. She looked again. This grotesque mockery of the human sciences was unnatural and unheard of. It sickened Anita to her very core. And at the same time...

It absolutely fascinated her.

The explosion however, did not, as the strange monster-man was quickly vaporised, becoming a fine ash mist. What had just happened, she did not know. But she had to know. She had to. The offending party, the ones who attacked the man, seemed to have injured among them. How could she know they were friendly? Did they simply hunt that man because he was deformed? Grotesque? Were they a band of extremists prowling for prey?

As her mind rushed, her wheezing became more and more intense, devolving into hacking coughs that burned at her throat. If she didn't keep quiet, they might see her.

Twain lifted dark shaded glasses to his face as the explosion flashed, and a cocky smile turned his smirk, “they do say it is better to go out with a bang.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully and snapped his fingers, “gotta write that one down.”

With the danger all but over and the need of a doctor suddenly arising, Twain figured it was about time he introduced himself. He slipped from behind the rock and slowly sauntered up to the others, make sure to clap his hands in approval at the kill, after all, don’t want to be rude.

he took a long look at the scorch mark where crimson gore rested and he suddenly felt the need to pinch his nose from the acrid stench.

“It would appear our friend is a man of many parts, pity,” Twain said almost to himself as he thought

After a few seconds of staring past his sunglasses, he shoved his hands into his rich northern tailored pants and smiled friendly at the gathered masses, “Did I overhear that someone was in the need of a doctor?”

Angpetu looked over towards Twain as if he was off his rocker but after what they had seen, perhaps it was just his way of dealing with it. Each person in the past that had been exposed to the Kin reacted in their own way and it had driven some to the padded rooms section of hospitals. Oh perhaps, that was just the way he was. Shrugging inwardly she stood there as the ash fell down and brushed it off her sleeves.

“Yeah, that would be me,” Angpetu commented as she stood there. “Thankfully these Kin don’t infect when they get ya but sadly that isn’t always the case,” she muttered more to herself than anyone around. Shrugging off her coat she pushed aside the shredded material of her blouse a bit to see how deep the wounds were. She would need stitches but it could have been worse; she had seen worse.

“Question is though, are you a doctor?” Angpetu inquired as she looked back over towards Twain, ‘already had one mad man tearing into my flesh this evening.” Sighing she slid her coat back on and gripped her rifle. “Either way, guess we should head back to what is called civilization out here, other than stitches I could use a belt,” Angpetu said in a huff. Turning, she didn’t wait for the others to comment or follow, figuring if they had questions they could tag along for the ride. This wasn’t a circumstance that you pressed people to speak about, either they did or they didn’t and it was best to let them come to it on their own.

“I’ll be in my room shortly at the saloon, second floor, room four,” she said before she began to walk off. She had only taken a few steps when something caught her attention and she sighed deeply, seemed there were more watching than she had anticipated. “Alright you, come on out,” she said quickly as she looked at a patch of undergrowth and brush that moved every so often. “It’s safe now.”

Cyrus covered his ears, after hearing the whistling for half a second and dropping his weapons. He turned to face away, stepping away slowly, not really thinking there would be a sizable explosion, only to be proven wrong, as he felt the heat at his back and the blast tug at his clothes. He dropped his hands slowly from his ears, and turned to see nothing but ash raining down, like some romantically apocalyptic image.

Cyrus sighed, pulling out one revolver and proceeding to load it, rotating the cylinder to accommodate. He cracked the colt 1871-72 open and dispensed all of the spent brass on the ground. After which, he began placing cartridges in their respective spots. He finished up the colt 1871-72 and holstered it, withdrawing his colt single action army. He dropped each spent casing on the ground, ejecting them one at a time as he pointed the weapon skyward with it's loading gate swung open. Accomplishing this, he proceeded to load cartridges, one after the other, rotating the cylinder with every fresh one placed in its respective spot.

After finishing up his loading, he simply holstered the weapon, and looked towards the Sioux woman and the newcomer whom had previously questioned if anyone needed a doctor. "No," came his simple gruff reply, as he looked to the man. "Not me, at least."

Cyrus turned to walk next to the Sioux woman, a little bit curious about what she had to say about everything that had happened. He definitely had remembered something she said earlier about having a team, but he wasn't extraordinarily interested, unless it paid.

He kept walking alongside the Sioux woman, until she came to a sudden halt to observe something that had rustled the bushes. He turned to face the foliage, his eyes glaring down the area as he watched for movement. His hands hovered above his pistol handles, waiting for any threat that might come.

Cyrus was very in tune with his instincts and had a great amount of situational awareness, especially when his nerves were on edge from a fight. He gave a low guttural growl towards the bushes, as if to ward off any evil just with his own threatening figure.

The marksman watched as his bullet embedded itself in the man's skull, taking satisfaction in his handiwork, he returned his rifle to his back, strapping it in. Roy noticed more movement, the woman who had shouted about shooting earlier, she was slicing into the man's neck, a few moments later she rose, hold on the beast's head. Roy began his discent, it wasn't particularly far, maybe ten or twelve meters. He was about two or three meters off of the ground when he heard it.

Like a screech of a thousand hyenas. He lost grip and fell, slamming onto the ground. "Arg... What was that?" He regained himself rubbing his side, where he had fallen. It took a few minutes but he arrived on the scene as the woman explained where she would be then said, "Alright you, come on out, it's safe now."

"Pardon, are you talking to me?" The marksman said as he strolled up to the scene, his Enfield Revolver drawn incase there was further danger.

Angpetu sighed as she stood there staring at the bush and underbrush that had moved somewhat. She knew someone was hiding but perhaps they were too scared by what they had seen to feel safe to come out right then. She wasn't going to stand there all night waiting for an answer nor did she had the desire to pull someone out kicking and screaming. She had wounds that needed stitching and from looking at the group that was near her, a lot of explaining to do. Shaking her head she shrugged slightly.

"Alright, well I will be in my room if you ever decide to get up out of the dirt," she said before glancing over towards the man that had come up to her asking if she was speaking to him.

"Nope, speaking to the bush apparently. Maybe it will catch on fire," she said before glancing back towards Twain, who after his words she assumed was a doctor of some sorts.

"Yeah, grab your bag or what ever you need and find me in my room if you are a doctor, I could use some stitches," she remarked before looking back at Cyrus and the new comers.

"Right, you two probably have questions. Someone grab a bottle from the bar and meet me in my room. I'll explain," she said before walking off towards the saloon. Nights like this always left her wanting a drink and a good nights sleep. Sleep wasn't going to come until she did some explaining but the drink could come rather quickly.

Walking back to the town proper she pushed through the people that were standing around talking about what had happened in the street itself and the Sheriff walking off to get drunk; it was something he normally didn't do. Stepping into the saloon she spotted the Sheriff in a corner, drinking straight out of the bottle. "Good thing he didn't see what was actually out there, man couldn't handle it," she muttered to herself before making her way to her room on the second floor and sitting down in a chair in the corner; placing her back to the wall and giving her clear few of anyone that decided to follow her in.

It was the dead of night and Roy wouldn’t have been able to see if it weren’t for the lamps around town. Gas powered, with their fuel underneath the flame chambers in tin containers. The woman said something about a bush catching ablaze and talking to it… There’s probably someone in the bush, but after that thing, He glanced at the ashen remains of the… the… He wasn’t sure what to call it. I can go for some whiskey… The woman mentioned where her room was and instructed someone bring a bottle from the bar, she didn’t specify what type so Roy made his way back into the tavern. There were some folk still milling about before bed and no one seemed to mind the gunfire from before. Common occurrence?

“Barkeep.” The brit addressed the man behind the counter, he received a glance. “You have any bottles of whiskey for sale? And how much?” He wasn’t certain what the price would be since he wasn’t used to the American currency’s value.

“That’d be ‘bout…” He seemed to think for a bit, “Fifty cents.” Roy paid the man the his coin, not knowing if that was too expensive or not. He took the bottle up to the woman’s room, knocking before be entered, she was lounging on the other side of the room in a chair - waiting for people to come by for an explanation.

"So... who was that back there - the clawed man."

Angpetu looked over towards the door as she heard the knock, her hand on the trigger of her rifle that was sitting her in lap just in case. As she saw the man from before she loosened her grip and simply rested her hand over the rifle. Her shirt was stained with blood from the attack and she looked slightly tired from the entire endeavor but other than that she looked as if this was a completely normal evening for her.

"That was a Nakani," she said in a calm voice as she leaned forward and took the bottle he had brought up with him from his hand. "Thanks," she said before pulling the top off and taking a long pull from the bottle; cringing slightly as she swallowed, feeling the burn of the liquor continue from her pallet and down her throat. Handing the bottle back over to him she rested back in her chair and stared out of the window as the winds picked up and the curtains moved with it.

"A nasty bit of Kin but sadly enough they're some of the easier to take down," she admitted before looking back over towards him. "I guess I should explain a bit more. Ya look like me the first time I saw a Kin. Before I do, know one you step into this world there's no leaving it. You can't unlearn what I am about to say just like ya can't un-see what ya have just seen. It'll haunt ya until the day ya die and perhaps even longer than that. Ya sure you wanna go down this rabbit hole?" she asked as she looked at the man, giving him a chance to turn around and walk away.

Her concern was comforting... But Roy saw no possibility of not finding out about whatever that was. "Concerned I may regret it? I have more regrets than I can count and I've already been through the gates of hell and back..." He took a moment to reminisce. "I can take whatever you have, try me." He took a swig from the dark bottle. The liquid burning on its way down. It always helped suppress memories...

The bottle made a loud thud as he sat it on a table and took a seat. He was ready for whatever this woman, who seemed to have all of the answers, would tell him about it. He had leaned his rifle against the table.