badfool

Unto Dust

Ugh again sorry for delay. Been thinking of my post so putting it into words won't be so tough. Hope your almost weekend week is going well!

Unto Dust

Same to you! Might not get to my post tonight but I'll definitely start it!

Dust To Dust (czechmate46 & badfool)

Declan watched as the man ran with all of his might only for his feet to fail him with those two shots. He didn't flinch, be it from his head pounding or his senses dulled from the noise he wasn't quite sure. One thing was certain though, that this new man had it out for these men – for whatever reason, the young man poured every ounce of passion straight to the finger that pulled the trigger of the pistol and saving the rest for the firm beating the next and final man took to the face. He wasn't more than a few feet away before being taken care of as well, only this time with a pair of fists. Declan was on his back, propped up by his elbows and his neck craned curiously to watch. Two lines of blood, both from his nose and the gash of his lip made a steady stream to his chin. One eye was already swollen and limited his vision. But he'd be damned if he missed this kind of action, especially from a farm boy.

And just like that, after each smash of Jack's rampant fists against the final man's face, he was out like a light. Declan became an observer, almost as if he'd fizzled off into nothing and was a ghost by then. Jack seemed to thoroughly tenderize the last criminal, and with piquing curiosity he watched the kid deliver each blow. It was impressive to say the least, but for a boy Jack's age it was mind blowing how mechanically he moved from one to the other, as if checking them off of a list. He was on fire, the kind that burned someone from the inside out. A dangerous, growing thing. But Declan didn't feel the heat, even as he sounded off his pistol; even when the face below his fists crunched. He laid there as an idle observer, someone miles and miles away until finally Jack stood up and extended a red hand.

Luckily Declan's limbs managed to be unbroken. He checked his teeth with a run of his tongue over them. Bloody, but all there, followed by a nudge at his nose and finding that it too had survived the attack. Bumped and bruised maybe, but nothing broken but his skin and perhaps an ounce of pride. With that luck, he straightened his wool jacket, finger-brushed his hair as best as he could and turned to the young man who'd quite possibly saved his life.

“I'll be hurtin' for weeks. But 'm not dead,” the Irish panted, stood crookedly, then turned his eyes over to the struggling man some ways away. He was somewhere between a pathetic crawl and stumble, with a good trail of blood leaking behind him. “Where'd a boy like you learn to shoot like that?”

Unto Dust

That's great to hear! :D posted just now since I had some free time.

Unto Dust

When Finn meant he couldn't read it wasn't an understatement. Aside from recognizing perhaps his name along with the labeling of his favorite creature comforts it was all hieroglyphs to him. He hadn't held a graphite pencil for a practical use in years and thinking of a time when he sat down to get a proper lesson on anything was a foggy, distant memory. Finn wondered then if his sisters had gotten the education they deserved. Whether Nora had ever gotten the training to be a teacher one day herself or if Lizzie was still chasing the dream of ever becoming a nurse. Then, after what could have only been weeks, he thought deeply about his mother. Whether she had heard of his capture, if his name even struck a cord in her anymore. If she wondered what he was doing now and if she was surprised if Finn was sitting across from a priest, hand on a bible after a backwards confession. If they could see him now, what would they think? Would they be disappointed that his body wasn't being taken down from a rope?

"You? Teachin' me how to read 'n write?" One light brow cocked, his thin lips curling up as if Eli had invited him straight up to the moon. Finn had heard a lot of funny things in his life but never the idea of writing lessons at thirty years of age. Less than a month ago he'd shot a man through his chest for blocking his escape and robbed a boy nearly half his age with a pistol pressed against the back of his head. It may as well have been a jump to the moon in his mind. But Eli had time for all of that, if he could stomach listening to every shred of his life that Finn managed to tear up with his terrible behavior.

He then slid the Holy Book up close, flipped it open halfway and studied the text but absorbed nothing out of it. The print was so unbelievably small, the paper so thin he felt as though it would rip at his touch, as if something like that couldn't be touched by someone like him. Surprisingly enough it didn't, and Finn found himself flipping through it again. Only this time he explored with more curiosity. "And you can read all of this?"

Unto Dust

Oh no! I hope it passes soon ): Especially since you're still in classes. Never good to be sick in school. Post is up finally!
Good luck teaching him that Eli

Unto Dust

Finn found a comfortable position, leaned back with his arms folded over his chest in a way that if he chose it he could fall asleep at will. He'd spent a week solid on a poor excuse of a bed and it was no secret that he was aching more than normal. No blanket, no pillows weren't an issue even, finding cushion even in the itchiest of hay was more enjoyable than a plank of wood. Even Eli's dining chair was more comfortable to settle in than any corner of his cell. Sleeping in Eli's modest house would be a strange night indeed with a shaky priest somewhere inside, wondering and waiting if Finn would try and slip out in the night. To steal away with his small belongings, or worse – even kill him? No, it was too malicious to even think of the idea of wronging Eli in that way. He might be a criminal, a poor excuse for a man and perhaps his soul was going straight south to the devil according to Eli's Holy Book, but he wasn't a cruel man. A liar, a cheat and a rogue all in one, but not a monster.

Finn had met monsters. He'd seen and heard of terrible deeds that made his stomach churn and lurch like any sane person would in reaction to his own crimes. Finn liked to think of himself as a sensible criminal himself. The type who didn't go out of his way to kill but wouldn't blink if he had to send a bullet through a man for getting in his way or spouting off something he really didn't like. But to kill Eli in his sleep would be downright low. If Finn were going to escape he was going to have to get a few things together, not just crawl free like a trapped animal. Which is exactly why he decided to humor himself.

Finn stretched out his hand, spinning the book so that it was facing him. He sat there for a moment with pursed lips, shrugged, then confessed casually, “Don't know how to read.”

Dust To Dust (czechmate46 & badfool)

It didn't take long for Declan to go down. Not with three men and the surprise of being rammed head first into his car. It left a dent, that's for sure, one that Declan likely wouldn't see. Perhaps so, if their attack hadn't been disturbed. To both his luck and misfortune Declan went out easily, even while he was croaking out each time a foot lodged itself forcefully beneath his ribs, to his side and even his back when he'd been flipped over finally. Had he been awake throughout it would have been downright shameful for a man who was no stranger to throwing a fist and popping a few noses if necessary. And in the back of his mind – the deepest, darkest regions of whatever lingering consciousness, he was right there wailing himself along with these men.

Declan had seen and started his fair share of fistfights. In the seedy alleyways of the ghettos, the run down speakeasies as a teenager. It was all the same, violent dance ever since he'd grown enough muscle to pack a punch. He wasn't angry, not like the bitter men who'd starved, strained, suffered growing up in tenements, all packed in like sardines. It wasn't out of hurt or fear or some sort of retribution, but out of sheer boredom and the thrill of a brawl that kept him on his feet. Usually, at least. Perhaps at heart he was nothing but an Irish thug, a no-good troublemaker with privilege as his fallback. Did he lack the blunt, burning passion that grew inside of someone who had all the more reason to pick fights and hunt men? Maybe. But Declan wasn't an aggressor and never needed to be. All it took was a cool laugh and a wrong look to get someone fired up, usually in a crummy sort of town, and if someone invited him to a match then all the better. He didn't rest well at the idea of settling into a life without adventure.

But Declan didn't have a single second to get a solid glimpse of his attackers. A cheap shot, if you ask him, but a fight wasn't what they were looking to get. They wanted money, they wanted his car and they wanted to rob him of every notable cent that he was made up of. Most of all, they wanted Declan smashed into the dirt before he could note their faces.

The men were spooked as soon as the first blast sounded. They hadn't even noticed Jack approach by horse, too busy scrambling around and kicking up gravel to both rob and subdue their target and barking orders at one another to hurry and take what they could. When the first shot had been fired time froze and what was left of the men had halted in their tracks. The third, busy at work counting through the bills of Declan's money clip was the only body that crumpled in on himself. He collapsed without a single sound, soaking the the thirsty dirt with blood. The other two looked up to Jack, bug-eyed and mid motion, tempted to flee altogether. But Jack already had his two pistols locked on them as if to dare them to move. To so much as take a single step in the opposite direction.

Declan seemed to come to by this point. He stretched his sore limbs out with a groan, picking his face up from the ground and worked through figuring exactly who was responsible for the sudden ambush. Narrowing it down to the men crouched over him and not the one sitting horsetop, pistols ready, he raised himself onto his elbows and spit what tasted like a combination of saliva and blood. Finally, now that he'd gotten his bearings together and the world wasn't a complete see-saw, he narrowed his eyes at the one holding the wooden case.

“It's none of your business doing this!” One of the two men had shouted to Jack, timidly looking back and forth between him and the body. “You murderer, you'll be put away for th –!” But he was cut short when a pair of feet came slamming against his knees. His howl seemed to set the last one in motion, dropping whatever was in his hands and spiraling whichever open direction to escape.

Dust To Dust (czechmate46 & badfool)

Name: Declan E. Lancaster

Age: 29

Gender: M

Stature: Has a fair amount of muscle on him but not overly so. Can appear intimidating if he chooses but he's too collected to give off an aggressive impression when it's unnecessary. Broad shoulders and wide hands, but a lean enough frame and a balanced height that he isn't stocky.

Hair color/style: Natural black. Kept neat and combed back in upscale areas while in lower-class areas its kept finger-combed. A slight wave to it but not considered wavy.

Eye color: Dark brown

Facial: Strong jaw and thick brows, straight nose. Shapely lips but wouldn't be considered full. Clean shaven typically when he has a series of gigs.

Skin tone: Naturally olive skin tone combined with a decent tan

Nationality: He's an American citizen despite what would be considered a 'black Irish', meaning his family line is predominantly Irish and Celtic heritage with darker features which earns the nickname.

Family, background, and personality: A few generations before him is what he would take credit for in not being dirt poor and living in the ghettos. His grandmother was an Irish immigrant, lucky enough to land a job under a wealthy family of lawyers as a housekeeper. Luckily enough for her, she caught the eye of one of the sons and married him when the inheritance was granted to him (no sooner unless he wanted to be cut off of his money for even thinking of settling down with an Irish woman). Producing a son, Declan's father, the family had decided to keep their Celtic blood strong in retaliation to a very anti-Irish America. This was considered crazy and immoral to do so and heavily discouraged but the two came to this agreement after witnessing the poor conditions of the Irish. Declan's father specifically sought out an Irish woman to settle himself down with. Though the money was not nearly as flowing, finding a job wasn't necessarily a perilous feat since Declan always had family background to rely on. This angered some, while others turned a blind eye and only focused on their stable income. Declan, despite the many lawyers and businessmen of his family line, chose to pursue music in a classical symphony orchestra. Specifically, the violin and managed to land a good number of gigs playing music during silent films. Declan managed to get by with this despite his heritage, creating a 'heard, not seen' approach. Skilled in the violin, he never made a name for himself but rather prided himself on being able to support both his jobs and an artistic side. The Great Depression took a toll on many economic spheres, however since people turned to creativity, music, and art, Declan wasn't one to suffer. Declan has traveled a fair amount and through traveling has made decent connections with people. He is socially gifted and brushes off things easily with those who dislike him, at least on the surface it appears that way. He's made friends all over, from dangerous slums to the other men accompanying him in orchestra. He knows how to carry himself differently based on the people he's around, which can be a trait that most would be distrusting of. Declan knows how to throw a punch and how to hold a conversation in the same day – and do it all smiling. He is much more gossipy and drama-oriented than he gives off and he has traits of being a manipulative person with those who are easily swayed. This man enjoys a good story and adventure that most would avoid.

Other: Declan is an only child. He doesn't like quitters and refuses to be someone who 'drops out of the game', softens his accent when he's in the presence of classier people and thickens it when he's around other Irish Americans. He enjoys a double life of sorts. Loves his instruments to death.

Dust To Dust (czechmate46 & badfool)

Two pairs of tires kicked high into the air of the long road that afternoon. The dryness became static, maddening in a way if it hadn't been for the engine rumble of a lone car. The sky remained an unwavering, unblemished blue; the sun now an enemy to its earth. This day was no different than the last, along with the days and months that came before it. The sun rose, the dry earth heated and cracked and sweltered below. Perhaps the world would split open and the parched ground would swallow in on itself one of these days. That is, if it wasn't for each new blanket of dust that came rolling in. It rose with the breeze and it settled in the stinging heat, layer upon layer as if to bury all traces of life beneath it. A blanket that served no good for the earth, no protection and comfort. Mother Earth tucked in her barren crops, a fruitless punishment that served no good. Even the crows found little to peck at. But it was not entirely still and desolate everywhere. Life went on, though begrudgingly, and those who had the will found a way. In the heart of the cities, in the cast out fields and plains of the country where green perished both in the soil of the land and in the wallets of most. Life everywhere boomed the decade before. Why should it die now?

A man like Declan Lancaster had pulled some strings. Metaphorically, yes, but quite literally in his own line of work as a violinist. A social frivolity but frugal at heart, he played his cards right even through the lowest blows of the economic and geographical crisis. He wasn't flashy about living comfortably – he had a place to sleep, meals to eat and his list of employers was not sparse to say the least. Perhaps it was his grandfather to be thanked for his modest affluence. His small possessions, the clothes on his back, what money he had in his trouser pocket. Even the dated, black Ford could all be credited. Could be, it seemed, if Declan hadn't stopped roadside on account of his tire. He'd already passed through the city, made it beyond a considerable span of land some miles from the hem of town and parked neatly on the side of a road which, frankly, didn't seem to be all that much of a road any longer. He drove solo, accompanied only by a worn, wooden instrument case fastened in the passenger side door and nothing but farmland until he'd reach his next point. At 29 years old, wife and childless and his heritage a walking American contradiction, Declan found himself with minimal suffering. Amazing as it may seem.

He found no reason to worry crouched down at the side of his Ford, inspecting whatever damage had been done at his car's left shoulder and narrowing it down to a faulty tire. It would certainly put a delay on his travels. But with scattered farm houses lying ahead and the city no more than a few miles behind him, it wasn't as if he was stranded, not when an oncoming buggy had stopped beside him and three men his age hopped out of their top-down in unison. Perhaps if he were lost he would have fared better against the events thereafter, when he found himself smashed against the hood of the tire, shot forward full-force followed by an entire cosmos of color and stars flashing behind his eyes at each blast against metal, rubber, and knuckles. It was a cowardly attack, but a ruthless one at that. Declan was in no position to counter them, to defend himself from each unfair blow. He felt his clothing ransacked until each pocket was emptied of his money, Ids and whatever loose lingering coins had been scrounged as well. He felt the side of his forehead swelling into a knot almost instantly, his temple splitting, and if he wasn't mistaken by its incredible warmth a sticky stream of blood running down the side of his head and soaked up finally by the collar of his shirt. Miraculously enough, his teeth and nose had been spared despite being slammed almost face-first into the side of his automobile. If this was how he was going to die it sure wasn't a death to be proud of, and oddly enough Declan felt more disdain at the thought of his violin being stolen than his life.