Cool Ghoul

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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Slightly Later May, 1888.

The thumb, recently wetted with a tongue’s worth of saliva, grasped the corner of the page with ease and cast it off to the opposite end of the book - to rest and recuperate with its siblings, until it was time once more for the reader to go through it.

A journal, in a place like this, was a man’s legacy - his entire life’s experiences and tribulations etched neatly upon pages yellowed by both time and smoke, a combination man and journal had experienced plenty of on their travels together... good times, bad times; tobacco smoke, gun smoke; to name a few. But now, well, Detlev only had a few pages left: a dozen or so, give or take, and he wondered if that was cause to procure a new journal or, well, a grim omen regarding a certain numbering of days. The real question was, what would he do with the journal when it was finished? He hadn’t the ego to ship it back to civilization for study, nor the front-loaded approachability to have his thoughts aired to so many besides - no, this had to go to someone close, someone he’d known a long time. But boy, that particular category had certainly dwindled to a sparse few in recent years…

He brought the cigarette to his lips as he contemplated, his eyes passing over the words on the page with a rehearsed knowledge of the ones that followed, the flow and patterns so well-retained over his many years that the images were easy to recollect and display upon the front wall of his mind… He only wished he’d begun journaling in his youth: the weight of the regret he felt whenever he struggled to recall an old friend’s name or the name of a place he’d been fond of was overwhelming on occasion, the threadbare memories impossible to clarify, even as they tumbled through his desperate fingers. Lost to time, yes, as he eventually would be… But if his journal lived on? Well, a piece of Detlev Schäfer, no matter how slight, might just trickle on into the next century.

The old Ranger’s Safehouse was quiet - by design, of course, given there weren’t many Rangers in these parts anymore… Unless he himself counted, and that’d be a stretch worthy of praise. A retired ranger from the offshoot’s offshoot, as far removed from the badge and duty life as a man can be, while still serving the same cause… And even that particular half-truth was enclosed on all sides by a miasma of wild theories and speculation regarding his division’s true origins and purpose. Not that he’d ever had the wild, sudden bouts of madness necessary to question the man in charge, no, but Captain Vorstag and his merry bunch of renegades were spoken of in hushed whispers these days. He hadn’t the heart to reach out - in case they were short a few bodies and asked him to return to Storm’s Verge… And he’d promised long ago he’d not return there unless his, or somebody’s else’s, life depended on it - and that particularly somebody else had to be someone he liked quite a bit.

The book snapped shut in his grasp, his eyes fixated on the peeling green paint of the old Ranger’s Safehouse door: he ceased all movement, his journal clasped tight and held close to his chest - not quite within the confines of his duster, but mighty close, and he strained to attend his senses to the commotion outside. The clattering of hooves, interspersed with minimal pauses - a fast horse, by his measure, and pushed to be all the faster by the rider’s urgency, enough so that Detlev rose from the rickety chair to stand tall, and snatched the lever-action from the desk upon which it sat. Jury’s out on whether the man’s bones or the chair creaked more when he straightened up, but it’d be a close call to say the least. The hoofbeats swiftly quietened down, around the town’s entryway he’d suspect - and slowed to a trot, one that quickly fell below a volume he could recognise, and as such, became intermingled with the evening’s festivities from within the town proper.

With the sound of heavy boots upon long-worn wood, Detlev stepped out onto the alleyway that little safehouse was nestled just within: he’d had his little period of peace, a much-needed respite from the social obligations of living alongside other people - it was taking more time for the old nomad to adjust than he’d expected, after all. A dishevelled man, his unkemptness so incredible as to be almost audacious, stumbled past him and into the depths of the alleyway - his desire to flee so powerful, he didn’t even give Detlev a second glance. He repaid the man by offering him no further mind, and, as he turned the corner leading towards Amistad's main street, watched Sheriff Ramos march into the Sheriff’s Office with the stride and determination of a man possessed, and understood that something was indeed amiss.

All of a sudden, the old monster hunter didn’t seem so averse to being sociable. He stood, and he waited, leaning against the hitching post outside Hadfield’s with his rifle resting squarely over his shoulder, the occasional burst of light from the cigarette’s embers the only sign of motion or activity from the man’s personage. Where there had been no wind before, a sudden chill lashed through the air like a myriad of cascading, clawing fingers, each more desperate to swipe at Detlev’s exposed face than the last - eventually, he surrendered this particular skirmish of wills, cast his cigarette down into the dirt below and pulled up a thick, woollen scarf to protect his face. Whatever this elusive pressure in the air was, it’d veritably followed the sheriff back from wherever his travels had taken him - and was an ill omen, indeed.

It was then, the acrid smell reached his nostrils, and, with a cursory investigation upwind, he caught a glimpse of the puddle off to his side, glistening in the moonlight.

“Ah.” He said to himself, with a quick tilt of his head… Mystery solved.

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"Schäfer's Rule #1 of Wandering the West: Good-will is as valuable as water - don’t go putting your bucket upside-down just 'cause it’s raining."

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

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" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "
" W E L C O M E Y E L O S T S O U L "

" D E T L E V S C H Ä F E R "
" D E T L E V S C H Ä F E R "

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_____________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________ " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " " Y I E L D Y E R N A M E ? " DETLEV SCHÄFER _____________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " " S O W H E R E Y E F R O M ? " RUINS OF LUBBOCK, TEXAS, UNITED STATES _____________________________________________________ " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " " Y E C A N F I L L O U T T H E R E S T " ★ Age? 47 ★ Birthdate? Midsummer, 1841 ★ Height? 6’ 2” ★ Weight? 82kg ★ Ethnicity? German American ★ Gender?? Male

______________________________________________________________________________________________ " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " " T E L L M E ' B O U T Y E R S E L F " “To preoccupy oneself with interpersonal trivia in times as wholly dark and grim as these is, I must say, ill-advised, given there are other, more important avenues to commit one’s time… However, in the interests of being forthcoming, I will oblige, if you will deign to keep your expectations humble.” Detlev was a man of stoic bearing, his rough exterior long-hardened by the myriad horrors he’d witnessed in darker, mercifully-distant days. A living testament of the dire threats coiled tight around the heart of the Frontier, with their secret intricacies scribbled upon his mind and flesh in a plethora of gouges and scars, he’d long since committed his life to hunting darkness wherever it may propagate. Whether in the shadow of beasts and monsters, or within the hearts of men broken and lost, he ensures they either fall before him, or he dies in the attempt. Yet there’s more to him than that - the shadows he casts stretch longer than most, and those attuned with the distortionary magic of the Frontier would sense a ghostly aura about him. It is said in certain mythological tales that those who have witnessed death in abundance throughout their lives are marked by it, a sign of misfortune to those who walk at their side, yet through exposure, comes familiarity, and that, in turn, begets comfort. As such, Detlev doesn’t much fear death - and as such, puts no stock in fighting to deter it, as others often do. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " " D E S C R I B E Y E R S E L F F O R M E , Y E A H ? " “Scars aren’t lessons, as some would hasten to tell you - they’re empty vessels, reminders of lost things you can’t ever get back, important things. Tell me, friend… What have you lost? What do you wish you could hold so very tight in your grasp, one final time?” A veritable shade of a man, his strides long and his stature tall, with broad shoulders indicative of an impressive physique at some stage in his life, a stage that has evidently long since been lost to time. As such, he appears gaunt and frail, his wiry musculature maintained only through the frequent exertions his work demands, and the same extends to the way in which he maintains his hair and beard. A misting of silver ever decorates the man’s chin, each bristly little fibre visible even at medium range - the man was clearly once a diligent daily shaver, but now neglects such a luxury. A messy mop of similarly-coloured hair sits atop his head like the plumage of a ceremonial helmet, packed neatly together and held in place by a leather binding, the consequential tail poking out just beneath the brim of his hat. And what a hat it was, marked with slashes and bullet holes galore, just like the man who wore it - his golden eyes shimmering just beneath. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " " S O W H E R E Y E B E E N , W H A T S Y E R P A S T ? " “The more a man commits himself to the hunt, the more the line between man and hunter blurs - until, one day, he is destined to awaken and find there is no longer a divide: he is his hunt, then, and will embody its aspect until his very last day.” Born in a small town in the Comancherie, Detlev lived a simple life as a farmer's son. He was taught the ways of the shovel, the rake, and of course, the hoe, and educated to the best of his father’s ability. The town’s sheriff handled his tutelage when it came to the other important aspects of Frontier life - learning to shoot, learning to hunt, using a knife in the applications of cleaning a kill… And, of course, making one. As with all things in a place such as this, if a simple life’s trajectory wasn’t jostled by the clumsy hands of fate, it wouldn’t be the Wild West, would it? At the height of The War, and as a consequence of the reliance of magick on both sides, the abandoned battlefields of concluded conflicts became beacons to the shadows that dwelled in The Storm. Such skirmishes happened often in the Comancherie, and the small town of Lubbock would soon pay dearly for simply existing in such a place. Lost, and without his family to tether him to a normal life, he instead accepted an offer from the Sheriff to avenge those he’d lost, to use his hatred and grief to stop others from experiencing the same incredible loss he had. And so, he was handed off to The Vorstag Brigade, and trained to brave the lands surrounding The Storm to fulfil their mysterious agenda. He saw a lot of death in those years, and though he became an exceptional fighter, he felt a hollowness in the pit of his soul that only grew wider and deeper with each passing season. Lost and broken, he one day took up his rifle and left to rejoin the world, to desperately remind himself of the reasons why he still fought, before it was too late - but all that time spent hollowing himself out to be a better hunter, created space for something else to take root… ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " " L A S T , W H A T B R O U G H T Y E H E R E ? " “If I were a man of sarcastic temperament, I’d speak of the exceptional conversation. To put it simply, I owe an important debt to your dear Sheriff, a personal debt I’m loath to share - and I intend to linger until I am able to see it repaid, no matter what that may entail. A man must always play his hand, and play it fair: even if he doesn’t agree with every card he holds.” As with most drifting folk, Detlev was merely passing through - but after finding some measure of common ground with Sheriff Ramos, and the recollection that they’d hunted a monstrosity together a fair few seasons past, he was convinced to remain for a time… But deep within himself, in a place long neglected, he found himself drawing plenty of similarities between Amstad and Old Lubbock - there was an unspoken and nuanced nostalgia to the place, and it brought rare comfort to his long-troubled soul. Paradoxically, comfort is fairly uncomfortable for Detlev. So accustomed was he to life spent sleeping on cold ground beneath a threadbare tarp and a fading fire, that the concept of resting within a walled abode, upon a modest bed was something he’d found quiet joy in rediscovering. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t move on when his time comes, no… It only meant that, for now, he could allow himself this rare respite. And, perhaps if the clumsy hand of fate were to once more sweep across the board, he’d get to share some of his experiences with curious folk, and in turn, learn some new things himself. These days, his rests have grown ever frequent and overlong, and progress moving from place to place is slower than it used to be… A fact he isn’t quite yet ready to fully embrace, an dso, some time away from the road will likely do him some good. He hopes, at least - a fell, whipping wind blows through Amstad, and he can feel the guttural, primal pressure of The Storm’s influence even here…

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The Cursèd West

This is a really rad concept.

Absolutely planting the interest flag in this one, looking forward to seeing how it develops!

Greetings from Cool Ghoul

What's up lurking readers and narrative weavers?

I've roleplayed for ages but haven't ever done post-by-post stuff - I'm hoping I learn fast and get deep in the sauce.

Thanks in advance for the warm welcome!