Festive
Chronic
TokyoPewPew
Izurich
Tlaloc
rabidbacon
Major Land
TaintedMushroom
ArchazenCollaboratively made, with many revisions, alongside @Archazen.
Detlev leaned aside to grant Ramos more than enough space to pass him by. The task rendered unto him was one most polarising - on the one hand, he had indeed offered himself in whatever capacity Ramos had required of him, but on the other, well, he had all the conversation wherewithal of a dead possum… apart from the smell, and even then, only when he wasn’t covered in someone or something’s viscera, and that had been more often than not in his lifetime.
He took two steps into the establishment in solemn resignation, knowing within the depths of his soul the opportunity to protest had long since passed - to go stomping into the sheriff’s office asking for more interesting work like an inexperienced deputy with his hair still wet from the womb just wouldn’t fly. And so, suitably, without any means or measure to diverge from this fated path, he cast his amber eyes at the two individuals in the saloon - circumstance had designated them his conversational targets, with everyone else there suitably beyond his purview. Normal folk were sometimes prone to madness, granted, but they were Ramos’ people, and he’d get more out of them than an outsider like himself ever would. But these two drifters, on the other hand…
The sombre Englishman’s crestfallen personage seemed like a decent enough first stop - whatever sizable, cavity-contained stick that’d propped him up since he’d arrived had seemingly snapped in two, and for the first time, he saw the man’s shoulders sag, his head drooping down toward the table’s surface: the whiskey glass perched atop it once long neglected, but now half-empty. “May I sit?” Detlev asked - as far as the situation was concerned, the man’s answer didn’t matter much to the older man, but whether the question was asked or not certainly did. “Name’s Detlev. Detlev Schäfer, and Ramos wants me to get some witness reports regarding that little… altercation, just now. Beneath you, perhaps, but regardless, can you give me a run through how it all happened?”
Reginald, with a lackadaisical and despondent gesture, indicated for Detlev to take the seat, as if his permission held any significance in this forsaken town where people acted with impunity. He raised the glass to his lips once more, grimacing as he endured another sip of the insipid, diluted concoction the locals seemed to favour. Detlev introduced himself, an unexpected courtesy in the environs of Amistad.
“A name begets a name in return, would you not concur?” he intoned, placing the glass back upon the weathered wood it had come to rest on. He sighed heavily, as though uttering this once more would only lead to obscurity, his breath catching mid-inhale as he fought to maintain his composure, “Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne. I suppose I am at your service.” Reginald adjusted his lapel, a habitual gesture more than a necessity. “I cannot elucidate how the fracas commenced, for I paid it little heed. Such occurrences are, I believe, commonplace in the so-called civility of Amistad, are they not?”
Reginald idly rolled the glass on the table. “A brutish fellow collided with me, spilling my beverage upon my person. When confronted, he swung at me, and I dealt with the matter accordingly. That is all.”
“I’m surprised you’re not beside yourself - a stained waistcoat must be a hellish prospect, for a man of your origin… Now, let me continue by offering my condolences - the meaning of luxury out here in the west is far removed from what it may mean back in the civilised world… Luxury in these parts is having people around you be safe enough you don’t have to worry about them, to wake up without the abject terror of finding one of your sons snatched by a strigoi, to know your town’s foraging party would return without incident or fatality. Rare moments of freedom from worry, if you understand.” Detlev’s fingers crept absent-mindedly into the confines of his tattered waistcoat, swiftling finding his old pocket watch and grasping it gently between his digits.
“Perhaps, when next Ramos has business up in the city, I’ll go along - see if that import pipeline back east has borne fruit, maybe then your precious tea might not be such a distant prospect. But that depends on how he perceives you, doesn’t it? So tell me, Reginald - what exactly brought you here to Amistad? Just a little stop-off on the way to Salt Lake?”
Detlev’s employment of coercion introduced a refreshing deviation that Reginald found rather amusing. It revealed a level of acumen that resonated more with Reginald’s own intellect, a stark contrast to the mediocrity he had recently endured. A sly smile crept across his well-groomed features as Detlev hinted at the potential enjoyment of certain British refinements. Detlev was clearly adept, and Reginald appreciated the mutual understanding that seemed to pass between them. Despite himself, he felt compelled to entertain the man, who had laid his cards on the table with a finesse that Reginald found quite appealing.
“I suppose I shall have to compile a list of inducements that might sway me, hmm?” he remarked with a dry chuckle, his hand trembling slightly as he retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against his forehead. “I have been journeying extensively since departing England; this is but one of many waypoints along my route. A period for rest and the restoration of faculties.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket with a practised motion.
“Ah, yes. Of course. A wandering man… So I suppose, the only natural thread to follow would be your reasons for being here. What, exactly, dragged you out here to the west? Pure wanderlust?”
A claw at the reasoning behind Reginald’s motivations for leaving the confines of sweet Britain was something he would rather avoid than divulge. By no means was he ashamed; he was proud, even. However, he knew he ought not to afford the trouble that knowing a man’s past could bring.
Reginald reclined in his chair, a contemplative expression gracing his visage. “I surmise my reasons for venturing to the West are not vastly different from those of many others, Mr. Schäfer.” He paused, a soft smile playing upon his lips, his hand absently brushing his side.
“An ordinary man might regale you with tales of seeking fortune and influence," he continued, his fingers tapping lightly in sequence upon the glass. He then leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But in truth, one believes what they wish to believe.”
Detlev’s lips parted into an uncharacteristic grin, his single gold canine catching the lantern’s light in the dim establishment - it shimmered with all the luminosity its measly eight carats could possibly hold, or muster. He’d heard once that every man was a puzzle, ready to be solved - in one way or another. “Do you wish to know what I believe, Reginald?” The man’s amber eyes flashed with a wolfish cunning - blood was in the air, metaphorically, and he intended to pursue its scent to the source: “Circumstance dictates you and I should be on opposite sides of the world at present - yet, somehow, you’ve been cast up into the dice-hand of fate, and cast across the board… Whereas I was aimed for society, and I fell, clattering and tumbling: resolved to remain in the west. What I believe, Reginald, is that a bond has manifested between us - My family prepared me for a life in civilization, educated me for it, call it my destiny… but I chose to remain in the West. Whereas you…” He paused for a moment, to gesture over the table at Reginald with a lit cigarette - one neither of them had seen be lit, so ingrained were they in the discussion. “...You chose the world back home, you were part of civilization, but destiny ordained you’d end up in the West.”
“It’s tough, I’ll grant you that, but nobody just stumbles into this life. You’re either born here, or you’re sent here, and I can tell just by looking: you aren’t the former.”
Detlev’s grin made Reginald’s hairs stand on end, a sensation he hadn’t felt in what felt like aeons since a conversational adversary has given him ample reason for contemplative pause. Reginald’s eyes softened, his eyelids drooping gently as he absorbed the words of his enigmatic counterpart.
“You know, Mr. Schäfer, I have devoted many years to the service of others as a butler, and if I may be so audacious,” he paused, leaning in with a slow, subtle grace, his hand pressing against his side, “my greatest delight was in concluding their stories and embarking on the narration of my own.”
Detlev smiled a genuine smile, though it soon faded - the misting of sweat lingering upon Reginald’s brow had evaded his notice sufficiently enough, but in this very moment, it was clear as day. For whatever reason, the man appeared to be nervous, and Detlev sought to understand why - and so, with a swift turn of his head, he made a show of glancing towards the opposite end of the saloon. And, when Reginald followed suit, he caught a glimpse of the man’s complexion in the light…
He was visibly pale.
They say when a man is stabbed, he experiences a moment of breathlessness - the impetus of the impact forcing any held air from his body, leaving him winded and gasping. Prior to this moment, he knew this only second-hand, given he’d delivered more than a few knifepoints in his time, but now… he felt he’d gleaned a reasonable approximation of how it felt. The conversational partner he’d previously thought had held so much common ground with him was now, undeniably, a suspect in Ramos’ present case.
“Well, Reginald…” Detlev replied, that previous smile now fully absent from his countenance, and his non-committal tone of voice served well as its death knell. “I can only offer my hope that your path leads you somewhere warm and safe - as I previously said, and I’m sure you’ll soon agree, such things are luxuries out here in the West.” The cigarette between his lips remained firmly planted as he rose from his seat, indicative of the man’s clenched teeth - even as he pulled one-handed on the hem of his overcoat, to straighten the bunched segments from how he’d sat, the scag remained stock-still. Only once his preparations to leave had been adequately made, did he finally draw from it, and it was a generous lungfull besides.
Yet, as he was about to turn away, he stopped, and turned back towards the table at which Reginald sat. He sought to offer the man something conducive to the nature of their conversation, and as such, decided upon a riddle: “To judge it is to oversee it, a balance carefully decided. Revenge, it is nearly, but never as one-sided.”
“...Death.”
“No, though you’re close.”
“Must be justice, then.”
“Right you are: Justice it is. Be seeing you around, Reginald.”
It was a painful sting to bear, to be briefly blinded to one’s own advice. He’d said to Ramos but a bell earlier to be vigilant, to remember that their foe was a monster wreathed in the flesh of a man - and yet, even after dispensing such vital advice, he himself allowed his guard to fall. He made headway over to the bar and, with his hat pulled lower, he plucked a notebook from his pocket and got to scratching, making note of everything he’d gleaned from his conversation with Reginald - along with his own suspicions. A pale, sweaty man didn’t mean much in a place like this, granted, but whatever was plaguing ol’ Reggie was more than a measure of frustration about unattainable tea.
With his composure rebuilt, and suitably reinforced, he leaned away from the bar and locked eyes on his next conversational target - the diminutive young man on the other end of the saloon, trying to keep to himself. Normally he’d let sleeping dogs lie, but, well, Ramos was counting on him…
__________________________________________________________________________
________
Detlev leaned aside to grant Ramos more than enough space to pass him by. The task rendered unto him was one most polarising - on the one hand, he had indeed offered himself in whatever capacity Ramos had required of him, but on the other, well, he had all the conversation wherewithal of a dead possum… apart from the smell, and even then, only when he wasn’t covered in someone or something’s viscera, and that had been more often than not in his lifetime.
He took two steps into the establishment in solemn resignation, knowing within the depths of his soul the opportunity to protest had long since passed - to go stomping into the sheriff’s office asking for more interesting work like an inexperienced deputy with his hair still wet from the womb just wouldn’t fly. And so, suitably, without any means or measure to diverge from this fated path, he cast his amber eyes at the two individuals in the saloon - circumstance had designated them his conversational targets, with everyone else there suitably beyond his purview. Normal folk were sometimes prone to madness, granted, but they were Ramos’ people, and he’d get more out of them than an outsider like himself ever would. But these two drifters, on the other hand…
The sombre Englishman’s crestfallen personage seemed like a decent enough first stop - whatever sizable, cavity-contained stick that’d propped him up since he’d arrived had seemingly snapped in two, and for the first time, he saw the man’s shoulders sag, his head drooping down toward the table’s surface: the whiskey glass perched atop it once long neglected, but now half-empty. “May I sit?” Detlev asked - as far as the situation was concerned, the man’s answer didn’t matter much to the older man, but whether the question was asked or not certainly did. “Name’s Detlev. Detlev Schäfer, and Ramos wants me to get some witness reports regarding that little… altercation, just now. Beneath you, perhaps, but regardless, can you give me a run through how it all happened?”
Reginald, with a lackadaisical and despondent gesture, indicated for Detlev to take the seat, as if his permission held any significance in this forsaken town where people acted with impunity. He raised the glass to his lips once more, grimacing as he endured another sip of the insipid, diluted concoction the locals seemed to favour. Detlev introduced himself, an unexpected courtesy in the environs of Amistad.
“A name begets a name in return, would you not concur?” he intoned, placing the glass back upon the weathered wood it had come to rest on. He sighed heavily, as though uttering this once more would only lead to obscurity, his breath catching mid-inhale as he fought to maintain his composure, “Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne. I suppose I am at your service.” Reginald adjusted his lapel, a habitual gesture more than a necessity. “I cannot elucidate how the fracas commenced, for I paid it little heed. Such occurrences are, I believe, commonplace in the so-called civility of Amistad, are they not?”
Reginald idly rolled the glass on the table. “A brutish fellow collided with me, spilling my beverage upon my person. When confronted, he swung at me, and I dealt with the matter accordingly. That is all.”
“I’m surprised you’re not beside yourself - a stained waistcoat must be a hellish prospect, for a man of your origin… Now, let me continue by offering my condolences - the meaning of luxury out here in the west is far removed from what it may mean back in the civilised world… Luxury in these parts is having people around you be safe enough you don’t have to worry about them, to wake up without the abject terror of finding one of your sons snatched by a strigoi, to know your town’s foraging party would return without incident or fatality. Rare moments of freedom from worry, if you understand.” Detlev’s fingers crept absent-mindedly into the confines of his tattered waistcoat, swiftling finding his old pocket watch and grasping it gently between his digits.
“Perhaps, when next Ramos has business up in the city, I’ll go along - see if that import pipeline back east has borne fruit, maybe then your precious tea might not be such a distant prospect. But that depends on how he perceives you, doesn’t it? So tell me, Reginald - what exactly brought you here to Amistad? Just a little stop-off on the way to Salt Lake?”
Detlev’s employment of coercion introduced a refreshing deviation that Reginald found rather amusing. It revealed a level of acumen that resonated more with Reginald’s own intellect, a stark contrast to the mediocrity he had recently endured. A sly smile crept across his well-groomed features as Detlev hinted at the potential enjoyment of certain British refinements. Detlev was clearly adept, and Reginald appreciated the mutual understanding that seemed to pass between them. Despite himself, he felt compelled to entertain the man, who had laid his cards on the table with a finesse that Reginald found quite appealing.
“I suppose I shall have to compile a list of inducements that might sway me, hmm?” he remarked with a dry chuckle, his hand trembling slightly as he retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against his forehead. “I have been journeying extensively since departing England; this is but one of many waypoints along my route. A period for rest and the restoration of faculties.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket with a practised motion.
“Ah, yes. Of course. A wandering man… So I suppose, the only natural thread to follow would be your reasons for being here. What, exactly, dragged you out here to the west? Pure wanderlust?”
A claw at the reasoning behind Reginald’s motivations for leaving the confines of sweet Britain was something he would rather avoid than divulge. By no means was he ashamed; he was proud, even. However, he knew he ought not to afford the trouble that knowing a man’s past could bring.
Reginald reclined in his chair, a contemplative expression gracing his visage. “I surmise my reasons for venturing to the West are not vastly different from those of many others, Mr. Schäfer.” He paused, a soft smile playing upon his lips, his hand absently brushing his side.
“An ordinary man might regale you with tales of seeking fortune and influence," he continued, his fingers tapping lightly in sequence upon the glass. He then leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But in truth, one believes what they wish to believe.”
Detlev’s lips parted into an uncharacteristic grin, his single gold canine catching the lantern’s light in the dim establishment - it shimmered with all the luminosity its measly eight carats could possibly hold, or muster. He’d heard once that every man was a puzzle, ready to be solved - in one way or another. “Do you wish to know what I believe, Reginald?” The man’s amber eyes flashed with a wolfish cunning - blood was in the air, metaphorically, and he intended to pursue its scent to the source: “Circumstance dictates you and I should be on opposite sides of the world at present - yet, somehow, you’ve been cast up into the dice-hand of fate, and cast across the board… Whereas I was aimed for society, and I fell, clattering and tumbling: resolved to remain in the west. What I believe, Reginald, is that a bond has manifested between us - My family prepared me for a life in civilization, educated me for it, call it my destiny… but I chose to remain in the West. Whereas you…” He paused for a moment, to gesture over the table at Reginald with a lit cigarette - one neither of them had seen be lit, so ingrained were they in the discussion. “...You chose the world back home, you were part of civilization, but destiny ordained you’d end up in the West.”
“It’s tough, I’ll grant you that, but nobody just stumbles into this life. You’re either born here, or you’re sent here, and I can tell just by looking: you aren’t the former.”
Detlev’s grin made Reginald’s hairs stand on end, a sensation he hadn’t felt in what felt like aeons since a conversational adversary has given him ample reason for contemplative pause. Reginald’s eyes softened, his eyelids drooping gently as he absorbed the words of his enigmatic counterpart.
“You know, Mr. Schäfer, I have devoted many years to the service of others as a butler, and if I may be so audacious,” he paused, leaning in with a slow, subtle grace, his hand pressing against his side, “my greatest delight was in concluding their stories and embarking on the narration of my own.”
Detlev smiled a genuine smile, though it soon faded - the misting of sweat lingering upon Reginald’s brow had evaded his notice sufficiently enough, but in this very moment, it was clear as day. For whatever reason, the man appeared to be nervous, and Detlev sought to understand why - and so, with a swift turn of his head, he made a show of glancing towards the opposite end of the saloon. And, when Reginald followed suit, he caught a glimpse of the man’s complexion in the light…
He was visibly pale.
They say when a man is stabbed, he experiences a moment of breathlessness - the impetus of the impact forcing any held air from his body, leaving him winded and gasping. Prior to this moment, he knew this only second-hand, given he’d delivered more than a few knifepoints in his time, but now… he felt he’d gleaned a reasonable approximation of how it felt. The conversational partner he’d previously thought had held so much common ground with him was now, undeniably, a suspect in Ramos’ present case.
“Well, Reginald…” Detlev replied, that previous smile now fully absent from his countenance, and his non-committal tone of voice served well as its death knell. “I can only offer my hope that your path leads you somewhere warm and safe - as I previously said, and I’m sure you’ll soon agree, such things are luxuries out here in the West.” The cigarette between his lips remained firmly planted as he rose from his seat, indicative of the man’s clenched teeth - even as he pulled one-handed on the hem of his overcoat, to straighten the bunched segments from how he’d sat, the scag remained stock-still. Only once his preparations to leave had been adequately made, did he finally draw from it, and it was a generous lungfull besides.
Yet, as he was about to turn away, he stopped, and turned back towards the table at which Reginald sat. He sought to offer the man something conducive to the nature of their conversation, and as such, decided upon a riddle: “To judge it is to oversee it, a balance carefully decided. Revenge, it is nearly, but never as one-sided.”
“...Death.”
“No, though you’re close.”
“Must be justice, then.”
“Right you are: Justice it is. Be seeing you around, Reginald.”
It was a painful sting to bear, to be briefly blinded to one’s own advice. He’d said to Ramos but a bell earlier to be vigilant, to remember that their foe was a monster wreathed in the flesh of a man - and yet, even after dispensing such vital advice, he himself allowed his guard to fall. He made headway over to the bar and, with his hat pulled lower, he plucked a notebook from his pocket and got to scratching, making note of everything he’d gleaned from his conversation with Reginald - along with his own suspicions. A pale, sweaty man didn’t mean much in a place like this, granted, but whatever was plaguing ol’ Reggie was more than a measure of frustration about unattainable tea.
With his composure rebuilt, and suitably reinforced, he leaned away from the bar and locked eyes on his next conversational target - the diminutive young man on the other end of the saloon, trying to keep to himself. Normally he’d let sleeping dogs lie, but, well, Ramos was counting on him…
________
__________________________________________________________________________
"Schäfer's Rule #2 of Wandering the West: Only draw iron if you're willing to spend a sliver of your soul along with that cartridge, 'cause taking a life always leaves its mark. Upon the day you kill and feel nothing, you must embrace despair... For in your reflection will stand not a man, but a hollow, wretched beast."
