TaintedMushroom

Symphony on High

Dead Head

”Late Again!”

---

Well would ya look at that, Asher already knew this was going to be a fun mission. He certainly remembered Bobo and her crew, or more so Bobo over the others. Asher hadn’t specifically duked it out with the other two Espers present as he’d mostly been tied up taking out their goons and then saving that electric kids’ ass. That was particularly when he and Bobo had met. Theirs had been a short scrap but fun nonetheless. There was no hesitation in him as he firmly grasped the offered hand and gave it a good shake.

“Oh yeah, I remember y’all,” Asher started, a cheeky grin growing on his face. “Real fiery attitudes, the kinda gals I can get down with.” Asher said with a wink, the way he figured it he was more likely to suffer a knife in the back before anything else but that didn’t stop the natural urge to banter. Besides, maybe the nun was true to her word and there really were no hard feelings, only time would tell but Asher wasn’t too big on grudges himself.

“Yeah, no hard feelings,” Asher started with a more serious tone, but quickly a grin took over once more as he turned to more indirectly address Bobo, “I get it. Bobo’s always free to try and even the score if she’s feelin’ frisky, I don’t mind a few nibbles around the edge. I like a little warm up before the main show anyways. Small world indeed.” Asher directed the last line more directly towards Bobo, sending her a wink for good measure. He hadn’t quite decided if he’d spend some time pushing her buttons, he did need to get paid after all. He was sure there would be plenty of other’s to dance with soon anyways.

With a smirk Asher turned towards their new boss, “Nah, not a problem Chief, just had a little brush up with these gals before but it’s all ancient history, no hard feelings.” He started in an effort to reassure the…priest? Father? He wasn’t sure what he should use to refer to the man as a matter of fact. He’d just stick with Chief.

Asher watched as the mystery nun strutted by, paying attention as she spoke with the other new freelancer who’d not tried to kill him and who he’d not actually met yet. A little voice in the back of his head wondered how he ended up working with a bunch of bible carrying nerds but Asher chose not to worry about that so much right now. “Black Sabbath, huh? Sounds like a killer band name.” Asher said to no one in particular before looking around to see if there were any other interesting arrivals.

“So what’s the plan?” He asked, although he threw the question out into the air with no intended recipient, hoping anyone really would pipe up and give him an idea of what was going down.

Dah Info

32 | Male | Freelancer | Dead Head
Hatred | Long Gun | Physical | Dragons Breath
Rage | Fire | Ignition
[Ignite, Heat] Damage X, Damage, AoE, Puddle, Sky Call, Powerful, Scatter, Shield, Blink
DAMAGE: A | SPEED: B | SENTINEL: E | Max Mana 750

PHYSICAL:E | ARCANE:C | CHAOS:D | Prior Mana 000 | Current Mana 750

Symphony on High

Dead Head

”Late Again!”

---

Patience was a virtue, a virtue that Asher hoped his new employer had because Asher was late. It was starting to become a habit, unfortunately Asher wasn’t too particularly interested in remedying it. That had been one of the complaints when the band fell apart actually. The other guys always told him they felt like Asher never cared about anything because he never seemed to care about arriving on time. Asher always told them they took things too seriously. Hopefully this new employer didn’t take things too seriously, Asher needed money.

Asher had gone with a new employer for this one, the church. He wasn’t really a religious fellow, unless you considered money a spiritual icon. But he’d already run an op for one of the city’s big players, although the contact and information he’d gathered had been minimal. As for the other, they’d met in a bar over a few smoothies and a gelatinous blob monster. That had been far more interesting, Asher had actually learned something new. Rare.

For some reason Asher felt like taking a third party approach to this next one, choosing not to side with either group. Did he want to see how they operated from afar? Did he want to evaluate them further before choosing some sort of side? Asher didn’t really have a reason, he’d not put much thought into it truthfully, just felt like more of a hassle to get involved with.

The bright red doors of the church were the first thing that caught his eye. The sight pulled Asher from his thoughts as he started to take in the scene. He couldn’t help but smirk a bit, the last time he’d been to a church he’d let himself in with the heel of his boot. Good times. Asher approached with his hands in his pocket, eyes looking from person to person as he inspected the little team he’d joined up with.

“Well well, nice little posse we’re formin’. Sorry I’m late, what’s the plan?”

Dah Info

32 | Male | Freelancer | Dead Head
Hatred | Long Gun | Physical | Dragons Breath
Rage | Fire | Ignition
[Ignite, Heat] Damage X, Damage, AoE, Puddle, Sky Call, Powerful, Scatter, Shield, Blink
DAMAGE: A | SPEED: B | SENTINEL: E | Max Mana 750

PHYSICAL:E | ARCANE:C | CHAOS:D | Prior Mana 000 | Current Mana 750

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

---

Amistad Jail Cell

Feat. @tlaloc as Big Jim and @TaintedMushroom as Westley Maston

---

Life had a funny sort of habit. Whenever Maston tried to do anything, anything at all really, it would do its damndest to make sure he started off on the worst foot possible. It was a constant trend all throughout his life, a dark cloud of bad luck and despair seemed a constant companion in lockstep beside him. Once again he’d found himself on the wrong side of the law and in a jail cell, a far cry from how he’d intended to spend the night. And even further from how he’d seen things going for himself. Maston sucked back a deep snort and spat with a resounding splat into the corner of the cell. With it he spat his complaints and problems, metaphorically speaking of course. It never did him any good dwelling on his fortune and now wouldn’t prove to change anything from the usual.

There wasn’t much else to do but to get comfortable and settle in for the night. He hadn’t paid the big guy who’d pointed the finger much mind since he’d been tossed in a cell, man seemed to have his own problems. He’d certainly seemed more docile, likely feeling sorry for himself as Maston had almost caught himself doing. Maston took a seat on the cot before removing his boots, vest, and his shirt, all of which he folded neatly and stacked in the corner in a fashion that he’d carried over from his time in the military. With naught else to do Maston decided to settle in for the night, best to see what was in store for the future at this point, see about possibly heading further west if possible. Maston didn’t like the feeling he had when thinking about sticking around, it would be better to move on given the way things had started out. Well Maston wouldn’t be doing any moving anywhere until he was out of the predicament he was in and that likely wasn’t gonna be happenin’ till mornin’. For now there was nothing left for him but sleep, and so sleep he did.

---

Like most nights Maston slept fitfully, tossing and turning, mumbling and twitching. Sleep was something Maston had long since struggled with, ever since the war. It had only really gotten worse over the years, eventually though he’d learned to just deal with it. Some nights were worse, others not so bad. This was one of those not so bad nights, unfortunately the sound of wheezing broke Maston from the shallow bit of sleep he was managing to maintain.

The suffocating heat of the jail cell felt heavier than before, thick with something unnatural. The scent of sweat and something rancid — something like meat gone bad — filled the air. Maston could almost feel it clinging to his skin like an unnatural humidity permeating the space. Across from him, in the other cell, Jim stood pressed against the iron bars, his thick, calloused hands wrapped around them, shaking violently. Maston had seen many an episode from men who’d done awful things and had broken minds from it. This wasn’t that, Maston almost could feel it in his bones, something was wrong.

Where most men might find themselves paralyzed in fear Maston found himself leaping to his feet. The room hadn’t much in the way of potential weapons but Maston quickly picked up the wooden stool in the corner of the room. It would have to do. It had required him to momentarily take his eyes off Jim and when he returned his gaze he almost stopped dead in his tracks.

The sight before him would stop any man cold. Jim wasn’t just gripping the bars; he was bending them. The heavy iron groaned under the strain as Jim’s entire body shook with the effort. His muscles bulged hideously beneath his skin, veins pulsing under the pale moonlight. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils blown so large they swallowed the colour, and his mouth was foaming, a thick red froth dribbling down his chin.

Maston’s imminent danger snapped him out of it, without further hesitation he stepped forward and struck at Jims hands with a brutal swing of the stool. His first two swings hit more metal than flesh, the angle and the approach were just terrible for the shape of Maston’s improvised weapon. Regardless he swung and struck gold on the third swing, it looked as if he’d smashed Jim’s index finger. Jim did not stop.

Jim’s gaze snapped to Maston, feral and crazed, and a low growl escaped his throat. His teeth, dull and cracked, gnashed together, and his tongue darted out like an animal sniffing blood. Speaking of blood; the red on his chin seemed to be of his own making, with his tongue looking as if he'd chewed it like a tough lump of steak. Something was very wrong with him, and it wasn't just the drink.

“Help me,” Jim rasped, his voice guttural. He pulled harder at the bars, the metal twisting as if it were soft clay. His fingers scraped through the gap, claws of flesh desperately reaching for Maston.

"Please..." Jim’s voice was barely a whisper, more a plea than a demand. But the madness in his gaze spoke volumes.

Jim’s fingers clawed at the bars, nails splintering as he tried to squeeze through the small gap he’d made. His breath came in harsh, ragged bursts, his chest heaving like an animal in the throes of a hunt. The stench of rot was stronger now, clinging to him like a second skin. He pushed, harder and harder, bruising himself, testing the strength of his bones. His arm stretched farther through the bars, skin rubbing bloody against the iron as he groped wildly for Maston.

Maston took another wild swing of the stool and Jim’s waving hand snatched it from him unexpectedly. Maston wasn’t prepared for the return swing that caught him in the shoulder and sent him teetering hard to the left into the wall of the cell. Maston saw stars and heard a whining sound, and for a moment he wasn’t quite sure what he was doing on the floor. It came back to him a moment slower than he’d have preferred and Maston came to realize quite a bit had passed while he was on the ground.

Jim had managed to twist and contort his shoulder and head through the gap in the bars, he'd have widened it in the time it had taken for Maston to come back to his senses. Unfortunately the size of the gap paired with the size of Jim and the ferocious single minded intent behind his attack meant he’d basically wedged himself between the bars in a way that restricted his breathing. Jim’s face was growing bluer by the second and the frantic swings of outstretched arm were growing more half-hearted and losing steam with every passing second.

Maston was unsure what had just transpired, all he knew is that for once he’d been lucky. Not so much the other fellow. Maston was going to have a very interesting conversation on his hands this morning though, that thing was for sure.

Symphony on High

---

Unless you were Estelle or a freelancer, most espers were never truly off the clock. This was especially true for Maverick Alternative. As much as they prattle on about their freedoms, they know you can’t spend all your time eating pizza and playing roller derby with automobiles. Recovering Boteg and Amanda was just one victory in a long war. They couldn’t rest on their laurels just because they were gaining momentum.

Ciri was on patrol again. This time she had been put in a team with Luna, who needed a break from monster searching with Stacy Stitches. They looked a bit mismatched, with one being a neon oni in a leather jacket and the other being an acrobat in an outfit inspired by medieval jesters. They hadn’t spoken much. Maverick’s forces were stretched thin, and Ciri was new. So this was their first time alone together. They stuck to the backstreets. As a pair of magical girls, the temptation might have been to run along the rooftops. But Maverick Alternative was safe closest to the ground, or in it.

”I heard you met Trixy already.“ Luna half smirked, half cringed.

You'd think that almost getting blown up by a goddamn plasma beam would've earned you at least a few days off. As it turned out, Maverick Alternative's health policies were about as progressive as your average American company's, so here she was, on another job.

At least this time, she had company. Company other than her partner, who she was still pissed at, by the way.

"'Was forced to meet', more like. But yeah." Ciri shuddered at the memory.

”She’s harmless, and I’d forgive you if you find her annoying. She was really excited about a date she met a month or so ago and they just kind of vanished on her. She’s been a little clingy ever since then.“

Ciri’s grimace quickly turned into a sarcastic grin. "Oh, totally, harmless like a grenade without a pin. She's batshit." The news about the... date were new, and she highly doubted the person in question actually knew they were one. Then again, remembering the dirty-ass nerd from the other day, she figured there were probably — definitely — people crazy enough to go for someone like Trixy, too. Hm. Maybe she should introduce the two?

"Who was the 'date', anyway?" She asked, still trying to somewhat pay attention to her surroundings amidst the gossip. "You know what happened to 'em?"

”A freelance esper called Klava. One of those ‘weeb with a sword’ types. I’m not a huge fan of most freelancers but she was one of the good ones. She was a little smug, but I guess she earned it.“ Luna sighed. ”As for her fate? Nobody really knows. You’re probably too new to witness the fiasco with Justin Von Carnage, but he was a sadistic vampire and, naturally, had an equally nasty butler. His name was ‘Baleful Sofron,’ and Klava reportedly fell out a window with him during some secret operation. For a few weeks I was hoping she’d wash up in the harbor, but no sign of her. On the upside, we never saw Sofron again.“

Damn.

"I mean, falling out a window can't be that much worse a fate than dating Trixy," Ciri drawled, only half-joking. Yeah, yeah, if she did actually die in the fall, that was all sad and shit, she supposed. But Klava had been a freelancer and a weeb, so... there were worse things to lose. "Hell, I'd take a vampire over her. At least they know they suck."

She grinned at her own joke, because someone had to — and judging by Luna’s expression, Ciri was pretty sure her fellow Esper wouldn't.

Luna batted her eyes before looking to the rooftops. ”If you like someone, hold onto them. They don’t call Pax the city of blood for nothing.”

Ciri shifted uncomfortably. She didn't feel her partner shifting in the shadows with her, that didn't mean It wasn't there. It was, as always, just avoiding her because she was angry. It held onto her, even when she didn't hold onto it.

"Well, lucky me," Ciri said dryly, following Luna's gaze upwards. "Don't have anyone I like, so don't have to worry about shit like that either."

Almost too quick, Ciri glanced at the other girl and redirected the focus back to her with a short, snappy, "...You?"

She rubbed her chin, still looking into the shadows. ”I think Billy is cool. Jezebel and Trixy are nice once you get past their overbearing nature. Though I don’t get to pal around with them a lot. I like a lot of the monsters, and Stacy Stitches is growing on me.”

Ciri didn't necessarily disagree with Luna's assessment of their colleagues, but it was pretty clear that liking someone meant different things to them. Like yeah, Billy was hella cool, and it wasn't like she actually hated Trixy as much as she let on either, but that didn't mean she wanted to hold onto them tight to make sure they didn't go jumping out a window and disappearing, or something. It didn't mean she liked them.

She would've voiced that thought, too, but then Luna started talking again, and the smile on her face was one of those sickeningly sappy ones she knew better than to interrupt.

”But for people I feel I have to hold onto, I guess there’s just Marrie. She’s another rare freelance esper that I’m pretty sure values her connections more than money. But that kind of checks out, doesn’t it? The only good freelance espers are the ones that don’t care to hide their true nature. I can’t say it’s too common for an esper to use their real name to begin with, but Klava and Marrie were that way.” She laughed. ”Are that way in Marrie’s case. Though she’s also a little green, at least she was when I last met her. I’ll have to meet up with her again at some point.”

… Once Luna was done, though, it was all fair game.

"A freelancer?" Ciri repeated, suspicious. "You know if any of them were good, they wouldn't take money from the government, right? Pretty sure your precious Marrie would bust a hole in some innocent monster kid's head the second GEMINI paid 'em well enough. They all fucking would. That's kind of their point."

”I’d normally agree with you, but I don’t know about Marrie. She’s kind of green and doesn’t fully understand the world of espers yet. How many freelancers do you know that would willingly keep a headless zombie in their home to protect them? That’s the kind of person Marrie is. She’s not some macho man who’s constantly trying to look cool. She really believes in helping people. I don’t think she’d hurt a fly unless she had to.”

Ciri rolled her eyes, clearly exasperated, but her tone lacked venom. The zombie comment had piqued her interest, somewhat. "You're really crushing hard on her, huh? If you think she gives two shits about monsters, why aren't you out there trying to recru—"

But Ciri was cut off by a cacophony of screams.

Abruptly, Ciri stopped. Everything; walking, talking, thinking about Luna's crush. She raised a hand to make sure the other Esper did as well — as if she hadn’t been able to hear the hysteric screaming otherwise. Something was going on, and close.

Luna eyed her partner. ”That didn’t sound good.”

"C'mon."

With a quick flick of her wrist, Ciri dashed towards the commotion, but made sure to stick close to the walls and, hopefully, behind Luna. She didn't know what sort of fighting style her patrol pair employed, but she assumed it was probably something close-range, considering her getup. Which'd suit Ciri more than fine; she'd stay a few steps behind, until she found whatever target she was supposed to fuck up. Hopefully a GEMINI, probably a monster. Or, if fate had any sense of humor at all, a freelancer.

Asher wasn’t looking for any excitement. He’d just gotten into town, took a quick job to get some cash in his pocket, then bounced. He’d chosen not to linger, perhaps he’d run into the other espers he’d worked with some other time but it wasn’t really something he’d concerned himself with too deeply. Asher liked to keep things simple, maybe that’s why things never seemed to stay that way. All he’d wanted was some cheap drinks and some cheaper tunes at a local outdoor venue. It was a nice place. The restaurant’s interior was high class, but the fenced in outdoor area was great for partying. In front of the restaurant were two giant speakers sitting on top of a patio, with steps that descended into a garden. There were enough trees and shrubbery to make one forget they were in the middle of a city.

First the tunes had been canceled and that seemed to really upset the crowd. Apparently it’d been some hot local talent that had a bigger than average turnout. Apparently they’d canceled, last minute. And to top it off, apparently the venue wasn’t offering refunds. A powder keg if he’d ever seen one, a powder keg that Asher unfortunately had found himself directly in the middle of.

Asher had only wanted drinks and tunes, but tonight he was getting a hefty serving of violence and mayhem. Asher wasn’t an expert, nor was he really the thinking type, he couldn’t tell you if the broiling pot of negative emotions had lured something in or birthed something fresh. What he could tell you was that it was big, it was angry, and it had one hell of a right hook. Asher had to pull himself free of the rubble of the wall that he’d been pummeled into. Asher dusted himself down and eyeballed his foe, a massive overgrown blob with arms and legs. Asher couldn’t really make heads or tails of what the thing was but it sure knew how to hit and had been seconds away from flattening some poor bystanders before he’d gotten in its way and got its attention. A handful of people were still trying to seek refuge under tables and behind the bar, Asher would need to distract the monster and find a way to get them out before he could really unleash some fire.

Asher was hoping that at the very least the first wave of attendees that had fled the scene screaming hysterically might draw some form of authority or someone that could help manage the bystanders. Then Asher could really focus on beating this thing down but for now his goal was to merely distract it long enough to formulate a better plan.

As the patrons ran away, Luna squeezed her way past them. Mighty esper she may have been, but being short always meant there was a risk of being swept away by a crowd. She pulled herself through the alleyway and looked around. It didn’t take long to notice the confused monster flailing about.

”A Shoggoth?” The words were barely heard by anyone. Most of the patrons had fled. Everyone that remained was trying to hide. Who knew what they were registering this event as? ”Uh, what would you do in this situation, Stacy?” She watched the translucent blob closely. Its eyes and all of its organs floated around in its transparent mass. Its stomach, notably, looked empty. ”Wait!” Luna waved her arms. ”It’s just hungry! Is there any food left? Anything we can feed it at all?”

When Asher had been hoping for assistance he’d been looking for some form of civilian police or at least someone that could do something about the remaining people trapped and trying to hide. Instead what he got was what looked like a couple of children, maybe they were espers too, but to Asher it just looked like a couple of kids in the wrong place at the wrong time. One of them began waving her arms yelling something about food, Asher of course was too focused to understand the query or anything about the newcomers. So he did the sensible thing, he put the two newcomers behind him and kept his eyes focused front and center on the big scary monster. “You kids need to get out of here, I need to get this thing outside and away from all these people so I can finally take care of business.” As if to accentuate the underlying meaning behind his words Asher conjured up a small fireball and sent it soaring towards the Shoggoth. Of course Asher was clueless as to the fact that the two newcomers were definitely not just children and would likely not agree with his aggression.

Thankfully, unlike her partner, Ciri wasn't short. She really wasn't. She was— not the tallest person around ever, but definitely not short. Hell no. Not even if... Luna was talle—

The point was that she didn't stay out of the crowd because she was afraid of being swept away, but because she needed some space to assess the situation and summon some help accordingly.

Which she would have been doing, if some freaky dude with a freakish hairdo hadn't shoved his way in front of them and— started blasting the apparently hungry Sloggoth with fire. Because of course this guy’s first instinct was to try and kill everything that didn’t look strictly human. Was he a GEMINI? A Freelancer? In the end, it didn’t matter; they were all the same.

"The he— are you deaf?!" She screamed from behind the apparent Esper, trying to kick him square in the lower back. "She said we gotta feed it! And not with fire! If you don't plan to actually help, just go feed your dumb ass to it!"

A swift kick from behind interrupted any train of thought Asher had going. It hadn’t really felt the kick so much as felt the force shoving him forward, for the reason it took a second to register that he’d actually been kicked. As it sunk in Asher’s anger rose and with a look of bewilderment on his face he whirled around, red eyes alighting upon Ciri who’d suddenly decided to assault him. “What the hell? Are you blind? What are you talking about, feed it? There’s people in danger here and you’re worried about feeding it?!” Asher asked, completely bewildered by the newcomers' priorities.

Asher took a step back out of caution, now wary of the monster behind him and the two newcomers ahead of him who very well could be hostile. He took a slightly defensive position as he started trying to reassess the situation. There were only a handful of people who hadn’t made it out in the first wave, probably the ones too afraid to move on their own. Asher wasn’t certain that they’d be safe if left alone but if these two actually turned hostile he wasn’t liking his odds, too many priorities.

All he’d wanted was a drink and some relaxingly shitty tunes tonight, somehow instead he found himself embroiled in a mess of epic proportions. So far that’s how things were going in this city, all in all he’d be leaving a nasty review on Tripadvisor at this rate.

God, this guy was a moron! Which was actually a shame, because it turned out he actually had a pretty cool getup. He had a skull for a face, too! Ugh, too bad that apparently made him a bonehead.

Ciri kept glaring daggers at him, apparently hard enough to make the dude back off - the first sensible thing she'd seen him do. "What do you mean ‘what am I talking about’, this isn't rocket science!" she jabbed a finger towards the monster. "Give that thing a goddamn snack and the people won't be in danger anymore! It's not hostile because it wants to be."

But she was about to, if this guy didn't start being helpful, like, yesterday.

Record scratch, ‘What?” Asher asked, dumbly.

"'What'"? Ciri repeated, angrily.

What seemed so simple to Ciri was in fact rocket science to Asher. In all the time Asher had been an esper he’d never heard anyone talk about monsters like they actually knew something about them. Admittedly, that was only for two years, and he’d spent most of his time traveling around. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that Pax Septimus was one of the more populated locations he’d found himself in recently. Asher had only ever seen monsters as angry dangerous creatures wreaking havoc, and then came along some shortie with horns talking some nonsense about feeding it instead. True to his nature, Asher acted accordingly.

She could practically hear all the little cogs in the guy's head turning, as he tried very hard to work out her very simple instructions. This guy had to be a freelancer, there was no way GEMINI had the patience for him. "Any fucking time now, Einst-"

“LISTEN!” Asher yelled as he took a more offensive stance. “You better start talking some sense because you’re not making any of it! I’ve barely been in this city a week and this is the second time I’ve been attacked unprovoked, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about! Start talking or it’s going to start getting hotter than hell in here!” Asher barked out. As if to accentuate his meaning flames began to gently kindle to life up and down Asher’s arms and the fire burning in his skull grew in intensity.

Oh, great. He was one of those guys who got a temper when they didn't understand shit. Which in this guy's case must've meant all the damn time. Did she really have to start throwing down with this guy in the middle of an evacuation situation? Cause she would. She fucking would. Unless—

Ciri narrowed her eyes. In his head, Asher would hear a clear whisper of: "Oi. Your fly's down."

If it was enough to distract him and make him look down, he wouldn't see what was coming next. If it wasn't, he would. Either way, Ciri bent her knees, pushed her head down — and launched herself into a horned headbutt.

Hopefully, if it connected, it'd be enough to knock some sense into him. Or, barring that, knock a few teeth out, or something.

Asher knew his fly wasn’t down, totally knew, he was totally wearing sweats tonight. He was also transformed, so that wasn’t really gonna happen anyways.

Didn’t stop him from instinctually checking anyways, it wasn’t even really a conscious decision so much as a habit ingrained into his subconscious like the need to giggle after a fart. But, as clueless as Asher might be, this wasn’t his first time around the block.

Ciri slammed into him unexpectedly but Asher was quick to react himself as he shoved her back just enough to make room before he met her head on, literally. Asher brought his forehead down to meet Ciri’s in a clash of wills as her horns scraped against his head and the fires in his eyes grew in intensity. With a frustrated growl Asher began shoving back against Ciri as the two locked heads like two mountain goats.

[i][color=#7e4393]Tch.[color][/i]

Ciri gritted her teeth as the two Espers' heads collided with a resounding crack. The impact was hard enough that had they not been transformed, their literal butting of heads would've likely resulted in at least a splitting headache. As things were, the resulting pain was more just a nuisance. Just like this fucking guy.

"Oww! You could've dodged it if you saw it coming, what the fuck kind of an idiot headbutts someone back?!" Ciri shouted, holding her forehead. "Are you a literal numbskull?!"

“Nah, but I’m pretty hard headed!” Asher quipped back with a grin.

While Ciri and Asher got to know one another, Luna seemed to be the only one addressing the shoggoth. It wasn’t too keen on getting in between the feuding espers. Meanwhile, Luna looked a bit more manageable.

”Seriously guys?” She said breathlessly. Rather than leaving the establishment, Luna ran inside of it. The hungry hungry shoggoth flailed its limbs as it gave chase.

While glaring up at the skull guy, Ciri happened to catch a glimpse of her partner behind him, heading deeper into the venue with the monster hot on her heels. Monster whose... existence Ciri had all but forgotten by now. Shit.

"Whatever, I don't have time for this. Just stay the hell out of my way," she snapped at Asher, before trying to shove past him and catch up to Luna. Hopefully, she hadn't been devoured by their target by then.

This time Asher made no move to oppose her as Ciri rushed after her companion and the monster who’d started this fiasco. Asher’s blood was boiling and he wanted to give chase, if only because he’d felt provoked, but one look around the room quickly reminded him of his actual goal as well.

The inside of the bar had been closed off for the outdoor venue, but there were still plenty of tables set up for normal dining. Or at least they were until the flailing monster knocked them over in its mad dash. Luna slid over the countertop and shoved past the double doors that lead into the kitchen. The shoggoth rolled over, pouring into place on the other side.

With the monster right behind her, Luna didn’t spend much time taking stock of the kitchen. She was next to a sub making station which had a shelf filled with foot long rolls, and below it were several refrigerated bins that held all the toppings. She used a spatula to slather mayo on an open roll before heaping on whatever she thought would be good. Should she have been wearing gloves? Probably, but she had washed her hands about an hour ago and had only touched Pit Boss and the counter since then. It would be fine.

The Shoggoth emerged. It reached towards her with a slimy tentacle, and Luna held out the hoagie. The tentacle prodded the sub a few times before drawing it into itself. The sub floated inside its gelatinous mass, slowly breaking down before Luna’s eyes. She held up her finger to the monster before preparing another sandwich.

With the two newcomers and the monster having left Asher behind as they rushed towards the kitchen he quickly took advantage of the situation.

“Listen up! If you haven’t left yet then now's the time to move your ass! Don’t make me tell you twice!” Asher yelled around the room. It didn’t take long for the few stragglers to put a pep in their step and finally rush from the venue. With business having been taken care of Asher turned his attention towards the kitchen as he debated intervening. As much as he felt like following behind so he could pummel that creature he also had to consider that the two newcomers had already shown aggression towards him when he’d attacked prior. Asher deemed it better to hang back and wait and perhaps the second of the two might be more apt to explain what was going on.

That was if they came out of the kitchen, Asher would take care of things if they didn’t of course. Just had to wait.

By the time Ciri got there, Luna was feeding the creature another sandwich.

”It seems to be working!” She started making a third sandwich.

"There you are! Thank fuck you’re still ali—”

”See if you can find a dessert, I think it’s getting tired of sandwiches.”

The shoggoth grumbled.

"Dessert?!” Ciri came to a halt at the kitchen's entrance, eyes darting between Luna, the sloggoth and the station for subs. Right. Okay.

A quick look around the kitchen didn't reveal any ready-made desserts waiting to be offered up, which was pretty weird. Did people order dessert before actual food nowadays? That was so wrong — and so respectable.

"I'll fix somethin’ up, sec," Ciri promised, sliding over to the closest countertop to take inventory. Alright, dessert. She didn't exactly have time to bake anything, so something quick and fresh would have to do. Like... like a smoothie? Weren't they all the damn rage nowadays? If influencers were to be believed anyway. Now what did they put in those things again?!

Greens. Right, greens—

Hastily, Ciri harnessed the might of her culinary skills, tossing pretty much any relatively healthy or green looking thing she could find into the blender. To her credit, she found some berries and a stray banana. Unfortunately, she also found celery, Brussels sprouts, and an unlabeled container of something so disgusting it had to be healthy.

"Bottom's up, big guy!" she shouted not a moment later, sliding up to the monster and chugging her suspicious concoction, container and all, straight towards its hungry maw.

Shoggoth must not have had taste buds, because they downed that in one go. Already the monster seemed like it was starting to calm down. Its stomach looked like it was at maximum capacity, and it ceased its erratic movements. One of its tentacles patted Ciri on top of her head before retracting it.

Seeing her dessert do the trick, a genuine, triumphant smile found its way on Ciri's face. See! She knew she was a good chef, no matter what anyone said.

The tentacle pat was too much, though.

”Alright!” Luna placed her hands on her hips. ”Now we just have to guide him down to the bastion without getting into any more fights.” She poked her fingers together. ”That big burly burning guy, is he still around? It looked like the two of you were really into it.”

"What? Into what?!" Ciri snapped, shooing away the already-retracting tentacle. "If you mean he was into being a fucking dumbass and I was into making him pay for it, then yeah, I guess."

_{”At least I didn’t imply you guys were dating.”}

Ciri shrugged her shoulders, trying to appear nonchalant. It didn't last long; as they started to guide the monster outside, Ciri couldn't help but try and peer ahead. "... God I hope he's no longer around."

Asher wasn’t really the patient type, and Ciri had just looked forward with enough time to catch sight of the kitchen doors flying open as Asher strode in ready to whoop some ass. And then he stopped cold, a quizzical expression coming over his face. Not only had the big scary monster calmed down, it seemed like the two girls were leading it almost like a pet or something. Asher first looked at the girl he’d already had a run in with and was preparing to speak before almost seeming to decide better. Instead he turned to the other, who he’d not really spoken to yet.

“What’s…going on?” He asked, the confusion evident in his voice from twenty miles away. It wasn’t a long shot to say that Asher was a very readable individual.

Speak of the… Ciri glanced over to Luna. ”Congrats, you get to deal with him now.”

Luna had made a sub for the road, just in case the monster got hungry again. Her grip on the hoagie tightened and her eyes shifted side to side. ”Well…” She pointed over her shoulder at the monster. ”I noticed the Shogoth’s stomach was empty, so I led it into the kitchen to feed it. Now that it’s been pacified, we were going to take it to a safe place.” She blinked, unsure if he was understanding. ”Most monsters are like animals. They aren’t good or bad, they just exist in a world that doesn’t understand them. You don’t always need to kill an animal that seems dangerous. Sometimes you just need to pacify it and drop it off at the park.”

Ciri nodded. Luna was doing okay, actually. Good for her.

She smiled as her confidence returned. ”I’m Tetrad! Finding non-lethal ways to deal with monsters is sort of my job. Our job, actually,” She patted Ciri’s shoulder to encourage her to introduce herself.

“You don’t have to tell him everything!” Ciri snapped, “He didn’t ask for introductions!”

One could say that the fact they were Mavericks was pretty obvious if you thought about it, but Ciri firmly believed this guy had not and would never have thought about it, had Luna not just… blurted it out, so that sucked. Oh well. Tetrad did not seem to think this was a big deal though, if her raised eyebrow was anything to go by.

Ciri turned to Asher. “Yeah, as you can see, we got things handled over here. So scram.”

Asher looked between the two espers for a moment, a look of annoyance coming over his face as Ciri spoke, “Not a fan of your tone to be honest, if I remember correctly you attacked me while being the newcomer to the scene. You’re lucky I had the restraint not to decide to just whoop your ass in the moment.” Asher responded with a side-eye aimed at Ciri.

“Oh yeah, it was definitely your amazing restraint that kept you from whooping my ass. Sure.” Ciri rolled her eyes.

Asher’s gaze returned to Tetrad, “So…anyways…you guys are basically like animal control, but for monsters?” Asher asked as he absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. Asher couldn’t help but approach the pacified Shoggoth, all this time he’d spent beating monsters up and it had never crossed his mind that he could basically be beating on a wild dog.

“So are they all like that? Every monster? They’re just like wild animals?” Asher asked as he started trying to make more sense of things.

Luna’s smile grew. She nudged Ciri with her elbow before responding. ”They aren’t all like wild animals. This one is, yes. But there are smarter ones that are capable of communicating with humans, and smarter ones that just can’t speak. Not every monster can be saved, but we try to do what we can.”

Ciri raised a brow at the nudge, not getting why Luna was being all smiley. What, did she think she was getting through to this guy? That she was about to change his wicked ways, or something? Yeah, right. Wishful thinking.

With a heavy, tired sigh, Ciri joined in on her partner’s effort anyway.

“It’s more like… a bunch of them are like humans, pretty much. There are good ones, there are shitty ones, and there are dumbass ones.” She gave Asher a pointed look. “Humans are far more likely to kill shit just cause they can though — and feel morally superior about it after.”

The shoggoth twisted and pointed its “head” at Asher, clearly skeptical of the one it had previously been fighting. But it did not lash out. It stood its ground, waving its tendrils about.

“Well…” Asher started as he crossed his arms and locked gazes with the shoggoth momentarily, “I see, so even this world is more complicated than it seems on the service huh…”

Huh?

Ciri crossed her arms, her angry expression giving way to a hint of curiosity. She didn’t know what was going on in that painfully thick — seriously, she was getting a headache from the earlier impact — head of his, but if she hadn’t known better, she could’ve sworn he was… actually contemplating their stance. No way though, right? No fucking way?

Suddenly as if he’d made up his mind about something Asher gave a small clap and nodded to himself, “Right! Well you two really do seem to have this situation under control and I was only ever really here for a drink. I’m gonna leave things in your hands, go find me something to drink, and go find me somewhere to drink it. Look me up on Shimr, maybe. I’m kind of curious about this monster taming gimmick.”

With that Asher turned on his heel and made for the door, wordlessly throwing up one hand in farewell. Luna waved back to him.

Wait, was he just going to leave? Just like that?! Ciri blinked after the guy, contemplating on shouting something after him just because, when Luna piped up.

”Did you see that?” She tossed the sandwich to the Shoggoth without looking at it and folded her arms. ”I do think we got him to change his mind! That’s not something I’ve seen many freelancers do! I wonder if he’s available…”

“... Availabl—”

Before Ciri could respond, Luna nudged her again. ”I’m kidding, of course! Probably. You never know! That said, we should probably take him up on his deal to drink together later. All we need to do is look him up on Shimr!”

“Ugh, if you aren’t kidding, you need to seriously rethink your standards. Like ‘decided not to murder a newborn creature this time’ can’t be your only damn criteria for a dude. Yeah, sure, I guess his whole skull thing was pretty cool, but…” Ciri rolled her eyes. “... Whatever, might as well see if his Shimr has anything embarrassing on it.”

Luna blinked. ”Did… He tell you his name?

Ciri narrowed her eyes, uncrossing her arms. “Wait, don’t tell me he—

”I don’t think he mentioned it to us.”

“... Dumbass.”

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

For many moons now Vale had found himself traveling without direction, his path unknown. The world had become a very dangerous and unkind place in recent times, and for a man such as himself it was already fairly dangerous. The new disturbance had made an already difficult life that much harder. Places where he’d usually gotten away with his usual tricks were experiencing heightened levels of scrutiny and vigilance that had made his attempts beyond risky. His last act had ended with him narrowly avoiding capture at the hands of a mob, regardless he’d had to leave the small hamlet behind him, likely for good.

Ever since he’d found himself endlessly on the move with no provisions, no home, and no real plan on what to do next. It was difficult enough, life as a dark elf, and his was a touch harder with no community to call his own. Briefly his heart panged for Glorenthil, or at least the memory of Glorenthil. The endless black of night gave way to low voices and the barest hint of light up ahead. Vale’s first instinct was to avoid it, turn slightly southward and circle about, but a low grumble and a sharp pain in his gut forced him to stay his initial instincts. Desperation drove him forward, but years of experience ensured that he still approached quietly, observing the occupants before deciding to approach further.

---

Only the most observant of the group might have noticed the signs that another presence was near. Silence reigned amongst the forest sentinels that stood in solemn watch around the flickering campfire where weary travelers had slowly begun to congregate. The creatures of the night had grown still, a sign that something was likely prowling nearby.

A voice, low and smooth, called out from somewhere amongst the shadows surrounding the camp, “Wolves are not the only undesirables one runs the risk of attracting on nights like these. The affairs of the world breed desperation in times like these.”

Slowly a masked and hooded figure materialized from the shadows with a practiced deliberation born from over half a century of slinking about the underworld. Every rustle of fabric, armor, and weaponry that announced his presence was purposeful, intentional, a way to make his presence known as he neared the edge of the firelight. Kneeling down with a bowed head he slowly lowered his hood and raised his eyes to those who had gathered. A fierce pride burned behind the eyes of the dark elf who knelt in the fires of the campfire. He would have this situation play out any other way if he could, that much might be noticed by the perceptive. But as he’d said before, desperation forced him to swallow that pride.

“Would you allow one such as myself to seek succor amongst the light of your fire?” the figure asked, betraying nothing of its inner turmoil other than the look one might catch in his eyes.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

The Saloon

Arkansas Traveler

---

---

Feat.

@TaintedMushroom as Westley Maston @Archazen as Sir Reginald Percival Hawthorne and @JJ Doe as Jesse Li

---

Most nights in Amistad the saloon was a bustling place of loud music, hootin’ and hollerin’, gamblin’, drinkin’, and anything else you might reckon a man would find himself getting involved with to forget the circumstances of his life. Tonight was no exception, in fact the denizens of Amistad seemed in even higher spirits than most nights, or perhaps it was just the strength of the booze that was higher in spirit. Maston found himself nursing a bottle to himself at the end of the bar, doing his best to avoid the main throng of singers and dancers further down the bar. A rather rambunctious fellow took front and center as he hollered for the attention of the crowd, slurring and stumbling over his words he took little time rallying the crowd for another rendition of whatever diddy suited their fancy. Clapping and stomping the crowd soon began building to a crescendo once more and Maston made to pour himself another glass.

As fate would have it, all was not well. The moment Maston’s arm rose up hefting his bottle a disturbance at the other end of the bar broke out between a couple rowdy singers. One man bumped into another and that man shoved the other one and slowly but surely the shockwave rippled its way down the bar man to man. As Maston made to raise his freshly filled cup the man to his left suddenly stumbled backwards and Maston soon found himself wearing a majority of his booze rather than drinking it. The smell of alcohol permeated Maston’s senses and the liquid dripped slowly from his face. Maston took a slow deep breath as he rounded his gaze towards the man who’d fallen into him.

Would he have apologized and offered to right his wrongs Maston might have let things go. As it were, the fool gabbed on with his companion with his back turned to Maston. He’d not even realized, or not even cared. Maston attempted to get the man's attention but was brushed off rather abruptly. Anger brewed like a stormcloud over Maston’s head as he tried once more to grab the man’s attention. The man shrugged Maston off again. Like a stormcell snapping into a hurricane Maston’s anger swelled. The next time Maston reached for the man it was not so polite, his hand found the scruff of the man’s neck and his other hand found the waist of the man’s pants. If he’d known what was coming he’d maybe made it harder for Maston, given the man’s inebriated state and Maston’s element of surprise though it was no difficult feat for Maston to hoist the man into the air and throw him bodily across one of the nearby poker tables.

It was likely the gentlemen participating in that game didn’t take kindly to that.

Jesse Li slouched at the bar, scowling into the watered-down whiskey as if it held the answers to her predicament. The day had been a parade of disappointments, each “no” more disheartening than the last. Monster hunting jobs, it seemed, weren’t for “boys” like her.

She ran a hand over her smooth jaw. The chest binding, the deepened voice, the careful way she carried herself—none of it had been enough. To everyone else, she was just a green youth trying to play at being a man. And no one was willing to risk sending an untested boy into danger without a seasoned hunter to watch over him.

Maybe if she looked a little older, they’d take her seriously. Should I get some horsehair and glue? she thought, imagining herself with an obviously fake beard. The mental image almost made her snort her drink.

A commotion erupted at the other end of the saloon—raised voices, the scrape of chairs, the dull thud of fists meeting flesh. Jesse paid it no mind. She had enough problems without getting mixed up in a bar fight.

Fate, of course, had other plans.

A body came hurtling in her direction. Jesse sprang to her feet, avoiding the human projectile. In her haste, she stumbled backwards, colliding with something solid and warm.

“Goddammit!” a voice snarled behind her.

Jesse whirled around to find herself face-to-chest with a burly man. His shirt was soaked, an empty glass clutched in his white-knuckled grip. Slowly, Jesse raised her eyes to meet his gaze.
She watched as the man’s eyes narrowed, assessing her. Jesse could almost see the questions flitting through his mind: Man or woman? How old? Could he take her down on his own? White or… not?

Jesse’s own mental checklist was far simpler: Man? Check. Pissed off? Double check.

The shorter list gave a crucial edge. Jesse ducked just as the man’s meaty fist whistled through the air where her head had been a split second before.

“Whoa, hold on!” Jesse backpedaled, hands raised. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

“Shut your trap, son,” the man growled, advancing on her. His face was a mask of drunken rage, focused solely on the dark-skinned varmint. “I’ll teach you to watch where you’re going.”

Jesse’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an ally, an escape route, anything. But the other patrons seemed content to watch the show, cheering and jeering as she dodged another blow.

“Five cents on the runt!” someone called out.
“Nah, Big Jim’ll flatten ’im in a minute!” another voice countered.

The man—Big Jim, apparently—lunged again, but Jesse was quicker. She sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past her. He stumbled, crashing into another group of people.

Reginald sat at a corner table, meticulously polishing the silver head of his cane. The saloon’s cacophony was a constant assault on his refined senses, but he found solace in the ritual. Each stroke of the cloth was a reminder of the order and discipline that had once governed his life. His suit, immaculate and perfectly tailored, stood in stark contrast to the grimy surroundings.

Before the fight erupted, Reginald had been lost in thought, reminiscing about his days as a butler in the grand estates of England. Those days were a distant memory now, but he clung to them fiercely, a lifeline in the turbulent sea of his mind.

As he sat there, he nursed a glass of water, the only beverage he deemed acceptable in such a place. He observed the patrons with a mixture of pity and contempt. Their crude manners and boorish behavior were a constant reminder of how far he had fallen. Yet, even in this den of iniquity, he maintained his standards, a beacon of civility in a world that had lost its way.

It was in this state of detached observation that he noticed the commotion beginning to brew. The raised voices, the scrape of chairs, and the dull thud of fists meeting flesh pulled him from his reverie. With a sigh, he set his glass down, intending to remain a passive observer.

However, fate had other plans. As Big Jim lunged at Jesse and missed, his momentum carried him forward, directly into Sir Reginald’s table. The impact sent the glass of water flying, drenching Reginald’s pristine suit.

Reginald’s eyes flashed with a mixture of outrage and contempt. “You insufferable brute,” he hissed, rising to his feet. Big Jim, disoriented and enraged, turned to face the ex-butler, his eyes narrowing.

Without another word, Big Jim swung at Sir Reginald. But the ex-butler was quicker than he appeared. With a deft movement, he sidestepped the attack and brought his cane down on Big Jim’s wrist, causing him to yelp in pain and drop his fist.

Big Jim, now even more enraged, lunged again. Reginald, with the grace and precision of a man trained in the art of service, sidestepped once more. This time, he used Big Jim’s momentum against him, guiding the brute’s head directly into the wall with a sickening thud. Big Jim crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Sir Reginald straightened his coat and turned to Jesse. “You should be more careful,” he said, his tone stern. “This world is full of savages.”

Jesse gaped at the fancy gentleman. His effortless takedown of Big Jim, using only a cane and wit, was nothing short of amazing. “That’s some slick moves, mister!” she blurted out, her voice pitched a touch too high in her excitement.

But the thrill was short-lived. Over the gentleman’s shoulder, Jesse caught sight of a figure walking towards them, broken chair leg in hand and murder in his eyes. Her heart leapt into her throat. She pointed urgently behind the fancy man. “Look out!”

Meanwhile Maston was doing his best to navigate the floor of the saloon while avoiding the various brawls that had broken out. Tripping over a broken chair left him stumbling into the back of a man wielding a chair leg. In response the man made a swipe at Maston and even caught the edge of his shoulder, it would have been his head but Maston had managed to lean into the swing and leverage his other shoulder forward to ram the man in the chest midway through his swing.

Maston’s anger was steadily building and he didn’t plan on having any of what the man was trying to offer. As the assailant stumbled back from Maston’s shoulder check Maston leaned back and planted the flat of his boot square into the center of the man’s chest with a solid and forceful shove that sent the already off balanced man reeling backwards. Maston was a little taken aback when the man windmilled backwards and tripped over another immobilized patron and pitched clear through the window and out onto the porch.

He didn’t really spend much time contemplating what had just happened considering someone had grabbed Maston by the shoulder in an attempt to line up a good punch. Bigger fish to fry.

---

The cool night air was calm under the starry night sky, like the surface of a pristine lake under the gaze of the moon. Abruptly, as if throwing a rock into said lake, the peace and calm shattered. The silence of the night was interrupted by a shrill scream from the direction of the saloon, shortly after the sound of shattering glass reverberated throughout the night and the faint sounds of yelling and screaming could be heard carrying up the street. Anyone who found themselves out at this late hour of the night would almost certainly hear the commotion coming from the saloon.

♤ THE CURSÈD WEST ♤

The sun leered down upon the land like an oppressive deity whose anger radiated upon its subjects whom had no freedom to escape its fiery anger. It beamed down onto a harsh and open landscape that offered little to no reprieve. It was far from Maston’s first time in the domain of the sun god, but taking one look at the secondary caravan guard trotting along with him and he could tell that the man hadn’t many seasons under his belt. The thin patchy stubble on his face also made it evident that he was still pretty young in his years. Maston sighed to himself, just another sign that it was time to move on. He’d been traveling with a small caravan for the last handful of weeks and as time had grown long the crew had slowly started to become more and more familiar with Maston. This, as always, led to questions like ‘Where ya from? Got any family? What’re them there fancy medals you keep in that box?’ and all sorts of personal matters. Maston of course didn’t take kindly to that. He’d already been thinking ‘bout movin’ on ‘fore they started with the questionin’.

THWUMP

Maston was shaken from his thoughts at the sound, he’d momentarily gotten caught up thinking and lost track of his surroundings. Typically not a mistake one makes lightly but the road had been mighty uneventful and that had a tendency to make a man lax in his duties. Maston also knew that with the sun as high as it was currently they’d have had ample opportunity to spot anyone that took to ridin’ upon them. And of course Maston wasn’t leaking anywhere so that ruled out the most obvious. Finally, ruling out all the usual reasons of disturbance, Maston turned about to look back yonder the trail. To Maston’s right trotted along an empty horse, the creature absentmindedly chewing its bridle and giving Maston a side-eyed look. Maston’s eyebrow raised quizzically and he turned a hair further back to spot a brown lump in the trail slowly getting further away with each step. Clearly that sun had gotten the better of the greenie. Maston sighed to himself and turned back to the front of his horse. He made no move to assist the man, he didn’t plan on to be honest. That was simply the way of the road. The man would lay there and bake in the sun and either die of exhaustion or dehydration. First the opportunist would come and pick over his corpse for valuables, then the carnivores and the carrion birds would come later and pick over the corpse for valuables of an entirely different nature. By dawn of the next day it’d be a surprise to find much left.

At least that’s how things would have gone if the caravanners bleeding heart of a daughter hadn’t turned around and spotted the man. Suddenly everyone in the caravan was clamoring on about duty and taking care of each other. Maston grumbled to himself and turned his horse back in the direction of the fallen man. It took a few minutes more than he’d cared to spare under the heat of the day but before long Maston had the man strapped to the back of his saddle and was moving to catch up with the caravan. The caravan leader gave him a sour look on arrival, probably assuming Maston would’ve left the man otherwise. He wasn’t wrong. Just another reason to move on…

---

Hours Later…

---

The anger and heat of the day were fading as the sun turned to more creative pursuits. The sky was painted in hues of orange and red with shades of purple and blue mixed throughout as the sun peeked further and further below the horizon. The caravan had reached Amistad, their destination and the place that Maston figured they’d part ways. With a huff of effort Maston unceremoniously hefted the man from before from his saddle. A few steps around the wagon and he found the caravan lead handing out duties to the rest of his hands.

“Maston! Start hitchin the horses up!” The man gave him an order and turned away without giving Maston a moment to respond. In response Maston heaved the man from his shoulder and dropped him at the lead's feet which quickly startled him from his current endeavors. “What on earth?” He hollered.

“I reckon this one here can hitch yer’ horses for ya’, given ya give him some water and take care of his lazy ass. And I reckon you’ll be needing to find yerself another coach guard for whatever trip y’alls plannin’ after this’n. Now I’ll be takin’ my dues and hittin’ the trail if ya don’t.” Maston stated simply, preferring not to mince words. The sour look on the lead’s face told him that the news wasn’t quite welcome but regardless the man fished a handful of bills from his person and shoved them into Maston’s waiting hands. Maston tipped his hat in thanks and turned on his heel. With that he left the caravan behind, it was unlikely that he’d have any run-ins with them, he was heading further west and they’d likely head back east after this stop. With nothing else planned for the time Maston decided to stock up on some basic provisions then find lodging for the night and have himself a drink. Tomorrow he reckoned he’d figure out what to do next, but for now he was thirsting mightly for a drink.

Through Darkening Skies - original weird fantasy sky pirate adventures

Worry not, friends, for our friend shall return.

♤ 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 "

"W E S T L E Y M A S T O N"
" W E S T L E Y M A S T O N "

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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 ? " WESTLEY EARL MASTON _____________________________________________________ " 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 ? " CINCINNATI, OHIO, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA _____________________________________________________ " 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? 44 ★ Birthdate? June 15th, 1844 ★ Height? 6’4” ★ Weight? 178 pounds ★ Ethnicity? Irish ★ 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 " ”I”m a bad, bad man.” Life for Westley has been an ugly affair, and as such has produced an even uglier man. Callous, cold, quick to anger, and quick to the trigger all describe Westley. Westley’s Irish blood runs strong in his veins, and his anger and rage have typically landed him in hot water that he’s rarely been opposed to fighting his way out of. He wasn’t always so brash, but Westley has endured things no man should have to and has long since grown to believe his attempts at leading a decent life will lead to naught but ruin for himself and those surrounding him. As a result he’s grown into a selfish and aggressive man who tends to stick out only for himself and is motivated purely by greed and self interest. Once upon a time, in a younger man's day, Westley could have been called idealistic, kind, courageous, even perhaps a hero. In fact, on the day he turned 18 Westley left home to join the Union. Westley’s service record was remarkable, and the medals he’d brought home supported this. But it was the darker things that he brought home that left more of a mark on his life than medals or valor. The things he’d experienced in the war left scars too deep for any to see, scars that would twist and distort how Westley would see the world and navigate its choices. The boy who’d left was far from the damaged man who’d returned. It was definitive to say the least that going to war had changed the trajectory of Westley’s life in ways that not much else could. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " 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 ? " Westley stands at an imposing six foot four inches but carries a wiry lithe frame that one would say is on the edge of being healthy for his size. He wears an eye patch over his left eyes from an injury he suffered during his time as a soldier. He has long blonde hair and sports a medium length goatee and a slightly pointed mustache. Westley’s gear and clothing all show age and wear with much of his clothing itself being patchwork. The two most well maintained possessions would be his trusty rifle and the revolver he keeps at his side, both of which shine in the light but also sport signs of generous usage. Nothing else on Westley’s person indicates any sense of value, even his hat is worn and ragged from the many years it’s protected him from the sun. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " 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 ? " Westley was born in 1844 to two parents of Irish immigrants who settled in the greater Cincinnati area. He was the youngest of two and his family was catholic and as such struggled with many aspects of immigrating to the US. the Mastons were a family of simple farmers who tilled the field and spent the majority of their time handling the responsibilities that came along with their small homestead and as such led a simple life. In 1846 Westley’s father left home to participate in the Mexican American war, it was his belief that it was their duty as aspiring citizens and immigrants. Unfortunately two years after he’d left to fight the Mastons received news their father had fallen in battle. Westley was only 4 when he’d lost his father and the Maston family’s course took a turn for darker roads. Growing up without their father made life difficult, Westley’s older brother, William, had to step up and assume many of the responsibilities left behind by their father. Westley himself was also required to step up and share this burden with his brother as soon as he was able. Their mother unfortunately struggled with coping with the loss of their father and the relationship between the three grew tenuous over the years. Westley grew resentful of his mother and the responsibilities thrust upon him from such an early age and constantly found himself at odds with his brother who had more sympathy for the plight of their mother. All the while their mother had become a shell of a person after the death of their father. As the years grew so did the divide growing between Westley and the rest of his family. In 1861 at the start of the civil war Westley demanded to be allowed to serve. It was always his belief that his father’s sacrifice had been him doing his duty and believed likewise that it was his duty to serve as war was once again breaking out. His mother and brother were in stark contrast to this opinion, having blamed the late Maston’s sense of duty for his untimely death and the burdens that were left behind. What little semblance of a familial relationship they had soon began to fray under the tensions created by these differences. Westley was not allowed to join the Union until 1862 after he turned 18 and declared that his family no longer had any say over what he chose to do. Westley felt no need to look back as he left home behind to join the Civil War. War, duty, hell. Westley was abruptly humbled upon his enlistment with the Union. Life as a soldier was far from what he’d grown up romanticizing as a kid and it was hard to imagine how his father had determined that this was what mattered. Regardless he put his all into it and turned out to be a remarkable soldier, but the things he was forced to witness would forever retain a place in his soul. Westley remained with the Union until its eventual victory and was discharged with a handful of accolades and medals, but also a handful of injuries and a fractured mind. On returning home he’d expected the reception of a war hero, instead his mother and brother demanded he leave. Words were exchanged and things escalated, to this day it’s hard for Westley to explain just how his brother ended up dead, but he did. After that Westley left, as far as his mother was concerned both of her sons had died that day, she’d said so herself. The years that followed were remarkably cruel to Westley, any endeavor he attempted often ended in failure and he found it difficult to maintain any sort of relationship with people. For years he merely wandered from place to place doing whatever he needed to keep himself kicking. Eventually, as things grew harder, the list of lines that he once told himself he’d never cross was steadily growing smaller and smaller. Eventually he picked up a gun and took to bounty hunting when necessary, sometimes an outlaw would be at the end of the barrel, other times maybe a lone unsuspecting fool that would provide Westley the resources to get by for a few more days. Westley tried to be moral when he could but when survival was on the line he found himself often willing to sacrifice those morals to keep himself kickin’. Regardless he did his utmost to keep things quiet, avoiding the idea of any sort of large crimes or extensive robbery. As time has marched on Westley has found himself spending more time bounty hunting and pursuing security or mercenary work. For the most part he’s merely traveled like a nomad, refusing to place down any sort of long term roots for fear of the chaos and calamity that tends to follow him. ______________________________________________________________________________________________ " 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 ? " Westley finds himself in Amistad as the end of another security contract approaches. The recent caravan he’d been traveling with had been uneventful, lucrative even. But they were growing familiar with Westley, attached even. Both of these things spoke to a darker anxiety deep in Westley that drove him to quickly determine that at their next stop he’d have to find alternative employment. Westley was adept in many skills that were invaluable on the road and thus typically had no trouble finding a caravan hiring protection. Alternatively he might spend a few days resting his legs, give his horse some time off the long road, and check up on the local bounty board for some short term work. All in all Westley found himself in Amistad by chance, convenience, fate perhaps? An inexplicable pull westward had been drawing Westley further and further west but it was hard to really determine why. And so Westley found himself in Amistad awaiting the fingers of fate to work their way across the threads of destiny. He had no idea why.

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Shadows of the Forgotten Realm

Vale

My Hider

Character Name:
Alvale Varish

Race:
Dark Elf

Class:
A rogue, a scoundrel, a thief, a con-man, a dabbler of the alchemical, and sometimes a holy man while at others a beggar. In practice he was a man of many faces, choosing to don that which were most convenient at the time. When confronted he might declare himself a survivalist, learning that which was necessary to ensure his prolonged existence. In the shadowy depths of the gloom of night he often found himself wearing a mask of desperation. Nothing was beneath him, not even murder, if it kept him alive another day.

Age:
67

Gender:
Male

Place of Birth:
Glorenthil

Appearance:
Vale is short for his race, not short enough to not be elf tall, but short enough to have likely been picked on for it growing up. As fate would have it this actually turned out to benefit him later in life, the extra few inches weren't extraordinary but when attempting to slip into places one shouldn't be every little advantage had it's merit. Typically Vale finds himself in the guise of an aging sick elderly alchemist in order to pass through populated areas whenever necessary. Vale's attempts at deception are not always successful and thus Vale finds himself often having to employ the usage of his crescent shaped daggers to silence those who might see through his guise.

Due to lifestyle choices Vale often finds himself on the road or inhabiting slums or other seedy locations full of misbegottens and other unsavory types who might scorn the law over him and his ilk. Since the beginning of the Shadowbane Vale has found it easier to go unnoticed in areas that might find themselves struggling under the weight of refugees.