- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Jine the Cavalry
- Thread starter natruska
- Start date
- Original
-
- Tags
- gaya (gay earth)
- Location
- Derna
Benneth is a very popular writer on gender issues who revitalized the whole "separate but equal" thing a few years back. She's more on the feminist side (anything you can do I can do better, so I should have my own place to do it) but her followers run the gamut. She's only really popular in Allegheny, though.
- Location
- Derna
Well. It's been two weeks since the last update, and I feel like shit. This keeps happening: I start updating, put out a few in a week, and then stop for forever.
It's not that I don't know what to write, because I do. It's not that I don't like the story. I just sit down to write, write half an update, and then push off finishing it for days.
I don't know if this is a motivation problem or what. I like writing this quest, I like interacting with this cool funky setting and stuff. But if this is going to keep plodding along with huge gaps between basic story beats, I don't know if that's fair to anyone.
So...yeah, I need your thoughts I guess. Was thinking of just letting it die, but I do really want to tell the story (and also see more of Cthulhu's o make if possible
) Maybe just set a wordcount to write per day, but knowing myself something would come up once to make me not write and I'd use it as an excuse forever.
As a side note, this pre-war stuff should be wrapped up soon. This Cristobal stuff has like one more update and things should flow better when the war starts. You may have noticed I have no idea wtf I'm doing at any point.
Well. Sorry for dumping this on you guys, but I got no sleep last night and woke up with the urge to fix this, instead of counting the weeks in the back of my mind.
It's not that I don't know what to write, because I do. It's not that I don't like the story. I just sit down to write, write half an update, and then push off finishing it for days.
I don't know if this is a motivation problem or what. I like writing this quest, I like interacting with this cool funky setting and stuff. But if this is going to keep plodding along with huge gaps between basic story beats, I don't know if that's fair to anyone.
So...yeah, I need your thoughts I guess. Was thinking of just letting it die, but I do really want to tell the story (and also see more of Cthulhu's o make if possible
) Maybe just set a wordcount to write per day, but knowing myself something would come up once to make me not write and I'd use it as an excuse forever.As a side note, this pre-war stuff should be wrapped up soon. This Cristobal stuff has like one more update and things should flow better when the war starts. You may have noticed I have no idea wtf I'm doing at any point.
Well. Sorry for dumping this on you guys, but I got no sleep last night and woke up with the urge to fix this, instead of counting the weeks in the back of my mind.
- Location
- Somewhere in the stacks
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Well. It's been two weeks since the last update, and I feel like shit. This keeps happening: I start updating, put out a few in a week, and then stop for forever.
It's not that I don't know what to write, because I do. It's not that I don't like the story. I just sit down to write, write half an update, and then push off finishing it for days.
I don't know if this is a motivation problem or what. I like writing this quest, I like interacting with this cool funky setting and stuff. But if this is going to keep plodding along with huge gaps between basic story beats, I don't know if that's fair to anyone.
So...yeah, I need your thoughts I guess. Was thinking of just letting it die, but I do really want to tell the story (and also see more of Cthulhu's o make if possible
As a side note, this pre-war stuff should be wrapped up soon. This Cristobal stuff has like one more update and things should flow better when the war starts. You may have noticed I have no idea wtf I'm doing at any point.
Well. Sorry for dumping this on you guys, but I got no sleep last night and woke up with the urge to fix this, instead of counting the weeks in the back of my mind.
Honestly, this is a problem I've had to! Like, my first quest went on hiatus for months before I managed to get it finished and every other one I've started since then has kinda... stalled except for Castles.
I wish I had a good answer but honestly, setting a time to write each day or giving yourself a minimum word count (even if it's only 200) is the best way. You'll find that once you get started it's easier to finish, I think.Keep going!Well. It's been two weeks since the last update, and I feel like shit. This keeps happening: I start updating, put out a few in a week, and then stop for forever.
It's not that I don't know what to write, because I do. It's not that I don't like the story. I just sit down to write, write half an update, and then push off finishing it for days.
I don't know if this is a motivation problem or what. I like writing this quest, I like interacting with this cool funky setting and stuff. But if this is going to keep plodding along with huge gaps between basic story beats, I don't know if that's fair to anyone.
So...yeah, I need your thoughts I guess. Was thinking of just letting it die, but I do really want to tell the story (and also see more of Cthulhu's o make if possible
As a side note, this pre-war stuff should be wrapped up soon. This Cristobal stuff has like one more update and things should flow better when the war starts. You may have noticed I have no idea wtf I'm doing at any point.
Well. Sorry for dumping this on you guys, but I got no sleep last night and woke up with the urge to fix this, instead of counting the weeks in the back of my mind.
I've been enjoying this, and I have enough other quests and stories I follow that the gaps don't really bother me. I don't have any real advice for you, since I am doing the exact same thing right now with an omake series I write for To Boldly Go, but I would encourage you to keep trying since this is a story you want to tell.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/They
Def keep going if you think you can. Or if you think you can't, but are wrong. Or....yeah. It's a good quest and I've enjoyed reading your writing. Don't give up on it.
1-7: SV has a serious lack of horse-related tags and this must be rectified soon.
- Location
- Derna
The door swings shut. Keane and Abe are gone. You plaster a smile on your face, though, and pull Jane to her feet. You stand there for a few seconds - although it feels longer, this actually is kind of uncomfortable, just trying to look at her you mean, her eyes are all the way up there and you're rambling now - before she starts to drag you towards the open floor. Oh. Oh dear.
"Can you dance?" Time to lie.
"Of course!" You lay the posh on thick, feigning offense at the mere notion. "I am an officer of the Federation. What else would I do, fight?" For a second you think you've confused her, but then she pats your hand and giggles. You didn't realize you knew the word 'giggle,' but there's a more pressing concern.
You see, you hadn't been much of a dancer in the Academy, or the service. As a cadet you'd been far too busy with your studies, and as an officer you had no interest whatsoever. Your prior experience is much prior, when Mater and Pater sent their little girl to learn proper manners. Your family wasn't rich, but well-off enough to hope you'd marry rich. Maybe a Plymouth merchant, or some slaveholder in the south. Father must be disappointed, you muse. Haven't seen him in years. Anyway, yes, you were thirteen or fourteen when you stopped dancing.
You're thirty-three now. It's been twenty years with scarce any refreshers in between. Still, you trust you'll be able to follow Jane's lead.
That trust does not last. You've changed in twenty years, but dancing changed even more. The Quadrilles and Mazurkas of your youth are gone, lost forever and replaced with animalistic high-speed dances with strange Europan names. You've seen the Waltz before of course, if only as a novelty. Your dance teacher had warned you against it. In her (ancient) eyes, it was only the group setting and glacial pace of regency dance that separated humans from beasts. Dancing with your partner individually, in their embrace, was a road to ruination and debauchery. And now, on this floor...
She was certainly right about something. It's terrifying! Perhaps it's your little legs, but you're far too busy keeping up with the Hibernian's spinny hops to keep an eye out. Thoughts of a collision appear in your minds eye, limbs flying every which way. You must shrink at the thought because Jane pulls in closer, pressing you against her chest to keep you both moving.
Oh. Damn.
The whirling soon comes to an end, and you pull away for a second. You feel strangely exhausted. Just the frilly uniform, of course! Jane tilts her head down to look at you, smiling - she has very nice teeth. Must be why she shows them so - and oh my she's touching your face. Her thumb comes away with a bead of sweat. She's about to say something, but then the music starts back up and she wraps her arm around you once more. The room is alive with murmuring, and you catch something on the wind. Another strange Eastern word.
"What in the devil is 'polka'?" Jane's green eyes twinkle.
---
"You really should've seen yourself, you really should've." It's unfortunate that the girl lives so far away. A part of you thought it'd be a positive, a nice long walk to chat. Unfortunately, she's using it to mercilessly tease. "By the end there, I'd swear you were trying to hide inside my dress! You were terrified!"
"Like a spooked colt, yeah." What's with you and horses, anyway? She raises an eyebrow comically, cocking her head to the side.
"You really like horses, huh?" Oh. Great minds think alike.
You go on the defensive. "It's part of the job. You spend more time with horses than people, y' learn to appreciate them a little." Oh, too much. The tone didn't land right, and she thinks you're crazy now. Crazier, anyway.
Or not. She shakes her head, laughing. "Yeah, but it's not like horses can dance." You jump to correct her, stop, think. Can't decipher that look on her face. Maybe it's a test, maybe she knows horses can dance (sort of, it's debatab-not important!) And now the smile's starting to fade away, you've been too quiet and weird, oh n- "Where did your friends go, anyway? Didn't see them at the end."
Ah, a conversation that's not about you! You seize the opportunity by answering, with careful disinterest. "Not sure. Perhaps they got bored, left early? Went out and got drunk?" That certainly doesn't seem like a Keane thing to do - bail on his re-entry to high society - but he's not the sitting around type either. Jane murmurs in agreement and the two of you keep on down the road.
Her house draws closer and closer, and you feel the need to resuscitate the chatter. You grasp for a conversation topic, and then a flash of her red hair brings one to mind. "You have a bit of an accent. Hibernian, right? What brought you-" Your voice trails off as the facts click together in your head. She's a year or two younger than you, meaning that when she was, oh, fifteen...
"Not great times." She speaks sharply, and you wince. You look away down the road, and don't find the courage to look directly at her for four blocks. You're not that much of an idiot, you can piece it together. She'dve been a teenager when the Famine hit. Judging by her impressive height - you might feel a little insecure, considering how often you think about that - her family probably left at the beginning. She probably didn't starve, but leaving friends, family like that would...well.
The building appears before you can think of something to say. The two of you circle around the back, around her contraption and to the door. Jane fumbles with her key while you watch from the bottom of the steps. And then the lock clicks and you follow her up. She's startled when she turns around and sees you so close, freezes for a second.
And then she kisses you.
It's short, chaste, on the cheek. Jane pulls away and the two of you are silent for a second. Then she smiles again, pale skin turning blood red. "Erm, thanks, Anna. That was...very pleasant." You're not sure if she's talking about that, or the night as a whole.
And then the nerves come flooding back in. Fear that someone will see the two of you together, fear that you'll screw things up again. You bounce down the stairs without a thought, making a break for the street. But you turn back, smile at her despite the blaring alarm cries in your skull. "Write me about your...tractor-thing, please. It's fascinating. You're..." fascinating. Say it. Say it! You think you see a flash of disappointment in her eyes, and the words die. You lamely finish with a wave and your best grin before disappearing into the city.
Well. Better than expected?
---
"What do you mean he's gone?" Abe kneads the brim of his hat. Those sharp eyes follow you around Keane's room as you toss it, looking for any sign of the man. "Gone where?" You're trying to keep your voice level, but you doubt it's working. His uniforms, his papers, everything's gone. There's just one neat stack on the dresser. Regimental paperwork. For his 'replacement.'
Fuck.
"The great Republic of Morelli, if you'd believe it. Way down south. Heard they were hiring officers, some kind of modernization kick." He ducks out of the way as you storm through the hallway to your room, pulling your boots on. Keane can't leave you to clean up his business like this, the bastard. Is this why he dragged you out here, some sick game? You lace up with a fury and rush for your hat, but Abe grabs it first, holding you in place and staring you down. "Woah, cowgirl. He's gone. Steamer left...forty minutes ago, by my watch."
You take a breath. "That's not how it works. That's desertion. The man can't just walk off the job like that!" Abe gives you the side-eye. He thinks you're not thinking straight. Take a deep breath.
"You know he wouldn't do that. He did all the paperwork, even talked to Irving face to face to make her take it!" Fuck. You should've followed, talked some sense into him. The little man sees the darkness in your face and jumps back in. "This isn't on you, you know. You couldn'tve known. Even if, no way to stop him. It's for the best. He just wanted to have some fun with his, well...friends, I suppose, before he headed out. The ones he's got left." If you were in a calmer state of mind, you might've noticed the sadness in those words. Instead, you shoot back.
"You were there with him. Don't talk about 'no way to stop him,' Reynolds, when you just let 'im go!" You shake your head. He was in on this, you're not letting him off easy. "I mean, fuck, you could've at least told me, had him talk to me. Don't talk about 'no way' when you didn't give me a chance!"
Reynolds reddens, balls his fists, and for a second you think he's about to snap. And then he closes his eyes, calms himself. His little voice is strained. "He's my friend too." The eyes snap open. "My friend first, Clemson. I wouldn't do anything but what's best for him." His voice cracks on the last couple words, and he bolts out of the room.
You take a seat on the bed and collect your thoughts. There should be a letter somewhere, something explaining it all but...there's not. Best not to dwell, your parents would say.
With Keane gone, you're left in command of the rump 'regiment.' Suppose you should get to work. You grab the pile of papers from Keane's room and take a seat. Reynolds reappears in the doorway, nursing a bottle of whiskey. Your best efforts to coax information out of the little man fail. Keane's sworn him to secrecy, he says. Then the little man eyes the papers. He's a quartermaster, he says. Could take a look, make that all disappear. You invite him to try, and he dives in.
It seems Abe's a talkative drunk. You deny a slug from his bottle, and he clearly approves. The man talks - no, confides in you. He's tried to kick the drink, but it's kicked back harder. Reynolds laughs at that, sad and hollow. He's retiring too, heading back to Ireniwa to work in his father's business. You don't really know what to say, so you murmur something about the Midwest being nice this time of year. Not that you've ever been there. He shrugs. Seems like you'll be the only one left.
Inside of an hour you've finished off the last of the papers. Perhaps Reynolds is a different species, Homo papyrus, because he just flew through it all. You thank him and he smiles at you, his eyes bleary. "Oh, we're not done. Not even close."
---
"Major Clemson." Maratha Irving gestures for you to take a seat. You don't know the woman personally. Met her once or twice, during the war and after. It's strange watching someone write with one arm. She's got the whole pile of papers pinned with a paperweight, a little glass disk full of color. She has to put the pen down every time she finishes with a sheet, lift it up, slip them out.
You're staring at the stump. Stop. "General Irving, ma'am." The Commander, Department of the Auroric, smiles ruefully. She's used to it.
"Bryant was...not a friend, but a good acquaintance. I was sad to receive his resignation. I knew him well." 'Not a friend' and 'knew him well' seem contradictory, but you say nothing. She gives you a searching look. Like she doesn't know you, like she's trying to read you. This is why she brought you in, of course. One of the underlings could've handled the paperwork, but she wanted to meet her new subordinate. She speaks, in a conspiratorial tone.
"It's not like the war, Major. The enemy's all around you, waiting to sink their knives in your back. Need to pick your friends carefully, else," she waves her stump for emphasis, "you're like to end up like him."
"Are you implying something, ma'am?" You ask, putting on a shield of naivety.
She laughs, but her eyes don't move. You can't hold that hard gaze, and your eyes drift back to the thin air where her arm should be. Her Southron drawl seems more sinister than ever. "We all have our secrets, girl. All of us."
---
The ride back across the bay is quiet. Vomitless. The skipper tries to make small talk, but you're not interested. You step off at the dock, pay him - Keane stuck you with the bill, the bastard - and are gone in moments.
The realization comes when you collect the horses. Faith, your beautiful baby gelding, isn't so much a baby anymore. You haven't had much hard-riding in the last few years, so you suppose you hadn't noticed his age. He's sixteen now; not too old, but the war wore him down. Perhaps it's time for the retirement he so deserves. He leans in, nuzzles you, as if he knows. You give him Keane's tack - want not, waste not, - and saddle up Bethel, Keane's beautiful bay mare. She looks into the distance, like she's waiting for him to round the corner. Her big shoulders slump as you pull her away.
Of course, there's one last piece of business.
---
The Levinson Ranch is a sprawling mess, an untamed tract guarded by a split rail fence a baby goat could beat. Still, as you approach the main cluster of buildings, you're impressed by the quality of horseflesh. Some truly beautiful beasts run in the field. You'd have to take a closer look, of course, but you wager Harris made a good choice.
Levinson himself is another weedy man. You wouldn't take him for a rancher if you saw him on the street, that's for sure. The wheeling and dealing is over in a few minutes, and you shake hands. He's kind enough to drive the horses to the fort himself; you're not a cowgirl. You're on the way out to inspect the merchandise when the shouting starts.
It's a short trip around the corner, and a hastily built pen comes into view. A couple ranchhands seem to be placing bets on their buddy in the ring, a young cowboy in a broad-brimmed hat. He's taking on a huge black stallion, a Percheron by your guess. Eighteen hands if an inch. And by the saddle he's holding, he thinks it can be tamed. Ridden, even. The hands shout a couple encouraging insults at the boy, and he steels himself. He's sweating more than you'd expect for January. Oh, this isn't going to end well. The horse is nervous too, running back and forth on the other side of the pen, but it's got a handicap of a thousand pounds (if not two).
He lays a hand on its mane, and the beast is off like a shot. This is a born warhorse, you realize. It doesn't run or try to appease its new master, but charges, foaming at the mouth. To his credit, the cowboy's no slouch either. The saddle is forgotten as he rolls to the side, leaps over the split rails, and lands in the dirt. His buddies bend over with laughter as he tries to muster up some dignity.
And then a heavy hoof shatters the railing into a million splinters. You see the man go for a revolver on his hip, and hear the crack as the hand disappears underhoof. He screams bloody murder, but the stallion doesn't stomp again. It's alert, scanning the surroundings with those big brown prey eyes. Looking at you, the ranchhands, the man coming around the corner with a shotgun.
The pressure lifts on the boy's hand, and he still has enough sense to roll back under what's left of the fence. Towards some semblance of safety. The beast turns towards the other men and they fumble for their own handguns.
"HEY!" Your voice comes out loud, but not as commanding as you'd hoped. More, well, shrill. Everything stops. Everyone looks to you: the cowboys, the horse, Levinson with that shotgun (far too large for his frame). The horse, his shoulder a foot above your head, glances at you dismissively then turns away.
You snap your fingers, make some noise to keep his attention. "Look at me. Look at me, not them." He's not a feral beast, clearly. You could see the gears turning in his head the whole time, that big horse brain plotting its escape. He's not a hunter, just wild. People don't understand how smart they are, you think (again).
The ranchers keep their guns down as you calm the horse. Whenever he thinks of running, whenever he looks away, you snap and shout. The deal on the table is clear. 'Look at me and things are calm, look away and I get scary.' It feels like hours, but it can't be more than a minute. And then he's skittish again, coaxed back behind the fence. The cowboys keep their hands on their guns as he paces his pen, eyes locked on you. Levinson. Walking over. You're exhausted. "Damn, that was impressive Major. You grow up ranching?"
The horse stops, then approaches the fence. Sticks his nose out towards the two of you, as far as he can reach. Levinson takes a step back, you don't. There's a blast of hot air as he snorts, and you can almost imagine the challenge, like a sentry in the night. 'Little one. They couldn't break me. How could you?'
"I like a challenge, Mr. Levinson. I'll take him off your hands."
"Can you dance?" Time to lie.
"Of course!" You lay the posh on thick, feigning offense at the mere notion. "I am an officer of the Federation. What else would I do, fight?" For a second you think you've confused her, but then she pats your hand and giggles. You didn't realize you knew the word 'giggle,' but there's a more pressing concern.
You see, you hadn't been much of a dancer in the Academy, or the service. As a cadet you'd been far too busy with your studies, and as an officer you had no interest whatsoever. Your prior experience is much prior, when Mater and Pater sent their little girl to learn proper manners. Your family wasn't rich, but well-off enough to hope you'd marry rich. Maybe a Plymouth merchant, or some slaveholder in the south. Father must be disappointed, you muse. Haven't seen him in years. Anyway, yes, you were thirteen or fourteen when you stopped dancing.
You're thirty-three now. It's been twenty years with scarce any refreshers in between. Still, you trust you'll be able to follow Jane's lead.
That trust does not last. You've changed in twenty years, but dancing changed even more. The Quadrilles and Mazurkas of your youth are gone, lost forever and replaced with animalistic high-speed dances with strange Europan names. You've seen the Waltz before of course, if only as a novelty. Your dance teacher had warned you against it. In her (ancient) eyes, it was only the group setting and glacial pace of regency dance that separated humans from beasts. Dancing with your partner individually, in their embrace, was a road to ruination and debauchery. And now, on this floor...
She was certainly right about something. It's terrifying! Perhaps it's your little legs, but you're far too busy keeping up with the Hibernian's spinny hops to keep an eye out. Thoughts of a collision appear in your minds eye, limbs flying every which way. You must shrink at the thought because Jane pulls in closer, pressing you against her chest to keep you both moving.
Oh. Damn.
The whirling soon comes to an end, and you pull away for a second. You feel strangely exhausted. Just the frilly uniform, of course! Jane tilts her head down to look at you, smiling - she has very nice teeth. Must be why she shows them so - and oh my she's touching your face. Her thumb comes away with a bead of sweat. She's about to say something, but then the music starts back up and she wraps her arm around you once more. The room is alive with murmuring, and you catch something on the wind. Another strange Eastern word.
"What in the devil is 'polka'?" Jane's green eyes twinkle.
---
"You really should've seen yourself, you really should've." It's unfortunate that the girl lives so far away. A part of you thought it'd be a positive, a nice long walk to chat. Unfortunately, she's using it to mercilessly tease. "By the end there, I'd swear you were trying to hide inside my dress! You were terrified!"
"Like a spooked colt, yeah." What's with you and horses, anyway? She raises an eyebrow comically, cocking her head to the side.
"You really like horses, huh?" Oh. Great minds think alike.
You go on the defensive. "It's part of the job. You spend more time with horses than people, y' learn to appreciate them a little." Oh, too much. The tone didn't land right, and she thinks you're crazy now. Crazier, anyway.
Or not. She shakes her head, laughing. "Yeah, but it's not like horses can dance." You jump to correct her, stop, think. Can't decipher that look on her face. Maybe it's a test, maybe she knows horses can dance (sort of, it's debatab-not important!) And now the smile's starting to fade away, you've been too quiet and weird, oh n- "Where did your friends go, anyway? Didn't see them at the end."
Ah, a conversation that's not about you! You seize the opportunity by answering, with careful disinterest. "Not sure. Perhaps they got bored, left early? Went out and got drunk?" That certainly doesn't seem like a Keane thing to do - bail on his re-entry to high society - but he's not the sitting around type either. Jane murmurs in agreement and the two of you keep on down the road.
Her house draws closer and closer, and you feel the need to resuscitate the chatter. You grasp for a conversation topic, and then a flash of her red hair brings one to mind. "You have a bit of an accent. Hibernian, right? What brought you-" Your voice trails off as the facts click together in your head. She's a year or two younger than you, meaning that when she was, oh, fifteen...
"Not great times." She speaks sharply, and you wince. You look away down the road, and don't find the courage to look directly at her for four blocks. You're not that much of an idiot, you can piece it together. She'dve been a teenager when the Famine hit. Judging by her impressive height - you might feel a little insecure, considering how often you think about that - her family probably left at the beginning. She probably didn't starve, but leaving friends, family like that would...well.
The building appears before you can think of something to say. The two of you circle around the back, around her contraption and to the door. Jane fumbles with her key while you watch from the bottom of the steps. And then the lock clicks and you follow her up. She's startled when she turns around and sees you so close, freezes for a second.
And then she kisses you.
It's short, chaste, on the cheek. Jane pulls away and the two of you are silent for a second. Then she smiles again, pale skin turning blood red. "Erm, thanks, Anna. That was...very pleasant." You're not sure if she's talking about that, or the night as a whole.
And then the nerves come flooding back in. Fear that someone will see the two of you together, fear that you'll screw things up again. You bounce down the stairs without a thought, making a break for the street. But you turn back, smile at her despite the blaring alarm cries in your skull. "Write me about your...tractor-thing, please. It's fascinating. You're..." fascinating. Say it. Say it! You think you see a flash of disappointment in her eyes, and the words die. You lamely finish with a wave and your best grin before disappearing into the city.
Well. Better than expected?
---
"What do you mean he's gone?" Abe kneads the brim of his hat. Those sharp eyes follow you around Keane's room as you toss it, looking for any sign of the man. "Gone where?" You're trying to keep your voice level, but you doubt it's working. His uniforms, his papers, everything's gone. There's just one neat stack on the dresser. Regimental paperwork. For his 'replacement.'
Fuck.
"The great Republic of Morelli, if you'd believe it. Way down south. Heard they were hiring officers, some kind of modernization kick." He ducks out of the way as you storm through the hallway to your room, pulling your boots on. Keane can't leave you to clean up his business like this, the bastard. Is this why he dragged you out here, some sick game? You lace up with a fury and rush for your hat, but Abe grabs it first, holding you in place and staring you down. "Woah, cowgirl. He's gone. Steamer left...forty minutes ago, by my watch."
You take a breath. "That's not how it works. That's desertion. The man can't just walk off the job like that!" Abe gives you the side-eye. He thinks you're not thinking straight. Take a deep breath.
"You know he wouldn't do that. He did all the paperwork, even talked to Irving face to face to make her take it!" Fuck. You should've followed, talked some sense into him. The little man sees the darkness in your face and jumps back in. "This isn't on you, you know. You couldn'tve known. Even if, no way to stop him. It's for the best. He just wanted to have some fun with his, well...friends, I suppose, before he headed out. The ones he's got left." If you were in a calmer state of mind, you might've noticed the sadness in those words. Instead, you shoot back.
"You were there with him. Don't talk about 'no way to stop him,' Reynolds, when you just let 'im go!" You shake your head. He was in on this, you're not letting him off easy. "I mean, fuck, you could've at least told me, had him talk to me. Don't talk about 'no way' when you didn't give me a chance!"
Reynolds reddens, balls his fists, and for a second you think he's about to snap. And then he closes his eyes, calms himself. His little voice is strained. "He's my friend too." The eyes snap open. "My friend first, Clemson. I wouldn't do anything but what's best for him." His voice cracks on the last couple words, and he bolts out of the room.
You take a seat on the bed and collect your thoughts. There should be a letter somewhere, something explaining it all but...there's not. Best not to dwell, your parents would say.
With Keane gone, you're left in command of the rump 'regiment.' Suppose you should get to work. You grab the pile of papers from Keane's room and take a seat. Reynolds reappears in the doorway, nursing a bottle of whiskey. Your best efforts to coax information out of the little man fail. Keane's sworn him to secrecy, he says. Then the little man eyes the papers. He's a quartermaster, he says. Could take a look, make that all disappear. You invite him to try, and he dives in.
It seems Abe's a talkative drunk. You deny a slug from his bottle, and he clearly approves. The man talks - no, confides in you. He's tried to kick the drink, but it's kicked back harder. Reynolds laughs at that, sad and hollow. He's retiring too, heading back to Ireniwa to work in his father's business. You don't really know what to say, so you murmur something about the Midwest being nice this time of year. Not that you've ever been there. He shrugs. Seems like you'll be the only one left.
Inside of an hour you've finished off the last of the papers. Perhaps Reynolds is a different species, Homo papyrus, because he just flew through it all. You thank him and he smiles at you, his eyes bleary. "Oh, we're not done. Not even close."
---
"Major Clemson." Maratha Irving gestures for you to take a seat. You don't know the woman personally. Met her once or twice, during the war and after. It's strange watching someone write with one arm. She's got the whole pile of papers pinned with a paperweight, a little glass disk full of color. She has to put the pen down every time she finishes with a sheet, lift it up, slip them out.
You're staring at the stump. Stop. "General Irving, ma'am." The Commander, Department of the Auroric, smiles ruefully. She's used to it.
"Bryant was...not a friend, but a good acquaintance. I was sad to receive his resignation. I knew him well." 'Not a friend' and 'knew him well' seem contradictory, but you say nothing. She gives you a searching look. Like she doesn't know you, like she's trying to read you. This is why she brought you in, of course. One of the underlings could've handled the paperwork, but she wanted to meet her new subordinate. She speaks, in a conspiratorial tone.
"It's not like the war, Major. The enemy's all around you, waiting to sink their knives in your back. Need to pick your friends carefully, else," she waves her stump for emphasis, "you're like to end up like him."
"Are you implying something, ma'am?" You ask, putting on a shield of naivety.
She laughs, but her eyes don't move. You can't hold that hard gaze, and your eyes drift back to the thin air where her arm should be. Her Southron drawl seems more sinister than ever. "We all have our secrets, girl. All of us."
---
The ride back across the bay is quiet. Vomitless. The skipper tries to make small talk, but you're not interested. You step off at the dock, pay him - Keane stuck you with the bill, the bastard - and are gone in moments.
The realization comes when you collect the horses. Faith, your beautiful baby gelding, isn't so much a baby anymore. You haven't had much hard-riding in the last few years, so you suppose you hadn't noticed his age. He's sixteen now; not too old, but the war wore him down. Perhaps it's time for the retirement he so deserves. He leans in, nuzzles you, as if he knows. You give him Keane's tack - want not, waste not, - and saddle up Bethel, Keane's beautiful bay mare. She looks into the distance, like she's waiting for him to round the corner. Her big shoulders slump as you pull her away.
Of course, there's one last piece of business.
---
The Levinson Ranch is a sprawling mess, an untamed tract guarded by a split rail fence a baby goat could beat. Still, as you approach the main cluster of buildings, you're impressed by the quality of horseflesh. Some truly beautiful beasts run in the field. You'd have to take a closer look, of course, but you wager Harris made a good choice.
Levinson himself is another weedy man. You wouldn't take him for a rancher if you saw him on the street, that's for sure. The wheeling and dealing is over in a few minutes, and you shake hands. He's kind enough to drive the horses to the fort himself; you're not a cowgirl. You're on the way out to inspect the merchandise when the shouting starts.
It's a short trip around the corner, and a hastily built pen comes into view. A couple ranchhands seem to be placing bets on their buddy in the ring, a young cowboy in a broad-brimmed hat. He's taking on a huge black stallion, a Percheron by your guess. Eighteen hands if an inch. And by the saddle he's holding, he thinks it can be tamed. Ridden, even. The hands shout a couple encouraging insults at the boy, and he steels himself. He's sweating more than you'd expect for January. Oh, this isn't going to end well. The horse is nervous too, running back and forth on the other side of the pen, but it's got a handicap of a thousand pounds (if not two).
He lays a hand on its mane, and the beast is off like a shot. This is a born warhorse, you realize. It doesn't run or try to appease its new master, but charges, foaming at the mouth. To his credit, the cowboy's no slouch either. The saddle is forgotten as he rolls to the side, leaps over the split rails, and lands in the dirt. His buddies bend over with laughter as he tries to muster up some dignity.
And then a heavy hoof shatters the railing into a million splinters. You see the man go for a revolver on his hip, and hear the crack as the hand disappears underhoof. He screams bloody murder, but the stallion doesn't stomp again. It's alert, scanning the surroundings with those big brown prey eyes. Looking at you, the ranchhands, the man coming around the corner with a shotgun.
The pressure lifts on the boy's hand, and he still has enough sense to roll back under what's left of the fence. Towards some semblance of safety. The beast turns towards the other men and they fumble for their own handguns.
"HEY!" Your voice comes out loud, but not as commanding as you'd hoped. More, well, shrill. Everything stops. Everyone looks to you: the cowboys, the horse, Levinson with that shotgun (far too large for his frame). The horse, his shoulder a foot above your head, glances at you dismissively then turns away.
You snap your fingers, make some noise to keep his attention. "Look at me. Look at me, not them." He's not a feral beast, clearly. You could see the gears turning in his head the whole time, that big horse brain plotting its escape. He's not a hunter, just wild. People don't understand how smart they are, you think (again).
The ranchers keep their guns down as you calm the horse. Whenever he thinks of running, whenever he looks away, you snap and shout. The deal on the table is clear. 'Look at me and things are calm, look away and I get scary.' It feels like hours, but it can't be more than a minute. And then he's skittish again, coaxed back behind the fence. The cowboys keep their hands on their guns as he paces his pen, eyes locked on you. Levinson. Walking over. You're exhausted. "Damn, that was impressive Major. You grow up ranching?"
The horse stops, then approaches the fence. Sticks his nose out towards the two of you, as far as he can reach. Levinson takes a step back, you don't. There's a blast of hot air as he snorts, and you can almost imagine the challenge, like a sentry in the night. 'Little one. They couldn't break me. How could you?'
"I like a challenge, Mr. Levinson. I'll take him off your hands."
[] Write-in: Name your new, at this time unridable horse.
---
I was sitting on the first half or so of this update for most of the last two weeks. Frankly, part of the problem I think I had was with the whole 'Keane gone' bit. It's not a punishment for not following them, it would happen either way, but I'm worried it feels like it. Thoughts? Thanks for the support, awesome people.
alternative titles for this update included "Remove Polka," "President Polka's Taxcocoan Dream," and "Waltz Disney." I was tired okay
---
I was sitting on the first half or so of this update for most of the last two weeks. Frankly, part of the problem I think I had was with the whole 'Keane gone' bit. It's not a punishment for not following them, it would happen either way, but I'm worried it feels like it. Thoughts? Thanks for the support, awesome people.
alternative titles for this update included "Remove Polka," "President Polka's Taxcocoan Dream," and "Waltz Disney." I was tired okay
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/They
[X] Polka
Because he's a challenge
Because he's a challenge
Last edited:
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
[jk] You Bastard
No, he's probably not that good at math
[X] Polka
That's good.
[X] Trusty
Or we could go for the irony.
No, he's probably not that good at math
[X] Polka
That's good.
[X] Trusty
Or we could go for the irony.
I did find myself regretting that the thread voted smooches, but it didn't feel like a punishment. I saw that vote as inevitably a thing that would have consequences. I do wish we had more of an idea what actually happened and why, but that's a thing that could come up in the future. Knowing that he would have been gone either way does help, anyway.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
[X] Polka
This is great.
Also cute as fuck update. Poor everyone.
This is great.
Also cute as fuck update. Poor everyone.
1-8: Is the Horse Gay? Neigh!
- Location
- Derna
February 2nd, 1859
There are no wild horses in Allegheny, or indeed anywhere else on the continent. The horse is a Eurlydian beast, tamed on the great steppes of what is now Caspia. And they were brought to this land in the thousands by the Hesperians, stolen and bought by the natives. It's amazing to think the Inde are some of the best riders in the world when they were introduced to the animals barely a few generations back. Horses are vital to this country, to the cowboys who drive them and the slavers who ride them.
But of course, some slip away into the wilderness. Mustangs. Most of them are on the Great Plains, imitating their steppe ancestors. You've heard the Inde up there hunt them, a poor replacement for the buffalo that're being driven out by settlers and hunters. There are mustangs everywhere there's grass, though, and cowboys make good money wrangling and breaking them in.
Now, these cowboys would likely not appreciate the semantics at play. If you brought out the dictionary and explained that, actually, mustangs are feral because they descend from domestic horses, they'd laugh. A 'feral' horse can kill a man just as easy as a wild one, and they all need taming just the same. But, see, you like to think you're an educated woman. And you know the Albian 'theory of variations.' Animals compete for food and pass their various traits down to their children. Therefore, traits that make an animal better at finding food are passed down and become dominant in the race. It all seems very straightforward and clever to you (though Keane seemed to think you'd bumped your head when you tried to explain it to him.)
And so it follows that feral horses are different from wild. They aren't descended from the horses who ran from the steppe nomads or fought them. Their ancestors were curious, gentle. And so, logically, they should share that same curiosity. That same genial nature. It's just a theory, but a comforting one. 'Polka' should be perfectly tamable.
As you hit the dirt, rolling to keep your arm in one piece, you reconsider. Perhaps you relied too heavily on inferences. You'll have to write the Royal Society and ask for their thoughts.
You come up on one knee, watching the horse for any sign of hostility. Polka seems to have lost his skittishness, at least. He holds his ground and watches you. That's always unnerved you, despite your love of horses. Horses can't see straight ahead. They look to the side, following you with one big eye. It feels like you're being spied on. He whinnies, shakes his mane a little. You remind yourself that horses don't laugh, even if they look like it. And sound like it. 'Nice landing.'
"You're not my first burro, Polka." You grit your teeth as you stand. Nothing broken, but you'll be feeling this for a day or two. It's not fear; Polka sailed through his breaking until now. He'll take the saddle and stirrups, but he becomes a bronco when you climb on. Could sell him to a rodeo. He snorts.
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd like that. Beat up some more cowpokes." He's not looking at you, you realize. Someone clears her throat. It's Harris, leaning on a fencepost, watching you. You resist the urge to ask how long she's been there. Polka follows you to the edge of the pen as you vault over, give her a nod. She looks up at the horse, then down at you. You sense the confusion. "I use a milk crate."
Harris blinks a couple times, frowns. "A what?"
Oh. Not that. Something else. You finish lamely, "To, uh, mount. It's not that bad once you get your foot in the stirrup. He's really tall."
The girl files that away under 'things to never talk about again' as Polka sticks his snout over the rails. She leans away from him, just a little, and responds as gracefully as she can under the circumstances, "Alright. I wasn't thinking about that, but alright. You, uh, talk to your horse often? He have much to say?"
Polka blows air on Harris and she grimaces. You try to recover some of your long-lost suave. "We're practicing our routine. Thinking of retiring, touring Broadway as an act."
She raises an eyebrow, chuckles. "He's the straight-man, you're the wise guy?"
You're getting tired of the banter. "Something like that. What do you need?"
Harris bites her lip, chooses her words carefully. "There was an incident. A bit of a fight, nothing major. Over this...convention business. Davis has them collared, but he wants you on scene."
Of course. Half the regiment's from the South. The whole fort's been simmering for weeks. You hadn't noticed it before Keane left, but now that you're in charge...it's a powerkeg. "Fine. Fine. Keep an eye on Polka, alright?"
The girl's eyes are judging you. Harshly. "Polka? Really?" Before she can find a verdict, though, Polka's nuzzling into her shoulder, nickering intently. You resist the urge to laugh at her obvious discomfort, turning about-face and leaving with your pride. By your limited grasp of horse body language, he seems to fancy her. At least he doesn't hate all people. Just you. Personally.
'You come here often, taller one?'
Maybe you did hit your head: it'd explain why you're pretending the horse has a voice. And acting like he's a person. Meh.
---
Out east, the Manassas situation seems to have reached a boiling point. The Congress of the Southron Federation has called a convention. The states (with the notable exceptions of Bethel and the border state of Lenriana, whose governors seem to think things will blow over) have selected delegates to discuss secession. And in case the delegates lose their nerve, a few state legislatures have introduced bills or called referendums to secede on their own.
Basically, it's a right fucking mess. Nobody has a clue how things will turn out, but it can't be good. Right now you figure the same scene's playing out in every Army fort across the country. Arguments, fights, desertions. None of your troopers have taken their 'Gallic leave' yet, but it seems like a matter of time.
The belligerents in this particular fight are familiar to you. Jed Bennett, an East Georgios private. A joker, and the son of a plantation overseer. Maya Rutger, a corporal born into New Karlstad's city elite and its abolitionist tradition. Seems Jed was joking about deserting to go home to 'his country,' and Rutger punched him. He swears it was a joke, anyway. The man's sweating like he thinks you'll hang him for idle chatter.
It'd be pretty entertaining to throw them both in the stockade, honestly, let them sort it out. You don't keep up on camp gossip and scuttlebutt, but you're about ninety, ninety-five percent sure that the two of them have some kind of relationship going on. That's probably the real cause of this. Girl thinks he's leaving her behind to run off to 'Southland', or whatever they'll call their country of imbeciles. You don't punish either of them, being the big softie you are. Hopefully they'll calm down a bit, reconcile somehow. Once they're gone, you turn to Sergeant Davis, note the scowl on his face. The fall from earlier wore you out more than you'd admit, and you can't keep the exhaustion out of your voice. "So. Why'd you bring me in for a little lover's spat?"
Davis is still as a statue, leaning on the wall. He seems older, more worn than you remember. The war wasn't good to him, but the peace (and the paperwork) was worse. He watches you for a good long moment before speaking. Or rather, grumbling, "It's the third one this week, Major. Betting there'll be a riot in a couple more."
You've felt the tension, but you hadn't noticed fights breaking out. Davis lists them, counting on his fingers. "Colton punched DeVries in the barracks yesterday, spilt out into the street. And one of our boys glassed a local in that loggin' town down the road. Posse might've shot him if I'd gotten there any later."
Oh. You blink a couple times, rub your eyes. "You should've told me one of our troopers assaulted a civilian, Sergeant."
He looks at you funny. "I did. Well, I tried. You were busy with that damn horse." Wait, what? Polka's training is cutting into your time a little, but you would've noticed if someone tried to get your attention. No, no, he didn't tell you about that. You haven't had any visitors at the pen or the stables in the last few weeks, except Harris just now. What's he hiding?
Whatever it is, it can wait. You ask, "Any ideas how to fix things, Sergeant?"
He's clearly put a lot of thought into this. You wonder again where he's really from. It's not like he's secretive, he just, well, doesn't want to tell anyone. Which...is the definition of secretive. Hmm. You know he's Southron. All this drama must be eating away at his little heart. "We need to cut the troopers off from the outside for a while. Just, I don't know, say the mountain passes still aren't open and the papers are comin' late. We censor them, the papers and the telegrams, keep all the secesh news out, and wait for things to blow over."
It's an okay plan. Not great, but workable. There are flaws, though. You can't go ripping open letters from home, and the locals might pass on the news while the troopers are out drinking. They probably won't get as full a picture as they would the newspapers, but they'll piece it all together soon enough, one way or the other. And it might piss your lads off to learn they're being lied to. You ask what the other officers think.
"I've only talked to Harris about it. I don't trust the others. She's not on board. Think it ain't right to 'conceal the truth', yadda yadda. You know how she is." Davis and Harris still don't like each other. Not a big surprise. As for Kuznetsov...
"'What does Art think?', y'said?" He stares at you like a particularly stupid pupil. He'd probably be a great teacher if he knew anything. "Art don't think, Major." That's fair, that's fair. Only really leaves one more question, then.
"And what if this doesn't blow over? What if they do secede?" Davis smiles, a pained and obviously false gesture.
"Well, then we're good and fucked. A couple fistfights'll be the least of our problems." You chuckle at that. Or, at least, try to. God, being in command would be much easier if they issued soldiers some maturity with their rifles.
There are no wild horses in Allegheny, or indeed anywhere else on the continent. The horse is a Eurlydian beast, tamed on the great steppes of what is now Caspia. And they were brought to this land in the thousands by the Hesperians, stolen and bought by the natives. It's amazing to think the Inde are some of the best riders in the world when they were introduced to the animals barely a few generations back. Horses are vital to this country, to the cowboys who drive them and the slavers who ride them.
But of course, some slip away into the wilderness. Mustangs. Most of them are on the Great Plains, imitating their steppe ancestors. You've heard the Inde up there hunt them, a poor replacement for the buffalo that're being driven out by settlers and hunters. There are mustangs everywhere there's grass, though, and cowboys make good money wrangling and breaking them in.
Now, these cowboys would likely not appreciate the semantics at play. If you brought out the dictionary and explained that, actually, mustangs are feral because they descend from domestic horses, they'd laugh. A 'feral' horse can kill a man just as easy as a wild one, and they all need taming just the same. But, see, you like to think you're an educated woman. And you know the Albian 'theory of variations.' Animals compete for food and pass their various traits down to their children. Therefore, traits that make an animal better at finding food are passed down and become dominant in the race. It all seems very straightforward and clever to you (though Keane seemed to think you'd bumped your head when you tried to explain it to him.)
And so it follows that feral horses are different from wild. They aren't descended from the horses who ran from the steppe nomads or fought them. Their ancestors were curious, gentle. And so, logically, they should share that same curiosity. That same genial nature. It's just a theory, but a comforting one. 'Polka' should be perfectly tamable.
As you hit the dirt, rolling to keep your arm in one piece, you reconsider. Perhaps you relied too heavily on inferences. You'll have to write the Royal Society and ask for their thoughts.
You come up on one knee, watching the horse for any sign of hostility. Polka seems to have lost his skittishness, at least. He holds his ground and watches you. That's always unnerved you, despite your love of horses. Horses can't see straight ahead. They look to the side, following you with one big eye. It feels like you're being spied on. He whinnies, shakes his mane a little. You remind yourself that horses don't laugh, even if they look like it. And sound like it. 'Nice landing.'
"You're not my first burro, Polka." You grit your teeth as you stand. Nothing broken, but you'll be feeling this for a day or two. It's not fear; Polka sailed through his breaking until now. He'll take the saddle and stirrups, but he becomes a bronco when you climb on. Could sell him to a rodeo. He snorts.
"Yeah, I'm sure you'd like that. Beat up some more cowpokes." He's not looking at you, you realize. Someone clears her throat. It's Harris, leaning on a fencepost, watching you. You resist the urge to ask how long she's been there. Polka follows you to the edge of the pen as you vault over, give her a nod. She looks up at the horse, then down at you. You sense the confusion. "I use a milk crate."
Harris blinks a couple times, frowns. "A what?"
Oh. Not that. Something else. You finish lamely, "To, uh, mount. It's not that bad once you get your foot in the stirrup. He's really tall."
The girl files that away under 'things to never talk about again' as Polka sticks his snout over the rails. She leans away from him, just a little, and responds as gracefully as she can under the circumstances, "Alright. I wasn't thinking about that, but alright. You, uh, talk to your horse often? He have much to say?"
Polka blows air on Harris and she grimaces. You try to recover some of your long-lost suave. "We're practicing our routine. Thinking of retiring, touring Broadway as an act."
She raises an eyebrow, chuckles. "He's the straight-man, you're the wise guy?"
You're getting tired of the banter. "Something like that. What do you need?"
Harris bites her lip, chooses her words carefully. "There was an incident. A bit of a fight, nothing major. Over this...convention business. Davis has them collared, but he wants you on scene."
Of course. Half the regiment's from the South. The whole fort's been simmering for weeks. You hadn't noticed it before Keane left, but now that you're in charge...it's a powerkeg. "Fine. Fine. Keep an eye on Polka, alright?"
The girl's eyes are judging you. Harshly. "Polka? Really?" Before she can find a verdict, though, Polka's nuzzling into her shoulder, nickering intently. You resist the urge to laugh at her obvious discomfort, turning about-face and leaving with your pride. By your limited grasp of horse body language, he seems to fancy her. At least he doesn't hate all people. Just you. Personally.
'You come here often, taller one?'
Maybe you did hit your head: it'd explain why you're pretending the horse has a voice. And acting like he's a person. Meh.
---
Out east, the Manassas situation seems to have reached a boiling point. The Congress of the Southron Federation has called a convention. The states (with the notable exceptions of Bethel and the border state of Lenriana, whose governors seem to think things will blow over) have selected delegates to discuss secession. And in case the delegates lose their nerve, a few state legislatures have introduced bills or called referendums to secede on their own.
Basically, it's a right fucking mess. Nobody has a clue how things will turn out, but it can't be good. Right now you figure the same scene's playing out in every Army fort across the country. Arguments, fights, desertions. None of your troopers have taken their 'Gallic leave' yet, but it seems like a matter of time.
The belligerents in this particular fight are familiar to you. Jed Bennett, an East Georgios private. A joker, and the son of a plantation overseer. Maya Rutger, a corporal born into New Karlstad's city elite and its abolitionist tradition. Seems Jed was joking about deserting to go home to 'his country,' and Rutger punched him. He swears it was a joke, anyway. The man's sweating like he thinks you'll hang him for idle chatter.
It'd be pretty entertaining to throw them both in the stockade, honestly, let them sort it out. You don't keep up on camp gossip and scuttlebutt, but you're about ninety, ninety-five percent sure that the two of them have some kind of relationship going on. That's probably the real cause of this. Girl thinks he's leaving her behind to run off to 'Southland', or whatever they'll call their country of imbeciles. You don't punish either of them, being the big softie you are. Hopefully they'll calm down a bit, reconcile somehow. Once they're gone, you turn to Sergeant Davis, note the scowl on his face. The fall from earlier wore you out more than you'd admit, and you can't keep the exhaustion out of your voice. "So. Why'd you bring me in for a little lover's spat?"
Davis is still as a statue, leaning on the wall. He seems older, more worn than you remember. The war wasn't good to him, but the peace (and the paperwork) was worse. He watches you for a good long moment before speaking. Or rather, grumbling, "It's the third one this week, Major. Betting there'll be a riot in a couple more."
You've felt the tension, but you hadn't noticed fights breaking out. Davis lists them, counting on his fingers. "Colton punched DeVries in the barracks yesterday, spilt out into the street. And one of our boys glassed a local in that loggin' town down the road. Posse might've shot him if I'd gotten there any later."
Oh. You blink a couple times, rub your eyes. "You should've told me one of our troopers assaulted a civilian, Sergeant."
He looks at you funny. "I did. Well, I tried. You were busy with that damn horse." Wait, what? Polka's training is cutting into your time a little, but you would've noticed if someone tried to get your attention. No, no, he didn't tell you about that. You haven't had any visitors at the pen or the stables in the last few weeks, except Harris just now. What's he hiding?
Whatever it is, it can wait. You ask, "Any ideas how to fix things, Sergeant?"
He's clearly put a lot of thought into this. You wonder again where he's really from. It's not like he's secretive, he just, well, doesn't want to tell anyone. Which...is the definition of secretive. Hmm. You know he's Southron. All this drama must be eating away at his little heart. "We need to cut the troopers off from the outside for a while. Just, I don't know, say the mountain passes still aren't open and the papers are comin' late. We censor them, the papers and the telegrams, keep all the secesh news out, and wait for things to blow over."
It's an okay plan. Not great, but workable. There are flaws, though. You can't go ripping open letters from home, and the locals might pass on the news while the troopers are out drinking. They probably won't get as full a picture as they would the newspapers, but they'll piece it all together soon enough, one way or the other. And it might piss your lads off to learn they're being lied to. You ask what the other officers think.
"I've only talked to Harris about it. I don't trust the others. She's not on board. Think it ain't right to 'conceal the truth', yadda yadda. You know how she is." Davis and Harris still don't like each other. Not a big surprise. As for Kuznetsov...
"'What does Art think?', y'said?" He stares at you like a particularly stupid pupil. He'd probably be a great teacher if he knew anything. "Art don't think, Major." That's fair, that's fair. Only really leaves one more question, then.
"And what if this doesn't blow over? What if they do secede?" Davis smiles, a pained and obviously false gesture.
"Well, then we're good and fucked. A couple fistfights'll be the least of our problems." You chuckle at that. Or, at least, try to. God, being in command would be much easier if they issued soldiers some maturity with their rifles.
[] Don't do it. Harris is right; it's not worth risking the trust of your troopers to prevent a couple fistfights.
[] Do it. You need to get things under control, restore some semblance of discipline and camaraderie.
[] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
---
have some gay
[] Do it. You need to get things under control, restore some semblance of discipline and camaraderie.
[] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
---
have some gay
- Location
- United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- She/Her
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/They
Well, we have two options that are terrible ideas for obvious reasons (one, "do nothing" is always, always the wrong choice, and is guaranteed to not help [also, expecting bored soldiers to do literally anything except make trouble and start fights is wishful to the point of delusion]; two, a halfhearted attempt at censorship that can't possibly actually succeed for long enough to matter is guaranteed to make things worse), and one option that will no doubt go sideways at the first opportunity but at least has the possibility of doing some good before or in spite of that. Yeah, there's a reason this vote is looking pretty unanimous.
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
Last edited:
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
That seems like a really good way to get stuck between the Southern lines and Hell-Texas.
I'm very for it.
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
(also i love Polka)
I'm very for it.
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
(also i love Polka)
- Location
- Illinois
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] Maybe this is the wrong approach. You could take the regiment out for some maneuvers to the south, on the Manassas border. Just for a week or two. Get them out in the fresh air on horseback, away from the news.
I think it's better than the other options, but I'm not looking forward to getting in a gunfight with half our regiment or however many of them are Southrons when they do hear the news and decide to head for Manassas.
I think it's better than the other options, but I'm not looking forward to getting in a gunfight with half our regiment or however many of them are Southrons when they do hear the news and decide to head for Manassas.
1-8: Mirabeau, Manassas Maniac
- Location
- Derna
February 20th, 1859
The saber charge isn't your idea. Davis isn't the type for glorious charges and waving sabers- in his experience, that brand of 'damn foolishness' gets you shot from behind a rock - but Keane always was. Whenever things got rough, he'd bring the whole regiment out on the parade ground for a charge. And after days camping in the desert shooting at tumbleweeds, well, you figure a little foolishness might do the troopers some good, put a stop to the grumbling. So you've planned a glorious charge over empty ground with the whole regiment for tomorrow, to restore esprit de corps and all that nonsense.
It was a rough march, three hundred-odd miles in about two weeks. Individual companies have ridden harder for longer, hunting bandits and other troublemakers all across the Department, but the regiment as a whole hasn't moved like this since the war. That's six or seven years, at least a whole generation of enlisted troopers who've passed through without a real march or a hard fight. Damn. You feel old.
Anyway, the lads moaned and whined constantly. In daytime the ride was too long and the sun too hot; at night, sentry duty and 'why can't we sleep in the grass?' (Your answer: fuck ticks.) Of course, they didn't say any of this to your face and the sergeants clobbered any who were too loud about it. Good to hear them complaining again, though. Things are really bad if soldiers stop bitching. Plus, you like the inane stories they come up with.
After one of the regimental clowns made a crude joke at your expense (the operative word being 'cowgirl') and lost a tooth to Davis, rumors took flight. Of course, you'd never. He's disgusting - not just the general grossness of military men, but his specific brand of fat, booze-breathed yuck. The gossipers soon dismiss the possibility of a relationship - you could certainly do better - and turn to discussing Davis himself. He wears a wedding ring, Jed Bennett's cheek scar can attest to that, but didn't bring the woman west with him. Doesn't talk about her neither.
Your favorite harebrained theory is straight from the penny-dreadfuls. Some villainous Inde swept down to the Davis homestead and massacred his family, Bennett theorized, so he joined the cavalry to get his vengeance, protect damsels everywhere.
The truth isn't as poetic. Davis is just a brawler and a bully. You take a seat across from him at the dying cookfire. Should be doused already to bed down for the night, but he needs the light to see. He's whittling a chunk of wood down into...something, a blur of knife movements too fast to track. You don't know where he picked up the art. Maybe you just didn't notice it until recently.
The two of you aren't friends. Your working relationship is fine, stellar even, and you don't dislike the man, but, well. He gives you the creeps, frankly. Don't know if he feels the same way. He glances at you, gives a curt nod, but stays focused on the knife. Wouldn't want to lose a finger. You ask him about that old rumor the troopers are passing around, that nickname of his. 'Corporal Punishment,' from before he earned his third chevron. He doesn't look up but smiles, feigns ignorance.
It takes a special kind of scum to make a sergeant. But you suppose people like you'd be lost without people like Davis.
That...doesn't really make you feel better, no.
---
At sunrise, someone shoves a plate of greased rubber into your hands. He assures you it's bacon, but you don't buy it for a second. Bethel, Keane's horse, snaps to attention as you exit the tent. She's a good mount - you rode her down to the border and she didn't complain once - but today's the day. You'll conquer that damned mule of yours in front of the whole regiment.
Polka doesn't say anything as you approach him.
Well, of course he doesn't say anything, he's a goddamn horse.
You meant to say he doesn't make any noises, try to uproot his hitching post and make a break for freedom or anything like that, just watches you. This whole 'anthropomorphism' thing is getting a bit out of hand, really. He's just a horse. A right bastard of one, for sure, but just a horse.
Still, you can't stay mad at horses. Must be your only weakness. You curry and brush his luscious black coat, drawing out a frankly absurd amount of dirt and mud. Looks like someone's been rolling around a bit, trying to ditch his winter coat. That comes off too, hair by the bushel. When you step back Polka shakes himself off, takes a few steps. The look he gives you could almost be gratitude, although you're really trying to not project humanity on him brain, stop that.
"Leg up." He stares at you, tilts his head to the side. Well, of course a feral wouldn't know what that means. Was worth a shot. You work down his flank, trying not to spook him, and press on his lower leg. He picks it up with a whine. You tremble a little as you pick out his hoof, all too aware that a jab in a sore spot and a reflexive kick could shatter your skull, put the lights out for good. It never comes, though. Polka holds still as a statue as you clear out every crevice, put the leg down, and move to the next. You pull out a few pebbles, some packed mud and manure. Not usual care for an army horse - they're lucky to get brushed once per owner - but you're honestly pretty desperate to build some kind of trust. Tired of building up bruises trying to break him.
While Polka hops around his hitching post, quite pleased with his makeover, you reach for the last two items. Saddle blanket and saddle. He stops, breaths heavily and blows a warning. There's nowhere to run, though. You saddle up and unhitch Polka. The world seems to fade away at the edges. All you see now is the horse, and his body language.
You press both legs in, forward, and he responds. It's a slow, laborious walk, but he's moving. Hushed voices creep in from the sides, troopers watching from the safety of the tent line. They seem impressed, but you haven't gotten to the hard part yet. A light pull on the reins, a little press to turn left, and he goes feral.
His weight shifts forwards, his rear legs coiling like hundred-pound springs. You feel all of it before it happens, know exactly what he's going to do. You are in control.
You press again, forward, and you can sense the hesitation. For a second, his legs are tangled, preparing to buck but following orders at the same time. And then Polka rights himself, launches his rear into the air. But you're sitting deep in the saddle, holding on with all your strength. He lands like so many times before, but the pressure doesn't leave his back. He stumbles, slides to the side, and you can feel his 'lone mustang' facade starts to fall.
And then you're on him. You pull hard on the reins, pull his head up into the air. The smug superiority you've felt in him for so long is gone. His muscles are straining, you can feel him trying to pull something together, but his rear legs won't go up. You hear cheers, but see nothing through the dust storm Polka has kicked up. He bucks again and again, tries everything he can to throw you, but nothing matches the strength of the first leap. The fight seeps out of his body under you, the circles become looser and slower.
It's over. Whether it was twenty seconds or an hour you couldn't say, but it's finally over. Polka slides to a stop, hair matted with sweat and his breathing heavy. You can feel his emotions through your legs, his heart pounding with rage and fear and confusion. The dust starts to clear, showing dozens, maybe hundreds of troopers. Watching, cheering. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, give them a wave. You can already imagine riding Polka for the charge, how grand a show it'll be as he breaks away from the slow army horses...
Oh shit.
He's tensing again. You didn't notice it at first, didn't realize he hasn't given up entirely. Bring yourself back into the saddle, grab hold for dear life.
Wait. He's putting the weight on his back legs.
And then he screams, a pained, murderous, decidedly human roar. You've never heard anything like it, not from a horse. Polka throws his head upwards and the rest of his body follows, lifting off from his front legs. The two of you go up and up, joined in flight. Time seems to slow as you look out on the crowd, parallel to the ground, and take in the looks of shock and confusion. Polka's beautiful black mane reaches out towards you.
And then you crash to the ground, still spinning backwards. You land first, dimly proud to think you'd stayed in the saddle through all of that.
Polka follows immediately thereafter. One ton of horseflesh lands on you and the lights go out.
---
The surgeon said you got lucky. The two of you had twisted to the side on the way down, and Polka had landed most of his weight on your left ankle. It had, naturally, broken under the pressure, and you'd passed out near instantly from the shock. It'd be at least six weeks until you were healed, if not far more. Hell, he mused, you might limp for the rest of your life.
His bedside manner is a bit lacking, you think.
On the bright side, the troopers seemed impressed by your rodeo show. Polka is fine, the fucker. And Harris took over the saber charge for you. Davis said she was a natural "'cept for all the sweating." Coming from him, that's practically beatification. The regiment will be in good hands for a couple weeks, although it's pathetic that there's nobody left over the rank of Captain to command it.
For now, though, your officers have found an open bed on a tiny little ranch. You'll rest there until it's time for the regiment to go back north. It'll be good to relax for once.
---
A week later, you swing yourself down the stairs. The McCready's, the wonderful couple you're staying with, put you in the lone room upstairs. You go a little faster than is wise, but who could blame you? The thought of at minimum another month on this crutch...thing is horrid. And really, what's the worst that could happen? Fall, break the other one? Please.
You swing around the corner into the main room, and realize something's wrong. There should be three people, Carol and Mitchell McCready and Kuznetsov. Harris must've thought it'd be funny to give you Artjem as a guard. Doubt the man could fight his way out of a wet paper bag, unless he had a cannon in there.
But you count six people. Them, plus three more. Two men and a woman. You count guns also; two revolvers on each, and three long guns piled in a corner. They're rugged, with the sun-red faces and necks you'd expect to see on cowboys. But they're far too heavily armed for that. Mitch McCready glances at you, and it's plain on his face that he shares your suspicions. The woman stands, reaches out in a sort of mock handshake. "Hey! Thought we heard someone upstairs. Lora Reynolds, Reynolds Courier Service. 'zat a real uniform, miss?" She smiles like a shark. Her voice has that sing-song drawl of Manassas.
"Yes, it's real. Though I imagine my friend already told you the same. Major Clemson, Regiment of Mounted Rifles. We're looking for bandidos in the area." You hold her gaze, but the word 'bandidos' doesn't draw a reaction. In her, anyway. One of the men behind her fidgets a little, shifts in his seat, and you can see a flare of annoyance in her eyes. She thinks he's going to ruin the ruse.
But the smile doesn't leave her face. "Well, good on you, long as you don't make it so safe as to drive us out of business. We run cargo on this route pretty regularly, down to Manassas and up again. Can't tell you what, of course. Security reasons." The men behind her mumble 'security reasons' as well, nodding along. So she's the smart one, huh?
You pace over to the window, glance outside. They've hitched their horses out there. Parked a wagon by that shed, loaded with long crates. You step back, quip, "I wasn't planning on asking."
It goes without saying that dinner is awkward. The 'couriers' are watching you, you're watching them, and the poor McCready's only embarass themselves trying to start up some kind of conversation. As soon as you see an opening you grab Kuznetsov and retreat upstairs.
You listen at the door for a few moments to make sure you're not followed, then speak. "They seem a bit on edge, wouldn't you think?"
Artjem nods, pantomimes the stack of long guns they had in the corner by making a little pyramid. "That rifle, in the corner? Girandoni Model 1858. No courier would have it. Only 1858s here in West are in Los Palomas Armory." He shrugs. "Maybe they killed soldier for it."
"Good eye." You open the one window and glance outside. It's facing the wrong way, out onto the wide empty ranch, but you can hear the bandits laughing and chatting. "Your Albian has improved, incidentally."
"Thank." Your eye twitches, but you don't correct him.
In hushed tones, you try to come up with a plan. Kuznetsov could ride to rouse the regiment, bring back some troopers to kill or capture these outlaws, but he seems leery of leaving you alone with them. The only other option seems to be to wait it out. Whatever they're transporting is probably valuable, so you doubt they'd risk it by doing anything stupid.
That's about as far as you get before hearing a crash outside. The voices keep chattering, oblivious, but you hear a separate string of curses outside. On the awning? You and Kuznetsov glance at each other, then draw your pistols. Moments later a dark figure tumbles through the window, wearing an absurd brown cowpoke's hat. Like one of those dumb Albian caricatures of an Alleghenian. She - you realize with a start that it's a tall, rough-looking woman - puts her hands in the air, sizes the two of you up. "Manassas Rangers, Captain Mir'beau Garvey. Put your weapons down." As you lower your revolver, her commanding look turns to surprise, then joy. "Oh, shit. You're not Reardons."
Garvey reaches for a pocket, startling Kuznetsov, but you put out a hand to stop him. She draws not a gun, but a little tin star, and speaks like she's swearing you in under oath. "Under Article Seven of the Rangers Act, I am deputizing you. Failure to follow legal orders will be prosecu-"
You cut her off. "This isn't Manassas."
She stops, tilts her head, and then builds up steam for another long-winded citation. "Page 304 of the Manassas Statehood Consideration, Rangers have extraterritorial juris-"
"Horseshit. 'Manassas Statehood Consideration?' I mean, really, 'consideration?'" She pouts.
You stagger over to the window, glance out at the awning. Sure enough, a shingle is missing. "Did you climb up here?" Garvey nods. "What was the plan?"
"Sneak into the house, secure the residents, and arrest the Reardons, o' course." Garvey shares the Manassas accent of the bandits, but hers is even more jovial. And also more threatening. Funny how that works, isn't it?
You're not impressed, though. "What if the residents were accomplices, huh? What if we'd been even more bandits?" She smiles smugly, puts up a finger like she's got a prepared rebuttal...then puts it down, looks up at the ceiling to think for a second. She sighs, shrugs.
"Would've shot you. And then shot them. I mean, assuming you're not the homeowners - no offense, you would be cute - so I shoot you, shoot the folks that own the place, and I've got two cartridges left for the bad hombres out back." The problem is pretty obvious.
"There are three of them." To her credit, she's faster thinking up a response this time.
"Shoot two, arrest the last. He ain't counting." She says it like some kind of heroic Laconic quip. Messias, this woman is thick. You're sorely tempted to ask what she'd do if he was counting, but you don't want to be here all night. She watches you for a second, and then lets out a quiet victory whoop. Clearly she's out-thunk you. "If we can continue, now, I'm chasing four members of the Reardon gang. They're smuggling stolen weapons into Manassas." Three, you remind her. By the way she reacts, you'd think she just opened a birthday present. "Oh, so I did hit him!"
"Why're you chasing dangerous arms traffickers alone, then?" Smug smile again. Damn it.
"Hell, ain't I enough? One gang, one Ranger." You never realized Ranger training was just a steady stream of brainless action books and cartoons. I mean, you'd known them to be slave-catchers, hired guns and bullies, but they'd also had an air of legend around them. You'd worked with Rangers a couple years ago, and you'd honestly thought them to be pretty impressive. Maybe you were younger then, so you didn't notice the thick miasma of stupid.
"Right, right. What's the plan then, Ranger?" You slip every drop of malice you can muster into your voice, and naturally she doesn't notice. Kuznetsov is just standing there, taking it all in. Maybe he thinks it's a divine vision, or hallucination, or whatever.
"...I said it already. Go out there, arrest them. Now I'll have you two backing me up, too. Good plan." Debatable.
Kuznetsov finally speaks up. "Our regiment is less than hour away, Ranger. Could ride, get help." Garvey turns serious in an instant, her eyes steely and a tinge of panic in her voice.
"No, hell no. These people hear a whiff of anything suspicious, see you galloping into the night, they'll kill everyone here and disappear into the wild again. Better to have your gun at my side. Three on three." You don't ask how one can 'hear' a 'whiff.'
You clear your throat. "Two on three. I'm not exactly able-bodied at the moment." The Ranger nods. Kuznetsov looks to you again, waiting for a decision.
The saber charge isn't your idea. Davis isn't the type for glorious charges and waving sabers- in his experience, that brand of 'damn foolishness' gets you shot from behind a rock - but Keane always was. Whenever things got rough, he'd bring the whole regiment out on the parade ground for a charge. And after days camping in the desert shooting at tumbleweeds, well, you figure a little foolishness might do the troopers some good, put a stop to the grumbling. So you've planned a glorious charge over empty ground with the whole regiment for tomorrow, to restore esprit de corps and all that nonsense.
It was a rough march, three hundred-odd miles in about two weeks. Individual companies have ridden harder for longer, hunting bandits and other troublemakers all across the Department, but the regiment as a whole hasn't moved like this since the war. That's six or seven years, at least a whole generation of enlisted troopers who've passed through without a real march or a hard fight. Damn. You feel old.
Anyway, the lads moaned and whined constantly. In daytime the ride was too long and the sun too hot; at night, sentry duty and 'why can't we sleep in the grass?' (Your answer: fuck ticks.) Of course, they didn't say any of this to your face and the sergeants clobbered any who were too loud about it. Good to hear them complaining again, though. Things are really bad if soldiers stop bitching. Plus, you like the inane stories they come up with.
After one of the regimental clowns made a crude joke at your expense (the operative word being 'cowgirl') and lost a tooth to Davis, rumors took flight. Of course, you'd never. He's disgusting - not just the general grossness of military men, but his specific brand of fat, booze-breathed yuck. The gossipers soon dismiss the possibility of a relationship - you could certainly do better - and turn to discussing Davis himself. He wears a wedding ring, Jed Bennett's cheek scar can attest to that, but didn't bring the woman west with him. Doesn't talk about her neither.
Your favorite harebrained theory is straight from the penny-dreadfuls. Some villainous Inde swept down to the Davis homestead and massacred his family, Bennett theorized, so he joined the cavalry to get his vengeance, protect damsels everywhere.
The truth isn't as poetic. Davis is just a brawler and a bully. You take a seat across from him at the dying cookfire. Should be doused already to bed down for the night, but he needs the light to see. He's whittling a chunk of wood down into...something, a blur of knife movements too fast to track. You don't know where he picked up the art. Maybe you just didn't notice it until recently.
The two of you aren't friends. Your working relationship is fine, stellar even, and you don't dislike the man, but, well. He gives you the creeps, frankly. Don't know if he feels the same way. He glances at you, gives a curt nod, but stays focused on the knife. Wouldn't want to lose a finger. You ask him about that old rumor the troopers are passing around, that nickname of his. 'Corporal Punishment,' from before he earned his third chevron. He doesn't look up but smiles, feigns ignorance.
It takes a special kind of scum to make a sergeant. But you suppose people like you'd be lost without people like Davis.
That...doesn't really make you feel better, no.
---
At sunrise, someone shoves a plate of greased rubber into your hands. He assures you it's bacon, but you don't buy it for a second. Bethel, Keane's horse, snaps to attention as you exit the tent. She's a good mount - you rode her down to the border and she didn't complain once - but today's the day. You'll conquer that damned mule of yours in front of the whole regiment.
Polka doesn't say anything as you approach him.
Well, of course he doesn't say anything, he's a goddamn horse.
You meant to say he doesn't make any noises, try to uproot his hitching post and make a break for freedom or anything like that, just watches you. This whole 'anthropomorphism' thing is getting a bit out of hand, really. He's just a horse. A right bastard of one, for sure, but just a horse.
Still, you can't stay mad at horses. Must be your only weakness. You curry and brush his luscious black coat, drawing out a frankly absurd amount of dirt and mud. Looks like someone's been rolling around a bit, trying to ditch his winter coat. That comes off too, hair by the bushel. When you step back Polka shakes himself off, takes a few steps. The look he gives you could almost be gratitude, although you're really trying to not project humanity on him brain, stop that.
"Leg up." He stares at you, tilts his head to the side. Well, of course a feral wouldn't know what that means. Was worth a shot. You work down his flank, trying not to spook him, and press on his lower leg. He picks it up with a whine. You tremble a little as you pick out his hoof, all too aware that a jab in a sore spot and a reflexive kick could shatter your skull, put the lights out for good. It never comes, though. Polka holds still as a statue as you clear out every crevice, put the leg down, and move to the next. You pull out a few pebbles, some packed mud and manure. Not usual care for an army horse - they're lucky to get brushed once per owner - but you're honestly pretty desperate to build some kind of trust. Tired of building up bruises trying to break him.
While Polka hops around his hitching post, quite pleased with his makeover, you reach for the last two items. Saddle blanket and saddle. He stops, breaths heavily and blows a warning. There's nowhere to run, though. You saddle up and unhitch Polka. The world seems to fade away at the edges. All you see now is the horse, and his body language.
You press both legs in, forward, and he responds. It's a slow, laborious walk, but he's moving. Hushed voices creep in from the sides, troopers watching from the safety of the tent line. They seem impressed, but you haven't gotten to the hard part yet. A light pull on the reins, a little press to turn left, and he goes feral.
His weight shifts forwards, his rear legs coiling like hundred-pound springs. You feel all of it before it happens, know exactly what he's going to do. You are in control.
You press again, forward, and you can sense the hesitation. For a second, his legs are tangled, preparing to buck but following orders at the same time. And then Polka rights himself, launches his rear into the air. But you're sitting deep in the saddle, holding on with all your strength. He lands like so many times before, but the pressure doesn't leave his back. He stumbles, slides to the side, and you can feel his 'lone mustang' facade starts to fall.
And then you're on him. You pull hard on the reins, pull his head up into the air. The smug superiority you've felt in him for so long is gone. His muscles are straining, you can feel him trying to pull something together, but his rear legs won't go up. You hear cheers, but see nothing through the dust storm Polka has kicked up. He bucks again and again, tries everything he can to throw you, but nothing matches the strength of the first leap. The fight seeps out of his body under you, the circles become looser and slower.
It's over. Whether it was twenty seconds or an hour you couldn't say, but it's finally over. Polka slides to a stop, hair matted with sweat and his breathing heavy. You can feel his emotions through your legs, his heart pounding with rage and fear and confusion. The dust starts to clear, showing dozens, maybe hundreds of troopers. Watching, cheering. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, give them a wave. You can already imagine riding Polka for the charge, how grand a show it'll be as he breaks away from the slow army horses...
Oh shit.
He's tensing again. You didn't notice it at first, didn't realize he hasn't given up entirely. Bring yourself back into the saddle, grab hold for dear life.
Wait. He's putting the weight on his back legs.
And then he screams, a pained, murderous, decidedly human roar. You've never heard anything like it, not from a horse. Polka throws his head upwards and the rest of his body follows, lifting off from his front legs. The two of you go up and up, joined in flight. Time seems to slow as you look out on the crowd, parallel to the ground, and take in the looks of shock and confusion. Polka's beautiful black mane reaches out towards you.
And then you crash to the ground, still spinning backwards. You land first, dimly proud to think you'd stayed in the saddle through all of that.
Polka follows immediately thereafter. One ton of horseflesh lands on you and the lights go out.
---
The surgeon said you got lucky. The two of you had twisted to the side on the way down, and Polka had landed most of his weight on your left ankle. It had, naturally, broken under the pressure, and you'd passed out near instantly from the shock. It'd be at least six weeks until you were healed, if not far more. Hell, he mused, you might limp for the rest of your life.
His bedside manner is a bit lacking, you think.
On the bright side, the troopers seemed impressed by your rodeo show. Polka is fine, the fucker. And Harris took over the saber charge for you. Davis said she was a natural "'cept for all the sweating." Coming from him, that's practically beatification. The regiment will be in good hands for a couple weeks, although it's pathetic that there's nobody left over the rank of Captain to command it.
For now, though, your officers have found an open bed on a tiny little ranch. You'll rest there until it's time for the regiment to go back north. It'll be good to relax for once.
---
A week later, you swing yourself down the stairs. The McCready's, the wonderful couple you're staying with, put you in the lone room upstairs. You go a little faster than is wise, but who could blame you? The thought of at minimum another month on this crutch...thing is horrid. And really, what's the worst that could happen? Fall, break the other one? Please.
You swing around the corner into the main room, and realize something's wrong. There should be three people, Carol and Mitchell McCready and Kuznetsov. Harris must've thought it'd be funny to give you Artjem as a guard. Doubt the man could fight his way out of a wet paper bag, unless he had a cannon in there.
But you count six people. Them, plus three more. Two men and a woman. You count guns also; two revolvers on each, and three long guns piled in a corner. They're rugged, with the sun-red faces and necks you'd expect to see on cowboys. But they're far too heavily armed for that. Mitch McCready glances at you, and it's plain on his face that he shares your suspicions. The woman stands, reaches out in a sort of mock handshake. "Hey! Thought we heard someone upstairs. Lora Reynolds, Reynolds Courier Service. 'zat a real uniform, miss?" She smiles like a shark. Her voice has that sing-song drawl of Manassas.
"Yes, it's real. Though I imagine my friend already told you the same. Major Clemson, Regiment of Mounted Rifles. We're looking for bandidos in the area." You hold her gaze, but the word 'bandidos' doesn't draw a reaction. In her, anyway. One of the men behind her fidgets a little, shifts in his seat, and you can see a flare of annoyance in her eyes. She thinks he's going to ruin the ruse.
But the smile doesn't leave her face. "Well, good on you, long as you don't make it so safe as to drive us out of business. We run cargo on this route pretty regularly, down to Manassas and up again. Can't tell you what, of course. Security reasons." The men behind her mumble 'security reasons' as well, nodding along. So she's the smart one, huh?
You pace over to the window, glance outside. They've hitched their horses out there. Parked a wagon by that shed, loaded with long crates. You step back, quip, "I wasn't planning on asking."
It goes without saying that dinner is awkward. The 'couriers' are watching you, you're watching them, and the poor McCready's only embarass themselves trying to start up some kind of conversation. As soon as you see an opening you grab Kuznetsov and retreat upstairs.
You listen at the door for a few moments to make sure you're not followed, then speak. "They seem a bit on edge, wouldn't you think?"
Artjem nods, pantomimes the stack of long guns they had in the corner by making a little pyramid. "That rifle, in the corner? Girandoni Model 1858. No courier would have it. Only 1858s here in West are in Los Palomas Armory." He shrugs. "Maybe they killed soldier for it."
"Good eye." You open the one window and glance outside. It's facing the wrong way, out onto the wide empty ranch, but you can hear the bandits laughing and chatting. "Your Albian has improved, incidentally."
"Thank." Your eye twitches, but you don't correct him.
In hushed tones, you try to come up with a plan. Kuznetsov could ride to rouse the regiment, bring back some troopers to kill or capture these outlaws, but he seems leery of leaving you alone with them. The only other option seems to be to wait it out. Whatever they're transporting is probably valuable, so you doubt they'd risk it by doing anything stupid.
That's about as far as you get before hearing a crash outside. The voices keep chattering, oblivious, but you hear a separate string of curses outside. On the awning? You and Kuznetsov glance at each other, then draw your pistols. Moments later a dark figure tumbles through the window, wearing an absurd brown cowpoke's hat. Like one of those dumb Albian caricatures of an Alleghenian. She - you realize with a start that it's a tall, rough-looking woman - puts her hands in the air, sizes the two of you up. "Manassas Rangers, Captain Mir'beau Garvey. Put your weapons down." As you lower your revolver, her commanding look turns to surprise, then joy. "Oh, shit. You're not Reardons."
Garvey reaches for a pocket, startling Kuznetsov, but you put out a hand to stop him. She draws not a gun, but a little tin star, and speaks like she's swearing you in under oath. "Under Article Seven of the Rangers Act, I am deputizing you. Failure to follow legal orders will be prosecu-"
You cut her off. "This isn't Manassas."
She stops, tilts her head, and then builds up steam for another long-winded citation. "Page 304 of the Manassas Statehood Consideration, Rangers have extraterritorial juris-"
"Horseshit. 'Manassas Statehood Consideration?' I mean, really, 'consideration?'" She pouts.
You stagger over to the window, glance out at the awning. Sure enough, a shingle is missing. "Did you climb up here?" Garvey nods. "What was the plan?"
"Sneak into the house, secure the residents, and arrest the Reardons, o' course." Garvey shares the Manassas accent of the bandits, but hers is even more jovial. And also more threatening. Funny how that works, isn't it?
You're not impressed, though. "What if the residents were accomplices, huh? What if we'd been even more bandits?" She smiles smugly, puts up a finger like she's got a prepared rebuttal...then puts it down, looks up at the ceiling to think for a second. She sighs, shrugs.
"Would've shot you. And then shot them. I mean, assuming you're not the homeowners - no offense, you would be cute - so I shoot you, shoot the folks that own the place, and I've got two cartridges left for the bad hombres out back." The problem is pretty obvious.
"There are three of them." To her credit, she's faster thinking up a response this time.
"Shoot two, arrest the last. He ain't counting." She says it like some kind of heroic Laconic quip. Messias, this woman is thick. You're sorely tempted to ask what she'd do if he was counting, but you don't want to be here all night. She watches you for a second, and then lets out a quiet victory whoop. Clearly she's out-thunk you. "If we can continue, now, I'm chasing four members of the Reardon gang. They're smuggling stolen weapons into Manassas." Three, you remind her. By the way she reacts, you'd think she just opened a birthday present. "Oh, so I did hit him!"
"Why're you chasing dangerous arms traffickers alone, then?" Smug smile again. Damn it.
"Hell, ain't I enough? One gang, one Ranger." You never realized Ranger training was just a steady stream of brainless action books and cartoons. I mean, you'd known them to be slave-catchers, hired guns and bullies, but they'd also had an air of legend around them. You'd worked with Rangers a couple years ago, and you'd honestly thought them to be pretty impressive. Maybe you were younger then, so you didn't notice the thick miasma of stupid.
"Right, right. What's the plan then, Ranger?" You slip every drop of malice you can muster into your voice, and naturally she doesn't notice. Kuznetsov is just standing there, taking it all in. Maybe he thinks it's a divine vision, or hallucination, or whatever.
"...I said it already. Go out there, arrest them. Now I'll have you two backing me up, too. Good plan." Debatable.
Kuznetsov finally speaks up. "Our regiment is less than hour away, Ranger. Could ride, get help." Garvey turns serious in an instant, her eyes steely and a tinge of panic in her voice.
"No, hell no. These people hear a whiff of anything suspicious, see you galloping into the night, they'll kill everyone here and disappear into the wild again. Better to have your gun at my side. Three on three." You don't ask how one can 'hear' a 'whiff.'
You clear your throat. "Two on three. I'm not exactly able-bodied at the moment." The Ranger nods. Kuznetsov looks to you again, waiting for a decision.
[] Arrest the Reardons here and now. Two on three is perfectly fair odds with cover and surprise.
[] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
---
this update is longer than it should be, so have some mood (and Garvey's statline for memes)
I will also be switching over to the Castles of Steel system because I trust the person who designs games to handle numbers better than my silly head, so rolls will now be 3d6, roll under your respective stat. I won't be adjusting stats, so this might make some characters seem ridiculously overpowered (see: almost impossible for above to fail a daring roll). But note that many rolls will be opposed, and non-opposed rolls will still have various modifiers.
okay no more words thank you
[] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
---
this update is longer than it should be, so have some mood (and Garvey's statline for memes)
Mirabeau Liliana Garvey
Description: The daughter of Manassas war hero and current Secretary of State Stephen Garvey, Mirabeau is in no way compensating for missing out on the war by taking absurd risks to catch her quarry on the border. Her father's connections won her the rank of Captain, a rank rarely used due to her near-fetishization of 'working alone.'
Command: ?
Stats
Cunning: 7
Daring: 14
Grit: 12
Charm: 12
Description: The daughter of Manassas war hero and current Secretary of State Stephen Garvey, Mirabeau is in no way compensating for missing out on the war by taking absurd risks to catch her quarry on the border. Her father's connections won her the rank of Captain, a rank rarely used due to her near-fetishization of 'working alone.'
Command: ?
Stats
Cunning: 7
Daring: 14
Grit: 12
Charm: 12
I will also be switching over to the Castles of Steel system because I trust the person who designs games to handle numbers better than my silly head, so rolls will now be 3d6, roll under your respective stat. I won't be adjusting stats, so this might make some characters seem ridiculously overpowered (see: almost impossible for above to fail a daring roll). But note that many rolls will be opposed, and non-opposed rolls will still have various modifiers.
okay no more words thank you
[X] Send Kuznetsov for back-up. Both Kuz. and Clemson will have to pass Cunning rolls to avoid detection.
Amusing quirks aside, she's a slave-catcher. Which means that if it comes to a fight, it might be less morally heinous to side with the bandits. The sooner we've got enough force on our side to take the initiative, the better.
Edit: On further thought, I will comment that these are illegal guns... headed to extra-racist!gayaverse!Texas. Seems like the kind of place guns don't have to be smuggled, so long as they are sold to the right people. I give it like 60% odds that the actual issue here is that these guns are intended to end up in the hands of someone black, native or inclined toward John Brown's version of good praxis. The sort of people who might have to pay extra to have them smuggled in from out of state.
Amusing quirks aside, she's a slave-catcher. Which means that if it comes to a fight, it might be less morally heinous to side with the bandits. The sooner we've got enough force on our side to take the initiative, the better.
Edit: On further thought, I will comment that these are illegal guns... headed to extra-racist!gayaverse!Texas. Seems like the kind of place guns don't have to be smuggled, so long as they are sold to the right people. I give it like 60% odds that the actual issue here is that these guns are intended to end up in the hands of someone black, native or inclined toward John Brown's version of good praxis. The sort of people who might have to pay extra to have them smuggled in from out of state.
Last edited: