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Sandfall: Hope (rp)

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http://rhinocap.net/extras/sftopic/sandfall.png[/img]
hope


HTML:
<blockquote>
        Caste City - Claude Dallas North's Tavern - Mid-Afternoon

"Where did they go?"

"Couldn't say." Claude made it clear that he had more interest in a stain in the wood on the bar counter. It'd been there for as long as he could remember, and it wasn't the first time that he had pretended to clean it off. The noble officers never seemed to notice, or at least they never said anything about it.

"Archer Cross and his friends. They were here last night and they just left this morning. Where did they go?"

"Couldn't say. Only know the name from wanted posters and from your own mouth." Claude brought up the rag to his pronounced mustache and wiped the tip of the bristly black hair. "Yup, General, can't say that I've ever met a fella by that name."

General Tota wasn't a man to slam his fists or yell. His patience was well-known and by far considered one of his greatest strengths. Despite this, he had a tendency of betraying his inward anger by turning bright red in the face. It was an amusing sight to Claude- he expected the portly general to start yelling and trembling any moment now, but Tota kept a calm tone to his voice and demeanor despite the visible fury beneath his skin. "They likely gave you fake names." He held up a crude sketch of the three exiles he was looking for. "This man in the center is Archer Cross. The big savage with the glasses is his partner Barzhad Judhan. The bald chap here only recently joined their group; his name is Jack Iscariot and it is vital that he is not allowed loose in Caste. The three of them are dangerous."

The sketches were horrible renditions of the exiles that Claude knew. The three of them had horrible charcoal grimaces, while Claude had rarely seen such expressions on their usually-smiling faces. He had to admit, the artist had done a good job of making the group look menacing. Barzhad was a big man, but his belly in the picture was gone and he seemed like more like a giant. Claude had only met Jack for the first time the night before, but he remembered the blank and almost confused look that he believed to be a permanent fixture in the exile's eyes. Instead, the drawing had him staring down with a fiery rage appropriate for a criminal.

"I'm not familiar with any of these fellows," Claude said simply.

"My men chased them out o this very building early this morning."

"Your men did indeed chase some customers out of my tavern early this morning. But not these men."

Tota slid a second sketch onto the counter. A beautiful young woman drawn with a look of utter hopelessness in her eyes. "This woman is the daughter of a noble. Her name is Amelia Cheres, and she was kidnapped by the men that you claim to not know."

Claude didn't know the details of what had happened between Amelia and Archer, but he remembered a hooded female following him to his rented room the night before. He had seen her eyes when she first entered his tavern and asked if she could sit at a table without buying anything. Of course Claude had said yes--she seemed alone and fragile, but he remembered that she certainly didn't look as helpless as she was presented in the picture. In fact, she looked far more threatening in person.

"Can't say that I've seen her, either. And I would definitely remember a pretty face like that." Claude pushed the picture back aross the bar counter.

"I see that my work here is done, Mister North," General Tota said simply. He turned and strode out of the building, leaving the pictures on the counter.

When the portly soldier was out of sight, Claude absently dropped the cloth on a ledge behind him and picked up the two sketches. He looked from the first to the second, shaking his head slightly. "She was a noble, huh... I hope Archer knows what he's gotten himself into this time."

The day was young to Claude and his business, being only mid-afternoon. The tavern was empy, and a total mess after the events of the previous night and early in the morning. Those noble soldiers really didn't know how to clean up after themselves. Claude set to straightening things out before the rush.
HTML:
</blockquote>
 

Spoo

Sponsor

      Caste City - Claude Dallas North's Tavern - A few moments later

Avery entered Claude's pub, only to be knocked out of the way by a very angry General Tota.

"Outta my way."

Before Avery could say anything to him, he'd already went out and slammed the door shut.

"Yeah, afternoon to you, too..." Avery muttered to himself. He went up to the counter and took a seat.

"Claude," he said, looking at the counter, "I need a little help. I believe some of your exile friends stole some of my supplies from my camp last night." Claude didn't say anything for a long time, he just kept on wiping off the counter. This annoyed Avery. He disliked being ignored.

"Claude, I know you're buddies with a buncha' exiles, and I'm pretty sure I've seen that man in here before." Avery paused, "A pretty scrawny fella that had a big, silly lookin' gun."

Claude finally looked up at Avery. "Ever heard of a man named Maurice Shale?"
 
Caste City - Claude Dallas North’s Tavern - mid-afternoon

Virgil walked unsteadily through the city. Gods, but this place was huge. Bigger than any other place he’d ever been. People in the street gave him strange looks, but he attributed this to his clothing, which vastly differed from anyone else’s.

Virgil decided he needed to slow down, find a place where he could sit and think. After ten minutes of confused wandering, he soon realized he had other problems. A portly soldier was coming up the road. Since Virgil had snuck into the city to avoid soldiers, he had to quickly blend in to the crowd. Quickly pulling the hood off of his head, he made sure to walk over to the other side of the road before the man came by. If time had taught Virgil anything, it was that running was a good way to be noticed.

With the sun beating down on his black hair, Virgil decided to find out where the soldier had come from. Maybe then he’d be able to find someone who could help him get used to this city. After a few minutes, Virgil managed to find the place -  a big tavern. Well, bigger than any he was used to, at any rate.

Aware of how unusually he was dressed - everyone else he’d seen had been comfortably attired in shirts, pants, and other clothes that were so different from his voluminous robes. Pulling his hood over his head to shade his face, Virgil opened the door.
“Water, please, barkeep.â€
 

Flanzo

Member

Somewhere South of Caste city – Mid Afternoon ((Day 1))

The Sun bore down upon the desert expanse relentlessly, reflecting off the grains of sand tossed by the Westerly wind. The land was quiet, not a soul around as far as the eye could see, and who could blame them? The wind did nothing to ease the overbearing sun, baking the land below, only a few small rodents dared to move about mid day. It was hot, too hot to sleep.

It wouldn’t be long before Caste would finally be insight. Given the distance he’d been given at his last stop in Casson, Flanzo guessed it couldn’t be more than 30 miles to the city. Casson had been trouble. Seems of late being known as “the Archerâ€
 
South of Caste, Midday

Maurice’s right eye winced, trying to peer into the distance.  Still nothing… he thought to himself, shifting the burden of the rifle to his other shoulder.  Using his now free left hand, the bounty hunter began adjusting the gears on his mechanical faceplate.  The horizon rushed forwards to meet the eye that looked through the telescopic lens, revealing a small black spec to the North.  A cloaked figure appeared shuffling across the sand midway between the spec and himself.  Probably another traveler… 

Grumbling, the man reset the gears, tumblers clicking as the left eye’s vision lined up with the right.  This is taking longer than I thought…  So much for breaking to eat, I better keep moving if I want to make it before nightfall.  The sand whispered quietly beneath Maurice’s boots as took a step forward, pressing on. 

As he walked, thoughts began to drift carelessly through his head to pass the time.  Wonder if that figure up ahead is an exile or not…  Probably not, if they’re headed towards Caste.  ‘Course, they could be headed to that tavern I heard about.  Heh, maybe it’s a noble?  Like a noble would degrade themselves to wearing rags… Damn it’s hot as hell today.

The heat truly was suffocating; the bounty hunter raised his left hand to his face and pulled the bandana down, the material sliding across his skin as it fell around his neck.  Warm air filled his lungs, proving that the bandana’s removal helped little.  As he exhaled slowly he swore, and adjusted the weight of his weapon.  Maybe I should look into getting a horse… or at least one to carry this rifle.  He smirked at the idea of mounting the giant weapon on the back of an animal.

The bounty hunter doubled his pace, making the mental game of seeing if he could overtake the figure in the distance before reaching Caste.
 

Anonymous

Guest

Desert East of Caste - Mid Afternoon

The sun beat down as harshly as always but Marcel was hardly affected by it at all. Her pale hair and white clothes kept the heat off and her bare feet were too calloused over the years of walking the desert to feel anything, least of all the burning hot sand and rocks beneath them.

It had been an amazing storm, with winds that could tear trees from the ground at its strongest. Marcel had chased it for two days straight, always staying on the edge where it was safer, following a trail of destruction whenever she had to pause to eat or sleep and not doing either more than was really necessary until the winds finally died. She wasn't aware that she'd managed to get this far.

And now she was, she admitted to herself, a little lost.

And by 'a little' that meant that somehow she had managed to end up on a road where the only signs said that Caste was a small distance to the west. The last time she had read a sign, it had said she was a few miles from Hazaga. 'How on earth did I manage get here?' didn't even begin to describe the list of questions she had but she was just glad to have found a sign at all.

She was in good spirits, though. The storm may not have uncovered anything interesting, but she had managed to pick up a fair amount of debris that she would be able to sell as scrap metal. She had been carrying her water bottle in her arms the last few hours just to free space in its bag. The bottle itself was as dry on the inside as it was on the outside, she'd neglected to fill it. Filling it would have meant going out of her way to find water and risking losing the storm.

She could see Caste now quite clearly. As a rule she avoided the cities and stuck to the desert as she was supposed to, but she had no idea how far it would be to anywhere exiles were welcome and she could get water. There was no reason anyone should think she was an exile, her bodysuit covered the brand on her back and not being known for anything meant no-one would recognise her face.

Another thought formed in her mind, whenever she had sold scrap before, not being able to enter the cities meant that she had been forced to sell it though a merchant who she knew had been giving her an awful deal, paying her hardly a tenth of what some of the buyers in the cities would pay. Selling it in person suddenly sounded worth the risk.

As she got closer to the city she removed her mask - if her face wasn't recognisable there was no sense wearing it as it would only arouse suspicion.
 

Spoo

Sponsor

        Caste City - Later that Afternoon

"Marice Shale, huh?" Avery muttered under his breath. Talking with Claude hadn't got him anywhere much, other than knowing the man's name. The sun began to get hotter as midday came. Avery was getting bored of sitting around, like always, so he got up and looked for something to do. All he heard was the whisper of the desert winds from the west and the loud voices of auctioneers in the bazaar to the east.

An auction, huh? Avery thought. He counted his money. He had plenty enough to buy himself something nice. He began to walk toward the city's crowded center. As he neared it he saw many stands filled with jewelry, very expensive clothing, and knives, which didn't interest Avery much. He'd pick guns any day.

The auction was boring, there was no half interesting bounties up, and Marice Shale was nowhere to be found. 
 
Desert Southwest of Caste -- Late Morning

Under the late morning sun Jeffrey stewed under his blankets stirring slowly back to consciousness.  He had overslept, carelessly so as evidenced by the prickly sting that inhabited the reddened dry flesh around his over-sunned eyes.  Each twitch and blink of his eyes touched his face with what felt like a searing iron scouring itself lightly upon him.  He knew he had slept too long.  It was late morning and the Arizcan sun was unkind to the idle and the careless.

He sat up cursing himself for not covering his face, and loosened the cap on his canteen that would be his saving grace.  The water was lukewarm, but he drank it with astounding zeal.  He understood quite well the danger he put himself in by sleeping so late out in the desert.  Already he could feel the trials of dehydration.  His skin was an ashen pile of dust waiting to be carried off by the wind.  There was a certain frantic stir about his thoughts as he continued to guzzle the water to stave off heat stroke.  They were rather vague disparate things that whirled behind a shadow, a kind of veil of confusion wrought by the extreme heat.  His heart meanwhile seemed to keep pace with his mind in both spirit and method, it raced in rather powerful beats in erratic cadence. 

The dryness of the day was evident in the sky, a perfect shade of blue unspoiled by moisture.  The air about him had a slight taste of dust which coated his tongue with a bitter slime.  He took another sip from his canteen and methodically swished the warm contents around his tongue before swallowing again.  With a slow deliberate step, Jeffrey tottered up to his feet, with a slight drunken sway.  His heart had calmed itself momentarily, but his mind was still frazzled by the heat.

Ahead of him the road to caste rounded itself between two large dunes, under which the clay covered pueblo’s of an unnamed cross-town invited him with the promise of water and shade.  Yet, oddly his mind toyed with an attraction to just nap in the desert, boil away, and let the gas of his soul escape into the endless skies.  It seemed such a peaceful and passive way to do it.  Perhaps it would be less nerve racking than sucking on the end of a .38 waiting to get the balls to let the hammer fall.  These thoughts he quickly tucked away in his usual repressive manner.  Had he faith he might reaffirm it was a waste and be done with it, but he had abandoned faith long ago. 

His face stung bitterly as his sweat slowly returned to cool his body.  Oddly the pain encouraged him to soldier on.  It was a kind of penance that drove him to continue.  He scattered the black and white ashes of his fire and covered it with sand until there was little evidence of his camp, then made his way to the road toward Caste.
 
Desert Southwest of Caste -- Late Morning

It had been about 3 minutes since Charles had spotted a sign of life. An unsteady figure in the distance slowly regaining his footing, then kicking about in the sand as if he were covering something. "Probably just another awakening drunk..." he muttered to himself, as he climbed back into his father's old merchant cart. With a swift crack of the leather reigns, the 2 horses resumed their slow trot along the sandy path. "There it is boys!" Charles shouted to the beasts as he saw the large figure in the distance. "Yup, that there is the city of Caste". The horses whinnied with enthusiasm as their master gave them another whipping, signaling them to increase their pace.
 

Flanzo

Member

South of Caste – Early evening ((Day 1))

The sun slowly crept down the skyline into the west, preparing for its plunge into the swirling sands of the desert. Light skipped off the dunes, lighting up the sand as if a vast sea of fire lay westward, stretching out from the rock upon which Flanzo stood. Quick breaths of cool night air punctuated the wind heralding the nighttime freeze, a much welcomed feeling after the overbearing heat of the day’s journey. 

Flanzo knelt down onto his right knee, reaching into his pouch to pull forth his telescope and his waterskin.  Uncorking the skin he brought it to his lips, drinking down a slow, measured draught to quiet his body’s screams of dehydration.  The urge to gorge himself upon the vital nectar reared its head inside his subconscious, yet he fought it back, slowly forcing his body to cap the skin and return it to its loop about his quiver.

He brought the telescope up to his eye, fixing his gaze out upon Caste. Behind the imposing walls rooftops stretched into the distance as far as he could see. Billows of steam rose up from somewhere in the city’s centre, no doubt the Noble quarter. Flanzo’s grip tightened upon the telescope.  He brought his gaze back down to the wall, scanning further looking for the city’s gate.

At last Flanzo’s gaze settled upon the imposing gate, shut tight against the unforgiving desert. A small line of people stretched out from the gate, a cord of souls of all stature, some clinging to the thread of hope for a night in the city, led by nobles shoving peasants aside as they return home to the comfort of their easy life. Flanzo watched in disgust as one noble cart pushed his horses up the line, not waiting for those others to make way.

Further up the line near the gate a flash of steel caught Flanzo’s attention. There at the gate a woman, appearing slight in build, likely in her late 30s to early 40s though it was hard to tell. She was dressed in rags covered in sand, begging the soldiers to let her in while they looked over the piece of paper she had given.

One of the gruff shoulders grabbed the paper from the other’s hand, striding up to the kneeling woman. His strong leg pulled back before he delivered a swift kick to the woman’s face, sending her sprawling across the sand. He ripped the paper up as he towered over her, appearing to laugh at the woman’s limp shape. He picked her up, dragging her to her feet by the neck of her rags, shoving her to his companion.

The crowd shrunk back from the sight, staring down to the ground as the guards shoved the woman back and forth, punching her at will, a smile coming to their lips. One of the guards grabbed her roughly, staring at her as his lips moved furiously, no doubt yelling questions as to where her brand was. It was their lucky day, they got to have some fun this shift, they had caught themselves an exile. As the guards laughed and manhandled the poor woman, the noble slowly stepped out of his cart and walk into the scene.

The woman hit the ground with a crash as the guards stopped to salute the nobleman, he was dressed in the finest clothes Flanzo had seen in a long time. His clothes were clean and pressed, unadorned by the crust of sand that coated the world around him. His face looked clean shaven, with clean back hair tied back into a ponytail that flowed out behind him in the wind. Flanzo could hardly pick out the intricacies of the vibrant pattern adorning his cape through his looking glass, but the effect was not lost even at this distance. This man was above the world, and wanted everyone to know it.

With of gesture of his hand the guards went to work, hoisting up the woman by her wrists to display her to the nobleman, all trace of their once present smiles erased. Thugs though they may be, the truth was standing in front of them; they were nothing when compared to the cruelty of the nobles.

Flanzo’s hands began to tremble, he ached to draw forth and arrow and let it fly, even though it would fall miles short of its home between the nobleman’s eyes. He yearned to look away, to burn out this wretched existence brought on by nobles inflated with power. But he watched on, watched as another of the many victims fell to this corrupt system, and etched this need for change into his mind.

The noble walked up to the woman, roughly twisting her face this way then that under his gaze. His face contorted in disgust as he slapped her, appearing to scream something as he whipped his arms about the crowd. Roughly he spun her around, nearly ripping her arms from her sockets before the guards let go. With an angry glare from the noble, the guards hesitantly reached and grabbed her wrists once more. The noble tore off her rags at her back as he drew his pistol, exposing before the crowd a small black mark. Even from this range it was clear to see, the small mark upon her left shoulder was the brand; until it became a bullet hole.

As the woman went limp the guards dropped her, backing up from the corpse before them. The nobleman turned with a flourish of his cape, returning to his carriage. The crowd backed, some wandering off into the desert, other just looked at the ground.

Flanzo let the looking glass drop, packing it slowly back into his pack. Absentmindedly he reached down to his quiver, shifting one arrow aside. Slowly he stood up, adjusting the weight of his pack overtop his left shoulder. As he set out once more for Caste, a chill wind cut through the air, the wind of death.
 
Maurice’s lips pressed together in a tight frown, his left hand clicking ceaselessly with the dials of the mechanical device that covered the left side of his face.  The scene before him zoomed in, then out slightly, then in again.  The noble’s arm jutted back from the recoil of the gun, a small stream of smoke billowing out of the pistol’s barrel.  The bounty narrowed his eyes, a memory flashing before them. 

Maurice stumbled up to the top of the sand dune, panting with the heavy burden of the rifle.  Running with it in the shifting sand that drew in his feet was incredibly arduous, and the task of running took up far more energy than it was worth.  The city walls sprung up a short distance away; he had only just caught up to the trio of bounty hunters a few dozen meters away from the gates.  The gun swung over his shoulder and hit the sand, sending grains spraying in all directions as the young man threw himself down beside it, putting his naked left eye against the weapons scope while adjusting the legs in a frenzy to aim. 

The bounty hunter at the back of the group stopped for a moment, adjusting the small rifle on his shoulder and leaning sideways to spit.  A loud crack thundered through the dry air, and the man spun to the ground from the force of the shot, his right arm being separated from the shoulder.  Maurice grunted in pain as the recoil of the rifle struck him, it felt like someone had wound up and struck him across the eye with such force that the side of his face became numb.  The bounty hunter yelled as he hit the ground and Maurice swore, the last second lean had thrown off his aim.  At this point the other two bounty hunters whirled around in shock, eyes quickly scanning the dunes until they fell upon the metallic weapon that glinted in the sunlight. 

Whimpering, the young man struggled with a latch on the side of the rifle, his hands trembled in a horrid state of fear.  Being so close to a city as well as what was at stake made the usual smooth motion of discarding the casing in the chamber and reloading another bullet a painstakingly clumsy task.  He dropped the bullet in the sand and swore, his eyes welling up with water as he grasped it tightly and forced it into the chamber, sliding the locking mechanism back into place.  Sand sprayed high into the air, blowing into his face as a bullet struck with near lethal accuracy.  They should not have been able to shoot so accurately from that distance… 

Throwing off his cloak, one of the bounty hunters pulled out a pair of 6 shooters from his belt, and aiming towards the top of the dune, began to unload them.  The loud shots rang through the air as the bounty hunter who had fired the first bullet with such accuracy discarded his pistol and fell to one knee, scooping up the rifle their now one armed companion had been carrying.  He steadied the weapon and put his eye down the barrel to perfect his aim, gritting his teeth as he did so.
“Gotcha, you son of a bi-â€
 

Anonymous

Guest

Caste, Early Evening, Day One

Marcel shivered for a second as she heard the distant sound of a gun firing. Even if she wasn't close, she couldn't stand the sound. It was the only reason she really had for using the slower, less powerful Harpact. She had gotten into the city with little difficulty, hiding her nerves well enough to avoid seeming suspicious at all but the sound of the gunshot reminded her just how stupid it had been for her to even try. If she hadn't been lucky, she'd be dead right now.

She hadn't got as much for the scrap as she'd hoped. The merchant she'd sold to had been friendly and had given her a much better price than the ones she dealt with outside the city but here she hadn't dared try to barter, outside of the city she'd have argued the price up as far as she could but right now she was worried about drawing too much attention to herself. In the small outposts, bartering between two very stubborn people tended to draw spectators, it was likely different in the cities but she didn't really want to find out if it meant being caught.

The only thing she'd actually bought was a storybook for her niece. Marcel herself couldn't read so well, after being exiled she had no means and no reason to learn, only ever reading signposts, but Fabien could and he'd be able to read the story to Raspail. If Raspail could learn to read she'd have a much easier life if they ever managed to get her into the city.

It was getting darker and cooler now, some shops were closing and others were starting to open. For a second, Marcel turned to walk back toward the gates but quickly changed her mind. They'd just had someone, if the gunshot had been what she thought it was. They'd be more alert right now. She'd give it an hour or so, she didn't mind travelling by night.

Havre, who was a lot more willing than Marcel to sneak into the cities, had talked about a tavern where exiles were welcomed once before. Marcel was sure he'd said it was in Caste.

Still, she didn't have a name and asking around for 'the place where exiles are welcome' wasn't exactly the best way not to draw attention to herself. She had overheard gossip earlier, though, about 'that awful place that allows all kinds of rough types'. It seemed a likely candidate, so she headed for that place.
 
Caste City - Claude Dallas North's Tavern - Mid-Afternoon (Day 1)

"I need a drink..." thought Charles as the hot desert sun began it's descent into the horizon. He gave the signal for the pair of animals upfront to halt, next to the building that read "Claude's Tavern" on a sign hanging above the door. He roped up the two horses next to the water trough, and left them happily lapping up the liquid; relieved that they no longer needed to haul the cart through the blazing sand.
      Charles entered the tavern and surveyed the scene. There seemed an awful lot of menacing glares and rough faces around. He didn't wish to attract much attention as he knew that if a fight were to break out, his small knife would be the only reliable option. He took a seat, and noticed the bartender serving a short-looking, dark skinned girl. She appeared to be carrying some professional looking equipment. "Probably quite a skilled mechanic" thought Charles, noticing the complexity of the strange devices. Noticing that the bartender was now free, he beckoned for him to take his order...
 
Day One - La Picolina - Early Afternoon

Beyond the dunes laid a small backwater known as La Picolina.  It was a small collection of dusty rose and sand colored pueblos that rose from the ground as little muddy castles clumped with the disorderly abandon of a child at play.  The village housed some twenty eight peasant families.  They were true denizens of the dunes, the salt of the Arizcan sands.  They were a calloused people, skins forever bitten and stung by the sun and sand, sculpted and reared by its bitter discipline.  They embraced this new leather as an achievement in its varying shades of olive and brown pockmarked by pink and dark red abrasions from the great desert father.  The better part of their bodies though were veiled under Bedouin robes of white spoiled ceaselessly by the wind wisped dust and sweat.  Though veiled in robe and hood their disposition was never masked by their face.  They were perpetually a stern and serious people who rarely smiled and rarely praised.  Their's was a face molded by conflict with the wind and sand.  Their lives knew few victories worth praising and few spoils worth smiling over, which made each one all the more delicious and satisfying.

As Jeffrey descended down into La Picolina he found himself beyond mere exhaustion.  He had stopped sweating an hour ago despite the day reaching a zenith in temperature.  He felt as a smoldering volcanic flake sprung fresh from the earth in dried specks of searing white and orange.  His journey was further impeded by an intense nausea he had battled to hold down for an hour.  Yet despite these disconcerting developments he had managed to keep his bearings on his journey for water.

The dune had emptied him into a small cow pasture long dried from drought.  The owners were still hanging onto it despite better reasoning.  In the distant right of him was a fenced in cow pen where two young men milled about spitting chaw and dreaming of Friday beer and steak.  The stranger aroused their concern, Jeffrey's morning sojourn had left him a haggard mess.  His hat was crooked and particularly wilted under the immense stress of the sun.  His face was an alcoholic shade of flush red that was powerful enough to overpower his five o'clock shadow.  Yet what bothered them the most was his slow drunken gait that he went about in, each step fragilely lurching toward total collapse, which seemed imminent. 

Just ahead of Jeffrey was a young woman hooded in a white and saffron robe toiling away at an iron water pump.  Her work was grueling and the effort was admirable.  The hot sunbaked lever of the pump had long ago seared a hard red mesh of scar tissue across her palms.  Today the pump was particularly hard to manage.  The pressure in the pipe was weaker then normal demanding more of her effort.  Around her stood six three gallon clay pitchers only two of which were filled.  The sight of clear water squirting from the spigot in intermittent jumps and the sound of the water plopping with clumsy grace into the sand colored pitcher, was a spectacle of salvation for Jeffrey.  He sauntered toward it in a slow feverish pace fighting back a shiver that was slowly going beyond his control.

The lady at the pump was surprised by the presence of the vagrant.  She found his demeanor at first very unnerving, struck deeply by the sense of desperation he seemed to try to veil behind a weak smile. 

“Good day, ma'am,â€
 

Spoo

Sponsor

Day one - Caste - Late Afternoon

The harsh desert sun beat down on the denizens of Caste, making the slaves only more determined to work harder to get their work done and get into the shade for the evening.  Avery knew the desires and intentions of slaves all too well.  He remembered back when he was still living in his father's manor, watching the slaves' hard labor.  Back then the world was all black and white to him.  He thought back when he was a child, sitting with his father next to part of his fields.

"Avery, you are above those...those rats out there.  You will grow up to be a fine nobleman, unlike them."

Avery smiled at his father's compliment.  If they were slaves in his father's eyes, then they would be the same to him.

"Pa...Just...Why are they working for you?  With no pay?"

Avery's father laughed.  "Ha!  Who says they aren't getting paid?  They get a home."  He paused, "these people were caught stealing and mugging people.  They are lucky I bought them rather than letting General Tota execute them!"

Avery lost his happiness with that last sentence.  "You...Bought them?  I didn't know you could buy people...is it right?"

His father laughed again.  "Is it right? Of course!  It is certainly better than the punishment they would have received!  Their colleagues think of us as bad people.  But we did nothing wrong.  Never listen to them, Avery.  Never listen to any of them."


Avery thought of his Pa' as a hero back then, for "saving" those people.  Then he saw what happened when the slaves disobeyed their master. 

"You leave your duties to come and beg for some water!?"  Avery's father yelled at a young slave woman.  "You were saved by me from execution." 
The young woman cried in a hushed voice.  "Master Garder...it was for my child...he will die without a drink!" 

Avery's father had no sympathy for the woman.  "You!" He said to another slave, his butcher, "Off with her left ring finger.  I'd kill her, but I don't want to lose a worker!"

Avery watched all this through a keyhole in one of the manor rooms.  He wanted to look away, but he had already seen it.  The gruesome scene.  He began to cry.  Not for the slave, not for her child.  He had just realized that his father was an evil man.


These slaves looked a lot like the ones back at his manor.  Working fiercely to get into the shade.  He was trespassing on some Caste-goers land, so he quickly left there, back to the desert to enjoy his earned freedoms.
 
Day one, evening La Picolina

And then it was cold.  A sudden freeze that was followed by an involuntary shudder that shook off a sweet, peaceful nothing that seemed as blissful as the rapturous call of Zion's angels without the music of their lilting voices.  Existence,  its abject cruelty, greeted him from behind a plastic gray film flooded with light in a hazy blotch of smoky contrast.  His eyes were dry and they burned, assaulted by caustic coals of light that invaded his sudden infantile senses.  They were a dried red, almost pink, a reflection of a body choked alive by sun and dust.  The moment was further underscored by an intense wheeze, a dusty gale that surged through his lungs in a grating gust.

Jeffrey forced his eyes shut once more, chasing that perfect dark, that blissful unmemory, an opiate lost once more.  His senses slowly faded in.  His nostrils were overtaken by candle wax and the faint scent of boiled beef and potato, which wafted from an unseen kitchen nearby.  His belly awoke to the scent and commented with a nauseous groan.  It was by these degrees his body gradually reacquainted him with its painful state.  His sunburned face was raw and painfully fidgeted from shivers spurred by the cool compress sprawled across his temples.  His hearing was invaded by a  two sets of footsteps, a soft collision of leather and wood, that grew louder with each consecutive step.

“Ya think he's an outlaw, Pa?â€
 

Anonymous

Guest

Evening - Claude Dallas North's Tavern (Day One)

Marcel wasn't an idiot. She'd need to have at least one more glass before she was an idiot - the girl didn't hold her drink that badly. She wasn't going to say she wasn't supposed to be here, even in a place where exiles were supposedly accepted. She had heard stories about the government deliberately spreading rumours about some bars allowing exiles and always having soldiers placed there to 'overhear by chance'.

At first she had been reluctant to ask for alcohol, not wanting to risk not being in control of her actions when a slip of the tongue could earn her the noose but she was pretty sure that the few bars she frequented outside of the walls watered down its drinks and by the time she finished the water she'd asked for at first the question was burning at her so badly she had to know.

They did. Though her dark skin made it difficult to tell she could feel her cheeks reddening and she was only halfway though the first glass. She'd be on the fourth by the time she knew she was starting to feel the alcohol's effects at the crosstown bars. Her question answered, she took another sip to the persuit of knowledge and flipped a page of the book. She vaguely recognised the words, she had seen them before, but they were nothing to her until she saw the bright picture of a very happy sun wearing sunglasses. Even then they didn't mean much.

The bar was starting to fill up. One or two of the people looked like the rough types that were being gossiped about but most of them looked pretty normal, just people after a drink. She slipped the book back into her bag and moved to a corner of the table she was sat at, not wanting to be in the way of anyone who wanted to sit there in a group. Normally she would be more willing to just stay where she was and be spoken over if a group sat at the table but she was worried about giving herself away.
 
Evening - Claude Dallas North's Tavern (Day One)

It wasn't very late into the night, but things were already looking like this was going to be a rough one. Claude had already called in two of the neighborhood kids to help out around the place. It wasn't something that he did really often, in fact he was usually able to run the entire place by himself and didn't have any real staff. There were three or four teenagers that he knew he could trust to work for him when he needed the extra help, though, and on nights like this, business was certainly good enough to pay them for their time.

He watched as one of his helpers refilled a mug of beer and brought it out to a particularly loud and rude customer. The kid kept his cool, and not for the first time Claude began to think about hiring him full-time. He'd eventually need someone to take over the place, after all.

Not that he felt like retiring any time soon.

Claude had developed an eye for exiles in his time in the business. Not that he needed it much. A lot of his regulars were exiles that he knew personally, many of them had even shown their brands before. Just the previous night, Archer Cross had proudly taken off his shirt in the middle of the tavern, exposing his exile brand for all. "Show your pride," he had challenged them, and one by one, a good number of them had revealed their scars, in all different sizes on different parts of their body. It was actually the first time that Claude had seen Barzhad's brand, although he had heard of it before. Just thinking about it sent a chill down his spine.

Unfortunately, of course, there had been some people present that leaked information about the whole brand-pride event. And as much as he tried to forget about last night, and the trouble that it brought to him in the morning, Claude really couldn't. Especially not since this night was so busy. He was only worried that something like that might happen again.
 
Early Evening - Outside Caste (Day one)

The sun hung low in the sky, burning a fiery red that set the horizon ablaze with an array of crimson and orange hues.  Pausing for a moment, Maurice looked up.  His index finger and thumb pinched around the felt material of his stetson’s brim and lifted it a few inches.  The young bounty hunter peered into the distance; the city walls were clearly visible now without the aid of his telescopic eyepiece. 

Wincing as even a setting sun still stung his eyes, he tipped the hat back down.  Almost there…  Looks like I’ll make it before nightfall, he thought.  He stuck his tongue in his cheek, brow furrowing while his mind wandered.  What happened to that figure from before?  Did I pass him?  Damn… and I call myself a bounty hunter.

Maurice swallowed unconsciously and ruminated on the shooting at the gate he was approaching.  It had happened four, maybe five hours before hand, judging on how far the sun had fallen.  He looked away for a moment, his uncovered eye half closed.
“Pff… I just got distracted… that’s all.â€
 

Flanzo

Member

Caste city gate – Mid Evening (Day 1)

Darkness was approaching across the desert horizon; soon night would come in full force. Flanzo slowly strolled up towards the gate, where two weary guards awaited relief.  Getting in would be the fun part, exiles aren’t allowed inside the cities, but right now anyone would be hard pressed to find the blackened brand upon his cheek.

A few miles out he had stopped and made preparations, folding his bow to holster it upon his back where it would be hard to spot beneath his cloak. He pulled back the lock of ashen hair flowing freely across his face, tying it back atop his head beneath grease stained rag he kept wrapped around the top of his bag of parts. From inside his waist pouch he pulled out a small jar of inky black mechanic grease, smearing it across his forehead, cheeks and necks. Wiping his hands on the rag atop his head he bent to the ground, gathering up a handful of sand. Shutting his eyes and mouth he tossed the sand across his face, letting it cling to the grease as it would. He slipped off his gauntlet and tucked it inside his pack, and strapping the bow underneath his cloak he headed onwards, tugging on a thick pair of leather gloves. Thomas Burkes returning home after a day at work.

As Flanzo came into view the guards perked up, one of them coming forward brandishing a shotgun, “You there, halt!”

“Evening sir!” Flanzo called back, “No need to worry, just lookin’ to get back home. Last thing I need is more trouble.”

“We’ll decide if you get any more trouble tonight,” the guard barked as he strolled up to Flanzo, planting barrel of his shotgun dead against Flanzo’s chest. “What’s your name?”

“Yes sir, certainly sir,” Flanzo said hastily backing up with his hands raised in apology, things weren’t going to be easy. Thugs, not guards, that’s what they were. “Burkes, sir, Thomas Burkes is my name.  I’m a loca - - “

“I don’t give a damn what the hell you are, just give me your papers and shove off!” The guard yelled hastily, shoving Flanzo in the chest with his shotgun.

Flanzo stumbled back, reaching into a pocket to grab a thumper , snapping off the stopper and planting it under a thin layer of sand as he stumbled to the ground.  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m sorry,” he whimpered as he stood up, backing a pace away from the place the thumper slowly lay heating up. It would take a few minutes, but then he would be in the clear. “I can’t show you my papers sir, I don’t got them no more. Damn bandits got at me on my way, took my cart and horse and all!”

As Flanzo continued his tale of woe, deferring and apologizing enough to keep the guards finger off the trigger as he waited.  Below the sand his prize invention ticked away, scrap gears grinding away in earnest. The thumper was the prize product of his last three months of research, and when used properly a very handy tool. Once the stopper was removed the device began to heat, bringing to boil water stored inside the main compartment. With no release mechanism, pressure would build inside the steel casing, eventually snapping the restraints with a loud crack. With the release the hinges were blown open, expanding the ball and releasing the built up steam with considerable force.

“Please sir, I’m begging you. If I don’t get home tonight the bandits will be back for me,” Flanzo pleaded shamelessly.

“Bah, you’ll be fine!” The guard called back, visibly tired of hearing the mechanics pleading. “Those bandits won’t be ba-“

Just then the thumper cracked.

Sand sprayed upwards from directly in front of Flanzo, the small explosion scattering the dirt a couple feet into the air. Flanzo leapt backwards in surprise, crying out as he crashed to the ground as if frightened. He grimaced as the metal of his bow cut into his lower back, adding sincerity to his act.

“What in the name of hell was that!” shouted the guard closer to the wall, readying his rifle as he peered around the desert infront of them. Both guards peered off into the darkness, waiting to see what direction the attack came from.

Flanzo lunged forward towards the nearest guard’s feet, scooping the burning metal thumper into a pouch in his bag as he fell. His hand stung for the effort, but he ignored it grabbing at the guards boot. “It’s the bandits!” he yelled frightened, “Please! You have to let me in! They’ll kill me!”

The guard peered down annoyed at the frightened man begging at his feet, but something out there had fired that shot. There were bigger fish he had to fry.  “James, take this wimp inside and stand him up by the wall,” he called to the other guard.

“Thank you, thank you sir,” Flanzo replied to the guard, letting himself be dragged inside the wall roughly, grabbing his pack as he went.

“You wait here,” James the guard said, pressing Flanzo to the wall. “You got me Thomas? We still need to make sure you’re dealt with properly for not having your identification.”

“Yes sir,” Flanzo replied meekly, slumping back against the wall. The guard nodded his approval, and then went back outside the gate to scan for sign of the bandits. When he would turn back next, he would only find shadows.
                             
                * * * * *

Flanzo wandered the city, finally inside and away from the guards, away from the scene of this afternoon’s atrocity. The grease stained scarf now replaced with a dusty brown hat, though his face was still smeared with grease to cover the brand. His cloak now concealed the large bag slung hastily over his back, letting the cool night air caress his dark black shirt. Interesting things had been going on in the city so he had heard, a man in Shaw had let slip rumor of a bar friendly to exiles within the walls. It seemed a dangerous gamble, if the rumor were that well known then likely the authorities would know as well, but at least if he went there he could buy a few drinks of water. One drink of water for himself, and another for the thirsty thumper that lay inside his pack. With a nod he pushed open the door and stepped inside.
 

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