Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

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Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Parps » Fri Jun 23, 2017 2:17 am

It was a dry and hot afternoon, not at all different than the days and weeks before. Nothing but dust and weeds usually blew through this town, as the occasional traveler was too keen to stop where there was not enough drink and food for even the residents there. Not much grew here, either, except perhaps a lone tree or barren bush, all nourishment drained and dried by the baking sun. Residents somehow made a life here, keeping to themselves or conversing with others for trade or brief gossip. It was a wonder how most of these businesses are still up and running, but somehow, someway, this tiny town in the middle of nowhere, worked. A bank, a general store, a post office, and a land office. A couple of houses here and there, but that’s it. The only place where people could forget about their troubles was the saloon, an old, red building sitting at the outskirts of the town. Some stroll over when they’re bored or their hangover is returning, others corral their horses and carriages when walking has become a burden. The very long tree of the town hangs over the saloon and corrals, offering broken shade from the blistering sun.

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Inside, the saloon is bustling and lively, patrons and guests playing cards, singing songs, and playing instruments they bring from home. It isn’t very big inside, but there aren’t enough people in the entire town to fill up all the chairs and stools around the bar. Patrons too drunk or slaphappy take shelter in one of the bedrooms upstairs, if they make it up the steps. Other times, the barkeep or his daughter has to sweep the sleepers out, either with a light tap of their broom or a jab of their foot.

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And just like any other dry and hot afternoon, the place was busy. Men and women, though many of the ladies in this town looked too much like their husbands nowadays, joined together in ale and whiskey, laughing hysterically at a joke someone slurred across the table. Some lone men sat at the bar, drinking away their sorrows into a warm class of liquor. And, as always, Amelia was on her boot-heeled feet, stepping between tables and chairs with a tray in hand. Just because her tray was empty, does not mean there was a lack of orders. “Let me take your empty glasses. We’re running out in the back.” And without waiting for the drunks to turn back, she collected what she could to bring them back to the bar. There, her father, a short but sturdy greying man, filled what he could with what he had, filling up the girl’s tray once more to take back out to the patrons. It was never easy work. Drunks don’t pay attention to where they throw their arms or comprehend how rude or inconsiderate their lingering glares were. Amelia tried her best to ignore the men, but the women were giving her just as much issue.

And it never helped when someone stuck out their foot the wrong way, tripping Amelia as she rushed by, sending drinks and glasses into another table of patrons. Liquid spilled across their shoulders, arms, and very serious game of cards. And despite the sticky, foul smelling ale across her own arms and down her dress, these men were not about to consider the mistakes of others. For the first time in a while, the saloon went silent.

Amelia was already on the floor to collect broken glass and wipe away the frothy liquid from their table and shirts, but they did not wait for any sort of explanation. When they swore and spit and shoved back from the table, Amelia only saw a swift flash of anger in this man’s eyes, just as he caught her by the forearm and hoisted her to her feet. She stood frozen.

“You clumsy, idiot girl,” he said, pushing her back. Instead of tumbling over her feet, she ran right into another man, one that had circled the table to get behind her. “You ruined our good clothes. Our good game.” The young woman, of course, was still frozen, staring wide eyed and tight lipped at the aged man. One thing was for certain – she did not recognize him. She did not recognize any of the men standing around her, staring darkly and somewhat disgustingly down at her. She whirled around when another man got to close and brought up her tray across her soaked chest. "Just what are you gonna do about this, huh?" While he stared at her with something similar to killer intent, her mind was scattered, pulling at the threads of words, something to get her out of this horrible, terrifying mess, but nothing came.

It was the booming voice of her father that stole the attention right off of her.

“That’s enough, gentlemen.” He had somehow pushed through the small crowd of five grown men, narrowed eyes at Amelia, not them. “Just a mistake now, right Amelia?” The girl furiously nodded her head yes, enough to catch the attention of the man who spoke down to her. “Let’s treat you boy to a fresh round and a room on the house, hmm? I imagine you have a long journey ahead of y’all and a night’s rest is just what you need after an ale or two?”

The four other men took to that idea rather well, nodding and grinning at each other with unspoken words. The main man, the dark aged man with wicked blue eyes and a dusty cowboy hat stared right at her father’s face. Something about his expression told Amelia this would not be enough – he was pissed and she had to pay for her misjudgments. But, after a moment, he shrugged and cocked a grin, flashing a golden tooth where his canine should have been. “Sounds like a fine idea. Whatta say, boys? Turn in for the night and have all our fun for the morn’?” There was a collective agreement and the group followed Amelia’s father to the bar to collect some room keys. She had not yet moved, rather watched them traverse the space as the other patrons got back into the swing of things. It was the way the man looked back, his golden tooth still gleaming, that made her moved back to the floorboards to clean up glass. It was scary, like a deep, dark secret that would ruin the lives of the innocents. Something wasn’t right and she knew it.
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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Balgair Arregaithel » Fri Jun 23, 2017 4:04 am

It was hot. That never changed, West or South. Sometimes he'd wished he had the patience and supplies to ride out East to the coast, find a nice cool place to sit with scotch and and a lady. Not like he'd live through that. Or ol' Dusty. The horse was a strong Mustang, fast and reliable. But just like ol' Walker, he was growing old. It pissed them both off, exchanging irritated and grumpy snorts most of their lonesome time.

It was a lot of time, at that. But they'd been heading out of the desert, finding relief in the distant sight of a shanty town. Clearly didn't have a full house, or a sheriff. Two things he found the lack of, quite relieving. He hated questions that probed too deep, and didn't trust a whole lot of people.

A nudge at Dusty's side, muscles rippled beneath skin, brown and gray fur bristling with adrenaline as heavy bronze hooves thundered across the dusty ground, rising small clouds with each mighty push. They cut the last of the trip into twenty minutes, and he left Dusty tethered near a water tub, where other horses stood. Unusually high numbers, for the town's size.

"Prob'ly nothin', jus' gonna git." Into the tavern stepped a stock man, with chocolate eyes and graying cocoa locks. A long, thick beard ran down his neck and chest, brown and graying. He wore a duster over a cut-sleeve cotton shirt and belted breeches, with work, dusty boots. At his hip was the handle of a revolver, and he definitely had another hidden in that duster. His appearance wouldn't raise questions, he kept to himself, passing by commotion between the bar wench and the keeper.

He'd found himself a stool at the wall, waiting patiently for either to serve him. To pass the time, he'd taken to spinning a coin through his fingers, free hand idly drumming fingers against the bar. His hat rested in front of him, worn and covered in dust.
"A pitiful cry of the damned. Chèr...What do you think?"
~Writings of Darcy Witchmist

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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Parps » Fri Jun 23, 2017 4:31 am

The commotion, light scuffle, and her father's quick thinking put a damper on an already depressing, sticky afternoon. Despite the cool effect of water on a hot summer day, warm ale, whiskey, and moonshine were not particularly relieving. Amelia did not have time to change; the stain across her favorite white and dusty rose dress needed to be forgotten for now. Instead, a new patron walked in, another unfamiliar face, but someone not as dark, glaring, and already drunk as previous guests. He was just looking to be alone, just like the other lone men, aged from work, time, and solitude. It wasn't everyday the Burnett's had a real traveler, but Amelia was still too shaken up from the earlier encounter to strike up hospitality. Rather, she wiped her clammy, sticky hands on her apron and approached the man, keeping a careful eye on the rolling coin glittering between his fingers.

He looked older than her father, but this was easily explained: Jack Burnett stopped traveling for fun and amusement after Laura died. He only left for tavern supplies and shipments, and only if the hired help forgot to show on schedule. But, this man had probably seen the world twice. Sun brazened, untrimmed beard, dusty everywhere. He looked like all the working hands that saw the sun go up and down every day. Amelia paused a moment, pushing back a long, disheveled piece of hair before gathering her qualms and speaking. "Hello." She had approached from behind and did not want to startle him with questions. And then, the regular spiel. "What'll have, sir? We have scotch, ales, and a little moonshine left. No water, though. Our well is dry this week." Her accent was like her mother's, but kind of like the land's, too. A bit of New York, if anyone could point it out, with a light twang caught by the doctor she annoyed for years about her mother.

Behind her, her father was showing the unruly men to their rooms, and their outburst of unspoken threats and glares would soon be forgotten. Jack Burnett returned behind the bar and tended back to another dirty mug.
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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Balgair Arregaithel » Fri Jun 23, 2017 5:13 am

The voice. Smooth, clear like spring water found East. His eyes went to the men who caused the commotion moments ago. Fear the silent, for they hear all. And he'd heard their intent. Read it on them like thick ink on the papers plastered over towns across the South and West civilization. But he kept silent. Didn't like to get involved, didn't plan to stay long.

"Scotch'll do, girlie. If ya got jerky, I'll take five pieces." His voice was rough, like gravel under hoof, but held the strong Texan rancher's twang and slur. A small handful of coins clattered against the bar, slid across to be taken.
"Keep the rest. Yer gon' need it more'n I will. Keep addin' more, long as ya keep my cup full." He looked across the room, scanning each patron. His right hand twitched, tensed, like a snake ready to spring.

He was on edge for the right reasons, just not doing anything for it. Didn't care enough to get attached, and feel anything when he rode away by dawn. He and Dusty had been searching for a long time, a place to call his own 'til he finally met the pyre. But he couldn't help but think, if he said something, helped these people, maybe he'd feel a bit better about sticking around. He decided to stay quiet for now, but keep his eye open. He didn't want to make anyone panic, yet.

His gaze turned to the girl, and he shook his head.
"Ain't that a sight. Change yer dress, I'd be damned if I let ya serve me in that mess." He followed with a low, melancholy laugh, implying anyone can wait some minutes for a lady to look nice for her patrons.
"A pitiful cry of the damned. Chèr...What do you think?"
~Writings of Darcy Witchmist

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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Parps » Fri Jun 23, 2017 6:38 pm

Was it pity? Possibly kindness? Or was this just another patron who saw her as easily swayed by an extra bit of coin? Amelia did not see any sort of intimidation in his eyes, nor his tone. Just a man tired from days spent on the land and looking for a drink and snack. Fair enough – the young woman smiled briefly, nodding, and with nimble fingers, collected the small handful of coins. This may be enough to make her father forget of his clumsiness; perhaps, even make him rather happy. Maybe this would be enough to get that wretched well looked at. Moments later, she returned with a short glass filled with his poison and jerky, the thick pieces wrapped up in a clean cloth. This time, there was an obvious twitch in his grip, something she noticed when he down the scotch and invited a fill-up. She obliged quietly with a steady hand, just as his eyes continued to scan the room.

She couldn’t help but glance up, looking over the customers, drunk and stumbling and carrying on with their fun, forgetting how terrible their lives were or how horrible this small, good for nothing town was. Amelia and her father were trapped here, too, just as all these people were. If they left, these people would die of work, boredom, or move on with their lives to make some other sorry town miserable. She hadn’t realized the aged man glance on her until he mentioned the state of her clothing. In an instant, her cheeks flared red, easy on pale skin. And her hazel eyes narrowed tightly, just as he rumbled a low laugh at her. Nothing like feeling embarrassed because of this godforsaken town and because she looked like she belonged here. Rather than bolster a smart response, her father’s presence in her peripherals was enough to keep her tight lipped and silent. Instead, she huffed and turned away, wiping down her hands on her apron before disappearing in the back.

When she had returned minutes later, long dark hair half up and dressed in something pale blue and beige, there was a good commotion of rowdiness from some customers. From the looks of it, someone was cheating at cards again. Amelia’s father was already on it, pulling some drunken fool off another and pushing them back toward the door. “Alright, alright – that’s enough!” The scuffle wasn’t very long, but it was enough to catch the attention of others and damper their cheery mood. Insults, curses, and the occasional mug went up in the air, and two young farmhands from the stables on the other end of town were shoved out the swinging doors. Their company, still hyped from the fight, ran out to watch them brawl in the dirt. Once they were out of the bar, though, it was no longer their problem. Amelia’s father dusted his hands together and pointed at the mess, something Amelia would need to take care of. The young woman said nothing, gathering her broom to work up even more broken glass and sticky liquid.

It was getting that time where patrons were growing bored. All the fun was pushed outside, and onlookers with sudden and quick bets on which Williams boy hit harder wanted to see who would win. Others, too drunk to stumble home would take a room or sleep under a table when no one was looking. And the sun wasn’t touching the distant horizon yet – Amelia picked up the last pieces of glass with a heavy sigh. This place sure knew how to clear out, just as fast as people came in. Some peace and quiet was pleasant, though. The man was still sitting at the bar, though, being the last of few who stuck around to finish their hard earned drink. She remembered to top-off his glass once more then crossing to the other end to poke a sleeping woman, currently holding tight to a mug handle. “Finish up your whiskey or go sleep at home, Margie. I think we’re closing early tonight.” The woman stirred quietly and Amelia did not wait to watch her leave. She turned her attention back to the man. “Same goes for you, sir. If you’d like, your generosity was enough for a spare room for the evening. We have the room.”
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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Balgair Arregaithel » Fri Jun 23, 2017 8:24 pm

Brawls. The second commotion he'd observed was entertaining enough, though he'd thrown enough punches to know they would break fingers before they even bruised an eye. Still, always a sight to see. Young boys speaking with fists, not even dressed with a man's gentlemanly weapon. Brass dusters made it quick, but the aftermath wasn't always pleasant. He recalled that well, while absent-mindedly chewing on a bite of jerky. The dried meat was seasoned well enough, and not tough like that tasteless junk he'd grown used to chewing on.

He was snapped from his thoughts by the girl, offering a room. He cracked a small smile, sliding from his stool after tucking the rest of the jerky into his duster. Hat fitted over and the last dregs of scotch gone, he shook his head. "Nah. Got ta keep Dusty company, an' we sleep under them stars. Welcome to find me, I'll be jus' out of town. Could do with a bit o' talkin', ain't had a proper one in years." He set down a couple extra coins, adding in that it was a tip for good service, before leaving.

His figure was visible against the sun, leading a brown and gray Mustang toward a sizeable enough rock, which he rested his head against. The faint sputtering and snorting of the horse and laughs of the Texan were barely audible. He seemed to be waiting, rather than trying to rest. Chewing on jerky, eyeing the dimming sky and the tavern. He'd meant what he said. He did love the idea of talking, but he doubted the girl would come just for a stranger who'd be gone by dawn.

He pushed himself up, drawing his revolver. It was a sleek, beautiful weapon, though worn. It had seen a lot of use. Textured ivory was rubbed smooth, the trigger had visible marks where it had been welded back on, and the hammer had uneven ridges carved in for texture and priming. The bullets were large, cased Magnum rounds, with narrow points and gleaming brass jackets.

Spinning it loosely around his finger, stopping it often to aim or spin the cylinder, caused Dusty to snort at him. He returned with his own. Dusty looked out at the desert, as if questioning his rider. Would they really be leaving?

"I know, Dusty. Gettin' tired. Ain't the last time we've survived it. Soon, I reckon we head East. 'Bout time we found one o' them nice shacks at a river, stuck to it for a while." He stroked Dusty's head, which now rested on his lap. Both wanted to settle down, after years of wandering with no apparent destination. Just whatever was on the horizon.
"A pitiful cry of the damned. Chèr...What do you think?"
~Writings of Darcy Witchmist

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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Parps » Sat Jun 24, 2017 1:24 am

The man declined her offer – understandable – but then gave a few more coins for the trouble, a clatter of bronzed tokens on the freshly waxed bar top. Another generous payment for service worth much less. She really wasn’t used to this from a customer, or even from a man off the land. He even considered conversation, and she imagined living on the land with only a horse (she assumed Dusty was a horse) does get rather lonely. Amelia eyed him carefully, a bit of skepticism in her brow as he rose from the bar and walked out the door. But, she said nothing, merely nodding at his comment and scrapping the coins into her hands to give to her father. There was too much work to just wander out for a bit of talking. And with the setting sun? A ridiculous notion. Amelia’s nose wrinkled with the thought; her father would lose his head in an instant if she decided that.

Further into the night, with the sun hiding behind the mountains off the horizon, Amelia and her father were finishing up the last of the cleaning. Like most nights, all the floorboards needed a good sweep and mop down. Customers always left a mess, though, it wouldn’t have been a good night if there wasn’t one. Amelia’s father did not mind it at all, but he wasn’t the one on his hands and knees getting out a dark stain from beneath one of the tables. He was quite content wiping down the bar and hearing the jingle of coins in his pouch. After cleaning, they would then check bottles and provisions and make a list to take to town when supplies ran low. Tonight, it was Amelia’s turn. Her father handed her the usual pad and lead pencil in one hand and a candle lantern in the other. “Shouldn’t be much, darlin’, then off to bed.”

Amelia sighed, knowing a ‘little’ was actually a ‘lot’. Though, fair was fair. “What are you going to do, Pa?”

“Our guests mentioned an early morning. I want to make sure we have enough together to see them off.”

Why in the world any sort of hospitality would go their way was beyond her, but she did not want to see her father red in the face twice that night. So, she sighed and went off to the cellar, through a door behind the bar. It was a steep staircase into darkness, but her candle provided enough light to traverse down into the depths. The cellar, just like the tavern above, was small, but humid and a little chilly compared to the heat outside. It wasn’t necessarily comfortable, though – it was cramped with shelves, barrels, and crates, goods needed in case of an emergency. She followed the usual path to a particular shelf that held their most used provisions, and she took note on the lacking bottles of the bitter moonshine her father liked to sell during the hotter seasons. What was a usually quiet and somewhat calming event quickly turned into quite the opposite. Above, dust and mites suddenly rained down on her head, but it was the noise of conflict and hostility that bothered her the most. That, and her father’s pained plea for help. Immediately, Amelia ducked down to the floor and waited, eyes darting from above to the stairway out of the cellar. The voices above were too muffled to understand, but they were angry, taunting, and, more or less, recognizable to the woman who encountered similar venom only hours before. It was the crew of men, coming back for revenge. Her father was arguing or yelling back at them, which only seemed to make the men angrier.

An explosion, something so nerve-wracking that it made her shriek and cover her head. It was followed with a couple more explosions, another loud yell, and something hitting the floorboards, hard. Following that was silence, but that too was broken by a collection of laughs among the men. For some reason, Amelia could hear them better, because she swore she heard their leader say, “now, where is that pretty little flower of his?” Her pounding heart drowned out their quick moving boots, the lot of them splitting up to wreak havoc to her family’s saloon. One thing was certain – she had to get out of here. She had to find out if her father was alright.

Amelia stood quickly, leaving behind the supplies book and the candle lantern, though that was probably the best mistake of her life. Without it, she could not see where she was going, thus, venturing through the cramped darkness, she tripped over a jutting shelf, hit her head on the corner of a crate, and immediately blacked out.

Above, the bandits did whatever they pleased. With the saloon owner dead, they were free to yell, steal, and drink as much as they wanted. Other guests of the inn caught up in their festivities were immediately mugged, berated, and killed for just staying there. Once they were done at the tavern, they moved into the town, taking each building and business one by one. Screams could be heard through the night, followed by explosions of pistols and the low roar of a starting fire. Soon after, the buildings went up in flames, an eerie, beautiful glow of orange and red in the midnight sky. Smoke, thick and black, covered the stars that night, but the bandits knew which way was west. After stealing as much as they could carry, raping the land of its goods, liquor, and women, they rode off, hooting and laughing at how senseless those people really were after all.

Amelia awoke not even an hour later, a throbbing headache and choking lungs. It was the strangle of smoke that roused her, but it was the sight of fire at her boots that got her to her feet. The stairwell back into the saloon was gone, engulfed in hot flame that burned even from where she stood. Amelia had nothing to douse it, nothing to protect herself from the burns – all she could do was run, careful not to catch her foot on another trap as she squeezed toward the other door. Pushing up on the cellar doors often took a lot of strength, but the will to live and the outcome of her father gave her the power to escape into the summer night. And she ran for quite a bit before turning, tripping over her feet, and falling to the dirt. At her knees, she screamed painfully into the darkness. Everything she had, everything she worked for, was gone. Her life, her books, her town, her father – all gone in fire and ash.
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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Balgair Arregaithel » Sat Jun 24, 2017 3:10 am

The first gunshot startled Walker from his thoughts. He grunted, rousing Dusty to stand. Using the low straps of his thin saddle, he vaulted over and nudged the Mustang, who thundered forward into the town, just as smoke began to rise from orange tongues. He kicked Dusty in the side and yanked the reigns, sending them careening nearly into the side of a building, to keep the horse safe from bullets and firebomb.

He turned around the other side of the building, to circle around, limping heavily because of how fast he was.trying to move. He managed to slip into a narrow alley, and come behind one of the gang, who he immediately shot in the back, without hesitation or even remorse. His left hand glittered with brass dusters, carved with narrow ridges to form rised, flat points. It had seen a lot of blood, bits of dark red were still caught in the ridges.

He had a few seconds to prepare himself, for another man who heard the gunshot. Walker knew their guns were different. He'd heard the crack of a lever-action, thunder of Magnums weaker than his. Figured, they'd know a different gun by the sound.

He'd barely ducked in time, catching Walker's second shot in his shoulder, narrowly missing his neck. Grunts of pain sounded, and blindly fired shots followed, which would rouse others to Walker's location. He figured, kill one or two more before he got shot or worse, killed. He could fake it well enough, escape with his ass in tow, but he realized, he missed this excitement.

With a low torrent of swearing, Walker peeked around, pistol cracking again, through a thin plywood wall covering the side of a deck, rewarded by the sound of a body falling. He saw the blood from around the corner, and ducked back behind his wall.

He heard the shouts of another man, and the crank of a lever. Not the easy, smooth one of a rifle.

Only meant this one had a shotgun, and Walker didn't like his chances against that thing. But he had to try.

He knelt, gathering a handful of reddish dirt in his hand, and threw it around the corner. The band of the buckshot weapon resounded, and he spun around and fired before the man could chamber the next shell, sending his bullet through the other's chest, right in the heart. He shook his head, holstering his pistol and turning. A sharp whistle summoned Dusty, who carried him away, though moments later he yanked hard on his reigns, rising irritated snorts. The tavern was done for. He knew the man didn't make it out, but the girl...He saw tracks in the dirt, and followed them.

Didn't take long to hear her scream, as if asking God why he'd let it happen. The answer, was God didn't care.

Dusty slowed as they approached, Walker dismounting to crouch at her side. A rough hand, like sandpaper, gently met her shoulder, though he was prepared to catch her arms if she tried to fight.

"Hey, kid...You arright?"
"A pitiful cry of the damned. Chèr...What do you think?"
~Writings of Darcy Witchmist

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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Parps » Sat Jun 24, 2017 5:08 am

Shock, pain, anger, guilt – death effects everyone differently, but Amelia feels it all. All the emotions hit her like a stampede and stunned her mind. With no control, hot, furious tears streaked her cheeks. Blood streaked her face from her previous fall. Her throat burned, tight, red and raw from the smoke and her pitiful screams. There was nothing in this world to prepare her for this. How could she possibly come back from this? What in the world was she going to do? … But, these were not questions she could even comprehend – the burning town, the death of her father, and losing everything – her judgment was clouded. One thing was certain… she didn’t want to see this anymore, finding little comfort in kneeling over the dirt face first and waiting for the nightmare to be over. Her body shook feverishly, despite any attempt to clench burning, tired muscles.

Through her cries and the crack of burning wood, a low grunt of a horse was nearby. She froze, catching her whimpers to listen closely, but by the time she caught the noise, he was already kneeling beside her, placing a hard, rough hand on her shoulder. Words went unheard; she flinched her body upward, but instead of throwing arms to fight, she merely fell back into the dirt away from him. Her breathing had never settled and her face was still wet, glittering from tears and the glow of the distant fire. Amelia stared at him carefully, searching her mind for that familiar face. It was the aged man from the bar, the one with the extra coin and low laugh. An old mustang stood calmly behind him. Seeing him and his horse was enough to bring the waterfall of tears back to her hazel eyes, and she glared right through them.

“N-No, I am not alright!” Her voice shook, cracking at the edges. “Those men destroyed e-everything! A-and they killed… the-they killed –…” the words could not come, almost as if saying them was the reason why it was true. Instead, she bit her lip and caught her face in her dusty hands, cries rocking through her shoulders again. “I-I don’t understand why they would d-do something like this. T-there was nothin’ for here for them!” Again, another crack in foundation, and Amelia lifted her eyes just in time to watch the final support beams tumble under the weight of fire. The saloon was gone. As if it didn’t really hit her before, now it sure did. “T-this can’t be happening,” she murmured to herself, fresh tears streaking down her cheeks.
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Re: Unforgiven, a Western Story [Balgair Arregaithel]

Post by Balgair Arregaithel » Sat Jun 24, 2017 5:44 am

"You know better than that, Kyle. Get out, and take that damned horse away from here!" Her voice was furious, seething rage about to burst through the calm shell. The young boy, dressed in a ranch hand's getup, silently left the room, to the stables where a brown and gray Mustang lied, legs bent awkwardly. He silently touched his chest, shaking in anger.
"Ma ain't gonna let me keep ye, Dusty. I'll show 'er, yer gon' be the finest horse in the South!"


Walker was stunned. He hadn't remembered the feeling of having a parent. So remembering, only made him more sympathetic. He remembered the day Mama Rue died. Wild steed, enormous and mad, had gotten into the stables while she'd been brushing her own horses and saddling them for the plow. The blood never did come out of the wood, leaving Walker, barely a man, to his own.

He knew what this girl felt. That torrent of emotion, and the one question underlying those screams. Why? He never did take to the Bible. Believed himself and Dusty, and his pistol. Certainly not a space man.

"Kid...I wish I could make it better. Best I can do is get ye outta here, someplace safe. If'n it helps any, killed three o' them boys. Rest carried their asses away, prob'ly tryin' to buy their way East." He offered a hand. "Can't stay. Come on, ye can sleep on Dusty. He ain't gon' let ya fall."


"I told you no, Kyle!" A sharp sting blossomed on his cheek, a red face almost glaring fire into Kyle's skull. He yelled, shoving back with all of his might, sending Rue into the wall, shocked.
"Dusty ain't goin' nowhere! Tell yer man ya can't sell him.
Dusty's mine, Ma, and I'm gonna make him the best!"
"Idiot boy. That horse is more worthless than an ass if he can't walk."
"A pitiful cry of the damned. Chèr...What do you think?"
~Writings of Darcy Witchmist

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