Realistic or Modern Blood Feuds --

[miyabi]

BLOOD FEUDS

© REVERIEE

There have been times where certain death has loomed, threatening their throats as they escaped the tumult of what used to be home; as vivid as the last, an impression that dug deep into their veins, is the memory of Dull Tooth. When Louis and his gang of misfits rode off into nothing, desperate to cling onto their lives as bullets sprayed from the guns of their enemies, Jim Bell’s gang, a price on their head followed. What Louis remembers most is not the overwhelming emotional baggage that had just landed at their feet, but the fact that Jim Bell—that bastard—took away his home, his fortune, his power.

When you’ve settled yourself into the soft blanket of a warm bed, made the town you and your people’s home, it wouldn’t be a surprise had any feathers been ruffled at the sight of an infestation. The memory is not an old one, only a few months old, and it is only now that the gang has gotten back on their feet.

“Have faith,” Louis mentions this in the midst of many dark days, words followed blindly—possibly by the sheer fact that there was no one else to turn to; possibly by the fact that they’d put far too much faith in a man who only seemed to be more talk.

MISSION BRIEF IN DISCORD SERVER

***​

This is not the first sweat he’s broken, however this matter was covered up by pristinely fit clothing and a hat that covered most of him. They’d taken up wind of a train coming down not too far off from the camp: luxury passengers, jewels, money, and—Hell—it didn’t look like there was any trouble going along with the esteemed. And to celebrate? He’d granted their newly appointed right-hand a taste of what it was like to plan a job such as this. Though, this may have been far more ill-intended than he’d let on.

“Now, we ain’t got much time to pull this off before the law gets there,” Louis soaks up the sun that beats against his skin, leans himself against a tree whose bark was picked at only moments prior, “as per Ellie’s instruction, we’re gon’ get in there like we’re one of them folks.” He gestures to their clothing, proper—clean, lends the crew the opportunity to blend in with the crowd of the train. “We stick together, ain’t nobody here is gettin’ left behind.”

Murmurs follow his short briefing.

“You all gotta have some faith. After this, we’re rich,” the words are familiar, the one thing he says constantly, but this has yet to be fulfilled. Perhaps it was the greed that took over again, how he could taste the nearing of money and how it promised him more fortune; perhaps it was the overwhelming urge to do right by the gang. But more often than not, it was the former. He considers a confession--however, he turns away from it, back towards the flame that only seemed to keep burning.

***​

To those unfamiliar, this must have been jarring; how they awaited the train as the other formation waited along the trees to strike. What had not been predicted was the lawmen's presence, the ones who waited alongside them and the other passengers. Now this? A complication, while the other formation could not see such a thing, the plan was near soiled by a small blip in information.

It is unnecessary to swell on such information, to anticipate the downfall of an operation that had been talked for for months; Louis, of all men--a trusted soul--has made it this far to accumulate the trust of his fellow outlaws. And now is not the time to doubt the process behind the thought, not after watching how he had calculated the odds in the margins of his journal, swiftly speaks of an operation that could get them away from the camp that held them captive in misery. But as it turns out, he has--subtly--succumbed to such broodings; began to doubt himself before manifesting the energy to which he must lead. Must provide for the people who have entrusted their lives in him.

The air is thick with tension, humidity filling the lungs of his companions as they wait at the train station, watching the lawmen enter their car. In these moments comes the realization that there must be another solution, enough time to think before carrying on with a plan that bares little risk.

"Y'all will be alright now, go on. We can handle this," Louis offers the words of encouragement, attempts to look in the direction of the remaining crew far off in the distance, but cannot spot them; it is only then that he feels another surge of anxiety that wells up in his chest, but he chips it away, saves the confident expression of his from falling. A delight, a moment of torment, this has only become a hurdle in the way of his promises. His empty, empty promises.

The gang has caught wind of a luxury passenger train going down near their camp; word is that alongside the rich are jewels and money, not a lawman in sight. This, however, is not as easy as it seems. As some of the gang await the arrival at the train, clad in their disguises, they watch as lawmen arrive to enter one of the cars. Unfortunately, the others are unable to see, nor are they able to be communicated such information. Everyone must come out in one piece, not a soul left behind.

conductor — veteran, mercy (on horse at first, one takes out the conductor and controls, the other assists)
front passenger — ellie, char, valory, temperance (to rob the passengers)
back passenger — louis, emona, jamie, jedidiah (to rob the passengers)
back baggage car — graham (to blast open the doors), willimina, alphonso (to confirm that the money is real), sam (on horse at first, then will jump onto back baggage car)
catchers (horseback) — oria, diyaa (on horse, will not jump onto train; loot will be thrown to them. thus, they must catch it)

Spoiler: mobile friendly

There have been times where certain death has loomed, threatening their throats as they escaped the tumult of what used to be home; as vivid as the last, an impression that dug deep into their veins, is the memory of Dull Tooth. When Louis and his gang of misfits rode off into nothing, desperate to cling onto their lives as bullets sprayed from the guns of their enemies, Jim Bell’s gang, a price on their head followed. What Louis remembers most is not the overwhelming emotional baggage that had just landed at their feet, but the fact that Jim Bell—that bastard—took away his home, his fortune, his power.

When you’ve settled yourself into the soft blanket of a warm bed, made the town you and your people’s home, it wouldn’t be a surprise had any feathers been ruffled at the sight of an infestation. The memory is not an old one, only a few months old, and it is only now that the gang has gotten back on their feet.

“Have faith,” Louis mentions this in the midst of many dark days, words followed blindly—possibly by the sheer fact that there was no one else to turn to; possibly by the fact that they’d put far too much faith in a man who only seemed to be more talk.

MISSION BRIEFING IN DISCORD SERVER.

***​

This is not the first sweat he’s broken, however this matter was covered up by pristinely fit clothing and a hat that covered most of him. They’d taken up wind of a train coming down not too far off from the camp: luxury passengers, jewels, money, and—Hell—it didn’t look like there was any trouble going along with the esteemed. And to celebrate? He’d granted their newly appointed right-hand a taste of what it was like to plan a job such as this. Though, this may have been far more ill-intended than he’d let on.

“Now, we ain’t got much time to pull this off before the law gets there,” Louis soaks up the sun that beats against his skin, leans himself against a tree whose bark was picked at only moments prior, “as per Ellie’s instruction, we’re gon’ get in there like we’re one of them folks.” He gestures to their clothing, proper—clean, lends the crew the opportunity to blend in with the crowd of the train. “We stick together, ain’t nobody here is gettin’ left behind.”

Murmurs follow his short briefing.

“You all gotta have some faith. After this, we’re rich,” the words are familiar, the one thing he says constantly, but this has yet to be fulfilled. Perhaps it was the greed that took over again, how he could taste the nearing of money and how it promised him more fortune; perhaps it was the overwhelming urge to do right by the gang. But more often than not, it was the former. He considers a confession--however, he turns away from it, back towards the flame that only seemed to keep burning.

***​

To those unfamiliar, this must have been jarring; how they awaited the train as the other formation waited along the trees to strike. What had not been predicted was the lawmen's presence, the ones who waited alongside them and the other passengers. Now this? A complication, while the other formation could not see such a thing, the plan was near soiled by a small blip in information.

It is unnecessary to swell on such information, to anticipate the downfall of an operation that had been talked for for months; Louis, of all men--a trusted soul--has made it this far to accumulate the trust of his fellow outlaws. And now is not the time to doubt the process behind the thought, not after watching how he had calculated the odds in the margins of his journal, swiftly speaks of an operation that could get them away from the camp that held them captive in misery. But as it turns out, he has--subtly--succumbed to such broodings; began to doubt himself before manifesting the energy to which he must lead. Must provide for the people who have entrusted their lives in him.

The air is thick with tension, humidity filling the lungs of his companions as they wait at the train station, watching the lawmen enter their car. In these moments comes the realization that there must be another solution, enough time to think before carrying on with a plan that bares little risk.

"Y'all will be alright now, go on. We can handle this," Louis offers the words of encouragement, attempts to look in the direction of the remaining crew far off in the distance, but cannot spot them; it is only then that he feels another surge of anxiety that wells up in his chest, but he chips it away, saves the confident expression of his from falling. A delight, a moment of torment, this has only become a hurdle in the way of his promises. His empty, empty promises.

 

[qunqun]

MOOD: Focused… sike

OUTFIT: He’s a whore.

LOCATION: Train car

basics

MENTIONS:



INT:
Open

tags

TL;DR So far so good

tl;dr

Graham

The approach to the train was careful, he made sure to be the last one on. Steady and measured steps, keep from jostling the package in his bag too much because one wrong move and at best he wouldn’t be able to father children.

Worst? He’d blow himself to smithereens.

The approach to the carriage was careful, a little slip in between cars as he carefully slid into place. The clothes were uncomfortable. Finery had never been something that provided him a sense of belonging.

But they’d forced him to wear it. Disgusting.

A kneeling down, the careful placement of adhesive as he very carefully measured out prepackaged bits of TNT. He twinned the fuses together into one, till he felt safe enough to snip it off.

A pause. A measured breath.

There was nothing that could get Graham to focus and sober up like having to carry and light bombs, after all.

A flame was lit. A single match held delicately between two rough and calloused fingers as it slowly went closer and closer to the fuse. A bit of black powder loaded into the bit of textile to spark as it hissed closer and closer to the carefully measured out bits of TNT he’d carefully put in precise locations to explode the door to a safe off the hinges without doing any more damage than needed.

It was months’ worth of preparation through years and years of carefully handling death, quite literally playing with ticking time bombs. All for this heist.

“Fecking hell this shite smells like arse.” The redhead said, leaning his head back away from the lit fuse as it steadily traveled to the explosive. Surprisingly measured for being the product of someone who didn’t understand what it’d smell like to light a fuse. He stood, walking out of the way of the blast, though with a casual kind of flippancy that seemed more like pacing rather than actual safety precautions.

Though, he did quietly tug at one of his fellow crew member’s elbow just a couple of paces back.

This uncharacteristic amount of carefulness was thrown out the door immediately as Graham casually flicked the still-lit match somewhere off to the side of the wagon. A smug grin on his face, though not at all associated with the task that he’d been given at hand as he leaned up against whatever was closest.

“Did ya see the nice lass that smiled at me in the pub?” He asked whatever unlucky soul that got locked into having to deal with the idiot that was supposed to be taking care of the explosives that may or may not doom the entire heist.

Graham’s eyes had steadily left the fuse that was still slowly traveling towards the TNT. Though every now and then, they flickered back to watch the progress. Steadily making eye contact though.

“I think when we go back I got a shot with her, yeah? Think that’d be a fun time.”

code by valen t.

 

[High5ives]

THE DOG
Jamison was a simple man, but he did enjoy his fancy clothes and accessories. When he had money, that’s where it tended to go. That and alcohol anyways. That said, Jamie hated the simple clothes he had been told to wear for this job. Sure, they were clean and ironed out, so Jamie at least looked put together, but they were still so dull! Worse, the arms on his shirt were too short! The waist was too tight! The pants hugged his calves in a way that managed to pull his leg hair when he walked! The damn collar!-

Jamison pulled at the collar to his shirt with one finger like he had a million times already. The combination of a tight shirt collar, a large neck, and a very, very irritable man left Jamie’s neckline red and irritated from constant scratching. Finally with a bit of a huff, Jamison had just undone the top button of his shirt. Professionalism be damned! He was robbing a train, not serving drinks to the King of Timbuk-Fucking-Tu!

Sitting on the seat in the train, with the seat next to him empty, Jamison did not look like a happy man in the slightest. He might’ve been dressed like a farmhand, brown pants and a plain white shirt, but his features told a different story. His eyes were wild, and they were slowly darting around, gazing at the other passengers one by one, and taking them in. These were not the eyes of a farmer who’d spent his days watching an empty field. They were too predatory in nature for a life like that. Those eyes coupled with the angry grimace smeared on Jamie’s face while he chewed on a stick of cinnamon made it seem like Jamison was in a life or death stare-down with the whole damn world and he wasn’t going to back down.

Jamison’s leg bounced quickly in small bursts like machine gun fire. His eyes were locked dead ahead, not looking at anything in particle, just like he was stuck in a trance. Anticipation.

Eagerness was the primary cause. This was Jamison’s job after all. He was paid to do violence, and he was paid well. Well enough to indulge himself anyways. This job, and the money it would make, came with the promise of more booze, women, and other vices to try and bury the parts of himself he didn’t like. That all together made Jamison excited, not so much to do violence, but to get paid. In truth, Jamison didn’t feel positively or negatively about the violence, it was just a tool, like any other. It had its job and it served its purpose.

Beneath that eagerness was anxiety. Whether Jamison realized it or not, there was a subconscious terror building at the idea of the violent events that were likely to unfold.
Jamison slowly opened and closed his right hand, tucked out of sight from the other passengers. His knuckles were white, gripping the warm piece of brass molded between his fingers. Open. Close. Open. Close. Jamison repeated the motion over and over and over again as he kept staring dead ahead.
Open.. Close.. Open.. Close..

There was supposed to be a sign or something? Wasn’t there? There had to have been! What was Louis waiting for!?

Open. Close. Open. Close.

The stick of cinnamon clutched between his teeth wobbled up and down aggressively as Jamison chewed at it. The muscles in his jaw tightened and loosened in waves every time he maneuvered the stick from one side of his mouth to the other, using his tongue to flick it this way or that. Until finally it came to rest on the right side of his mouth where he bit down on it and it stayed.

Open close. Open close.

The muscles in his back and arms began to stiffen and his eyes shot in the direction of the others in his group. What were they waiting for?! Like a banshee shrieking damnation at every doomed soul that failed to listen before, Jamie’s instincts began to scream!
OPEN CLOSE OPEN CLOSE.

Terror, masked by an aggressive eagerness, took hold and Jamison swung in to fight or flight. Only violence had twisted and distorted Jamison to the point where “flight” was no longer an option, and “fight” wasn’t nearly a powerful enough word to describe the internal panic that Jamison faced. Jamison stood quickly, stepping out of his seat only a little bit to get a better angle on the man in front of him.

OPEN.

CLOSE.

CRACK!

Jamison had pulled his right arm back, hand clutching the brass knuckles, and for an instant he looked like one of those old renaissance paintings. The ones of angels, striking down demons. Only Jamie wasn’t an angel. And this was no demon.​

Jamison’s fist came came down savagely against the back right side of the poor man’s head, who had never even seen it coming. As you’d expect, the man slumped back almost instantly. But Jamison still hit him a second time, partially for the raw shock factor, but mostly because he lacked the self control.

His left hand drew his small pistol, quickly waving over the other passengers on board. Pistol in one hand, bloody brass knuckles in the other, and face barred like a bear about to roar.

“Everyone put your fucking pockets on the floor, or I’ll use your head like a fucking railway spike!” Jamison roared, eyes wildly looking for anyone that dared oppose him.

 

[toucant]

"this is a dialogue."

Itchy. Itchy. Itchy. Fingers fumbled with the buttons on his coat jacket, the only sign the older man showed of any anxiety or nervousness. It's not that he didn't feel prepared, but something within him screamed that their surroundings were amiss. Perhaps it was the fact that, at least where Val currently sat, he was amongst those who would normally be after him with pitchforks. Public display of headassery cloaked by pure white and purple fabric, delicate lace and unscuffed boots. He was supposed to be sitting here, with them, not as someone who was about to rob them blind, but someone who belonged to the politics and the ruffling of peacock feathers. Instead he rested at unease, adorned with the same white fabric. This jacket was not one of high fashion, but one that left his skin feeling raw with failing quality. Under his arm, he tucked a dark hat, uncreased and still stiff to the touch. It was quite possibly made of cardboard— who knows how Louis got these silly costumes for them?

Dressed to the nines, Valory put his fingers to rest on the silky tablecloth laid out for him and his comrades. Or, comrade, rather. He sat only in the company of Charlotte while the other two were somewhere else in the passenger cab.

"So, this is what the high life feels like, huh?"

He mused, the words barely making it above a mumble. The chuckles and idle conversation of the nearby passengers amused him. How cheery they are for people about to get a gun to their head and everything they own tossed into a bag. A waiter passed by, and for a moment he fiddled with the menu before calling out an order for a bottle of whiskey. If he was going to be able to pledge deniability during this heist, he would have to be halfway to heaven.

"So, wifey,"

Val chuckled, the tone biting with sarcasm. Never did he think he'd utter such a word to anyone other than his late bride.

"How would you like to spend this lovely train ride?"

the doctor

valory.

• aaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaa

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  miyabi
  mentions ellie and temperance!

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

  outfit here

  
  
  
  

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[xayah.]

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  XI.
  the loanshark

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  alphonse "thomas" hall.

  mood

  sweating - feels like deja vu
  
  

  location

  back baggage car
  
  

  interactions

  graham, willimina
  
  

  tags

  qunqun am3thyst.
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
• "Men, meet my boy. Introduce yourself, son."
  
  A hand, calloused enough to feel through layers of fine cotton and leather, pats the boy right between the shoulder blades. As if on instinct, the child stands upright, pushing back his shoulders and puffing his chest out. Just moments before, his father was drilling into him the importance of posture, of one's presence:
  
  Even though you're still a boy, you need to show them that you're no child. Show them that my son is tough on his future subordinates, just like his father.
  
  The words rang through his head as he looked each of the men in their eyes. He was born for this. He was going to prove it.
  
  "It's nice to meet you. My name is Alphonse."
  -----
  In a lone window near the locked away valuables this group of outlaws was planning to steal in a mere matter of minutes, what seemed like something Alphonse would never see again was reflected back at him clear as day. Fine cotton shirts. Clean seams. A leather vest that hugged the body just right. The sight was so familiar—Alphonse had half expected to find the face of seven year old him staring back—yet not. It'd been more than a decade since he'd last worn anything this nice. Maybe the others couldn't tell, simply assuming that clothes of this quality were a foregone conclusion for someone of his wealth, but this was just as strange for him as it was for them. His hand coasted over his body, smoothing out any wrinkles and feeling what it was like to wear something so fine. It seemed like it would be the last time in a long time.
  
  The sound of a match lighting up snapped Alphonse back to the task at hand. Right, this was a heist, not a time to get overwhelmed with nostalgia, especially when just moments ago, a band of unexpected lawmen had boarded. The air became thick, if not suffocating, at the very moment the gang realized their plans were going awry. Alphonse hated when plans went awry. But he boarded anyways. They boarded anyways. Because it was too late to go back now, too late to formulate a new plan, and Louis had reassured them that no matter what, it was all of them getting out or none of them.
  
  Alphonse had struck deals with enough people to know whether or not that was a lie. He chose to believe in it.
  
  So when the fuse was lit, the loanshark took a few steps back. Whoever chose to put the main person keeping the gang afloat economically next to an explosion needed to rethink their planning skills and maybe just their intelligence in general. He would've taken a few more steps back had a slight tug on the edge of his jacket elbow not stopped him. More accurately, if one of the gang's most physically imposing figures wasn't weighing him down. Luckily, Graham was not a walking menace like Temperance. No. He was more...
  
  "Did ya see the nice lass that smiled at me in the pub?"
  
  A grin pulled at Alphonse's lips, just enough to be a smirk full of his classic boyish charm. Yes, Graham was less work, more play. Less staring you down, more staring at you. And for that, he was thankful. It lifted the tense mood, even as a fuse was slowly burning—which, arguably, was increasing the tension in the room. But, this was Graham's specialty, and things were still going according to the original plan. No officers had made their way to the back baggage car, either. Most importantly, Graham was still thinking of what he was going to do afterwards, not even phased by the presence of lawmen. It was admirable, truly.
  
  "Lucky lady. Maybe you can treat her with some of the cash we score from this." A bit teasing, a bit mocking, Alphonse stifled a laugh at the idea of Graham thinking he might have a chance. He knew he did. His record showed it. A man with a list of bodies that long does not rely on chance.
  
  "What do women like anyways?" Alphonse glimpsed over at Willimina. The female species was not his strong suit. He certainly couldn't compare the gang's own to the average woman. Average people didn't participate in heists of trains and shootouts. They certainly weren't talking about future lays when a fuse for dynamite was slowly burning in front of them, either. As it got shorter and shorter, Alphonse prepared to cover his ears.
  
  The minute it exploded, no matter how small, lawmen would be well on their way, hindered only slightly by a distraction. Just the thought made him sweat. He looked too familiar, even for himself.
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[miyabi]

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  XI.
  the barfly

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  charlotte watson

  mood

  GIVE ME THY BOOCHIE
  
  

  location

  front passenger car
  
  

  interactions

  toucant .V1LLAINISM._ val and jax
  
  

  tags

  toucant .V1LLAINISM._ xxxena erzulie
  

  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  

  
  Her knees ached in a dull, unrepentant way; fragile skin separated from the soil by only denim, worn and near-broken. Charlotte, a woman of the past, longs for the closure that only seems to become farther. She prays by the advice of an old pastor and falls deep into the thoughts that have only come to harm her with the very memory of pain. It only bore itself into her skin. Blonde hair pushes back with the wind, golden tendrils in every direction as tired, broken eyes follow onward in front of her. Though, this may have looked like a form of self-punishment: knees falling on a threadbare surface, small pebbles of dirt digging deeper into the threads of her clothing as she sits there.
  
  The pain seethes, but it is a reminder that she is alive; awaiting the fate of the husband who has yet to pay for the sins of his own.
  
  O Lord,
  I come according to will
  and obeying your command,
  bringing all my petitions,
  especially the things that would prevent
  me from coming to you—
  
  She was never the religious type, scoffed at the sound of advice that only kept prayer and no other logic, found that it brought no solace in her times of need; but with this, was the desperation that only seemed to creep up further into her lungs with a vice grip. Charlotte is then there, at her tent, hunched behind the flaps of cloth that was the only barrier between her and the group she’d traveled with for far too long. An indication of the turmoil that continues to plague the brain.
  
  The bright sun had only seemed to burn into her back as it peaked between the cracks, redness welling against already-pink flesh. She brings her dark eyes of hers upwards, the look of a woman begging for the forgiveness of a God she is unsure about. It ends here, the sought-after answers. There is only the realization that she, who has not atoned for her faults, that her prayers may not be answered. Who is she, as sinful as she is, to demand answers in her search for vengeance?
  
  my sins that trouble me greatly,
  and I ask you to remove and forgive them.
  Amen.
  
  In truth, the universe has granted the grief of reprieve, though she is unworthy; it carries on her fate tucked into its hands with indecision—questions not of how it will bear her death, but the time that continues to tick.
  
  The prayer ends and she drinks. Alcohol burns the throat, meets the acid of her stomach, and makes it twist.
  

  
  ***​

  
  It is a rarity these days to witness the silence of the force who is Charlotte. However, at this moment—the silence is due to her wondering about her faith. Never did she think to pray, even in the times that have repeatedly spit in her face the vile sputter of life. She thinks of this and allows for it to dampen the words Louis has been speaking during the round-up of colleagues.
  
  There is a slight murmur.
  
  Only then does she realize that Louis had been speaking, his voice less commanding than what she’d initially witnessed in times before. She buries the self-pity and takes in the direction that has only been half-processed; a vast series of notes to be made as he turns a glance in her direction. The automatic raise of a brow communicates to her with only one look: “I know you weren’t listening the whole time, you’re not slick.” Charlotte looks down, feels his eyes once again, and looks back up. They are piercing her now, beckoning for the acknowledgment. So she nods once before turning away, gloved fingers sliding against the thick leather of her horse’s saddle.
  
  Deep purple follows behind her, flicks itself upward as she piles herself on—bunching up the loose fabric beneath her. The prayer from prior still weighs heavily on her tongue, threatening to spit itself out if she does not do it herself. She finally speaks of it in short, quiet breaths.
  
  “Have mercy on me, O God, according to Your unfailing love;”
  
  Had this love been unfailing? As God had only seemed to abandon her. Charlotte thinks on this, buries this lasting impression in the back of her mind, and shakes it away.
  
  

  ***​

  
  Passengers stood around her, some leaned against the wooden pews with scratches from life running amuck. Her fingers itched to snatch the jewels around their necks and run off, but she held back and took a swig of the drink in her hand; it dulled the burning desire, kept her at ease as anxious eyes pull away and then fall back to the lawman’s car.
  
  "So, this is what the high life feels like, huh?" Valory’s voice interrupts the ruminations, her head pulling back to his direction as she straightens her posture.
  
  She shrugs, free hand pointing to her already empty glass—a gesture that asks for yet another fill. Her back falls against the back of the chair, a slouch in her posture as she gives Val a small kick in the shin, "we may be fake married, but dagummit I don't wanna ever hear that shit—" Charlotte bit her tongue as the waiter approached again, slipping a bottle onto their table and refilling her cup, a slight look of concern glossed over the two before he turns away. She eyes him up and down, takes in his figure before sucking on her teeth and bringing the glass to her lips, "he looks damn good in that uniform."
  
  A quiet whistle escapes in the waiter's direction, one he couldn't hear.
  
  "I'd like to spend this train ride laid and damn near wasted," there was only truth in this statement, a yearning that calls for basking in the serenity before being completely shattered by the reminder that sat on her hip. The revolver awaited its usage. "Of course, it ain't with you," she snorted, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the waiter before adjusting herself in her seat. This damn dress was about as comfortable as a bed of rocks; frills against her bare skin, fabric too bunched and puffy, shoulders exposed and cold, legs warm and sweaty. And this stupid, stupid hat over the hairstyle she would've never looked in the direction of. "Er, well, it could be," sarcasm slips off her tongue followed by her practically inhaling the glass of whiskey. before slamming it down against the clothed surface.
  
  Ellie, Jax, Temperance—her mind runs back to them, eyes scanning the surrounding area before landing on one of them, the dear cousin who seemed the most fitted for a job like this. "JimBob! Is that you I see?" Her voice is higher than usual, masked by the saccharine sweet persona that came with the equally uncomfortable dress, her arms wide open paired with the expression of fake-surprise. "Ain't this a small world?!"
  
  
  
  

designed by bad ending & coded by xayah.ღ

 

[erzulie]

TEMPERANCE BOLDMAN

The folks on the train were none too discreet with their stares. It didn’t matter that they had set aside their usual black attire in favor of something that was supposed to help with blending in. It was certainly a choice that was made, but not by them of course. It was hard to blend in when you towered over most. A strong build and scar on what skin could be seen was something that drew attention. Their favorite hat had been left behind, revealing short black coils yet their face was still hidden behind a bandana.

Their eyes were closed, one long leg crossed over the other in what appeared to be a sleeping position. It was enough to relax the folks around, it was their mistake. Temperance wasn’t surprised, rich folks tended to live in a bubble in some way or another. As far as they knew, they were safe inside of the moving train because of the money they spent. In a way, it could protect them shortly. It all depended on them really. Temperance had dealt with her fair share of attempted heros and wise guys.

It was slow, the way they pretended to wake up from a deep sleep. With movements graceful they rose to their feet. It would be safe to assume that when the figure stood and made their way to the door, they were heading to the bathroom. A few fleeting glances were spared before returning back to what they'd been focusing on before. A few gasps filled the space. They stood in the middle of the floor, pistol in hand.

“Give up the goods and you’ll just might make it off of this train alive.” The silence that overtook the room was tense. Temperance scanned the crowd with dead eyes. Sometimes, a little encouragement usually gets things in order. Their dark eyes locked with nervous brown ones. Their boots damn near thundered as they walked over to their target. The young woman trembled in the iron grip of the criminal.

“Get those valuables out or…” The pistol was placed under the woman’s chin. “…her next stop will be the afterlife.” That should do it. There was no time for stalling or hesitating. The planning had been careful, yes, but speed was also important. Temperance had always been someone who preferred to get straight to the point.

Interactions: damsel in distress
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[qunqun]

MOOD: Pleased with himself

OUTFIT: He’s a whore.

LOCATION: Train car

basics

MENTIONS:



INT:
xayah. Tommy

tags

TL;DR So far so good

tl;dr

Graham

Oh and to think that this was going to be just a run of the mill bombing!

There was a tendency when things got incredibly serious that everyone lost their senses of humor. No fun to be had. And to be quite frank it was fecking boring of everyone. Live a little! You only got this one life, after all.

What was an explosion about to rock the train anyways if not than just another day on the job?

The slightest indulgence in Graham’s flights of fancy could be taken, he just needed a foot in the door, after all. Someone gave an inch, Graham could convince them to give a mile.

“Tommy! Tommy, Tommy Tommy.” A heavy clap on the back, as Alphonse was greeted to the sight of a bright eyed, wide smiling Graham, a bit of a wolfish nature to his grin. “That’s thinking too straight-forward. You give a lass cash, well great. Could be real insultin’ to her. Instead, you use that money you would normally give her ‘n buy her something nice. Like.. ehm… perfume. Or a pretty little necklace. Something that fits her tastes. Shows that you care and that you listen.”

A pause, and then a tilt of the head, eyes went off the fuse which was starting to get pretty close to exploding. “I think I smelled jasmine on her when I saw her last. Probably gonna get her some perfume from- oh feck.”

Graham covered his ears just in time for the TNT to blow, the door coming off its hinges and blowing away into the wind. Probably taking out some wildlife on its tumble down.

“Feck. That packed a punch, dinnit?” Graham said, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d nearly blown his ears out. He waved smoke away as he strutted into the car, the ringing in his ears making him shout just a bit louder than his usual speaking tone. “You’re up, love!”

In a show of massive restraint, he began to rifle through the jewelry, putting on some of the fancy rings, watching them glimmer in the light like he was in some kind of hypnotic trance.

“Beautiful shite…” Suddenly his head snapped towards his companions. “You think the boss’ll let me keep a ring?”

A small turn of his hand, a frown. “... Probably not.”

Certainly, a sad day in the life of Graham Byrne. He dropped the rings in his bag as he continued to collect valuables in the luggage to make off with.

And then Graham produced an ornate sword, his eyes gleaming in this bright manic glee

“Tommy!" Obviously, this observance was of the utmost importance. Counting could come later. "Tommy, look. A sword.” And then, just because he couldn’t help himself. “I wouldn’t mind jabbing you with my sword any day of the week.”

It was said with this kind of jovial flippancy. Not actually flirting, but the heavy handed double entendre ringing out. “You think it's worth anything?”

code by valen t.

 

[toucant]

"this is a dialogue."

"Er, well, it could be you." Oh, heavens. Valory wished he had never heard those words fall from her mouth. A deep seated shiver ran across his body as he hugged the suede hat closer to his torso. He was much too old to deal with the trifling words that fell from the crew's mouths; it felt like speaking to a different species of human. For most of them, he was at an age where he could have very well been their father. Yet, the number assigned to him didn't seem to demand any form of speech other than the often lusty, awkward, or down-right pitiful declarations they often spewed. That being said, Valory didn't have any ill feelings towards his comrades. Compared to the people he was surrounded with in his youth, he'd take their southern-twangin' flirtatious, chaotic, mess any time.
A moment passed before the waiter set down a bottle of whiskey before him, the man lowering his gaze in respect for the supposed wealthy elder. Valory almost felt a little guilty, knowing that somewhere along the events of today the poor boy would be held at gunpoint or kicked to the ground. Just for doing his job. With a nod of gratitude, forced or not, the man tipped the bottle back into his mouth. It earned him a few odd stares, but he paid them no mind. There was no better time to down it straight than right before a robbery.

"Unfortunately for you,"

he paused, his pale blue gaze lazily peering around the amber-hued bottle,

"I don't think that will happen, unless you take one of these poor chaps tied like a zoo animal back to camp."

He could almost see it, Charlotte dragging a man bound from his wrists to his legs into her tent. Valory was about to begin another cheeky phrase before the cab began an almost eerie silence. Damn, and he hadn't even gotten halfway through his bottle.

A cold, nearly monotonous voice, hissed from somewhere behind him. Oh, Temperance, always getting ahead of herself. Sure, they liked being straight to the point, but they could of sat and enjoyed the view for a moment. Or, at least, allowed Valory to do so. With a patient swig, he corked the bottle and tucked it into his jacket. The poor waiter who had handed him his drink now stood, stunned into silence. How unfortunate that Valory was always accurate with his predictions. He slid over to the boy, whose hands were trembling on the silver platter holding other drinks.

"Hey kid, I really hope you have more of this whiskey."

Valory mused, before snaking his arm around the man's shoulder and pulling him into his chest. In another life, this would be a really good position for the both of them.

"Let's make this go a little faster, shall we? I really, really, would like to get back to my drink of the day."

With one arm wrapped around the boy's neck, he used his other to pull out his shotgun. Seven rounds, nine tables. That means, approximately one dead man per group in order to get these folks moving. He knew he couldn't use one of these bullets on the waiter, or that would merely be a waste of firearms. No rich bugger cares about the drink boy.

"I know ya'll care about your appearance, so I'd rather not blow this kid's brains out all over your finest Sunday dress. You heard ‘em. Everything you own, take that shit out. Any of y'all try to scream, and this floor is going to be awfully bloody."

the doctor

valory.

• aaaaaaaaa
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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[blue-jay]

ORIA LOVELACE - the penman

(earlier this morning)

Oria woke early that morning, partially to do some work on her records and partially to watch the sunrise. The sun was piercing upward through what remained of the night, bathing the landscape and Oria’s skin in warm morning light. It illuminated her pages of her journal as she wrote, her pen pressed skillfully between her fingers.

She started off with the usual mundane things. She wrote out the brief for the mission taking place later that day, including everyone’s responsibilities. She wrote out any important notes that she had picked up about the train, the people on it, the path it was taking, etc. Once she was done with the practical things, she began writing about things she found more fun: stories told by her older comrades, jokes passed in conversations, proverbs used here and there that she had never heard before. This was the content that she felt truly captured the Saints and made her work as penman worthwhile. Not their missions. Not their spoils. Not their defeats. None of that, but rather the little things that kept them all aware that they were still people. Charlotte's stories. Graham's chaos. Mercy's comedy. Mercy's stunts. And... so on.

She was smiling to herself now.

The world was ugly and cruel, especially to those who abandoned the law—or those who the law abandoned—but that didn’t mean that every moment of an outlaw’s life had to be about violence or money. The Saints were far more interesting and layered than most of them gave themselves credit for. The proof was all in her journals.

When Oria looked up at the horizon and saw the sun coloring the distant animals and flowers, she thought for a moment that the world may not be as ugly as previously thought.

…

(the present now)

“You’re doing great, Castor!” Oria knew that keeping up with a train was no easy feat, so she wanted to provide her horse with good feedback. Up ahead, the train was bulleting through the plains, letting off smoke and sound in all sorts of strange ways. Oria, admittedly, hadn’t had many encounters with trains. The one time she had ridden on one, she had gotten terribly motion stick, which is why she was happy to be on catching duty for today rather than on the train. It would be hard to rob anyone if she was nearly vomiting.

Oria looked to Diyaa, who was also on catching duty. Leaning over slightly so the other woman would hear, she asked, “Hey, how ya holding up?” She got the impression that Diyaa wasn’t entirely comfortable with horse riding. Oria was sympathetic, though—she wouldn’t have been able to be on a horse for five seconds without slipping off if not for help from Edith.

She added, “How do you suppose things are going on the train? I know catching duty is important, but it feels weird being apart from everyone like this.”

.V1LLAINISM._

 

[demonology]

Mercy Junebug

outfit

frustrated w/ the old man

♡coded by uxie♡

“Quit bein’ so stubborn, old man.”
Mercy fought for purchase on the conductor’s being. A slippery soul coated in the buttery sweat of the veteran’s paws. His pistol dug into the thick, navy felt of the professional, and parallel to him, he was sure another gun sat only a trigger away from shattering the soul the pair fought over.

He cried, tears and piss streaming down him. Low, he muttered curses and blessings. Begging God for safety with a bated breath.

Mercy decided to put him out of his misery.

He swung his shoulder back, and his black bandana, pure and cotton. It matched his hat, taking after Jessie and their penchant for the color. He, too, opted to become a ghost. The reaper.

Thwack.

The conductor’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fell limp at the helm. Mercy pulled him back from the controls, gently guiding his body to a resting place. A small grave.

“He’s not dead,” he calmed Reno, swatting at him as though his spit-laden bellows were no more than horseflies looking for dinner.

However, as he glanced at the controls, his tummy became its own stormy seas for the boat of this morning’s breakfast to be toppled from. The realization of said action took root, and his eyes widened. With a look behind at the pitfire coals, his thoughts became a pool of sticky molasses, and the veteran’s distaste were the only hooks, piercing his hands, that he had to keep from slipping away.

***​

The embers fizzled the same way his curls did. They frilled around his head in a halo, and the splintered ends of the fire cloaked him in the tar-shadows of early morning. The blanket was akin to the uniform he would rip with the force of his swat later that day. It was surprisingly clean, unstained despite its blank color. A pattern of geometric blues and oranges, like the youth of a flame, slithered through the cloth. He wrapped it tighter around himself, chill in the dew.

He eyed as Oria worked at her notes. He offered her a small smile, sipping his coffee, but she was too engrossed to spot him. His place by the fire was not new, particularly during this past night. The lives contained in a singular body weighed heavily, all of man, of son, of holy spirit.

You’re the Messiah,

Mercy downed the rest of the mug, crunching around the grounds and swill. Opening his pack of Old Judge’s, Mercy scrounged his pockets for his matches, which were inevitably roaming free amongst his clothing. With a careful yet speedy flush, he struck it and lit the end.
As he observed the camp from afar, sitting back in his fleece-coated hovel, he found himself pondering the day’s expectations.

Remember now, yer supposed to tell us everything. ‘Specially Mr. Bell.

Jillian’s own curls jutted in his mind. Juniper and Alex, their hands tied by way of soul-binding and mutual rings. He eyed Oria, too, as he mulled over the list. The Gentleman, Graham, Val, even the geezer who would prove to be far more trouble than his worth in wisdom. Mercy wiped at his face as he recounted the rest of the crew, from Jessie Mae to stubborn and impetuous Billie to even the Dog.

Decidedly, his lips remained sealed on their little train escapade, even as he got up. As he dressed, slowly, in his blackened uniform. As he swirled his body onto Sunday and rode into town. Even, yes, as he sat in front of Jim Bell and told him, no. Nothing was going on with the Saints today.

When he returned, he hardly could catch his breath or realize the gravity of his lie. The train was perfunctually on schedule.

***​

“I’m gonna get him first,” Mercy taunted Reno, pushing Sunday with his spurs.
The train whooshed past them, but they matched its pace. Then, they surpassed it. He held out his hand, damn-near ripping out his shoulder from its socket as he boarded the train.

“How was I supposed to know?” he exclaimed, arguing with the vet, who noted that the instructions weren’t threaten the conductor’s ability to breath.

“He’s still kickin’.” Mercy knocked at the conductor’s boot. “Now what?”

INTERACTIONS: the veteran — arthur morgan.
MENTIONS: all of you fuckers!, Oria