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Realistic or Modern (OPEN) Goodbye, Virginia - Civil War Outlaws

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Winter_Wolf

you had me at whiskey
March 26, 1865
North of Five Forks, Virginia


Sgt. August Showalter felt blessed--the gang was off to a fantastic start. Two Union wagons sat still just ahead, one of them off to the left side of the road and the other right in the middle. As Showalter and his mixed band of merry Rebs and Yanks snuck a little closer they realized that the wagon in the middle of the road had a broken wheel. Most of the men in the convoy were occupied in some way, either trying to move the wagon, relieving themselves, playing cards to pass time, or drinking from canteens/cups. Only a couple of the escorting soldiers stood watch--one of them sipping from a flask. Evidently he was very done with the war and didn't worry about being caught one way or the other. Trees and thickets along the right side road allowed the gang to move up very close.

"Alright. I count about a dozen of them, but the two wagon drivers aren't armed so that's ten. Take out the two on watch first, that's eight. If we storm them quick, then they'll either go down quick or surrender quick. Rifles, take out those two first," August pointed to the two guys on watch, "ready? Anything else?"

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Pilgrim59 Pilgrim59 eggsaladsandwitch eggsaladsandwitch PastaMan PastaMan

Welcome to the main thread for the RP! I wanted to start us off with some action, or impending action! Post length isn't terribly important, it's more up to your discretion, preference, and the circumstances. I don't want you to stress about having to write multiple paragraphs, or feel like you need to put in filler. If you naturally write more though that is fine! Otherwise just be a reasonable, courteous, respectful RPer (which I'm sure you are anyways).
 
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ou377EE.jpg


March 26, 1865
Sgt. William Baker
North of Five Forks, Virginia

March 25, 1865
Fort Stedman, Virginia

The thunderous storm of musket volleys extinguished the flames of the Southern hope, as the Gray's initial successes were quickly overwhelmed by a fierce Union counter-attack. Baker's company was the last to be commenced into battle, whose renewed strength were prompted to cover their retreating comrades. Ignoring the sweat and dirt that had blanketed his face, Baker kept his keen watch just as the last regiment had made it past the rear line. The Union's hasty pursuit were met by the Texan company's volley, gradually hindering their steps with precise, sporadic fires. The intermittent exchange of musket fire between the two army would end with a Union bayonet charge. Being the last ones on the field to be preyed on by the superior Unionist.

"Let the Union dogs eat our steels! Kill them all!" the Sergeant shouted, followed by a unison shout from his men.

The gunfire and smoke ended abruptly, accompanied by the clashes of bayonets and the fierce growls of the crazed armies. Baker withdrew his hatchet and engaged in intense close-quarter with those that came before him. His anger and sentiments took control, letting a man into a frenzy, cutting down any Blues that stumbled upon his path. Driven by vengeance for his fallen friend, Baker shouted at the top of his lung, and continued to fight.

Baker held his line alongside his remaining comrades, before a cannon ball explosion knocked him off his feet, unconsciously surrendering his fate there after at the hands of the Union charge. As his vision faded, the sergeant gave in to the temptation of death, as his men slowly fell one by one. Perhaps it was for the best, lest the Devil took his soul, thought Baker, as he exhaled his last breath.

(Present Time)

Baker awakened to the smell of the windswept grasses, accompanied by the rattling wooden wheels. His acceptance of death and heaven were dispelled by the realities of his bound hands. He caught sight of the Union troops that sat on the wagon, wearing away the day's work with their cards and gossip, before turning their attention to their prisoner. Baker's grey eyes had given up the fires of his cause, and had wished for a quick death, yet he had clung onto the Earth's embrace - a prisoner of time and fate. The Texan sighed slightly, gradually accepting the reality of his well-being, while shying away from the thoughts of the Confederate's recent demise. Despite his troubled exhale, the sergeant was more than glad to have been given a long, undisturbed sleep - something he had not seen for a few weeks at Petersburg.

"Hey look, the Rebel's awake. Hell, he's had more sleep than us." one of the Blue chuckled as he nudged against Baker's shoulder wounds.

The Gray sergeant kept his cool, partly convinced that his end should be met soon, and thus gave no aggression against his captors - much to their surprise. Baker eyed his surroundings, taking note of the wagon's formation, fully convinced that his prolonged time on earth was to sow what he had reaped for lives that he had taken. The Confederate sergeant sat quietly, taking in the rear sights of the rolling wagon, taking in the gossips of the light breeze and the whispering trees alongside the road.

Winter_Wolf Winter_Wolf (ready to be rescued!)
 

Harris scanned the scene in front of them, following along with the sergeant's instructions, eyes focused but wary. Espionage had never been high on his list of things he'd ever planned on attempting, yet here he was, revolver held close to his chest brows furrowed in... apprehension? Not fear, certainly not. It wasn't ideal, that was for sure but, well, it was certainly better than the bloody act of sawing a man's limb from his body. He almost shuddered at the remembrance. Having a small band such as this was better, he figured, for it was easier to look after the well-being of a handful of men than it was an entire army.

At Showalter's count, Harris found himself interjecting, "Thirteen." A pause and then, "... Sir. Sergeant. Sir? There's thirteen, ah, see? Tough, not one of their men," he whispered as he gestured to what he could only assume to be a war prisoner--a rather battered looking Confederate officer. "Does this, er, does this change your plans, at all? Sir?" The last word is tacked on to the end, uncertain, his upper-class upbringing always conflicting with the proper military address.

 
Jim was knelt down beside the rest of this band of merry men, crouched down as he leaned against his rifle. He surveyed the scene, saying, "Yessir. Looks like they ain't very familiar with these parts. Could use that to escape once we hit 'em." He noticed the prisoner, knowing what would be his fate if they didn't save him. He was a witness to Sherman's push, and saw him burn the South to the ground. A painless death wasn't very likely. That just made damn sure Jim wouldn't be kept up at night over this. He justified that they were like animals just doing what they had to to survive, and that those they attacked had every right to defend themselves. But if they died, then they died. That's just how the world works. Or that's what Jim told himself. He was new to this banditry thing, so he didn't know if this was stealing or justice. Maybe a bit of both.

He nodded at August, loading his rifle quietly. He never walked around with a loaded gun unless he was hunting, of expecting an ambush. He didn't want his powder to get wet in case it rained. He aimed the firearm, lining it up with the guard's chest to make sure he went down. Even if it didn't kill him outright, the expansion of the lead would definitely cause severe damage to his organs, eventually killing him. It was just a case of how long it took.
Winter_Wolf Winter_Wolf
 
August looked back at the Private from Boston, and couldn't help but blow a little air out his nostrils in amusement. Not that he could be blamed for being unsure of how to address him. The Sergeant himself hadn't thought about it much since splitting from the army.

"Relax...one 'sir' is fine, I suppose. Damn the Rebs have a habit of escaping my eye, but you're right I see him now. I don't think it changes much--just don't shoot him. I'm guessing he'd be more likely to join us if we don't shoot him." Sgt. Showalter gave a faint smile, hoping to calm any nerves.

"Charleston, are you ready?" August turned to the young Southerner with him, wielding a Whitworth rifle. He couldn't remember his name, but remembered where he was from. And he remembered the moment from the recent past, when a superior officer suddenly crumpled before him while giving orders, the result of a Confederate sniper and his Whitworth.

eggsaladsandwitch eggsaladsandwitch
PastaMan PastaMan (just hoping for a post before the shooting starts, since you already made your char)
 
Eli turned his head to his new "leader", he looked at him in the eye remembering that time he saw him standing in the battlefield receiving orders from another officer, who of course took a bullet from his old Whitworth rifle. He would have also taken out this man but alas he moved out of his sight right before he could pull the trigger. Smart man.

"The name is Eli, how many times do I have to repeat it, or is your old age getting to you old man." He said to the sergeant slightly annoyed that he doesn't remember his name. "And yeah, I'm ready just hurry it up before my leg becomes an ant farm." Eli said as he dusted his pants from the ants crawling in it and fixed his scoped to one of the guards' heads.
 
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The young man had a mouth on him, no doubt, but August recognized that Eli had spirit. This recognition was part of the reason why August didn't act on NCO instinct and reprimand Eli. Also, because they weren't in either army anymore, and it would be stupid at such a time and place. He looked over each man again and then at the convoy. Nothing had really changed.

"Ready--" that one guard began to take another sip--"fire!"


[Note to anyone who may have shown interest but hasn't posted a character yet, or who is otherwise interested in joining--you can still join up. I just wanted to get the RP started for the benefit of those who have submitted characters. We can still work yours in, especially early on.]

eggsaladsandwitch eggsaladsandwitch
Rusty of Shackleford Rusty of Shackleford
PastaMan PastaMan
 
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