Aq Deadwood
GM: Kassandra
Players: Calavera
Synopsis: Calavera seeks wisdom from the metaplanes in an attempt to learn the Centering (Ranged) Metamagic
Date: March 2, 2070

The Gateway

It's been a day or so since she was introduced to Rodrigo in passing. They had struck up a rapport at a small mixer thrown by Corizon, the fixer that Calavera favors. In between nationalistic zeal and rhetoric tossed around by the Mexican/Latino exile sect, Rodrigo and Calavera had discussed a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Calavera required access to the Astral so she could connect with her magic once again, while Rodrigo occasionally required someone more… direct… than he could be.

The latter half was served with an engraved, bone handled knife thrust in to the shoulder of a rival's henchman, with a hissed message delivered.

The former starts now, with Calavera in the Ute Sector, standing atop the Flat Irons, looking out over the distant hazy glow of Denver. She stands with Rodrigo, as he sets his preparations to allow her in to the Astral. She looks on, impassive. Not because she is disinterested, but because other expressions rest uncomfortably on her face.

Rodrigo considers the distance from the city itself and the grounds around them. "This is good, yes." He glances to the adept a moment then continues to mark the ground with various rocks that he has acquired along the way, making a crude sort of circle with them, more a symbolic circle than one that any mathematician would agree with.

"Are you ready? Once you go through, you won't return until you are done, you understand?"

She observe the pattern, the lines on the ground. They seem so strange, so alien to her. AS though writing and marks could unlock the secrets of the astral, it seems contemptible; and yet she knows it is not. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." She muses, drawing in a breath before she exhales it slowly. "Si. Yo entendre." She says, indicating her understanding.

The spirit man nods slowly, going over his preparations one last time. His "style", at least from what he is portraying, is some alteration of what is commonly called brujo or bruja, an old style of Mexican folk magic.

He takes a breath and draws a knife through the air in the middle of the circle, which should do nothing. This time, however, the very air parts down the middle as if he were cutting a curtain, exposing what looks like the night sky behind. The stars, however, do not appear to be in any comforting configuration that you might know. Instead, they seem to even move in the sky, some fast and some very slow. He looks to you and gestures. "Via con dios."

"Dios puede ir la mierda." She says with a somewhat scornful tone tracing in to her voice, even as she nods respectfully to the display of Thaumaturgical might displayed by the Spirit. "Buen viaje."

Rodrigo snickers nastily at the comment, holding the door open for Calavera. If it is costing him effort he isn't showing it; instead, he simply waits, the knife held down as he watches over the doorway to your destination, some land far beyond these. The Happy Hunting Grounds, Heaven, Hell, The Far Planes. Many cultures have names for these places, and vast tomes of magical lore have dozens of volumes on what travelers have seen. All agree on one thing: it is never the same thing twice.

Calavera exhales deeply, as though letting go of the fear, the doubt, the pent up worry that have ruled her for so long. She straightens her posture, then with premeditation, proceeds through the rip in the air, in to the night sky.

The Town

It takes forever. It takes but a moment. The sky shifts and changes and falls flat in the span of time it takes you to cross from the Now to the There.

The first thing you notice would be the dust, followed by the heat. You appear to be in some dusty border town in the middle of scrub land, the sun just rising in the sky, but it is already approaching ninety degrees.

The town itself seems unremarkable save that it is constructed of stout wood timbers and boards, weathered by the sun and storms, bleached tan by sand and sun.

A large banner moves fitfully in the breeze, which doesn't cool but just pushes the dirt around. The banner reads, "Gun fight today!"

Instinct takes over as she moves out of the way, putting a wall to her back as her eyes take in the town and any people who may dwell within it. Somehow, she expected.. something… how to say. More unicorns, less bleached sunparched land. All the discussions she's overheard or seen have described towering crystal cities, pegasi and skimply clad ladies cavorting about in streams of pure mana.

She eyes the surroundings, getting her bearings, then looking back to the sign. "Things here are metaphorically literal." She says, repeating to herself the summation of the many factual documents she read on the subject. She moves over to the sign slowly, one hand straying to her hips to check to see if she still has guns…

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHAAAA!!!"

A scream alerts you to a rather tattered man in prison clothing (black and white stripes) that rides in on a broken down nag, an ill-fitting gun belt strapped around his waste, his bald and scarred head covered in sweat. He pulls the horse to a stop in front of the saloon and slides off without bothering to tether the creature, heading inside with a wicked laugh.

Your weapons are where you left them, although they do not seem to represent the 21st century weapons you left with. Rather, they have shifted form to more readily represent the era you are currently in, the magic of the place shifting your reality as well as its own.

Others start to come out on the street now to investigate the scarred rider's call, chatting quietly about who it might be. Just then, the sound of a gunshot echoes from inside the saloon, and then silence.

Calavera slides the smokewagons from their skin, twirling them experimentally in her hands. She turns her head in such an angle as to indicate curiosity as she looks them over. Revolvers. Six Shots. Accurate to perhaps… 50 feet. Beyond that, debatable. She flips them forward, then back, slapping them back in to the holsters, satisfied.

She starts to examine her garb, then looking for a reflective surface before the Fugitive draws her attention with his passing. A moment is given at a drinking trough to scoop a handful of the less than sanitary water to her lips. It is hot, and dusty… Then the gunshot.

She eyes the Saloon for a moment, considering. Metaphor. Direct and literal, usually speaking. She knows what is happening here is a soliphistic sort of exercise. It exists… to a degree, for her.

She nods then, flicking out her hand to sling off the excess water, then moves for the drinking hall.

Nothing bars your way as you head to the saloon other than the looks and few comments from the townsfolk watching the saloon from the safety of the shop fronts and across the street. They do not move to stop you from entering the swinging doors that lead into the drinking establishment, the faintest smell of salt peter and blood coming to your nostrils as you grow closer.

From inside you hear, "Put my damned name on the list! I need some of that money!" There is the general macho chuckles you might associate with men that aren't sure if they should laugh or draw a gun at the speaker. Then the sound of chalk on slate.

Saltpeter and blood. Gunsmoke and ragged, choking tears. She knows them well. A momentary memory glimpses past, of the distant memory of her fathers state funeral. The 21 gun salute and the sobbing of her sisters. She pauses in the doorway, silhouetted by the sun outside, a dark shape in the portal between civilization and this outpost of barbarian culture.

Stepping fully within, she gives herself over to it, allowing a cocky sway in to her stride. Not a coy, come hither stride, but the 'try me should you dare' sort of canter.

Eying the crowd she moves for the old man, the nearsighted man with the spectacles and the bowler, master of the list. She steps to the side of the speaker, ignoring him. One brass-cased round is placed quietly on the table, a simple, direct statement with no boasting of skill or need. "Calavera."

Dweller

The man running the list looks from the bullet to its owner, wetting his lips with a dart of his tongue. He peers over his glasses like a schoolteacher at a student who has said something unexpected, hmming softly.

Behind you, the scarred escaped prisoner and others sit here and there at table and bar, imbibing watered beer and questionable alcohol. There are a few murmured comments and sniggers from a few, the soft questioning comment from one man to a friend about the possibility of bedding you, and so on.

The list keeper considers you still, the chalk still in his hand, "I am not sure that this is a place for you."

She eyes the bullet, then the man. She wets her lips, choosing her words well and carefully. When she speaks, her words are soft, but they are firm, resolved. As she speaks, her eyes never leave the man, catching and holding his gaze.

"Yo soy el asesino de hombre. He llegado a una gran distancia para demostrar mi vala ante los que se juzgar a los hombres. Si no me permite ser juzgado bastante … necesariamente puede ser injusto. Usted puede elegir la naturaleza de esta pantalla."

«Translate: I am the man slayer. I have come a great distance to prove my worth before those who would judge me. If you will not allow me to be judged fairly… it will necessarily be unfair. You may choose the nature of this display.»

The man considers your words, tapping the chalk on the board with a faint tap tap tap. His eyes seem dark for a moment, not the chocolate brown you had mistaken them for when you first saw him. Instead, there is the faintest sense of the night's sky there, black upon black with tiny streaks of white.

He speaks softly, "Es usted realmente lo que usted reclamaciones,o simplemente el miedo hija tratando de hacer para su padre's pecados?"

«Translation: Are you really what you claim,or just the scared daughter trying to make up for her father's sins?"»

She swallows, but does not back away. She holds the gaze as best she may, which is to say she holds it for a moment, then looks down to the bullet. "My father." She says, continuing the spanish… "Was…" She searches for a good explanation, then looks back to the listkeeper. The listkeeper already knows the truth… in some fashion.

She exhales, drawing the pistol, but not pointing it at the listkeeper. She pulls the retaining rod, allowing the cylinder to swing free. From that, she plucks all but one bullet from the pistol. Leaving just the one in the cylinder, she slaps it closed. She places the five bullets on the table, standing on end, next to the previous. Each bullet she places, comes with a word. "They are not mutually exclusive."

The others in the saloon continue their conversation, perhaps oblivious to the exchange between Calavera and the listkeeper, or perhaps they do not care.

The listkeeper nods quietly, looking at the five bullets for a moment. He gestures towards a target on the wall, scarred from years of abuse via gun, knife, pool cue and other assorted impliments of death. "They need a reason to allow you in. After all, women do not make good mankillers." He says the word with a ghost of a smile, the sarcasm in the words directed more towards the audience than you. "The price to enter is a clean shot in the target. If you can do that, then you can take a shot and see if you can find what .. or who .. you are looking for."

+ Rolls.

The women nods to the listkeeper, exhaling. The one gun with the one bullet now. It had been a statement of confidence. A statement that will not be abrogated. She places that gun, with the one bullet, on the table next to the 6 sentries. She places the six round gun in the right side holster and closes her eyes.

She visualizes the target on the wall behind her, where it had been when she came in. The scarred target with its concentric rings held by the weathered cowboy.

She exhales, locking eyes on the Listkeeper, a split second before she spins, a hand snatching the gun from the holster. She barely finishes orienting in the direction of the target, still on one booted heel, when a single shot rings out. The wood in the center of the target splinters, spraying outward as the round slams in to it. lodging in the deep recesses, clearly on target.

She spins the pistol forward, then back, then slides it back in to the holster. A moment passes, before she looks over her shoulder to the ListKeeper. "Calavera."

The Listkeeper smiles, a quiet smile that says a lot without words. He sketches the name on his list, nodding to the female gunfighter. "You've got their attention now, Calavera. It is up to you to convince them of your place and perhaps, just perhaps, earn their respect."

He laughs softly at that, "Or at the very least put the fear of You into them." With those words, the volume in the place picks up again, as if an invisible veil that had cut you two off from the hubbub in the room has been lifted. There is a general hue and cry at your shot, with a number of fighters looking at you in a new light now: fear, jealousy, and quiet consideration fill the air in the looks. The bartender fights for your attention, asking, "Drink, miss?"

Calavera nods to the Listkeeper, respectfully. "Gracias Senior." She says, picking up the gun with the one round, and the 6 lone sentries. Those are slipped, one at a time, in to her gunbelt's loops.

When the bartender offers her a drink, she looks to him, curiously, tilting her head. "Tequila." She requests, turning away from the listkeepers table to the bar. Settling in, she turns her gaze back over the crowd, examining each in observant detail. Picking out those who talk to much, and those who are silent.

There are a number who are loud. In fact, one could daresay that the majority of those arrayed her are more mouth than skill. Oh, did you hear the one about the gunfight down near Santa Rosa where I shot the Rowlings boys in a four to one fight? How about where I held off a whole mess of braves? No? Well no one can match my accuracy with a long gun, that's the God's honest truth.

The Place of Charisma

The bragging doesn't touch a few here. The man sitting in the corner dressed in dark browns and blacks, his gun rig polished and maintained. The one eyed man at the end of the bar, a bandoleer of knives across his chest. A hulking brute at a table full of talkers, staying quiet and looking around much like you are.

The scarred prisoner is giving you a look from where he sits, all but leering. He salutes your shot with his beer, slopping the watery piss across his lap and the floor as he takes a gulp.

She's not here to socialize; and even if she was, she's very poor at it. One of her failings; a coping mechanism of sorts. The world is a chaotic place, and order must be established; even if only in ones own soul. She offers the Fugitive a nod, but nothing more as she sips at her drink. The man in the dark with the well maintained pistol gets her attention, if somewhat distantly. Just like that, the room has been sized up in to the also-rans and the contenders. She shifts slightly in her seat, the only sign of discomfort as she tries to determine her own placement on that binary ranking.

The nod is all it takes. The scarred man is up and moving towards the bar with a leering grin, taking another sloppy drink. He reeks, that much is certain, and the closer her gets the worse he smells. He slams his beer mug down and motions the bartender to refill it, looking you over the way a fat man looks at a buffet.

One hand drifts to the blade at her thigh, the other hand moving to hold her drink in a slightly more defensive posture. "I know your type. You reek of failure, of spite and anger. A litany of sins and failed ideas, never your fault; always with bad luck or bad partners. Look elsewhere for your next conversation unless you wish to sleep in a box tonight, for I will take no joy, but feel no shame in ending you."

+ Rolls.

The scarred man sputters and starts to say something, to deny, to attack, to call you names or draw a gun. However, under your wilting retort and the scornful eye of the rest of the saloon, he backs down.

Muttering hateful names under his breath the man rises and heads back to the table from whence he came. His stink, however, will linger much longer.

She does not watch him leave. She can feel him withdrawing from her presence, sense his motion behind her. She feels, perhaps, in this moment, more aware of her inner voice than at any time in the recent past. It's odd, in a way… when she was in the Guard, her powers were very physical. All about focusing her force and strength and hitting, moving, striking. Now her powers, as they come back, seem to focus on perception, detection and avoidance. Like magical scar tissue.

The rest of the saloon seems willing to give you a wide berth as everyone sits and waits, the loud clock in the corner tick tick ticking away as the day passes into afternoon, the sweltering heat growing. More men come to join the shooting competition, the saloon filling with all manner of gun men.

Once an assortment has gathered, the listmaker begins putting names together in preparation for the event.

Each of the men that enters is given the once over. Calavera does not make any attempt to hide her observation. She does not do 'subtle' and would rather be bold, and obvious, than try for subtly, and simply look stupid. She turns her attention to the ListKeeper when he starts to formulate the rankings, one hand rotating a bullet over her knuckles like a coin, a nervous tick of sorts.

Names are thrown together quickly once everyone is assembled. The names and talents almost seem to be drawn at random, although if you look hard enough there seems to be a theme involved, where each man (or in your case women) is put against a foe that, on second glance, seems to balance out in flaws and merits.

Once the names are organized, everyone is instructed to head out onto the streets for the actual gun battles, where the rules are simple: fire when you are told. The winner or survivor of the round wins their pot and may claim their prize from the ListKeeper.

Calavera is scheduled to go up against Tombstone, which so happens to be the man in blacks and browns, his polished and well maintained gear a sure sign of a professional.

+ Rolls.

Or a dandy. Dandies love to polish their guns. Looking about herself, she pauses suddenly. It all clicks in to place. This is Deadwood. The bar. The street. The town. The persona's. She's known them for forty years.

Each and every one of them. It's all from the dime novella's her grand father had hidden up in the attic. She would climb up there in the summer to read the stories of dashing pistoleers, Gaucho's and Apache, of Zorro and of Billy the Kid. The princes of the south west.

She laughs now, a sound that is not unlike a wounded dog's bark. Unnatural in her lips, and none the less unsettling for its almost jovial tone. She shakes her head, looking down at her guns. "Colt Single Action Army Issue Revolver. Forty five caliber. Called the Peace Maker."

She eyes the ListKeeper. "This is starting to make sense."

The ListKeeper raises an eyebrow and adjusts his spectacles, nodding soberly. "It is good that it is making sense, senorita. One should always have a direction, a purpose in life. Otherwise, well, you are aimless. Without aim, one cannot hit a target in life or at length. And if one cannot hit a target …" He lets the sentence drift off, moving to start the gun fights.

And start they do. The air is soon full of the sounds and smells of weapons firing in the heat, of screams of pain and blood spraying into the crowd. One by one victors are determined and reputations are made as each man there must face the truth of that day. Bravado and pride meet reality in the street that afternoon, and misconceptions and falsehoods are removed with the crack of a gun.

The Place of Fear

In the waft of gunsmoke, there is only the quick and the dead. Calavera looks in to a mirror now, a smokey half reflection that serves her purposes well enough. She focuses her attention, painting the lines of her face to make her as the dead; going in to battle she fears no pain, knows no death, for she is already among the dead, accepting it in to herself. She blackens her eyes, then paints on the brows, before letting her hair fall back across her features.

Thusly prepared, she goes to find her mark. "The Quick. And the Dead." She repeats to herself, eying the Professional, or the Dandy, whichever one prefers. "I claim death, that it cannot claim me."

The Man in Black, called Tombstone on the rosters, will be waiting and watching the streets fill with pain and blood, smoke and screams. He leans against a storefront with an almost bored expression on his gaunt face, the sort that clearly states that he has seen all this before and more, and nothing seems to phase him.

He smells of the burnout, even more than the acrid smell of murder and hot metal in the sun. He smells of death, of pain, of fear and the future, of what might be if one steps too far along the path. His dead eyes turn to take you in as you approach, a sense of looming doom in that look that is almost palatable.

+ Rolls.

Something in the mans demeanor… his cold calculation. His stance. She watches the contempt he holds within him, seeing it mirrored in herself, the mud on her boots the very same as the dust on his shoes. For a moment, she has thoughts of flight. Of running. Of leaving this man and his vision of the future. She fights it down, gritting her teeth for a heartbeat as she plants her feet, eyes coming up to meet Tombstone.

"I fear you. And this is good." She intones as she takes her place, the wind blowing her hair back… "For he who is not everyday conquering some fear has not learned the secret of life. Has not lived."

Tombstone chuckles faintly, a dry sound as if he hasn't talked much that day and his voice is the worse for it. He nods soberly, however, the laughter not touching his eyes. "Life. Gotta have somethin' ta give it meaning, right?" He pats the silver butt Peacemaker at his hip and says dryly, "Of course, after a while what else is there to live for but battle?"

Any other conversation is cut short as the ListKeeper calls out the two names in a ringing voice, "Ladies and Gents, the next gunfighters will take the street! On my right will be Calavera, the mankiller! On my left, Tombstone, the deathbringer. This should be epic! The winner may claim their prize!"

It's a question she asks herself often. What is there to live for, but the next battle, the next chance to die? What point to the existence she has now, the outcast, stripped of a life's work and sent among the beasts of the field. She never has a good answer, when she asks it, but nor does she stop asking it. Somewhere in her, she knows that when she stops asking, the question has been answered on some level. So long as the question remains, so to does hope.

She feels the wind on her face, brushing over the grease paints that hide her from the world; her mask. The smell of dust, of sweat and blood. Powder on the wind, hears the rustle of the skirts. She watches the Deathbringer. Watches him with an eye for the future. Her mind draws lines over his form; the way he will bend, move, reach and draw.

No great gestures. He will end her if he has the chance; no time for philosophical quandaries. Only the moment. And what you take from it.

The Place of Destiny

Tombstone walks slowly to the appointed place in the street, the hot winds blowing dust and smoke into the distance. The crowd murmurs as both fighters prepare, a bit of money changing hands here and there but not as much as one might think. Those assembled here today are fighting, and dying, for more than just money or some other material prize. Even the lowest and loudest braggart here had something to prove, to themselves or their Code or Way, to their Gods and Totems and Idols, to the World.

Tombstone considers the placement of the sun in the sky, the position of the street such that neither side will have the advantage of that. His eyes, set at a half-squint in his gaunt visage, regards Calavera with an expression of regret. Not of having to shoot her, but perhaps more of recognizing who she is and where she is in her life in comparison with his own. He sighs a little and nods to the ListKeeper, indicating he is ready.

Electricity arcs through her, or at least, it feels as such. Adrenalin floods her system, heightening the relay of sensory data and fine tuning her body. She nods to the ListKeeper as well, without taking her eyes off the TombStone. "We stand here, both of us already dead. You run from death, hold it at bay. Inflict it on others to escape it's grasp another day as though it were a dog and the dead; a steak. I embrace it, take it in to me and accept that I can die at any moment; every day is a gift. Every moment, borrowed and to be savored. This is the lesson I take from today. Now." She says, gesturing with the chin.

"Let us end the chase."

The ListKeeper raises a hand and the crowd goes deathly quiet, watching both fighters and hanging on every flicker of movement, every drawn breath and cant of the head, twist of the body. The bespectacled man remarks in a quiet voice that nonetheless fills the street and every alleyway. "When my hand drops, you may fire." Nothing more, no gilding the lily, simply a quiet remark to remind all present of the rules.

The wind whistles around you all, and if this were a trideo there would be ominous music. Instead, there is little more than the rustle of bodies fidgeting and the wind against the dust-covered buildings to provide the score. Eyes flick from Calavera to Tombstone and back to the Listkeeper as all prepare for this battle.

The man's hand drops.

+ Rolls.

The man's hand drops. Some may argue that the hand should hit the nadir before one draws and fires. Some would say that the moment it starts moving, you can draw and fire.

Calavera opts for the latter interpretation. The moment the mans hand moves, she cocks her body to the left while drawing with her right. This turns her shoulders to the man, presenting a smaller target even while bringing the tun to bear.

The smokewagon clears the holster, the wrist rotating to bring the barrel up. There's only one bullet in the weapon. It had been a statement of confidence, bordering on arrogance, to say she only needed one where others might carry six. The gun's muzzle roars with that single bullet's fury, the round slamming in to Tombstone, shattering the nice pair of spectacles he kept in the left handed breast pocket of his mighty fine jacket, burrowing in to the flesh.

The Man in Black staggers back from the force of the shot, his own weapon having cleared the holster and fired, but too far and to the left where it blows the window out of McCleary's General Store. His other hand clutches at his chest as his knees give out, dark red blood coating it as he sinks to the ground, clearly in shock. "So this is what it is like?"

His words fall on the street in almost a monotone of wonderment before he pitches face first into the dirty street, blood soaking the ground beneath him. Wordlessly the crowds gaze moves to Calavera and stays there for several seconds as the smoke clear. Then and only then does polite applause break out, perhaps even a few whoops. The ListKeeper nods and scratches Tombstone's name off the slate with an almost eerie scrape of the chalk, motioning you to the side.

Citadel

Calavera moves slowly to where the man fell, ignoring the crowd, and even the listkeeper. She takes a moment, looking down to the fallen specter of humanity, a ghastly representation of the future. She eyes the Peacemaker in his hands, the single round expended. The very fine care shown to them.

Kneeling, she removes that gun from his hand, and replaces it with her empty pistol. "When you get to the other side… you can tell them you fought to the last shot. No quarter. No failure." She murmurs in Spanish, as she closes his eyes with two fingertips. Those around her may simply see her looting a body, but… that's rather unimportant to her.

She stands, holstering the peacemakers, and moving off to where the Listkeeper suggests.

A brief recess is called, much like after each previous fight. The Listkeeper moves to where Calavera has gone, absently brushing chalk dust off his hands. He considers the women for a long moment before speaking, nodding towards Tombstone's weapon in her holster.

"Did you find out what you set out to discover?" The man's voice is quietly neutral, the world around them both growing more silent by the second as the voice and calls of the crowd grow less and less, somehow less important and distant.

She looks down to the well oiled revolvers at her hip, then back to the ListKeeper. "Aim is more than your firearm and your eye. To truly see without, one must look within." She says quietly. "At least.. this is what I think I understand."

The man beams a smile at her and nods, "As long as you believe you understand and follow your vision, your aim will be true. If you find yourself faltering, think back to this battle and what you have learned here." The Listkeeper considers the sun in the sky and nods to you again, "I think you have found your reward then, Calavera. Aim true." The man gestures towards the outskirts of town, remarking, "I think your way back is that way." With that, he'll move on to the next contest, the next to test their will and courage here.

One hand rubs over the handle of the Peacemaker, a metaphorical construct that will likely not carry back to the 'real' world with her; but will stay with her in the mind. She offers a nod, taking no more of the ListMakers time as she turns on her spurred heel, moving to leave. The town's buster and bustle fades away even further, ceasing to matter entirely by the time she gets to the outskirts of town.
page revision: 1, last edited: 03 Mar 2010 04:14
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