Post by UnfairBear on Jun 22, 2010 19:17:45 GMT -5
Arrrr, me hearties!
...yeah you heard me. Anyway, I've sent out all the roles for the game. Let me know if you didn't get one. These are your names and character descriptions for the stories:
Charotte - Charlise Milton
Well-to-do elderly English Lady. Very wealthy and very cunning. Visiting to assess an investment opportunity in the local Saloon.
Vorrik - Tim Driscoll
Crazy Irishman. Prospects gold most of the time. Drunkard (needless to say).
IfEweWantBlood - Bloody Bill Oldman
Gang Leader. Deceptively pleasant until he steals your money and stabs you in the face (in that order).
Knight of Arboria - Carson Marsh
Saloon's Pianist. Very twitchy, so often messes up but nobody ever cares.
Tyme - Ryan "Sinner" Walker
Mysterious stranger. Nobody is really sure who he is, but he's always in the shadows.
Ricky - Dick "Heathers" McNulty
Gang Member. Married to Mary-Lynn McNulty. Little or no morals or personal hygiene. Known for wearing sprigs of heather in his hat to mask his smell on incognito jobs.
Engesa - Lars "Doc" Gulbrandsen
Doctor. Learned European man. Doesn't like being called by his real name, since he feels nobody can pronounce it properly.
therealnancyr - Lilah Farnsworth
Librarian. Very sweet, but a pathalogical liar.
Chaos - Joe Montana
Gang Member. Short Tempered. Rumored to have killed a man with a sandal.
Gesh - Mishap Molly Cordell
Inventor. Can be found collecting pieces of scrap from the backs of buildings and alleyways.
mhart29 - Gus Thompson
Saloon owner. Stutters. Nervous disposition.
Joshywoshy - Juan-Ernesto Gonzales
Token Mexican. Runs a hardware store.
Benyamin - Crusty Ben
Gang Member. Withered old man trying to hang on to his glory days. Usually ends up being the patsy.
kreacherxluver - Madam Loretta Auckland
Brothel owner. Cares only for her girls and herself.
redkneehighsocks - Bitsy Monroe
Burlesque Dancer. Famous for her red lace socks.
frazzledog - "Lucky" Lucille Compton
Whore. Said to be lucky. Gets business before poker games.
Robert - Bobbie Dupree
Barkeep at the saloon. Good businessman. Helps Gus run the saloon. Should really be in charge himself, but owes Gus his life.
Click - Fr. Jack Aimes
Preacher. Very jolly. Like Santa Clause.
zoethedotted - Mary-Lynn McNulty
Wife of Dick McNulty. Lures men into alleyways to sell her "services" then knocks them out with her trusty hammer and robs them.
bestusernameevar - Travis Johnson
Goofy Deputee. Afraid of the dark.
Norwegian - Dwayne McDonald
Town idiot. Tends to fall down wells.
PJ - Charlie Boles
Marshal with a superiority complex. Thinks the whole world is in his hands. Hates Chuck Williamson.
Tiffany - Martha Parker
Mother of eight. Wife of Tom Parker. Always busy, since he's always away drinking.
awsomeness - Chuck Williamson
Cowboy famous around town. Loved by the good, despised by the wicked. Has a secret opium habit.
Cooltiger - Tom Parker
Husband of Martha Parker. Blacksmith. Drunkard.
Keep in mind, none of these descriptions in themselves are hints to who is a vampire. For example, just cause Ryan "Sinner" Walker is shadowy and mysterious doesn't mean he's a vampire. I wrote all of the descriptions BEFORE I assigned someone the vampire role. However the descriptions may be used as hints in the story. For example, I might say "The vampire had a Marshall's badge on", so you'd deduce that the vampire was Charlie Boles, the Marshall. I won't be giving anything that obvious, but keep an eye out.
Also, check out the Werewolf 5.0 thread. I posted all the clues I gave in the story bits. Might give you a better idea of where to look.
If anyone has any problems with their roles, let me know, but keep in mind this is just a bit of fun, I don't mean to insult anybody.
Also, the descriptions have nothing to do with special roles. Engesa is not actually the Doctor, for example. In fact, there are no specal roles, only townsfolk and vampires.
The vampire starts with a gallon of blood so the game starts once the vamp sends me their victim. This person will automatically be turned into a vampire. This is just in case you guys end up killing the vampire on the first go.
Rules are here. Now we just have to wait for the vampire to suck some... blood! =D
FIRST SPREADSHEET
spreadsheets.google.com/ccc?key=0AhbesIAFoL7IdHVyaTRxZ084ZGR5Ny1QajgtQTM2LXc&hl=en&authkey=CJSLwM8L
SECOND SPREADSHEET
spreadsheets.google.com/ccc?key=0AuRZy72gi2evdGRBNWtyVHNfZTFpQlRCbmx3TDQxM3c&hl=en&authkey=CKbUnMwC#gid=0
STORY BIT 1:
In the deep south of America in the arid state of Arizona lies the great scar of the earth - the Grand Canyon. Somewhere off the western tail can be found a little-known offshoot of the vast chasm called Polecat Valley. Someplace in Southern Polecat valley, in older times of cowboys and gunslingers, there once sat the town of Moonbrook. While the town was small and rather isolated, it was self-sustaining; Although the valley's soil was kept fertile by the Ewestail River and grass and other wild foliage grew bountifully the ground was rocky and untillable. Instead, the people operated dozens of dairy farms, making the place famous for their delectable cheese: also their staple diet. Moonbrook was the kind of town where secrets were nigh impossible to keep, where everyone knew everyone else and their business. While this generally kept the townsfolk in line, it meant that it was the kind of place where gossip could get you hanged, drawn and quartered. It was the kind of place where great stories were born, and that little town is where this one begins.
"Pour me another," ordered Marshall Charlie Boles, slamming his glass down on the bar.
"Alright, but I can't give you no more after this one," replied the barkeep, obliging him.
"You keep me sane, Bobbie," thanked the Marshall, and downed the glass of whiskey. It was late. They were the only two in the deserted saloon. The sounds of horsehooves and cartwheels and drunken rabble had died down not long ago and the town was asleep.
"Another."
"Suit yourself. Last one, Marshall." The lawman drank up. "Pray tell, sir, why do you always take your recreation time so late after the rest of the townsfolk?"
Boles snorted. "Drink with those good-for-nothin' fools? I think not. I'd sooner steer clear of the likes of Heathers McNulty and that drunk deadbeat Tom Parker. The people of this town leave much to be desired. Hell, my own deputee won't even leave his home after dark. Yeller belly fool." He slammed his drink. "Another."
Bobbie shook his head, "I'd feel irresponsible pourin' you another." He filled the glass anyway. "You ought to give the people of this town a chance, Marshall. Some of them are folk to ride the river with. Like that feller Chuck Williamson. Now there's a man with whom I'm mighty pleased to be aquainted."
"Don't you get me started on that Stick, Williamson," grunted the Marshall, gulping half his drink down, "Prancin' around these parts like he owns em'. This is my town, he'd do good to learn that."
As if on cue, the saloon doors flapped open and in walked Chuck Williamson himself. Bobbie did a double-take. Boles kept his eyes lowered. Williamson sauntered to the bar.
"Trouble ye for a whiskey, barkeep?" requested Williamson in a gruff voice.
"Certainly sir," replied Bobbie, trying to cover his excitement.
"How are you this fine evenin', Marshall?" he inquired, turning to Boles.
"Go jump in the river, Williamson," spat Boles.
"Cool your heels friend, I ain't tryin' to cause trouble," reasoned Williamson.
"I ain't your friend."
"Now, now Gentlemen, I don't want no rabble rousin' in my bar. Keep it civil. Here, have another drink on the house. I swear, this is the last drop I take from this bottle this night," moderated Bobbie.
"I apologise, Mr Dupree. Much obliged," thanked Williamson.
Bobbie began topping up the men's glasses, but before he'd filled them, a man's screams rang out and two gunshots sounded outside. Bobbie started and spilt whiskey all over the bar.
"What in blue blazes?" muttered Boles. Both he and Williamson set off outside and around the corner where the noise had originated from. The alley was dimly lit, but even in the bad light they could both make out the dark ruby stain trailing down into the distance. They walked slowly to the start of the dark ribbon and crouched to inspect it. Williamson wiped his finger on the soggy dirt and sniffed it.
"Yerp, that's blood alright," he confirmed.
"Damn. Who the heck went and done this?" wondered the Marshall.
"Vampires, I reckon," Williamson responded grimly. Boles gave him an incredulous look.
"Vampires? Have you gone soggy in the head, boy?"
"I have not, sir. Believe what you will, but this here is the work of bloodsuckin' fiends. Ain't nothin' worse," said Williamson, shaking his head. Boles continued to stare at him in awestruck disbelief.
"You heard the gunshots good as I did, some poor fool got shot here tonight, nothin' more," argued Boles.
"I have to disagree with you there, sir. I see no blood spatter consistant with that of a shootin'. I reckon the gun was an attempt at self defense" rebutted Williamson.
"And where's the gun now?"
"Taken, I reckon."
Boles glared at him. "Alright," said the Marshall slowly, "lets say I trust in this notion of creatures of the night. What makes you think this here is the work of one of em'?"
Williamson pointed to the spot where the blood began. "No poolin'. Had this been any other killin' the poor soul woulda been spurtin' before he got dragged off. If this was a vampire, which I believe it was, all that initial bloodloss would've gone directly to the creature's gut," he explained.
"Alright then, why the trail? Why would the beast drag a man away? Why not just leave him here to rot?" challenged Boles.
Williamson took off his hat and sighed. "Well sir, that's the worst part. Usually that's exactly what a vampire would do. Unless it intends on turnin' its victim."
"...Into 'nother vampire?"
"Yessir."
Boles stared at Williamson in shock for another few moments and then stood up. "Boy, you must be doped up or somethin' cause you ain't makin' no sense. G'wan home and get some rest afore someone tosses you in the river on suspicion of bein' posessed."
Williamson looked away and rung his hands around the brim of his hat. "If you don't mind sir, I'd like to patrol the streets, awhile longer, lest anybody else fall victim to the... killer," mumbled Williamson.
"Suit yerself," said Boles, and set off in the direction of the blood trail. Williamson stood up and watched the Marshall walk away. "Damn fool," he whispered, replaced his hat and left in the other direction.
STORY BIT 2:
Late afternoon sun shone dismally through the dusty saloon windows. It gave an eerie sort of glow to the place and coupled with the unusual emptiness of it, made for quite an ominous scene. Most of the citizens of Moonbrook were sat around a makeshift conference table made up of a mishmash of other tables and chairs around the bar. Chuck Williamson had just dropped the bomb about his vampire theory and he was currently taking in the baffled silence he'd been met with.
"V-v-vampires, Mr Williamson?" repeated Gus Thompson.
"Yessir, I'm inclined to believe so," nodded Williamson.
Boles buried his face in his hands. "Is this really necessary, Williamson? Can't we try not to scare the livin' daylights out of all these people?" he tried, exhasperation clear in his voice.
"They have to know Marshall. There's no hidin' from this. The more we know, the faster we can git these bastards," proclaimed Williamson, banging his fist on the table.
"Alright, g'head and make a fool of yerself," Boles gave up, rolling his eyes.
"I reckon' it were that yack of a deputee. He couldn't shoot the hind quarters of a donkey if it were twixt his sheets. That's why the vampir got away. An' trust him to scream out like a yello' belly," suggested Lucille Compton.
"What's a whore doin' here?" demanded Boles.
"You'd best watch your tone, Marshall, as my most popular girl, Lucky has a tendency to acquire very valuable information," warned Madam Loretta Auckland.
"A whore's a whore, Madam. And Deputee Johnson only walks the streets in the daytime hours. Hates the mosquitos." She glared at him but stayed silent, placing a protective hand on Lucky's shoulder.
"I s-s-s-still think this v-vampire business is c-c-cracked" stuttered Gus. There were a few mumbles of agreement.
"I assure you, the threat is real," stated Williamson.
"You're a learned man, Mr Golbrassen, what do you think of the situation?" piped in Father Jack Aimes.
"Call me Doc," he replied. It was clearly more of an order than a pleasantry.
"Apologies, Doc, any input?"
"I am a doctor. I cannot have any part in ending a life," he said simply.
"Understandable, very understandable. I find myself in a similar position. But one must remember that these creatures of the devil are not children of God. Their lives are worthless to him, as they must be to us, the warriors of his will," urged the preacher, "Worry not, Doctor. He will forgive us." He chuckled and scratched his beard. The doctor regarded him curiously.
"Apologies, Senors y Senoritas, but perhaps the culprit was one of the gang members who keep stealing my chamber pots?" suggested Juan-Ernesto Gonzales, "They were making a great deal of noise outside my store last night and when I looked out the window I saw that Heathers McNulty was not with his compadres."
There was a rumble of discussion for a moment. "That must be who done it then, lets get that scallawag," cried Carson Marsh, throwing up his arms and knocking over his glass. There were cheers of agreement and people began to stand.
"Wait! Fellers! McNulty tried to mug me last night, it couldnt've been him," protested Tom Parker. There were mumbles of disappointment and everyone sat down again.
"Tried, Tom?" questioned Carson.
"Yessir, well, all my gold was in the liquor store, so there weren't nothin' to mug," explained Tom bashfully.
"We gotta pick someone, friends. We can't risk lettin a vamp run around our town to feed on us and our children," said Williamson.
"Where is the d-d-deputee this afternoon anyways? Don't vampires b-b-b-b-burst into f-flames in the sunlight? Maybe that's why he ain't here," asserted Gus.
"That's a myth. But I reckon Ms Lucky's point may have merit," stipulated Williamson.
"Well, we ain't got nothin else to go on, I say we hang the bastard," declared Carson. There was another rumble of agreement, and again, people began to stand.
Boles glanced around in shock at his protectees. "Y'all must be off your rockers! You can't go lynchin' my deputee! I won't allow it!" He shouted, standing up. Nobody stopped. "Stop, God damn you!" he followed the crowd outside.
"Come on fellas, lets go get Johnson," called Williamson, and he and three others ran off down the road towards the deputees house. Boles made after them. Everyone else congregated around the hanging podium.
Charlise Milton ambled out of the hotel, strucken by curiosity at the scene outside. She stopped next to Guldbransen. "What's going on, Doctor?" she asked.
"There is a vampire or two on the loose, Madam," he answered.
"Ohh, vampires, hmm?" she replied, unconvinced.
"Indeed. They're hanging the deputee on suspicion of being one of them."
"Can't even pronounce their 'g's and they're taking lives into their own hands." She shook her head sadly. They turned in the direction of the angry shouts that were approaching. The four men held Deputee Johnson tightly, practically dragging him along the dusty ground. The look of fear and confusion on his face was haunting. Marshall Boles leapt around them, punching and kicking and pulling desperately at the captors in attempts to free Johnson, but his efforts were in vain. They watched as the throng moved up the stairs to the rope. The onlookers began to hoot and holler as the noose was tightened around the panicked man's neck.
"I wonder did I make a mistake in coming here," sighed Charlise sadly. Carson Marsh pulled the lever that would end Johnson's life.
"I often wonder the same," agreed the doctor, watching in silence as Johnson's feet kicked slower and slower. Finally he was still. Chuck Williamson approached the body and opened the dead man's mouth. He peered into it for a moment, then hesitantly ran his fingers along the man's teeth. The noise died down as the crowd
awaited his verdict. His head fell. He removed his finger and his hat, shaking his head sadly. The silence was dead. The body spun slowly, still affected by the dying man's motion.
"ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??" screamed Boles, his face red, his eyes watering. "WELL? ARE YOU??" Nobody said a word as they began guiltyly leaving the scene. Boles fell to his knees beside his friend, where he stayed till he was the only one left to mourn the loss of an innocent man.
STORY BIT 3:
Somewhere outside Moonbrook, near the river's edge and not too far from the road, there was a camp. It was the kind of camp you wouldn't want to have the misfortune of happening upon, lest your money be stolen, your lungs get punctured and your body be thrown in the water. Tonight, fortunate for some, there were no such visitors.
Dick Heathers McNulty traipsed through the thin trees, a shotgun over one shoulder, the dripping carcasses of three rabbits over the other. The late summer sunset pushed against the tall trees and cast dark lines on the ground like a jail cell. This was better than a jail cell though, Heathers knew that for sure. He broached the trees into a small riverside clearing and dumped his spoils on the ground next to the waning camp fire. Three slowly rising bundles of cloth marked the sleeping places of his partners in crime. Of course a better indication of their presence was the monstrous snores they emitted, more akin to rhinos than people. Heathers shook his head and picked up his own sleeping bundle, shoving them under his free arm. He wandered into the trees on the other side of the camp, emerging just beside a little stony beach. He set his blankets down, curled up beneath them and fell quickly asleep.
He was running. He couldn't see where he was going but he was sure he wanted to get away from where he was coming from. He kept glancing back in panic, but he couldn't see who was chasing him either. He knew someone was chasing him. There was definitely someone chasing him. Why else would he be running? And then all of a sudden, there were footsteps behind him; Quick, clicking footsteps that seemed to be moving much faster than he was moving himself. There were bags on his arms. Heavy bags that slowed him down. He cried out. The bags sloshed around and glittering discs of gold spilled out and clinked against the ground, complimenting the ever nearing footsteps. "STOP!" ordered his pursuer, "Stop in the name of the law!" "I can't" he cried, "I can't stop! I can't" And then suddenly the man was on his back, pulling him down, clawing onto him like a cat, biting him, tearing his flesh...
He woke up, relief striking him like a mallet. But something was off. He was still asleep. He was still being bitten. He opened his eyes. A shadowy shape was attached to his neck, pinning him in place. Then came the pain. It was like someone had shoved knitting needles into the side of his neck. He tried to scream but his face was buried in his blankets and held fast by the figure's vice grip. Worst of all, he could feel all the life being sucked out of him. His toes and fingers numbed, then his legs and arms and on up until he thought even if his mouth was free he wouldn't be able to scream.
Just as Heathers was giving up on his last inch of consciousness, his clandestine attacker grunted, and pulled away. It flicked its head towards the trees where a light was bobbing closer. With an animal hiss it spun and merged silently with the darkness. Heathers coughed, grey spots infecting his vision. Behind them, the face of his wife appeared. "Dick, where've you gone and slunk off to?" she called. Her eyes fell upon the ghostly face of her husband. "R...Ricky?" she whispered. The lantern she held fell from her grip. Heathers grunted; the only noise he could bring himself to make. Mary-Lynn fell to her already dirty knees beside her betrothed. She touched the two slightly oozing puncture wounds on his upturned neck, her breath catching in her chest. Then she touched his face, his hair, his chest. "Ricky! Ricky you're gonna be just fine, alright? You'll be right as rain. You wait right here, while I get the Doc," she reassured him, though panic was rife in her voice. She rested her hand on his cheek again for a moment, staring tearily into his vacant eyes, then stood up. "Don't you move now!" she ordered, and sprinted into the trees.
Once she hit camp she wasted no time waking the others. "Get up you fools! Move yer' stinkin' hides!" she yelled, kicking at the three rumbling piles, "Wake up wake up!". Finally one of the lumps stirred and the head of Bloody Bill Oldman appeared above the blankets. "What you hollerin' about, woman?" he demanded, squinting at her. She turned to him and he saw the raw panic in her face. "Go get the Doc! Dick's been bitten!"
STORY BIT 4:
"Bitten?" repeated Bloody Bill, "bitten by what?"
"How should I know! He's pale as a ghost, just go get the Doc before he croaks!" ordered Mary-Lynn. The other two were half risen now and glaring at her through puffy eyes. Bloody Bill shook his head. "Alright, woman, don't get your dander up. Crusty, come on let's go get the Doc. Joe, stay here and watch over Mary-Lynn." The others nodded and shuffled out of their sacks. Bill and Crusty put on their coats, holstered their guns and made off towards the town. "Don't you worry, darlin'," called Bill as they disappeared into the trees, "that no-good husband o' yours'll be just fine!" The corner of Mary-Lynn's mouth twitched at his attempt to cheer her up, but she couldn't manage a smile.
"Wench, he better be near dead, or I'm gonna slit yer throat for wakin' me," snarled Joe Montana, pulling his suspenders on.
"Go hang yourself, Montana," she replied and paced back into the woods towards where she'd left Heathers. Joe gave a low growl as she left and spat in her footprints.
Once everyone had left, it was quieter than ever. Now would have been a good time to catch some extra sleep, what with the snoring gone. Joe considered it for a moment, but decided with god-knows-what kind of animal skulking around in the trees it was probably not the best idea. Instead, he sat upright on a wooden crate, pulled out his revolver and rested it on his knee. If anything was going to come out of the dark, he wasn't going to let it get close enough even to breath on him.
The silence was just a heavy, not minutes later. It was a surprise to Joe, therefore when he was grabbed around the shoulders. A split second later there were sharp fangs inches deep into the side of his neck. He cried out, shocked and in pain, so much that he dropped his gun into the dirt. He kicked his heels and thrashed around still screaming and shouting at the top of his lungs, but whatever was holding him had superhuman strength and was certainly not letting go.
Fortunately for Joe, Mary-Lynn had already been on her way back for some provisions when she heard his screams. Once again, her lantern light appeared in between the trees, growing ever brighter as she raced back to camp. Like before, the attacker pulled away at the imminence of intrusion, let out a monstrous hiss and set off into the trees, just as Mary-Lynn appeared. Joe stumbled to his feet, picked up his gun and fired a few haphazard shots into the woods.
"Damn you!" he screamed, "come back here and fight me like a man! Coward!" He roared in anger and threw his ineffective gun to the ground. It misfired, causing Mary-Lynn to jump. "Did you see him? Did you see the bastard that bit me?" he asked her, pointing to his still bleeding neck.
She shook her head. "I did not. It sure ran faster than the other one though."
"Well," he said, a little quieter, "that sure as hell weren't no animal." He wavered a bit, blood trickling down his neck and saturating his shirt. "I... I think I gotta sit down," he mumbled. He stumbled back to the crate and dropped himself onto it, nearly falling off in the process. Mary-Lynn rummaged around in a pile of clothes and produced a dirty rag, which she brought to him.
"Here, hold this against your neck afore you lose all your blood," she told him. He snatched the rag from her.
"I don't need yer motherin', woman!" he protested, but did as she said anyway. She shook her head and sat down on Crusty's bed pile.
They sat there in silence until the others returned, the doctor in tow. "Great, you got the Doc," said Mary-Lynn, clearly relieved.
"Yup, just about caught him goin' in his front door. Jesus, Joe, what happened to you?" asked Bill, noticing Joe and his growing bloodstains.
"I got bit," spat Joe resentfully.
"Damn, did you see what did it?"
"Weren't no animal, Bill. Was a person. Got me round the shoulders and all. Sneaky lout snuck up on me from behind so I didn't get a good look at him. Ain't got a beard though, that's fer sure."
Bill shook his head in horror, "What in the hell is going on 'round here?"
"Vampires," said the Doc. His statement was received with looks of disbelief.
"You high, Doc?" asked Crusty.
"I'm not, no. There was an attack last night, similar to this one, we assume. The body was not recovered. Mr Williamson seems to believe that the culprits are vampires." There was silence. "Yes, I reacted the same. These incidences you've had provide us with interesting new information, however."
"Damn Doc, you went and got all Frankenstein on us," uttered Bill.
"I dunno. Vampire sounds pretty plausible to me. Ain't no animal that can hold me down like that, I assure you," mumbled Joe. Doc stepped forward.
"I'd advise you not to waste your energy on such bragging, Mr. Montana when it's best use is for your recovery. Let me take a look at you. And where is the other patient?" he asked.
"Out by the crick," replied Bill, "We got a gurney, Mary-Lynn. C'mon, let's go get Heathers"
STORY BIT 5:
The saloon was once again doubling as a meeting hall. Today however, more of the townsfolk had been attracted to the gathering, some by fear, some by love of drama and some by the bloodlust guaranteed to be satisfied by final decision of the ensuing discussion. Even Bloody Bill Oldman's gang was there and nobody batted an eyelid. Some stole morbidly curious glances at the heavily bandaged necks of Heathers McNulty and Joe Montana, though they dared not steal more than that lest they have their eyes poked out. The two men were now evidence of the vampires that Chuck Williamson had described. Any doubt anybody had had been dissolved now. The only argument to be had was over who should be accused and sent to the rope.
Bloody Bill had just finished recounting the story from the night before, the other members of his gang and Mary-Lynn having stayed silent and let him speak for them. The atmosphere in the room was now a mixture of horror and misguided excitement.
"Thankyou, Mr Oldman," said Williamson, a gesture that surprised most in the room, "Now that we've heard the details, does anyone have any contributions? Any observations?"
"Well, we know there's two of the feckers," chimed Tim Driscoll, swigging from his bottle of whiskey, "so our odds of survival leave much to be desired."
"I suppose we can rule out these fellers," added Mishap Molly Cordell begrudgingly, gesturing towards Bloody Bill and his gang.
"Well, you say the second of them attacked while most of the others were gone or indisposed. That was quite wise of him," observed Bitsy Monroe.
"Yeah, they must be pretty clever," agreed Molly.
"Certainly more clever than the rest of us, killin' off our lawmen," grumbled Charlie Boles resentfully.
"We had to do it, Marshall.. I don't want no man suckin on my neck in my bed!" said Tom Parker a little too loudly.
"Tom, calm down," begged his wife Martha, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't tell me to calm down woman!" he shouted drunkenly, standing up, "We gotta crush those sunnuvabitches. Tear their heads off, whether some cowardly lawmen croak in the process or not!"
Boles leapt up, his fists balled, his face red with anger, but before he could begin to bellow his disapproval, a voice wafted out from a dark corner behind them.
"I'd sincerely advise you to calm down, Mr. Parker," it said, gruff and austere, "the more men we kill without reason, the more we pose ourselves as sitting ducks, ripe for shooting."
"Who is that? Who's there hidin' all secretive-like?" demanded Tom, half stomping, half stumbling forward to get the answer himself. In the dim light of the corner was a table at which a lean, bearded man dressed all in black sat, swathed in shadow.
"Ryan Sinner Walker, at your service" the man greeted, tipping his hat ironically. Tom regarded him with uncertainty.
"Alright, Sinner, I reckon you should shut the hell up or get out of this here establishment," he spat, wavering on his feet. Walker coolly held Tom's gaze, and pulled the corner of his coat open, revealing a shining black hilt.
"And I would advise you, sir, to take a seat," he replied calmly. Tom faltered.
"Well, I.. you.. I don't... hrmm.." he mumbled, and turned to walk back to the others in defeat. Boles, having observed the exchange along with everyone else and being of a calmer disposition subsequently, watched Tom unhappily return to his seat and nodded to Walker thankfully. He returned the gesture, sat back and crossed his legs and continued to watch.
The Marshall sighed and sat down again. "This Sinner Gentleman is right. We gotta have good reason for sendin' people to the rope," he said.
"Hey fellers, I gots me an idear!" piped up Dwayne McDonald. Everyone grumbled in displeasure. "Alright, so these fellers can only eat us when there's a full moon in the sky, so I reckon if we set up a trap when there's a full moon we can catch the nasty scallawags!" he explained, clearly very excited at his idea.
"You're thinkin' of werewolves, Dwayne," Bitsy told him.
"Aww, shucks," he mumbled, disappointed, and hung his head.
It was at least an hour later when deliberation ended with the condemnation of Carson Marsh. His recent absence had been deemed suspicious, and aswell as that, it was decided that he'd been far too eager to kill the Deputee. Charlie Boles approved of this. Unfortunately, after he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to the rope and strangled to death and Williamson repeated the ritual tooth check, the town was met with the reality that they had killed another innocent man. Carson Marsh's broken notes would never again be heard from the saloon piano.
STORY BIT 6:
In the wake of the coming eve, Moonbrook was undertaking its regular nightly changes. The hussle and bussle of people going about their daily business was dying down and the drunken rabble that replaced it was concentrating gradually around the saloon. It was this time of day when Juan-Ernesto Gonzales thanked the heavens he'd managed to get his hands on his current property, on the other side of town from the saloon. Sure it was right next to the Livery, but at least the stench of horse dung boosted chamber pot sales.
He'd just finished locking up the shop front and retired upstairs when he heard a noise outside. "Ayayay," he muttered, picking up a shovel and stepping slowly back down the stairs. He peered back and forth past the spindly shadows of pickaxes and brooms as he descended, steps creaking spitefully beneath him. He listened carefully over the noise for further sounds from outside, but he could hear nothing. "Bastardos ladrones," he hissed, convinced Bloody Bill's gang were sneaking around again. He reached the ground and stepped steadily and silently towards the dusty windows and peered outside. He could see nothing but the skeletal outline of a tumbleweed.
He was not expecting what happened next, which was the horrible sensation of fangs piercing his jugular. He flailed helplessly for a few instants before an arm was wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a hand clamped over his mouth for good measure. He screamed into his captors steadfast palm but all he could hear was his shouts of agony inside his own ears and all he could feel was blood rushing out of his body.
He was just beginning to feel light-headed when he was released, and his body was let crumple to the ground. The creature gave a long, satisfied hiss. Shaking in fear, Juan-Ernesto slowly looked up to the face of his attacker. Despite any moonlight that may have filtered through the shop's murky windows, the figure had a strange darkness about it that made it impossible to recognise him. It hissed again, this time menacingly at Juan-Ernesto, who froze instantly, his breath catching in his throat. Then, without provocation, the stealthy shape disappeared towards the back of the shop. Juan-Ernesto stayed still as stone for a few more moments, hot blood trickling down his neck, till he heard the back door banging in the breeze. It was only then that he was able to exhale, drag himself to his feet and stumble out the door to seek help.
STORY BIT 7:
It was the third gathering in three days. Tempers were frayed, trust was waning and a sense of fearful anticipation hung heavy in the air. As the townsfolk gradually filled the saloon, looks of doubt and unease were exchanged as everyone wondered whether the person they sat beside wanted to gnaw on their neck for an afternoon snack.
Ryan Walker took one of the last seats between Bobbie Dupree and the Doc.
"Afternoon, Mr Gulbrandsen, Mr Dupree," he greeted them civilly. Bobbie regarded him suspiciously.
"How do you know our names?" he demanded cautiously.
"Well, believe it or not, I've been sitting in on the last couple of meetings and I'm pretty good with names," he explained.
"Oh, I see... well alright then," accepted Bobbie with some hesitance.
"Alright everyone, settle down," announced Chuck Williamson. Everyone quieted down and turned their attention to him. "I recognise that y'all are worried and frightened for yerselves and your loved ones. You mark my words, friends, we're gonna catch these suckers. Excuse the pun. So, y'all know the drill. Anybody noticed anythin' out of the ordinary?"
There were a few moments of silence in which everybody glanced from one possibly guilty face to the next.
"Come on, people, don't be afraid to tell us what you know. Your opinion could save the town," urged Williamson.
"I.. I think one of em's a lady," asserted Martha Parker quietly.
"That's good Mrs Parker, why do you reckon so?" encouraged Williamson.
"Well.. Mrs McNulty told us that the creature that attacked Mr Montana was faster than that which Mr McNulty encountered. It's possible that a lady vampire would be faster on her feet. Also, we're told it had no beard. Most of the men in town have some sort of whiskers, which leads me to believe my latter assertion," she clarified uneasily.
"You best shut yer' stinkin trap afore I shut it for you, lady," erupted Montana, "Weren't no wench that attacked me. No woman could have held me down like that. I got no doubts that it were a man out there that night."
"Alright, Mr Montana, lets just calm down," advised Williamson, noting the look of terror in Martha's eyes. Montana opened his mouth to bellow some obscenities at him but shut it again begrudgingly after a stern look from Bloody Bill.
"Okay, so there's a possibility one of em' is a woman, and we know one's a man. Say, where's Mr Gonzales?" wondered Williamson.
"In bed," answered the doc, "he's not yet fully recovered."
"So much for getting his account of things," sighed Williamson.
"Wait a second, Doc," said Crusty Ben, "What were you doin' out so late when we caught up with you the other night?"
"That's a very good question, what were you up to?" added Bloody Bill. All eyes moved to the doc, who looked more than surprised.
"Visiting a patient of course," he answered, appaled at the question.
"Who?" demanded Bill, unconvinced.
"I.. another townsperson not present at this time," he explained. Nobody's focused gaze faltered from him. He looked pleadingly from one accusing face to the next. "I am not a vampire! I swear! I made an oath never to harm another human being and I have never broken it!"
"Save it, Doc," spat Bloody Bill.
In a matter of seconds half the men in the room were on their feet and making a move for the doc. As they grabbed for a hold on their newest suspect he kicked and thrashed and shouted for his life. It took seven men to subdue him before he could be moved from the saloon, and even then they struggled to keep their hold and to avoid injury. Eventually, and with a great deal of effort, they got him to the podium, secured the rope around his neck and another around his wrists. The rest of the town gathered to watch as the lever was pulled and the town doctor took the short fall. He convulsed and fought against the tight grip of the rope. Soon his face would turn blue and his struggle would be over. Or so the spectators thought.
Five minutes later the scene was the same. The townsfolk looked from one to the other in confusion. Williamson and Boles shared a concerned look for a moment before Boles pulled out his gun and shot the doc right in the middle of the head. Everybody started. The docs head fell forward and he was still. There were some gasps and startled muttered conversations from the crowd. Williamson nodded thankfully at Boles, breathed deeply and took a few steps toward the swaying body. He was mere feet from the doc when out of nowhere the head that had only moments ago succumed to sudden and positive death snapped upright again. Eyes wide open and glaring, and nostrils flared it let out an inhuman hissing sound at Williamson. He fell backwards onto his behind in shock and stared, terrified up at the two, gleaming, razor sharp fangs, from behind which the doctors animalistic snarl came. Williamson gulped for air, taking a moment to compose himself before shouting "Get an axe!". Behind him, Boles tore his eyes from the scene and addressed the crowd. "You heard the man!" he bellowed ferociously "go get an axe! Now!" Someone at the back turned and stumbled towards the hardware store.
"You fools!" shouted the doc, a new evilness behind his imported accent, "you'll never survive! My heir will carry on my legacy! You will all die!" And then, he let out with a savage, unrelenting laugh. It echoed through the street, bouncing off buildings like bolts of ice, unhindered by the horrified silence of the gathered townsfolk. It went on, seemingly endlessly until a man returned with an axe and handed it to Williamson, who had since risen back to his feet.
"May your road be relentless and unforgiving," said Williamson hatefully, tightening this grip on the heavy weapon. The doc stopped laughing for a moment and regarded him manically "Roads? Where I'm going, I don't need roads!" he roared and broke into laughter again. Williamson shook his head. He moved the blade behind his shoulder and with one last look at the remorseless face of the town's doctor he swung. There was a sickening slicing sound and two dull thuds as the hanging body was seperated at the neck, the body falling to the dirt below the podium and out of sight, the head landing on the wood and rolling gruesomely to the edge of the stage where it gave the people of Moonbrook its last, manic, inhuman stare.
STORY BIT 8:
The sun was setting behind the jagged valley walls that fringed the town of Moonbrook. A searing twilight floated down upon the mishmash of wooden rooves, gradually turning the town orange. Eventually the sun fell behind the horizon and rolled in the uncertain time in between sunfall and moonrise that left the sky cold and empty. The town now went through a similar time when the early working inhabitants retired to their houses but before the noisey night crowds filled the saloons and the streets. For now, the town was quiet.
This daily lull in activity was the perfect opportunity for Mishap Molly Cordell to go about her very specialised business. There was an abundance of nicknacks lying around the streets after the long days work, just ripe for the picking, at least until some drunk idiot saw something shiny or smashable. She was currently picking her way down the long backstreet that ran parallel to the mainstreet, behind the saloon and most of the other main businesses. She crouched down next to a pile of broken tools, in her mind's eye seeing instead levers and gears just waiting to be partnered together.
As she rummaged through the pile, she suddenly heard a noise. A loud one.
"No... NOOOOO!" yelled a male voice from somewhere off in the distance. Mishap Molly jumped to her feet, dropping the pieces shed picked up. The end of a mining pick bounced off a tin bucket and made an unseemly clang that rang out boldly into the twilit air. She held her breath and stared in the direction the screams had come from, daring not to move an inch, lest she make any more noise. The streets were eerily quiet. After a moment of dead silence she took a haggard breath and turned to run in the opposite direction to find the Marshall or Chuck Williamson to tell them the grim news. The last vampire had struck again.
STORY BIT 9:
It was mid-afternoon and once again the saloon held host to the town's daily meeting. Everyone had listened with bated breath as Mishap Molly recounted her story from the previous evening. Then ensued the usual debate, the accusations, the suspicious questions and the general air of mistrust.
"HEY! Settle down, ye' fools!" shouted Boles, attempting to dissolve yet another shouting match between more than a few of the townsfolk, "All this bickerin' aint' gonna get us anywhere so why don't y'all just shut yer mouths and listen to what everyone else has to say. Lord." Immediately the room was silent.
"Thankyou, Marshall," said Williamson. Boles grunted distastefully in return. "As I was saying," continued Williamson, "Miss Cordell, do you remember hearin' any gunshots or the like, such as were heard last time?"
"No sir, nothin' like that. Just a man screamin' is all I heard," she replied. Williamson sighed.
"Well I guess that doesn't get us anywhere, does it."
"I got shhomethin' te say," drawled Tom Parker, pushing himself with some difficulty from his chair. There were groans of displeasure. "So long's nobody threatens to shoot me this time," he added, trying to give Ryan Walker a subtle look, but instead nearly headbutting him. Walker leaned back as far as he could in attempts to escape Tom's foul booze-breath. "I think that.. who'nneever ish responsible for all these hawwwrible crimes is a COWARD... and they aughta show 'emselves n' stand up like a man! ..C'mon... C-C'mon yew sunnuvabitch, stand up!"
"Tom, sit the heck down," ordered Boles in disgust.
"But s- urghh yessir," obeyed Tom, begrudgingly. He returned to his seat unstably, glancing anxiously at the Marshall, who chose to ignore him."Uhh I gots a question," piped in Dwayne, "How come none of em've tried to eat our brains yet?" Faces fell to hands.
"We got vampires, Dwayne, not zombies. And you got mashed potato in yer beard," Bobbie told him.
"Ohhh, right... vampires," Dwayne acknowledged, wiping the food from his chin.
It took a lot of deliberation, bickering and incriminating before a conclusion was arrived at. It was decided that Tim Driscoll would be the next to be lynched, since nobody could explain his recent absence and his lack of facial hair made him a prime suspect for the assault on Joe Montana. Tim didn't give much of a struggle since he was found passed out inside an outhouse near the edge of town, surrounded by whiskey bottles, so it wasn't much work dragging him up the steps to the newly build guillotine. The blade fell, Tim's head rolled and as his deadpan eyes stared emotionlessly at the crowd and his tongue lolled from his fangless mouth the town mourned the loss of another innocent soul.
STORY BIT 10:
The end of a long, busy day had finally come. Juan-Ernesto sat in the back room of his store, happily stacking shiny gold coins and recording their value. "Siete, ocho, nueve, diez. Bueno!" he counted cheerfully. Ever since the vampire attacks, people were arming themselves. Some bought guns, but since a sharp blade had been proven the most effective instrument of extermination, Juan-Ernesto's hardware store was everyone's first stop. Business was booming. That was all good and well with Juan-Ernesto; he felt he deserved a little boost in profit after being so visciously mauled. He scratched around the bandages secured to the side of his neck as he dropped the last coin into place. With a sigh, he sat back in his chair. A fine day's work, he reckoned.
After a long, indulgent stretch, Juan-Ernesto stood and headed to the stairs, intending to retire for the night. But when he got to the store front, something wasn't right. The front door was wide open. "Dios mio, not again!" he groaned. No sooner had he said that than inhumanly strong arms were wrapped around his shoulders and face and the unbandaged side of his neck was dug into like a fresh slice of watermelon. Slowly, slowly Juan-Ernesto felt all the energy, all the life, all the hope drain from his limbs and soon all he wanted to do was sleep for ten generations. He barely felt his body hit the ground and the last hazy image he saw was his attacker's face as he leapt out of the window. And there he lay, numb and cold until life finally left his side forever.
STORY BIT 11:
It was just before dusk when Tom Parker's head rolled. It had travelled to the edge of the stage and fell with a thud into the dry dirt, the whites of its eyes and its decidedly blunt teeth glinting in the setting sunlight. Heathers stared down at it, rested lonely at his feet. Just minutes before, that mouth had been screaming at him. "You bastard, you can stop this!" Tom had yelled, sober for a change, "You know damn well where I was that night! You really so much of a coward that you'll sacrifice a man's life for a short-lived facade of your own innocence?" Apparently he was. As he walked away from the stage, the death of Tom Parker lay more heavily on his shoudlers than he felt it should for someone in his line of work. It was the delicacy of life that everyone had been so suddenly made aware of - that was what was changing attitudes.
As the gang made their way out of the camp, Bloody Bill slapped a hand across Heathers' shoulders.
"Don't you worry friend, you done the right thing," he reassured him, sensing his comrade's doubt.
"Yeah.. I guess it was me or him," he replied solemnly.
"Ezzacly. And nobody wants no drunken fool like him around anyways, specially when he aint never got nothin' shiny on im!"
Heathers smiled a little.
"Tha's the spirit," chuckled Bill, patting his back again.
"I still can't believe that pansy Doc bit you," heckled Montana.
"That weren't Doc. Doc can't stand my smell," argued Heathers.
"Pshh, sure, you just can't handle that twinkletoed Bohunk sucked on ye!"
"Aint' it at all, my friend. I honestly can't think of any of the townsfolk who'd come near me. Truly frazzles the mind. But Doc would bearly fix my neck. If it weren't for that he'd be a mile away, I reckon"
"He's right," interjected Bill before Montana could rebutt, "Noone in their right mind would get that close to 'ol Heathers. Smells a lot worse to the others that aren't used to it than it do to us. I guess that means you're the one who Doc bit, Joey." Montana muttered something under his breath and kicked the dirt in agitation as he walked. The others sniggered at his embarassment as they crossed the edge of town and disappeared into the trees.
STORY BIT 12:
She lay sound and still, chest rising and falling gently in time with her drowsy breaths. A faint trilling snore rose from her slightly open mouth and dissipated before it hit the wooden ceiling. Never had there been such a peaceful sleeper, such that a cocooning caterpillar might hold bitter envy.
But all the peace in the world couldn't compete with the evil in the air that night. Her respite was ruthelssly shattered by sudden and powerful restraint and the sickening feeling of fangs piercing her neck. Her mouth, driven into the pillow couldn't let her screams escape and her limbs, tangled beneath the silky sheets were useless in her struggle for freedom.
It wasn't long before she felt the world slip away from her and fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her attacker, pleased with his work, dragged his unlucky victim away..
When she returned the next morning, her bed was empty and saturated in liquid ruby. The curtains billowed into the ransacked room through the three broken windows like angry velvet ghosts. She locked the door, and began cleaning, spinning a tale in her head to fool her friends out of learning what had become of her the night before...
STORY BIT 13:
Darkest night had fallen into Polecat Valley. The stars and the moon were the providers of most of the light for the forest's inhabitants, apart from one waning campfire. It crackled and spat in irritation as Bloody Bill poked at it with a sharp metal poker.
"Blast," he muttered to himself, failing to rouse more flames from the charred corpses of branches. He finally gave up and stood, dropping the poker to the ground. "I'm gon' go get some more firewood," he told the other four who were lazing around nearby. He could have told one of them to get the wood instead, but there was a certain amount of ordering around he could do before they got sick of orders and started a mutiny. It was this sort of management that was key to keeping them in line and unwittingly doing his bidding. So he disappeared into the woods.
"Say," mused Mary-Lynn once Bill was out of earshot, "you boys been thinkin' much bout what Bill done said earlier today?"
"You mean about the Doc takin' a bite out o' Joe?" asked Heathers with a grin. Montana shot him a deadly look.
"Naw, I mean what he said bout nobody wantin' to bite you on account of noone but us can stand your stench," she explained. Heathers nodded, unphased. "Well, I gots to thinkin, maybe it were one of us.." They looked at her and then at each other, incredulous. "I knows it can't be neither of you, and y'all know it wu'nt me, cuz I saw ye both get bit, but I were thinkin', we can't account fer Crusty o'er there.." she told them, keeping her voice hushed. They all turned slowly to look at Crusty Ben, sitting just out of earshot, wittling away at some sort of crude wind instrument.
"You really think that old prune coulda done this?" said Heathers doubtfully, pointing at his neck.
"They got superpowers, I tells ye. Even that old hack could take on a man in his prime and win. Them beasts got the strength of a dozen men, I swears it," whispered Mary-Lynn.
"Alright, I don't need no more convincin'," concluded Montana and he stood and pulled his gun out and began pacing towards Ben.
"Hey, Crusty," he shouted, once he was stood over him. Ben looked up in surprise and was immediately shot dead by Montana's revolver.
"Joe!" yelled Heathers, "doncha think that was a little rash?"
"Hey, if he were a vamp I wun't takin no chances," grunted Montana.
"Well... he weren't no vamp... that shot killed him dead," Mary-Lynn poitned out solemnly. They crowded around Ben's limp body, unsure what to do now.
Moments later Bloody Bill returned at high speeds.
"What happened? I heard gun shots and- ....Jesus, Ben... What in the heck happened?" he demanded.
"Shot him," replied Montana, unhelpfully.
"We thought he might be a vampire," explained Heathers. Bill stared at them each in turn, totally agape.
"A vampire? Are you kiddin' me?"
"Well, we reckoned he'd come back and bitten Joe after you wen't to get the Doc," said Mary-Lynn quietly.
"What? Doncha think I woulda told you if he'd gone disappearin off? Dont you think that'd ring a few bells in my head??" yelled Bill, eyes about to pop.
"Well maybe it's you who's the vamp then, huh?" suggested Montana snidely.
"Really? Really Joe? You don't think Ben wudda told you neither? Jesus, you guys are... God, words cant describe how totally idiotic y'all are!" Bill pushed through them and crouched beside Ben's body. He sighed an angry sigh as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his old friend. He shook his head and lowered Ben's eyelids with his fingers.
"Go get some shovels and start diggin' a grave," he ordered.
"But-" started Montana.
"I said GET DIGGIN'" Bill burst out, and they scattered. He was far past public relations at this point...
STORY BIT 14:
Joe Montana skulked down the edge of the thoroughfair, looking altogether very menacing. The millions of stars above cast shadows against the storefronts along which he stalked. Slung over his shoulder was a sizeable sack that clinked slightly in time with his careful footsteps. It was full of metal nick-nacks, ornaments and a few coins that belonged to the unsuspecting inhabitant of a little house, who he had stabbed in the face. Realistically, he could easily have robbed the man blind without waking him, but that simply was not his style.
The town was still at this hour. Most normal folk were passed out in bed, be it from tiredness or drunkeness. It would have been fairly safe to walk down the middle of the mainstreet now, even with all his booty in tow, but he decided to air on the side of caution. The last thing he needed was a night in jail.
As he walked he peered in the windows of the buildings he passed. There was the brothel with its enticing interior and its lavish embellishments, somewhere he could only dream of stepping foot in. Next was the hardware store, dustier than ever since Juan-Ernesto had been murdered. He made a mental note to come back another day, seeing no point leaving all those sharp objects just lying there. Then there was the library, the windows big and clear and bright, as inviting as a place could be. If only he could read. After that there were a few nondescript buildings, most likely storehouses or people's homes. They thinned out further along as the town gave way to the wild forest that he often called home.
It was at this waypoint that Montana experienced a sudden sense of unease. Someone was stalking him. He glanced back and forth, slowing down marginally and subtly moving his hand do his holster. The instant he heard a noise in one of the alleyways he was passing he spun and shot, not even bothering to aim. There was an angry shout of pain - a man's, he noted - as the bullet came into contact with his unsuspecting persuer. However as Montana squinted through the spiraling smoke eminating from the barrel into the dark alleyway, he could make out no indication of a body, injured or otherwise. Just as he was lowering his gun in confusion, his arms were suddenly pinned behind him and his almost healed neck was bitten into. His bag of loot fell to the ground with an unseemly clatter, along with his gun. With his attacker holding his arms, Montana found himself free to scream as loud as he could, which he took full advantage of. The vampire didn't like this one bit, and quickly slapped a hand over his victim's mouth. In doing so, however, he let go of one of Montana's arms. Montana took this opportunity to flail and batter at his captor as much as possible, before it gave up on keeping him silent and pulled his arm back behind his back. Montana continued to scream.
It wasn't long before all the noise worked to Montana's advantage. He was still able to stand when the vampire let go of him, after someone else's shouts rang out behind them. It spun around and dashed away across the thoroughfair and into a copse of trees that would eventually lead into the forest. Montana fell against the nearest wall, clamping his hand to his neck in an attempt to stop the pumping blood. Seconds later, Chuck Williamson appeared.
"You alright?" he asked, approaching him.
"Yeah, just a little scratch. You get a look at the sucker's face?"
"No, I wasn't payin' attention, I didn't expect it to be runnin' out into the open like that."
"Damn fanger," Montana muttered hatefully, "I'll get you one o' these days..."
...yeah you heard me. Anyway, I've sent out all the roles for the game. Let me know if you didn't get one. These are your names and character descriptions for the stories:
Charotte - Charlise Milton
Well-to-do elderly English Lady. Very wealthy and very cunning. Visiting to assess an investment opportunity in the local Saloon.
Vorrik - Tim Driscoll
Crazy Irishman. Prospects gold most of the time. Drunkard (needless to say).
IfEweWantBlood - Bloody Bill Oldman
Gang Leader. Deceptively pleasant until he steals your money and stabs you in the face (in that order).
Knight of Arboria - Carson Marsh
Saloon's Pianist. Very twitchy, so often messes up but nobody ever cares.
Tyme - Ryan "Sinner" Walker
Mysterious stranger. Nobody is really sure who he is, but he's always in the shadows.
Ricky - Dick "Heathers" McNulty
Gang Member. Married to Mary-Lynn McNulty. Little or no morals or personal hygiene. Known for wearing sprigs of heather in his hat to mask his smell on incognito jobs.
Engesa - Lars "Doc" Gulbrandsen
Doctor. Learned European man. Doesn't like being called by his real name, since he feels nobody can pronounce it properly.
therealnancyr - Lilah Farnsworth
Librarian. Very sweet, but a pathalogical liar.
Chaos - Joe Montana
Gang Member. Short Tempered. Rumored to have killed a man with a sandal.
Gesh - Mishap Molly Cordell
Inventor. Can be found collecting pieces of scrap from the backs of buildings and alleyways.
mhart29 - Gus Thompson
Saloon owner. Stutters. Nervous disposition.
Joshywoshy - Juan-Ernesto Gonzales
Token Mexican. Runs a hardware store.
Benyamin - Crusty Ben
Gang Member. Withered old man trying to hang on to his glory days. Usually ends up being the patsy.
kreacherxluver - Madam Loretta Auckland
Brothel owner. Cares only for her girls and herself.
redkneehighsocks - Bitsy Monroe
Burlesque Dancer. Famous for her red lace socks.
frazzledog - "Lucky" Lucille Compton
Whore. Said to be lucky. Gets business before poker games.
Robert - Bobbie Dupree
Barkeep at the saloon. Good businessman. Helps Gus run the saloon. Should really be in charge himself, but owes Gus his life.
Click - Fr. Jack Aimes
Preacher. Very jolly. Like Santa Clause.
zoethedotted - Mary-Lynn McNulty
Wife of Dick McNulty. Lures men into alleyways to sell her "services" then knocks them out with her trusty hammer and robs them.
bestusernameevar - Travis Johnson
Goofy Deputee. Afraid of the dark.
Norwegian - Dwayne McDonald
Town idiot. Tends to fall down wells.
PJ - Charlie Boles
Marshal with a superiority complex. Thinks the whole world is in his hands. Hates Chuck Williamson.
Tiffany - Martha Parker
Mother of eight. Wife of Tom Parker. Always busy, since he's always away drinking.
awsomeness - Chuck Williamson
Cowboy famous around town. Loved by the good, despised by the wicked. Has a secret opium habit.
Cooltiger - Tom Parker
Husband of Martha Parker. Blacksmith. Drunkard.
Keep in mind, none of these descriptions in themselves are hints to who is a vampire. For example, just cause Ryan "Sinner" Walker is shadowy and mysterious doesn't mean he's a vampire. I wrote all of the descriptions BEFORE I assigned someone the vampire role. However the descriptions may be used as hints in the story. For example, I might say "The vampire had a Marshall's badge on", so you'd deduce that the vampire was Charlie Boles, the Marshall. I won't be giving anything that obvious, but keep an eye out.
Also, check out the Werewolf 5.0 thread. I posted all the clues I gave in the story bits. Might give you a better idea of where to look.
If anyone has any problems with their roles, let me know, but keep in mind this is just a bit of fun, I don't mean to insult anybody.
Also, the descriptions have nothing to do with special roles. Engesa is not actually the Doctor, for example. In fact, there are no specal roles, only townsfolk and vampires.
The vampire starts with a gallon of blood so the game starts once the vamp sends me their victim. This person will automatically be turned into a vampire. This is just in case you guys end up killing the vampire on the first go.
Rules are here. Now we just have to wait for the vampire to suck some... blood! =D
FIRST SPREADSHEET
spreadsheets.google.com/ccc?key=0AhbesIAFoL7IdHVyaTRxZ084ZGR5Ny1QajgtQTM2LXc&hl=en&authkey=CJSLwM8L
SECOND SPREADSHEET
spreadsheets.google.com/ccc?key=0AuRZy72gi2evdGRBNWtyVHNfZTFpQlRCbmx3TDQxM3c&hl=en&authkey=CKbUnMwC#gid=0
STORY BIT 1:
In the deep south of America in the arid state of Arizona lies the great scar of the earth - the Grand Canyon. Somewhere off the western tail can be found a little-known offshoot of the vast chasm called Polecat Valley. Someplace in Southern Polecat valley, in older times of cowboys and gunslingers, there once sat the town of Moonbrook. While the town was small and rather isolated, it was self-sustaining; Although the valley's soil was kept fertile by the Ewestail River and grass and other wild foliage grew bountifully the ground was rocky and untillable. Instead, the people operated dozens of dairy farms, making the place famous for their delectable cheese: also their staple diet. Moonbrook was the kind of town where secrets were nigh impossible to keep, where everyone knew everyone else and their business. While this generally kept the townsfolk in line, it meant that it was the kind of place where gossip could get you hanged, drawn and quartered. It was the kind of place where great stories were born, and that little town is where this one begins.
"Pour me another," ordered Marshall Charlie Boles, slamming his glass down on the bar.
"Alright, but I can't give you no more after this one," replied the barkeep, obliging him.
"You keep me sane, Bobbie," thanked the Marshall, and downed the glass of whiskey. It was late. They were the only two in the deserted saloon. The sounds of horsehooves and cartwheels and drunken rabble had died down not long ago and the town was asleep.
"Another."
"Suit yourself. Last one, Marshall." The lawman drank up. "Pray tell, sir, why do you always take your recreation time so late after the rest of the townsfolk?"
Boles snorted. "Drink with those good-for-nothin' fools? I think not. I'd sooner steer clear of the likes of Heathers McNulty and that drunk deadbeat Tom Parker. The people of this town leave much to be desired. Hell, my own deputee won't even leave his home after dark. Yeller belly fool." He slammed his drink. "Another."
Bobbie shook his head, "I'd feel irresponsible pourin' you another." He filled the glass anyway. "You ought to give the people of this town a chance, Marshall. Some of them are folk to ride the river with. Like that feller Chuck Williamson. Now there's a man with whom I'm mighty pleased to be aquainted."
"Don't you get me started on that Stick, Williamson," grunted the Marshall, gulping half his drink down, "Prancin' around these parts like he owns em'. This is my town, he'd do good to learn that."
As if on cue, the saloon doors flapped open and in walked Chuck Williamson himself. Bobbie did a double-take. Boles kept his eyes lowered. Williamson sauntered to the bar.
"Trouble ye for a whiskey, barkeep?" requested Williamson in a gruff voice.
"Certainly sir," replied Bobbie, trying to cover his excitement.
"How are you this fine evenin', Marshall?" he inquired, turning to Boles.
"Go jump in the river, Williamson," spat Boles.
"Cool your heels friend, I ain't tryin' to cause trouble," reasoned Williamson.
"I ain't your friend."
"Now, now Gentlemen, I don't want no rabble rousin' in my bar. Keep it civil. Here, have another drink on the house. I swear, this is the last drop I take from this bottle this night," moderated Bobbie.
"I apologise, Mr Dupree. Much obliged," thanked Williamson.
Bobbie began topping up the men's glasses, but before he'd filled them, a man's screams rang out and two gunshots sounded outside. Bobbie started and spilt whiskey all over the bar.
"What in blue blazes?" muttered Boles. Both he and Williamson set off outside and around the corner where the noise had originated from. The alley was dimly lit, but even in the bad light they could both make out the dark ruby stain trailing down into the distance. They walked slowly to the start of the dark ribbon and crouched to inspect it. Williamson wiped his finger on the soggy dirt and sniffed it.
"Yerp, that's blood alright," he confirmed.
"Damn. Who the heck went and done this?" wondered the Marshall.
"Vampires, I reckon," Williamson responded grimly. Boles gave him an incredulous look.
"Vampires? Have you gone soggy in the head, boy?"
"I have not, sir. Believe what you will, but this here is the work of bloodsuckin' fiends. Ain't nothin' worse," said Williamson, shaking his head. Boles continued to stare at him in awestruck disbelief.
"You heard the gunshots good as I did, some poor fool got shot here tonight, nothin' more," argued Boles.
"I have to disagree with you there, sir. I see no blood spatter consistant with that of a shootin'. I reckon the gun was an attempt at self defense" rebutted Williamson.
"And where's the gun now?"
"Taken, I reckon."
Boles glared at him. "Alright," said the Marshall slowly, "lets say I trust in this notion of creatures of the night. What makes you think this here is the work of one of em'?"
Williamson pointed to the spot where the blood began. "No poolin'. Had this been any other killin' the poor soul woulda been spurtin' before he got dragged off. If this was a vampire, which I believe it was, all that initial bloodloss would've gone directly to the creature's gut," he explained.
"Alright then, why the trail? Why would the beast drag a man away? Why not just leave him here to rot?" challenged Boles.
Williamson took off his hat and sighed. "Well sir, that's the worst part. Usually that's exactly what a vampire would do. Unless it intends on turnin' its victim."
"...Into 'nother vampire?"
"Yessir."
Boles stared at Williamson in shock for another few moments and then stood up. "Boy, you must be doped up or somethin' cause you ain't makin' no sense. G'wan home and get some rest afore someone tosses you in the river on suspicion of bein' posessed."
Williamson looked away and rung his hands around the brim of his hat. "If you don't mind sir, I'd like to patrol the streets, awhile longer, lest anybody else fall victim to the... killer," mumbled Williamson.
"Suit yerself," said Boles, and set off in the direction of the blood trail. Williamson stood up and watched the Marshall walk away. "Damn fool," he whispered, replaced his hat and left in the other direction.
STORY BIT 2:
Late afternoon sun shone dismally through the dusty saloon windows. It gave an eerie sort of glow to the place and coupled with the unusual emptiness of it, made for quite an ominous scene. Most of the citizens of Moonbrook were sat around a makeshift conference table made up of a mishmash of other tables and chairs around the bar. Chuck Williamson had just dropped the bomb about his vampire theory and he was currently taking in the baffled silence he'd been met with.
"V-v-vampires, Mr Williamson?" repeated Gus Thompson.
"Yessir, I'm inclined to believe so," nodded Williamson.
Boles buried his face in his hands. "Is this really necessary, Williamson? Can't we try not to scare the livin' daylights out of all these people?" he tried, exhasperation clear in his voice.
"They have to know Marshall. There's no hidin' from this. The more we know, the faster we can git these bastards," proclaimed Williamson, banging his fist on the table.
"Alright, g'head and make a fool of yerself," Boles gave up, rolling his eyes.
"I reckon' it were that yack of a deputee. He couldn't shoot the hind quarters of a donkey if it were twixt his sheets. That's why the vampir got away. An' trust him to scream out like a yello' belly," suggested Lucille Compton.
"What's a whore doin' here?" demanded Boles.
"You'd best watch your tone, Marshall, as my most popular girl, Lucky has a tendency to acquire very valuable information," warned Madam Loretta Auckland.
"A whore's a whore, Madam. And Deputee Johnson only walks the streets in the daytime hours. Hates the mosquitos." She glared at him but stayed silent, placing a protective hand on Lucky's shoulder.
"I s-s-s-still think this v-vampire business is c-c-cracked" stuttered Gus. There were a few mumbles of agreement.
"I assure you, the threat is real," stated Williamson.
"You're a learned man, Mr Golbrassen, what do you think of the situation?" piped in Father Jack Aimes.
"Call me Doc," he replied. It was clearly more of an order than a pleasantry.
"Apologies, Doc, any input?"
"I am a doctor. I cannot have any part in ending a life," he said simply.
"Understandable, very understandable. I find myself in a similar position. But one must remember that these creatures of the devil are not children of God. Their lives are worthless to him, as they must be to us, the warriors of his will," urged the preacher, "Worry not, Doctor. He will forgive us." He chuckled and scratched his beard. The doctor regarded him curiously.
"Apologies, Senors y Senoritas, but perhaps the culprit was one of the gang members who keep stealing my chamber pots?" suggested Juan-Ernesto Gonzales, "They were making a great deal of noise outside my store last night and when I looked out the window I saw that Heathers McNulty was not with his compadres."
There was a rumble of discussion for a moment. "That must be who done it then, lets get that scallawag," cried Carson Marsh, throwing up his arms and knocking over his glass. There were cheers of agreement and people began to stand.
"Wait! Fellers! McNulty tried to mug me last night, it couldnt've been him," protested Tom Parker. There were mumbles of disappointment and everyone sat down again.
"Tried, Tom?" questioned Carson.
"Yessir, well, all my gold was in the liquor store, so there weren't nothin' to mug," explained Tom bashfully.
"We gotta pick someone, friends. We can't risk lettin a vamp run around our town to feed on us and our children," said Williamson.
"Where is the d-d-deputee this afternoon anyways? Don't vampires b-b-b-b-burst into f-flames in the sunlight? Maybe that's why he ain't here," asserted Gus.
"That's a myth. But I reckon Ms Lucky's point may have merit," stipulated Williamson.
"Well, we ain't got nothin else to go on, I say we hang the bastard," declared Carson. There was another rumble of agreement, and again, people began to stand.
Boles glanced around in shock at his protectees. "Y'all must be off your rockers! You can't go lynchin' my deputee! I won't allow it!" He shouted, standing up. Nobody stopped. "Stop, God damn you!" he followed the crowd outside.
"Come on fellas, lets go get Johnson," called Williamson, and he and three others ran off down the road towards the deputees house. Boles made after them. Everyone else congregated around the hanging podium.
Charlise Milton ambled out of the hotel, strucken by curiosity at the scene outside. She stopped next to Guldbransen. "What's going on, Doctor?" she asked.
"There is a vampire or two on the loose, Madam," he answered.
"Ohh, vampires, hmm?" she replied, unconvinced.
"Indeed. They're hanging the deputee on suspicion of being one of them."
"Can't even pronounce their 'g's and they're taking lives into their own hands." She shook her head sadly. They turned in the direction of the angry shouts that were approaching. The four men held Deputee Johnson tightly, practically dragging him along the dusty ground. The look of fear and confusion on his face was haunting. Marshall Boles leapt around them, punching and kicking and pulling desperately at the captors in attempts to free Johnson, but his efforts were in vain. They watched as the throng moved up the stairs to the rope. The onlookers began to hoot and holler as the noose was tightened around the panicked man's neck.
"I wonder did I make a mistake in coming here," sighed Charlise sadly. Carson Marsh pulled the lever that would end Johnson's life.
"I often wonder the same," agreed the doctor, watching in silence as Johnson's feet kicked slower and slower. Finally he was still. Chuck Williamson approached the body and opened the dead man's mouth. He peered into it for a moment, then hesitantly ran his fingers along the man's teeth. The noise died down as the crowd
awaited his verdict. His head fell. He removed his finger and his hat, shaking his head sadly. The silence was dead. The body spun slowly, still affected by the dying man's motion.
"ARE YOU HAPPY NOW??" screamed Boles, his face red, his eyes watering. "WELL? ARE YOU??" Nobody said a word as they began guiltyly leaving the scene. Boles fell to his knees beside his friend, where he stayed till he was the only one left to mourn the loss of an innocent man.
STORY BIT 3:
Somewhere outside Moonbrook, near the river's edge and not too far from the road, there was a camp. It was the kind of camp you wouldn't want to have the misfortune of happening upon, lest your money be stolen, your lungs get punctured and your body be thrown in the water. Tonight, fortunate for some, there were no such visitors.
Dick Heathers McNulty traipsed through the thin trees, a shotgun over one shoulder, the dripping carcasses of three rabbits over the other. The late summer sunset pushed against the tall trees and cast dark lines on the ground like a jail cell. This was better than a jail cell though, Heathers knew that for sure. He broached the trees into a small riverside clearing and dumped his spoils on the ground next to the waning camp fire. Three slowly rising bundles of cloth marked the sleeping places of his partners in crime. Of course a better indication of their presence was the monstrous snores they emitted, more akin to rhinos than people. Heathers shook his head and picked up his own sleeping bundle, shoving them under his free arm. He wandered into the trees on the other side of the camp, emerging just beside a little stony beach. He set his blankets down, curled up beneath them and fell quickly asleep.
He was running. He couldn't see where he was going but he was sure he wanted to get away from where he was coming from. He kept glancing back in panic, but he couldn't see who was chasing him either. He knew someone was chasing him. There was definitely someone chasing him. Why else would he be running? And then all of a sudden, there were footsteps behind him; Quick, clicking footsteps that seemed to be moving much faster than he was moving himself. There were bags on his arms. Heavy bags that slowed him down. He cried out. The bags sloshed around and glittering discs of gold spilled out and clinked against the ground, complimenting the ever nearing footsteps. "STOP!" ordered his pursuer, "Stop in the name of the law!" "I can't" he cried, "I can't stop! I can't" And then suddenly the man was on his back, pulling him down, clawing onto him like a cat, biting him, tearing his flesh...
He woke up, relief striking him like a mallet. But something was off. He was still asleep. He was still being bitten. He opened his eyes. A shadowy shape was attached to his neck, pinning him in place. Then came the pain. It was like someone had shoved knitting needles into the side of his neck. He tried to scream but his face was buried in his blankets and held fast by the figure's vice grip. Worst of all, he could feel all the life being sucked out of him. His toes and fingers numbed, then his legs and arms and on up until he thought even if his mouth was free he wouldn't be able to scream.
Just as Heathers was giving up on his last inch of consciousness, his clandestine attacker grunted, and pulled away. It flicked its head towards the trees where a light was bobbing closer. With an animal hiss it spun and merged silently with the darkness. Heathers coughed, grey spots infecting his vision. Behind them, the face of his wife appeared. "Dick, where've you gone and slunk off to?" she called. Her eyes fell upon the ghostly face of her husband. "R...Ricky?" she whispered. The lantern she held fell from her grip. Heathers grunted; the only noise he could bring himself to make. Mary-Lynn fell to her already dirty knees beside her betrothed. She touched the two slightly oozing puncture wounds on his upturned neck, her breath catching in her chest. Then she touched his face, his hair, his chest. "Ricky! Ricky you're gonna be just fine, alright? You'll be right as rain. You wait right here, while I get the Doc," she reassured him, though panic was rife in her voice. She rested her hand on his cheek again for a moment, staring tearily into his vacant eyes, then stood up. "Don't you move now!" she ordered, and sprinted into the trees.
Once she hit camp she wasted no time waking the others. "Get up you fools! Move yer' stinkin' hides!" she yelled, kicking at the three rumbling piles, "Wake up wake up!". Finally one of the lumps stirred and the head of Bloody Bill Oldman appeared above the blankets. "What you hollerin' about, woman?" he demanded, squinting at her. She turned to him and he saw the raw panic in her face. "Go get the Doc! Dick's been bitten!"
STORY BIT 4:
"Bitten?" repeated Bloody Bill, "bitten by what?"
"How should I know! He's pale as a ghost, just go get the Doc before he croaks!" ordered Mary-Lynn. The other two were half risen now and glaring at her through puffy eyes. Bloody Bill shook his head. "Alright, woman, don't get your dander up. Crusty, come on let's go get the Doc. Joe, stay here and watch over Mary-Lynn." The others nodded and shuffled out of their sacks. Bill and Crusty put on their coats, holstered their guns and made off towards the town. "Don't you worry, darlin'," called Bill as they disappeared into the trees, "that no-good husband o' yours'll be just fine!" The corner of Mary-Lynn's mouth twitched at his attempt to cheer her up, but she couldn't manage a smile.
"Wench, he better be near dead, or I'm gonna slit yer throat for wakin' me," snarled Joe Montana, pulling his suspenders on.
"Go hang yourself, Montana," she replied and paced back into the woods towards where she'd left Heathers. Joe gave a low growl as she left and spat in her footprints.
Once everyone had left, it was quieter than ever. Now would have been a good time to catch some extra sleep, what with the snoring gone. Joe considered it for a moment, but decided with god-knows-what kind of animal skulking around in the trees it was probably not the best idea. Instead, he sat upright on a wooden crate, pulled out his revolver and rested it on his knee. If anything was going to come out of the dark, he wasn't going to let it get close enough even to breath on him.
The silence was just a heavy, not minutes later. It was a surprise to Joe, therefore when he was grabbed around the shoulders. A split second later there were sharp fangs inches deep into the side of his neck. He cried out, shocked and in pain, so much that he dropped his gun into the dirt. He kicked his heels and thrashed around still screaming and shouting at the top of his lungs, but whatever was holding him had superhuman strength and was certainly not letting go.
Fortunately for Joe, Mary-Lynn had already been on her way back for some provisions when she heard his screams. Once again, her lantern light appeared in between the trees, growing ever brighter as she raced back to camp. Like before, the attacker pulled away at the imminence of intrusion, let out a monstrous hiss and set off into the trees, just as Mary-Lynn appeared. Joe stumbled to his feet, picked up his gun and fired a few haphazard shots into the woods.
"Damn you!" he screamed, "come back here and fight me like a man! Coward!" He roared in anger and threw his ineffective gun to the ground. It misfired, causing Mary-Lynn to jump. "Did you see him? Did you see the bastard that bit me?" he asked her, pointing to his still bleeding neck.
She shook her head. "I did not. It sure ran faster than the other one though."
"Well," he said, a little quieter, "that sure as hell weren't no animal." He wavered a bit, blood trickling down his neck and saturating his shirt. "I... I think I gotta sit down," he mumbled. He stumbled back to the crate and dropped himself onto it, nearly falling off in the process. Mary-Lynn rummaged around in a pile of clothes and produced a dirty rag, which she brought to him.
"Here, hold this against your neck afore you lose all your blood," she told him. He snatched the rag from her.
"I don't need yer motherin', woman!" he protested, but did as she said anyway. She shook her head and sat down on Crusty's bed pile.
They sat there in silence until the others returned, the doctor in tow. "Great, you got the Doc," said Mary-Lynn, clearly relieved.
"Yup, just about caught him goin' in his front door. Jesus, Joe, what happened to you?" asked Bill, noticing Joe and his growing bloodstains.
"I got bit," spat Joe resentfully.
"Damn, did you see what did it?"
"Weren't no animal, Bill. Was a person. Got me round the shoulders and all. Sneaky lout snuck up on me from behind so I didn't get a good look at him. Ain't got a beard though, that's fer sure."
Bill shook his head in horror, "What in the hell is going on 'round here?"
"Vampires," said the Doc. His statement was received with looks of disbelief.
"You high, Doc?" asked Crusty.
"I'm not, no. There was an attack last night, similar to this one, we assume. The body was not recovered. Mr Williamson seems to believe that the culprits are vampires." There was silence. "Yes, I reacted the same. These incidences you've had provide us with interesting new information, however."
"Damn Doc, you went and got all Frankenstein on us," uttered Bill.
"I dunno. Vampire sounds pretty plausible to me. Ain't no animal that can hold me down like that, I assure you," mumbled Joe. Doc stepped forward.
"I'd advise you not to waste your energy on such bragging, Mr. Montana when it's best use is for your recovery. Let me take a look at you. And where is the other patient?" he asked.
"Out by the crick," replied Bill, "We got a gurney, Mary-Lynn. C'mon, let's go get Heathers"
STORY BIT 5:
The saloon was once again doubling as a meeting hall. Today however, more of the townsfolk had been attracted to the gathering, some by fear, some by love of drama and some by the bloodlust guaranteed to be satisfied by final decision of the ensuing discussion. Even Bloody Bill Oldman's gang was there and nobody batted an eyelid. Some stole morbidly curious glances at the heavily bandaged necks of Heathers McNulty and Joe Montana, though they dared not steal more than that lest they have their eyes poked out. The two men were now evidence of the vampires that Chuck Williamson had described. Any doubt anybody had had been dissolved now. The only argument to be had was over who should be accused and sent to the rope.
Bloody Bill had just finished recounting the story from the night before, the other members of his gang and Mary-Lynn having stayed silent and let him speak for them. The atmosphere in the room was now a mixture of horror and misguided excitement.
"Thankyou, Mr Oldman," said Williamson, a gesture that surprised most in the room, "Now that we've heard the details, does anyone have any contributions? Any observations?"
"Well, we know there's two of the feckers," chimed Tim Driscoll, swigging from his bottle of whiskey, "so our odds of survival leave much to be desired."
"I suppose we can rule out these fellers," added Mishap Molly Cordell begrudgingly, gesturing towards Bloody Bill and his gang.
"Well, you say the second of them attacked while most of the others were gone or indisposed. That was quite wise of him," observed Bitsy Monroe.
"Yeah, they must be pretty clever," agreed Molly.
"Certainly more clever than the rest of us, killin' off our lawmen," grumbled Charlie Boles resentfully.
"We had to do it, Marshall.. I don't want no man suckin on my neck in my bed!" said Tom Parker a little too loudly.
"Tom, calm down," begged his wife Martha, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't tell me to calm down woman!" he shouted drunkenly, standing up, "We gotta crush those sunnuvabitches. Tear their heads off, whether some cowardly lawmen croak in the process or not!"
Boles leapt up, his fists balled, his face red with anger, but before he could begin to bellow his disapproval, a voice wafted out from a dark corner behind them.
"I'd sincerely advise you to calm down, Mr. Parker," it said, gruff and austere, "the more men we kill without reason, the more we pose ourselves as sitting ducks, ripe for shooting."
"Who is that? Who's there hidin' all secretive-like?" demanded Tom, half stomping, half stumbling forward to get the answer himself. In the dim light of the corner was a table at which a lean, bearded man dressed all in black sat, swathed in shadow.
"Ryan Sinner Walker, at your service" the man greeted, tipping his hat ironically. Tom regarded him with uncertainty.
"Alright, Sinner, I reckon you should shut the hell up or get out of this here establishment," he spat, wavering on his feet. Walker coolly held Tom's gaze, and pulled the corner of his coat open, revealing a shining black hilt.
"And I would advise you, sir, to take a seat," he replied calmly. Tom faltered.
"Well, I.. you.. I don't... hrmm.." he mumbled, and turned to walk back to the others in defeat. Boles, having observed the exchange along with everyone else and being of a calmer disposition subsequently, watched Tom unhappily return to his seat and nodded to Walker thankfully. He returned the gesture, sat back and crossed his legs and continued to watch.
The Marshall sighed and sat down again. "This Sinner Gentleman is right. We gotta have good reason for sendin' people to the rope," he said.
"Hey fellers, I gots me an idear!" piped up Dwayne McDonald. Everyone grumbled in displeasure. "Alright, so these fellers can only eat us when there's a full moon in the sky, so I reckon if we set up a trap when there's a full moon we can catch the nasty scallawags!" he explained, clearly very excited at his idea.
"You're thinkin' of werewolves, Dwayne," Bitsy told him.
"Aww, shucks," he mumbled, disappointed, and hung his head.
It was at least an hour later when deliberation ended with the condemnation of Carson Marsh. His recent absence had been deemed suspicious, and aswell as that, it was decided that he'd been far too eager to kill the Deputee. Charlie Boles approved of this. Unfortunately, after he'd been dragged kicking and screaming to the rope and strangled to death and Williamson repeated the ritual tooth check, the town was met with the reality that they had killed another innocent man. Carson Marsh's broken notes would never again be heard from the saloon piano.
STORY BIT 6:
In the wake of the coming eve, Moonbrook was undertaking its regular nightly changes. The hussle and bussle of people going about their daily business was dying down and the drunken rabble that replaced it was concentrating gradually around the saloon. It was this time of day when Juan-Ernesto Gonzales thanked the heavens he'd managed to get his hands on his current property, on the other side of town from the saloon. Sure it was right next to the Livery, but at least the stench of horse dung boosted chamber pot sales.
He'd just finished locking up the shop front and retired upstairs when he heard a noise outside. "Ayayay," he muttered, picking up a shovel and stepping slowly back down the stairs. He peered back and forth past the spindly shadows of pickaxes and brooms as he descended, steps creaking spitefully beneath him. He listened carefully over the noise for further sounds from outside, but he could hear nothing. "Bastardos ladrones," he hissed, convinced Bloody Bill's gang were sneaking around again. He reached the ground and stepped steadily and silently towards the dusty windows and peered outside. He could see nothing but the skeletal outline of a tumbleweed.
He was not expecting what happened next, which was the horrible sensation of fangs piercing his jugular. He flailed helplessly for a few instants before an arm was wrapped tightly around his shoulders and a hand clamped over his mouth for good measure. He screamed into his captors steadfast palm but all he could hear was his shouts of agony inside his own ears and all he could feel was blood rushing out of his body.
He was just beginning to feel light-headed when he was released, and his body was let crumple to the ground. The creature gave a long, satisfied hiss. Shaking in fear, Juan-Ernesto slowly looked up to the face of his attacker. Despite any moonlight that may have filtered through the shop's murky windows, the figure had a strange darkness about it that made it impossible to recognise him. It hissed again, this time menacingly at Juan-Ernesto, who froze instantly, his breath catching in his throat. Then, without provocation, the stealthy shape disappeared towards the back of the shop. Juan-Ernesto stayed still as stone for a few more moments, hot blood trickling down his neck, till he heard the back door banging in the breeze. It was only then that he was able to exhale, drag himself to his feet and stumble out the door to seek help.
STORY BIT 7:
It was the third gathering in three days. Tempers were frayed, trust was waning and a sense of fearful anticipation hung heavy in the air. As the townsfolk gradually filled the saloon, looks of doubt and unease were exchanged as everyone wondered whether the person they sat beside wanted to gnaw on their neck for an afternoon snack.
Ryan Walker took one of the last seats between Bobbie Dupree and the Doc.
"Afternoon, Mr Gulbrandsen, Mr Dupree," he greeted them civilly. Bobbie regarded him suspiciously.
"How do you know our names?" he demanded cautiously.
"Well, believe it or not, I've been sitting in on the last couple of meetings and I'm pretty good with names," he explained.
"Oh, I see... well alright then," accepted Bobbie with some hesitance.
"Alright everyone, settle down," announced Chuck Williamson. Everyone quieted down and turned their attention to him. "I recognise that y'all are worried and frightened for yerselves and your loved ones. You mark my words, friends, we're gonna catch these suckers. Excuse the pun. So, y'all know the drill. Anybody noticed anythin' out of the ordinary?"
There were a few moments of silence in which everybody glanced from one possibly guilty face to the next.
"Come on, people, don't be afraid to tell us what you know. Your opinion could save the town," urged Williamson.
"I.. I think one of em's a lady," asserted Martha Parker quietly.
"That's good Mrs Parker, why do you reckon so?" encouraged Williamson.
"Well.. Mrs McNulty told us that the creature that attacked Mr Montana was faster than that which Mr McNulty encountered. It's possible that a lady vampire would be faster on her feet. Also, we're told it had no beard. Most of the men in town have some sort of whiskers, which leads me to believe my latter assertion," she clarified uneasily.
"You best shut yer' stinkin trap afore I shut it for you, lady," erupted Montana, "Weren't no wench that attacked me. No woman could have held me down like that. I got no doubts that it were a man out there that night."
"Alright, Mr Montana, lets just calm down," advised Williamson, noting the look of terror in Martha's eyes. Montana opened his mouth to bellow some obscenities at him but shut it again begrudgingly after a stern look from Bloody Bill.
"Okay, so there's a possibility one of em' is a woman, and we know one's a man. Say, where's Mr Gonzales?" wondered Williamson.
"In bed," answered the doc, "he's not yet fully recovered."
"So much for getting his account of things," sighed Williamson.
"Wait a second, Doc," said Crusty Ben, "What were you doin' out so late when we caught up with you the other night?"
"That's a very good question, what were you up to?" added Bloody Bill. All eyes moved to the doc, who looked more than surprised.
"Visiting a patient of course," he answered, appaled at the question.
"Who?" demanded Bill, unconvinced.
"I.. another townsperson not present at this time," he explained. Nobody's focused gaze faltered from him. He looked pleadingly from one accusing face to the next. "I am not a vampire! I swear! I made an oath never to harm another human being and I have never broken it!"
"Save it, Doc," spat Bloody Bill.
In a matter of seconds half the men in the room were on their feet and making a move for the doc. As they grabbed for a hold on their newest suspect he kicked and thrashed and shouted for his life. It took seven men to subdue him before he could be moved from the saloon, and even then they struggled to keep their hold and to avoid injury. Eventually, and with a great deal of effort, they got him to the podium, secured the rope around his neck and another around his wrists. The rest of the town gathered to watch as the lever was pulled and the town doctor took the short fall. He convulsed and fought against the tight grip of the rope. Soon his face would turn blue and his struggle would be over. Or so the spectators thought.
Five minutes later the scene was the same. The townsfolk looked from one to the other in confusion. Williamson and Boles shared a concerned look for a moment before Boles pulled out his gun and shot the doc right in the middle of the head. Everybody started. The docs head fell forward and he was still. There were some gasps and startled muttered conversations from the crowd. Williamson nodded thankfully at Boles, breathed deeply and took a few steps toward the swaying body. He was mere feet from the doc when out of nowhere the head that had only moments ago succumed to sudden and positive death snapped upright again. Eyes wide open and glaring, and nostrils flared it let out an inhuman hissing sound at Williamson. He fell backwards onto his behind in shock and stared, terrified up at the two, gleaming, razor sharp fangs, from behind which the doctors animalistic snarl came. Williamson gulped for air, taking a moment to compose himself before shouting "Get an axe!". Behind him, Boles tore his eyes from the scene and addressed the crowd. "You heard the man!" he bellowed ferociously "go get an axe! Now!" Someone at the back turned and stumbled towards the hardware store.
"You fools!" shouted the doc, a new evilness behind his imported accent, "you'll never survive! My heir will carry on my legacy! You will all die!" And then, he let out with a savage, unrelenting laugh. It echoed through the street, bouncing off buildings like bolts of ice, unhindered by the horrified silence of the gathered townsfolk. It went on, seemingly endlessly until a man returned with an axe and handed it to Williamson, who had since risen back to his feet.
"May your road be relentless and unforgiving," said Williamson hatefully, tightening this grip on the heavy weapon. The doc stopped laughing for a moment and regarded him manically "Roads? Where I'm going, I don't need roads!" he roared and broke into laughter again. Williamson shook his head. He moved the blade behind his shoulder and with one last look at the remorseless face of the town's doctor he swung. There was a sickening slicing sound and two dull thuds as the hanging body was seperated at the neck, the body falling to the dirt below the podium and out of sight, the head landing on the wood and rolling gruesomely to the edge of the stage where it gave the people of Moonbrook its last, manic, inhuman stare.
STORY BIT 8:
The sun was setting behind the jagged valley walls that fringed the town of Moonbrook. A searing twilight floated down upon the mishmash of wooden rooves, gradually turning the town orange. Eventually the sun fell behind the horizon and rolled in the uncertain time in between sunfall and moonrise that left the sky cold and empty. The town now went through a similar time when the early working inhabitants retired to their houses but before the noisey night crowds filled the saloons and the streets. For now, the town was quiet.
This daily lull in activity was the perfect opportunity for Mishap Molly Cordell to go about her very specialised business. There was an abundance of nicknacks lying around the streets after the long days work, just ripe for the picking, at least until some drunk idiot saw something shiny or smashable. She was currently picking her way down the long backstreet that ran parallel to the mainstreet, behind the saloon and most of the other main businesses. She crouched down next to a pile of broken tools, in her mind's eye seeing instead levers and gears just waiting to be partnered together.
As she rummaged through the pile, she suddenly heard a noise. A loud one.
"No... NOOOOO!" yelled a male voice from somewhere off in the distance. Mishap Molly jumped to her feet, dropping the pieces shed picked up. The end of a mining pick bounced off a tin bucket and made an unseemly clang that rang out boldly into the twilit air. She held her breath and stared in the direction the screams had come from, daring not to move an inch, lest she make any more noise. The streets were eerily quiet. After a moment of dead silence she took a haggard breath and turned to run in the opposite direction to find the Marshall or Chuck Williamson to tell them the grim news. The last vampire had struck again.
STORY BIT 9:
It was mid-afternoon and once again the saloon held host to the town's daily meeting. Everyone had listened with bated breath as Mishap Molly recounted her story from the previous evening. Then ensued the usual debate, the accusations, the suspicious questions and the general air of mistrust.
"HEY! Settle down, ye' fools!" shouted Boles, attempting to dissolve yet another shouting match between more than a few of the townsfolk, "All this bickerin' aint' gonna get us anywhere so why don't y'all just shut yer mouths and listen to what everyone else has to say. Lord." Immediately the room was silent.
"Thankyou, Marshall," said Williamson. Boles grunted distastefully in return. "As I was saying," continued Williamson, "Miss Cordell, do you remember hearin' any gunshots or the like, such as were heard last time?"
"No sir, nothin' like that. Just a man screamin' is all I heard," she replied. Williamson sighed.
"Well I guess that doesn't get us anywhere, does it."
"I got shhomethin' te say," drawled Tom Parker, pushing himself with some difficulty from his chair. There were groans of displeasure. "So long's nobody threatens to shoot me this time," he added, trying to give Ryan Walker a subtle look, but instead nearly headbutting him. Walker leaned back as far as he could in attempts to escape Tom's foul booze-breath. "I think that.. who'nneever ish responsible for all these hawwwrible crimes is a COWARD... and they aughta show 'emselves n' stand up like a man! ..C'mon... C-C'mon yew sunnuvabitch, stand up!"
"Tom, sit the heck down," ordered Boles in disgust.
"But s- urghh yessir," obeyed Tom, begrudgingly. He returned to his seat unstably, glancing anxiously at the Marshall, who chose to ignore him."Uhh I gots a question," piped in Dwayne, "How come none of em've tried to eat our brains yet?" Faces fell to hands.
"We got vampires, Dwayne, not zombies. And you got mashed potato in yer beard," Bobbie told him.
"Ohhh, right... vampires," Dwayne acknowledged, wiping the food from his chin.
It took a lot of deliberation, bickering and incriminating before a conclusion was arrived at. It was decided that Tim Driscoll would be the next to be lynched, since nobody could explain his recent absence and his lack of facial hair made him a prime suspect for the assault on Joe Montana. Tim didn't give much of a struggle since he was found passed out inside an outhouse near the edge of town, surrounded by whiskey bottles, so it wasn't much work dragging him up the steps to the newly build guillotine. The blade fell, Tim's head rolled and as his deadpan eyes stared emotionlessly at the crowd and his tongue lolled from his fangless mouth the town mourned the loss of another innocent soul.
STORY BIT 10:
The end of a long, busy day had finally come. Juan-Ernesto sat in the back room of his store, happily stacking shiny gold coins and recording their value. "Siete, ocho, nueve, diez. Bueno!" he counted cheerfully. Ever since the vampire attacks, people were arming themselves. Some bought guns, but since a sharp blade had been proven the most effective instrument of extermination, Juan-Ernesto's hardware store was everyone's first stop. Business was booming. That was all good and well with Juan-Ernesto; he felt he deserved a little boost in profit after being so visciously mauled. He scratched around the bandages secured to the side of his neck as he dropped the last coin into place. With a sigh, he sat back in his chair. A fine day's work, he reckoned.
After a long, indulgent stretch, Juan-Ernesto stood and headed to the stairs, intending to retire for the night. But when he got to the store front, something wasn't right. The front door was wide open. "Dios mio, not again!" he groaned. No sooner had he said that than inhumanly strong arms were wrapped around his shoulders and face and the unbandaged side of his neck was dug into like a fresh slice of watermelon. Slowly, slowly Juan-Ernesto felt all the energy, all the life, all the hope drain from his limbs and soon all he wanted to do was sleep for ten generations. He barely felt his body hit the ground and the last hazy image he saw was his attacker's face as he leapt out of the window. And there he lay, numb and cold until life finally left his side forever.
STORY BIT 11:
It was just before dusk when Tom Parker's head rolled. It had travelled to the edge of the stage and fell with a thud into the dry dirt, the whites of its eyes and its decidedly blunt teeth glinting in the setting sunlight. Heathers stared down at it, rested lonely at his feet. Just minutes before, that mouth had been screaming at him. "You bastard, you can stop this!" Tom had yelled, sober for a change, "You know damn well where I was that night! You really so much of a coward that you'll sacrifice a man's life for a short-lived facade of your own innocence?" Apparently he was. As he walked away from the stage, the death of Tom Parker lay more heavily on his shoudlers than he felt it should for someone in his line of work. It was the delicacy of life that everyone had been so suddenly made aware of - that was what was changing attitudes.
As the gang made their way out of the camp, Bloody Bill slapped a hand across Heathers' shoulders.
"Don't you worry friend, you done the right thing," he reassured him, sensing his comrade's doubt.
"Yeah.. I guess it was me or him," he replied solemnly.
"Ezzacly. And nobody wants no drunken fool like him around anyways, specially when he aint never got nothin' shiny on im!"
Heathers smiled a little.
"Tha's the spirit," chuckled Bill, patting his back again.
"I still can't believe that pansy Doc bit you," heckled Montana.
"That weren't Doc. Doc can't stand my smell," argued Heathers.
"Pshh, sure, you just can't handle that twinkletoed Bohunk sucked on ye!"
"Aint' it at all, my friend. I honestly can't think of any of the townsfolk who'd come near me. Truly frazzles the mind. But Doc would bearly fix my neck. If it weren't for that he'd be a mile away, I reckon"
"He's right," interjected Bill before Montana could rebutt, "Noone in their right mind would get that close to 'ol Heathers. Smells a lot worse to the others that aren't used to it than it do to us. I guess that means you're the one who Doc bit, Joey." Montana muttered something under his breath and kicked the dirt in agitation as he walked. The others sniggered at his embarassment as they crossed the edge of town and disappeared into the trees.
STORY BIT 12:
She lay sound and still, chest rising and falling gently in time with her drowsy breaths. A faint trilling snore rose from her slightly open mouth and dissipated before it hit the wooden ceiling. Never had there been such a peaceful sleeper, such that a cocooning caterpillar might hold bitter envy.
But all the peace in the world couldn't compete with the evil in the air that night. Her respite was ruthelssly shattered by sudden and powerful restraint and the sickening feeling of fangs piercing her neck. Her mouth, driven into the pillow couldn't let her screams escape and her limbs, tangled beneath the silky sheets were useless in her struggle for freedom.
It wasn't long before she felt the world slip away from her and fell back into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her attacker, pleased with his work, dragged his unlucky victim away..
When she returned the next morning, her bed was empty and saturated in liquid ruby. The curtains billowed into the ransacked room through the three broken windows like angry velvet ghosts. She locked the door, and began cleaning, spinning a tale in her head to fool her friends out of learning what had become of her the night before...
STORY BIT 13:
Darkest night had fallen into Polecat Valley. The stars and the moon were the providers of most of the light for the forest's inhabitants, apart from one waning campfire. It crackled and spat in irritation as Bloody Bill poked at it with a sharp metal poker.
"Blast," he muttered to himself, failing to rouse more flames from the charred corpses of branches. He finally gave up and stood, dropping the poker to the ground. "I'm gon' go get some more firewood," he told the other four who were lazing around nearby. He could have told one of them to get the wood instead, but there was a certain amount of ordering around he could do before they got sick of orders and started a mutiny. It was this sort of management that was key to keeping them in line and unwittingly doing his bidding. So he disappeared into the woods.
"Say," mused Mary-Lynn once Bill was out of earshot, "you boys been thinkin' much bout what Bill done said earlier today?"
"You mean about the Doc takin' a bite out o' Joe?" asked Heathers with a grin. Montana shot him a deadly look.
"Naw, I mean what he said bout nobody wantin' to bite you on account of noone but us can stand your stench," she explained. Heathers nodded, unphased. "Well, I gots to thinkin, maybe it were one of us.." They looked at her and then at each other, incredulous. "I knows it can't be neither of you, and y'all know it wu'nt me, cuz I saw ye both get bit, but I were thinkin', we can't account fer Crusty o'er there.." she told them, keeping her voice hushed. They all turned slowly to look at Crusty Ben, sitting just out of earshot, wittling away at some sort of crude wind instrument.
"You really think that old prune coulda done this?" said Heathers doubtfully, pointing at his neck.
"They got superpowers, I tells ye. Even that old hack could take on a man in his prime and win. Them beasts got the strength of a dozen men, I swears it," whispered Mary-Lynn.
"Alright, I don't need no more convincin'," concluded Montana and he stood and pulled his gun out and began pacing towards Ben.
"Hey, Crusty," he shouted, once he was stood over him. Ben looked up in surprise and was immediately shot dead by Montana's revolver.
"Joe!" yelled Heathers, "doncha think that was a little rash?"
"Hey, if he were a vamp I wun't takin no chances," grunted Montana.
"Well... he weren't no vamp... that shot killed him dead," Mary-Lynn poitned out solemnly. They crowded around Ben's limp body, unsure what to do now.
Moments later Bloody Bill returned at high speeds.
"What happened? I heard gun shots and- ....Jesus, Ben... What in the heck happened?" he demanded.
"Shot him," replied Montana, unhelpfully.
"We thought he might be a vampire," explained Heathers. Bill stared at them each in turn, totally agape.
"A vampire? Are you kiddin' me?"
"Well, we reckoned he'd come back and bitten Joe after you wen't to get the Doc," said Mary-Lynn quietly.
"What? Doncha think I woulda told you if he'd gone disappearin off? Dont you think that'd ring a few bells in my head??" yelled Bill, eyes about to pop.
"Well maybe it's you who's the vamp then, huh?" suggested Montana snidely.
"Really? Really Joe? You don't think Ben wudda told you neither? Jesus, you guys are... God, words cant describe how totally idiotic y'all are!" Bill pushed through them and crouched beside Ben's body. He sighed an angry sigh as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his old friend. He shook his head and lowered Ben's eyelids with his fingers.
"Go get some shovels and start diggin' a grave," he ordered.
"But-" started Montana.
"I said GET DIGGIN'" Bill burst out, and they scattered. He was far past public relations at this point...
STORY BIT 14:
Joe Montana skulked down the edge of the thoroughfair, looking altogether very menacing. The millions of stars above cast shadows against the storefronts along which he stalked. Slung over his shoulder was a sizeable sack that clinked slightly in time with his careful footsteps. It was full of metal nick-nacks, ornaments and a few coins that belonged to the unsuspecting inhabitant of a little house, who he had stabbed in the face. Realistically, he could easily have robbed the man blind without waking him, but that simply was not his style.
The town was still at this hour. Most normal folk were passed out in bed, be it from tiredness or drunkeness. It would have been fairly safe to walk down the middle of the mainstreet now, even with all his booty in tow, but he decided to air on the side of caution. The last thing he needed was a night in jail.
As he walked he peered in the windows of the buildings he passed. There was the brothel with its enticing interior and its lavish embellishments, somewhere he could only dream of stepping foot in. Next was the hardware store, dustier than ever since Juan-Ernesto had been murdered. He made a mental note to come back another day, seeing no point leaving all those sharp objects just lying there. Then there was the library, the windows big and clear and bright, as inviting as a place could be. If only he could read. After that there were a few nondescript buildings, most likely storehouses or people's homes. They thinned out further along as the town gave way to the wild forest that he often called home.
It was at this waypoint that Montana experienced a sudden sense of unease. Someone was stalking him. He glanced back and forth, slowing down marginally and subtly moving his hand do his holster. The instant he heard a noise in one of the alleyways he was passing he spun and shot, not even bothering to aim. There was an angry shout of pain - a man's, he noted - as the bullet came into contact with his unsuspecting persuer. However as Montana squinted through the spiraling smoke eminating from the barrel into the dark alleyway, he could make out no indication of a body, injured or otherwise. Just as he was lowering his gun in confusion, his arms were suddenly pinned behind him and his almost healed neck was bitten into. His bag of loot fell to the ground with an unseemly clatter, along with his gun. With his attacker holding his arms, Montana found himself free to scream as loud as he could, which he took full advantage of. The vampire didn't like this one bit, and quickly slapped a hand over his victim's mouth. In doing so, however, he let go of one of Montana's arms. Montana took this opportunity to flail and batter at his captor as much as possible, before it gave up on keeping him silent and pulled his arm back behind his back. Montana continued to scream.
It wasn't long before all the noise worked to Montana's advantage. He was still able to stand when the vampire let go of him, after someone else's shouts rang out behind them. It spun around and dashed away across the thoroughfair and into a copse of trees that would eventually lead into the forest. Montana fell against the nearest wall, clamping his hand to his neck in an attempt to stop the pumping blood. Seconds later, Chuck Williamson appeared.
"You alright?" he asked, approaching him.
"Yeah, just a little scratch. You get a look at the sucker's face?"
"No, I wasn't payin' attention, I didn't expect it to be runnin' out into the open like that."
"Damn fanger," Montana muttered hatefully, "I'll get you one o' these days..."