> Try and seize the gun's barrel to hoist it skyward, to prevent him firing it at you.
> Duck beneath the stallion, to evade anything else the mounted gunman might take do that gun of his.
> Clap your hands together, lower your head, and offer an apology for your attempt to filch the gun from him.
> [Write In]

___________________________

> UPDATES?
Once a day.
> PREVIOUS THREADS?
https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Wanted%20Dead:%20A%20Western%20Quest
> OTHER QUESTS?
https://pastebin.com/raw/4sBYKVqL

> I welcome any additional comments or thoughts along with a selected prompt if you have any.

___________________________

Possessions:
Pricey Revolver:
Custom-built, with pearl grip just for your hand, a hair-trigger suited to your style, all polished up, engraved, and maintained proper. Cost a fortune.

Pocketsfull of Feeble Iron:
Feeble as their namesake, your pockets are full up with feeble iron. Forged with desire they are made into bullets or whatnot. You scrounged up enough to keep the bullets flying for a good spell.

Goldie’s Pocket Watch:
Manifested from Usher’s nail he gifted to the brat, it is a brass, gold and silver vest timepiece with a portrait of Goldie’s brother Henry inside. The hour pointer of it singles out Henry, while the minute pointer lays claim to Goldie.

Ashen Skeleton:
Marrow turned as black as the ace of spades after you had a drink from some watermill’s waters. It clings to your soul, keeping the ghostly flesh and bones knit together even when they’d normally split. You figure there’s a limit to the hurt it can bear, ashen bones or no, but you ain’t found it yet. It fades with the passing days, leaving troubles in its wake.

“Life’s Gasps” Cigarette:
Slim whiff wrapped up in glinting gold Perry's “reward” to you from his self-imposed gamble for returning from El Dorado sound and well. Says when you touch it to your lips, it sparks up on its own, giving the fella smoking it a chance to have a gander at the living world for a spell: 'bout a nickel's worth of time.

___________________________

Pains:
Right Shoulder Wound:
A mark left by Goldie’s shot, Lucifer’s Lead binds you to this here Graveyard Frontier. Your right arm doesn’t take kindly to any other Lucifer Lead bullet in reach of it.

Prickling Pain:
Induced from some devilish cactus, Prickly Niceties, they call ‘em. Their needles left a stinging ache from their bite in your ghostly flesh that don’t let up, even long after you shook ‘em off.

Thirst:
The thirst comes on quick and there ain’t much to drink, water or alcohol, to take the edge off. It’s parching pain that Prickly Niceties brought on you, grates your throat raw, and only eases up for a spell after you find a swig.

Gashed Palms:
Cut up by the rusty blades of some windmill you had to crank, both your palms burn like they’re fresh wound.

Shard Stabbing Pain:
The aftermath of that feeble stone blowing up the entire chamber. It’s like thousand tiny needles piercing your ghost flesh, a relentless, agonising hurt.

Left Shoulder Wound:
A lead bite left by “Charred Bone’s” shot buried deep in your left shoulder. The wound's sealed up, but the hurt blazes like a prairie fire.

Mauled Wrist:
A ragged hunk of your wrist that was torn off by the scorched charred spectre left in Cassidy's leftovers.

Wolves’ Frayed Scar:
Cutting fiercer and biting harder than any splinters from the El Dorado are the gashes on your back carved by them hellish wolves' talons and the tears from their devilish maws.

Blasted Hand:
An agonising sear inflicted by Lyrebird shattered your wrist joint clean with her unholy rifle, not through gunpowder or lead, but by an eruption of exploding heat.

>>5825689
> Clap your hands together, lower your head, and offer an apology for your attempt to filch the gun from him.

>>5825689
>Clap your hands together, lower your head, and offer an apology for your attempt to filch the gun from him.

>>5825689
> Clap your hands together, lower your head, and offer an apology for your attempt to filch the gun from him.

>>5826397
>>5826405
>>5826491


With your hand still clasped in the man’s firm grip, you lifted your hand, meeting them together with a clap. You brought down your head, an apologetic sentence leaving your lips.

“Mighty sorr—”

The gun barrel pressed cold and hard between your brows, squeezing off the round—the gunshot ringing supplanting the funeral dirge in your mind— and plunging everything into a profound darkness. The pain didn’t linger, unlike everything else being wiped clean by the shot. Once more, you were rooted to the spot, not feeling your body, motionless, just as before, watching a completely different scenery slowly painting itself across the surrounding void. The sun came back first, its glare just as blinding and nigh as before, its scorching heat conjuring everything else around it. The things that emerged bore an ethereal, watercolour sheen: desert dunes, sprawled cactus orchards, reddish tent rock pillars—it was unmistakably the badlands.

One after another, whitetop wagons appeared drawn from the woven blackness. The more the darkness retreated, the more prairie wagons there were, like ships anchored in a sea of sand. You were placed at the very fringes of the trail’s train, your own rickety wooden wagon looming behind, its iron-rimmed wheels inch-buried in the sand. The wagon’s pale, sun-bleached canvas cast a shadow over you, a shadow that, all logic discarded in the dust, offered no respite from the scorching sun. The selfsame ebony stallion materialised within sight, but a few paces away, its iron hooves drumming a steady but resting rhythm on the dusty trail. The cowboy appeared shortly thereafter, when it seemed like he mightn't, a reach away from you. Though he was dressed a tad different, his beard less grey, but his eyes just as empty and white.

The darkness dissolved as it neared your feet, and your shaped body, like a fish returned to water, seemed to gasp for life.

In your hands you cradled a meat pie encrusted in a thick-golden brown shell, the smell of the seasoned beef tickling your senses. Had you baked it?

The rider, seemingly being presented with the cake, sneered, his hand inching towards his holster. “I’m ain’t a fussy eater, but I steer clear of human meat,” he said, the words scratching at the walls of your memory.

> Toss the pie at his face, then leap into the wagon for some semblance of shelter.
> Advance a step, smash the pie into his face, and follow it by swiftly driving your elbow into his chin.
> Drop the pie and leap forward to seize his hand with both of yours, forestalling his attempt to draw out the iron.
> [Write In]

Apologies, I took yesterday to unwind and relax.

>>5828004
> Advance a step, smash the pie into his face, and follow it by swiftly driving your elbow into his chin.

>>5828004
> Drop the pie and leap forward to seize his hand with both of yours, forestalling his attempt to draw out the iron.
"What is this? WHO ARE YOU?!"

>>5828004
>> Drop the pie and leap forward to seize his hand with both of yours, forestalling his attempt to draw out the iron.

>>5828076
>>5828202
>>5828764

You raised your hands, the pie slipping from your palms and tumbling towards the barren earth. You lunged over the gap, reaching out and clutching the cowboy’s hand just as his fingers tightened around the gun’s mother-of-a-pearl handle. The crust splattered on impact with the ground, its meaty fillings spilling onto the scorching sand, sizzling as though being placed onto hot coals.

“Who are you?” you stammered, your own voice sounding foreign and obtuse to your own ears. “What do you want from me?!”

“No need to clutter your last thoughts with my name, you won’t know even if I tell you”, he said. “Just rest knowing you were brought to justice.”

You felt his muscles tightened; he raised the hand, the iron coming up with it, effortlessly breaking your desperate grip. You stood at his height, unlike last time, but the body you were in was of a much weaker man … or could it be a woman’s? You faltered as he aimed the gun’s barrel at your head, the hammer already primed and drawn, poised to unleash its deadly payload.

> Place your palm against the barrel’s end before he can discharge it, hopefully thwarting the bullet from striking your head.
> Tumble down whilst flinging your nails in an attempt to awfully scratch his face.
> Plead for him to answer one final query before he ends your life. [What?]
> [Write In]

>>5829025
> [Write In]
Put finger in the barrel.

>>5829106
+1
Three stoogies time.

>>5829106
>>5829168
Apologies, but I can tell you nothing good will come out of this, you'll be just wasting a finger.

>>5829025
> Tumble down whilst flinging your nails in an attempt to awfully scratch his face.
Wait, are we reliving our victims' last moments?

>>5829025
>>5829544
All right.

> [Write In]
Hit his horse in the face.

>>5829645
Alright, yeah, that sounds fun.

>>5829025
Changing >>5829615 to
>Hit his horse in the face.

>>5829106
>>5829168
>>5829615
>>5829645
>>5829653

Your eyes drifted to the horse, wondering if getting the animal’s attention might divert the cowboy’s focus The stallion stood too far for any physical provocation, and, when you looked the horse in the eyes to challenge and insult, left you alone hypnotised by the abyss in them. Biting at your lip you swayed and lunged forward, your hand reaching for the man’s face. Just as your nails were about to graze his skin, he thrust the wooden sole of his boot against your knee, then skimming the cold metal against your chin and neck before lifting the muzzle, letting you fall without grazing him. He pressed his boot onto your neck, grinding your face into the coarse sand, halting only when several men, donned in drab vests and rugged trousers, with their faces scrubbed clean, appeared from the nearby wagons, troubles by the sounds of the scuffle.

“Y’all need not fret. This skirt here, she’s wanted … ” —he gestured with the gun, aligning the sights of it with you head— “dead.”

The gunshot echoed in your skull as the darkness enveloped you and everything around you once more. Impatient for the shadows to recede, you braced for the known scenario—a gun pointing at you—a with mere seconds to react before being shot dead. As the darkness faded, a room with wooden furnishing appeared in its place: haphazardly placed hewn tables and stools, checked cloths draping only some of them, stained yet empty deep-brown walls, their knots and grains intersecting; the room stood engulfed in yellowish-white sunlight streaming, almost melting, through the smoke-stained glass, the drapes pulled away to let it in. The patrons, their faces scrubbed bare of eyes, noses and mouths, sat or stood in eerie silence.

You couldn’t spot your killer in the saloon, but you had few doubts he would be nearby. When the last shadows vanished beneath you, you found yourself leaning against the sturdy lumber bar, a large wooden cabinet standing behind it with a faceless bartender, nervelessly scrubbing the glass. The gleaming mirrors of the well-stocked armoire reflected the cigarette trail you discovered nestled between your teeth, but not your own reflection. Pressed against the cigarette’s embers was a dynamite stick’s waxed fuse, the cotton wick ignited and sizzling in your hand, to be exploded in short time.

When you regained senses, a Colt’s discharge cracked and reverberated throughout the saloon, and then a bullet shattered the burning end of your cigarette, burying itself into the cabinet behind you, missing just shy of shattering the glass mirrors. Nothing but an arm and a glinting firearm had entered the saloon, the man still standing behind the swinging doors.

As the barrel clicked, rotating to the next chamber, you noticed that you had a few more unlit dynamite sticks inside of your belt.

> Hurl the dynamite stick behind the saloon's counter, rendering the fuse hard to snuff out and potentially inciting panic.
> Fling the dynamite stick toward the entrance, allowing it to roll beneath the doors and either detonate near the cowboy or frighten him off just enough.
> Grab the nearest saloon patron, thrust the lit dynamite into their mouth, and push them forward as a human shield.
> Employ the ignited end of your dynamite to light all the sticks you have in your belt, making yourself a very dangerous and suicidal calamity.
> [Write In]

>>5831103
>[Write In]
Ask who are they and why are they shooting at us.

>>5831103
> Employ the ignited end of your dynamite to light all the sticks you have in your belt, making yourself a very dangerous and suicidal calamity.

He's coming for us either way -- let's take him with us!

Especially since 'he' is Aug, so he IS us!

>>5831102
>> Grab the nearest saloon patron, thrust the lit dynamite into their mouth, and push them forward as a human shield.

No update today, apologies.
Will be tomorrow; the vote's still open.

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5831284
>>5831482

>>5833164
What about
>>5831203

>>5831203
>>5831284
>>5831482

“What do you want from me?” you shouted, your eyes darting over the patrons close-at-hand. “Who the hell are you?”

You spat out the wrecked cigarette, seizing a panic-stricken woman by her elbow with your free hand, the dynamite’s burning fuse crackling near your ear as you shifted her weight, pushing your knee against her back. You wrestled her arms, stifling her cries by forcing the dynamite stick between her painted lips, pushing it in like a gag. Her ample frame was just enough to shield you from another gunshot. She had no loose tears to wreck her darkened lashes, nor a pair of quivering eyes to tremble at the burning wick.

The man, the gun still steady and straight in his grasp, stepped inside, the batwing doors yielding a narrow gap for his hips, just enough to let him pass. It was the cowboy. He uncurled his free fist, a wanted poster unfurling as he slapped it against the panelled wall. ‘Wanted: Dear or Alive’, it said, ‘Reward: $250’. ‘Chuck “Kablooey” Rufus’, read the bold, black typeface. The eyeless rider tapped the yellowed portrait on the poster: a man with thinning brittle hair, sun-freckled scalp, sullen eyes, and a scraggly, once promising, mossy beard.

“Have yourself a look-see in the mirror,” the rider said, not bracing a smile. He let go of the poster with a harrumph, watching it flutter to the tobacco-stained sawdust floor before stepping on it, marking it with a dirty tread of his boot. He clicked his tongue. “Release the lady, Kablooey.”

> Toss the woman, with the rapidly burning fuse in her mouth, toward the cowboy rider.
> Maintain your hold on the woman, your gaze challenging the bounty hunter to act rashly. If you're to explode, you'll ensure the saloon and he will go with you. Is your goal here to survive, or just have him die as well?
> Pull out the dynamite stick from the woman's mouth, hurl her body to trip the man, then leap to slam the dynamite against his skull, with aim to detonate it prematurely.
> [Write In]

>>5833256
Talking is free action, hope you don't mind I edited it a tad.

>>5833262
No, I don't mind. I'm just glad to know talking is a free action.

>>5833261
> Maintain your hold on the woman, your gaze challenging the bounty hunter to act rashly. If you're to explode, you'll ensure the saloon and he will go with you. Is your goal here to survive, or just have him die as well?
Death comes to us all, Outrider.

>>5833261
>> Maintain your hold on the woman, your gaze challenging the bounty hunter to act rashly. If you're to explode, you'll ensure the saloon and he will go with you. Is your goal here to survive, or just have him die as well?

>>5833407
>>5833766

“Why ought I be courteous?” you challenged, nudging the woman closer to yourself as a shield. “If you’re not even gonna answer my questions?”

The floorboards, turned supple by sawdust and hay, creaked under his boots. His gaze pierced through the woman’s head, fixed on you as he circled a path, stopping before a whiskey barrel topped with a round tabletop. He picked up a half-full glass of whiskey resting amongst the rows of empty ones, raising it close to his chin and gently swirling the amber liquid inside.

“I’m a bounty hunter, they call me ‘Only Dead’ … and I’m here for the price on your head,” he said, stifling an annoyed sigh. “Will you be courteous now?”

Fuck, you cursed. You twisted the woman’s arms behind her, glaring at the man, daring him to act. Your eyes followed the burning down fuse, inching towards the nitroglycerine-soaked sawdust, soon to explode the saloon, him, and you. He flung his hand, the whiskey splattering across the woman’s face and yours, the alcohol searing your eye, the sudden tears blurring your vision. As you cried out in pain, your grip slackened, the woman stumbling forward. Reaching to clear your eyes and wipe off the alcohol, you felt a glass mash against your head, its shard slicing your scalp, spilling out the blood.

You clutched at the gash, staggering back and hitting the bar, sliding down to the floor, soaked in blood and whiskey. Through the tears, you glanced up at the figure of yourself lifting the extinguished dynamite from the woman’s mouth, pulling her away from you by the elbow. Once she was standing, he let go, the barrel of his Colt aligning with your forehead. He squeezed the trigger without a moment to pause, the gunshot deafening the saloon as the bullet founding its mark.

Another watercolour dream was swallowed by the abrupt darkness, vanishing completely as the image of yourself executed the outlaws you were living through. Was this all the shadow’s doing? An endless dream? Was it to make you feel guilt? You still didn’t, and you really doubted the dark spirit cared about that. You could do nothing but wait, guessing which of the man men you’d killed you’d were going to relive the last moments of next; perhaps pursuing a way that didn’t end in their death.

The sun appeared through the blackness, shedding a watered sunlight and clear azure heavens. A dark streak was present on the radiant orb, something that didn’t belong there. A slim black line clung to the sun’s edge, as if peeling away from the daystar. An eclipse? You’d never killed during one, nor witnessed one before in your life.

The darkness receded away from the horizon, peeling away like worn black paint from the lush meadows. Gnarled cottonwood trees took root across the open fields, scattered like tombstones, casting dappled shadows on the prairies grass. A burst of colourful daisies, clovers, and shrubs flourished around the white poplars. Yet, something was unnatural about the whole thing: the grass and flowers within the shadows appeared worn, burned, and yellowed, while those exposed to the scalding sun bloomed with vibrant hues.

The shadows slithered over retreated from the riverbed, unveiling a mosaic of mossy sand and shimmering pebbles. The waters of a vast meandering river encircled you, closing on you from all sides. Long before you the darkness enclosed on you, you saw a weathered bridge in the distance, spanning the divide, arching high above the brook, only its rough-hewn support beams grazing the waters. But its cast shadow violated those waters. Unlike the parts lit by the sun, the shaded currents had turned grey and sour, and had began to simmer and churn like a saline broth on the verge of boiling, heated by an unnatural heat.

Leaning against the bridge’s timber fence was he, the bounty hunter. He had dismounted from the stallion, a horse you then recognised as your own, standing in the backdrop. The bridge, and the man—it felt odd to think of your own reflection as another—were at a considerable distance away, but you damn well knew he—you—could still land the shot. As the last shadows vanished beneath the azure waters, you fell into the control of another self, our neck and head barely above the waterline with your feet touching the bottom. In one hand, you had a short, keen-edged blade with a scratched steel handle, while your other hand clutched an unknown man’s hair, his neck slashed open, spilling blood into the river.

“I ain’t going to kill you for your voice,” he called out, his voice travelling across the still water with a sharp and cold tone. “But for the deed I’ve just caught your doing.”

> Remain calm. Do not flee. Pose your questions while using the bleeding body as a shield.
> Hold the body close to your side as a protective barrier and start backing away towards the riverbed without barely acknowledging the man.
> Release the man's body and submerge yourself in the water, going as deep and staying as long as your lungs permit.
> Maintain your hold on the corpse as you plunge into the waters, swimming toward the bridge rather than away. Release the body when you intend to swim back to the surface, so that he’ll have to keep track of both.
> Is his sight keen enough from such afar? Drape a cloth over the man's bleeding neck, or use your hand, feigning that he’s still alive, and that the bounty hunter shouldn't be firing bullets willy-nilly.
> [Write In]

>>5825692
> UPDATES?
>Once a day.

Well that's a fucking lie ain't it?
Sorry about that, will try and do better.

>>5835985
>> Hold the body close to your side as a protective barrier and start backing away towards the riverbed without barely acknowledging the man.

>>5835990
its fine

>>5835985
> Maintain your hold on the corpse as you plunge into the waters, swimming toward the bridge rather than away. Release the body when you intend to swim back to the surface, so that he’ll have to keep track of both.

>>5835990
Whatever works for you, QM.

>>5835985
> [Write In]
Walk away. You did what you had to do.

>>5836285
Sorry, can't say I understand this [Write In].
Just start walking away from the Not!August on the bridge?

>>5836582
I think that's the idea. Probably means that mark caught a bullet to the back, if that wins... Which is interesting.

>>5835985
Changing my vote at >>5836087 to support >>5836285 instead.

>>5836077
>>5836087
>>5836285
>>5836637

Lifting your gaze, you stared back at the rider on the bridge, his silhouette sharply defined against the sunlight. In silence, you offered no response, turning away from the timber crossing. Your fingers unwrapped from the lifeless man, the damp hand slipping from your hand. Dyeing the water red with his blood, his faced submerged in it, he drifted downstream, towards the bridge, once freed from your grasp. You pushed towards the nearest riverbed, the still waters cleaning the blood from the knife’s blade. She had killed again, and that was Lyrebird’s infamy—what she was wanted for. It began with her drowning her two children, and remained unsatiated even after she killed fifty more.

Dragging your feet against the thawing sediment, your entire body drenched and chilling from cold, you walked against the sluggish currents to the mossy riverbank. You made your way through the biting cattails and bullrushes, stepping on the slippery stones, and finally onto the dry shore, the dry pebbles crunching under your soles.

A shadow covered you from the sun, making the water droplets on your skin to sizzle like hot oil, reddening your flesh like a gust of moist heat, and provoking a shivering from an oppressive yet unexplainable warmth. It was the rider’s black stallion, the winds failing to ruffle his mane, the eyes empty of your reflection.

From the saddle, the bounty hunter swung his leg up, laying his wrist on his knee, the loaded revolver, its hammer cocked back, nestled in his grip.

“Much obliged of saving me the hassle of dragging your carcass out of the river,” he said. “I’ll be grateful, and I’ll make it swift and easy on you.”

> Avert your gaze from the man, stay silent, and continue walking away.
> Grab the knife to pierce the horse's eye, hoping to make it panic in pain.
> Trail your knife behind your neck before hurling it towards the bounty hunter.
> [Write In]

>>5837205
>[Write In]
Stare at the rider, slice your wrists open, and fall back into the river.

>>5837246
+1

>>5837246
We can try, certainly... I suspect it won't work, though, since we know Aug killed her personally, for her to end up in Cowboy Hell and to see his face in the moon.

Still, maybe if we break the pattern with 'non-canon' or ahistorical acts that differ from the real events, we can escape this nightmare?

+1

>>5837246
>>5837271
>>5837619

You gritted your teeth, meeting the bounty hunter’s hollow, pale eyes with defiance. You knew that continuing on dying by the man’s hands in this obscure dream was unwise—you had to find a way to steer clear of such end. You lifted the knife to your wrist, pressing the blade into the skin, slicing horizontally and drawing blood. Gasping from pain, you pressed the elbow of your bleeding arm against your chest and pushed the knife’s hilt onto the palm to repeat the suicidal action on your other hand. Without flinching or averting your gaze, you tried to bring the knife to your neck, but your shaking, aching hands let it fall onto the stones, the blade slipping into the river and disappearing beneath the surface. You closed your eyes, lifted your toes, and let your back fall into the river, the waters, made lukewarm by the equine shadow, trembled but didn’t make a splash. The depth was just enough to pull you to the bottom, the bounty hunter’s image rippling throughout the river’s surface.

The man seemed undisturbed by your act, giving a lone pull on the reins to move the stallion a single step. He gazed down at your bleeding form, not his expression unchanging. He spoke something that was muffled to you by the water, but as your life ebbed away, he stood and waited, annoyance etching his brows, a gun in his hand.

Despite dying by your own hand, you didn’t feel any better or different, and the shadowy veil that came to cover the river, the bounty hunter, and all else, no different from those before it. Standing as a part of the ethereal void, you prepared for the next dream-landscape to unfold—the cycle seeming unbroken. A bright eruption of noon sky dripped onto black canvass beneath, the sun hanging at its zenith appearing blemished; darkness had crept even further across its gilded facade, a pilfering void stealing away at the daylight. A quarter of the sun had vanished, tempered by a encroaching eclipse … one that you knew was foreign.

Standing against the horizon line, on the opposite side of dust-covered main street of a weathered frontier town, the bounty hunter appeared, uncloaked by the darkness. His legs were evenly apart, posture poised, shoulders level with his chin, his left hand resting on his knee, right hand hovering inches above his holstered revolver—a shootout stance. Darkness crept across the ribbon road of arid dust and dirt, revealing faceless onlookers as well as those few whose curiosity outmatched their courage to step outside their abodes. The faint breeze creaked the wooden boards, and as the last unbelonging shadows withdrew, you realised that you stood in the middle of the street, facing off against the rider in a duel. Who had challenged whom? You couldn’t recall. Your hand hung above a brass-framed revolver … at least you finally had a gun.

> Before the hands of the clock meet at twelve, hasten to the nearest building’s porch and seek shelter from the bounty hunter. You are bound for a gunfight, but you’re not going to meet yourself in a just fight.
> Before the clock heralds the hour of twelve, take aim at the bounty hunter. Though you find yourself in the unfamiliar flesh of a vanquished outlaw, but if there’s one thing you know, is how to handle a firearm.
> Level your pistol at a bystander in the crowd, and caution the bounty hunter that should he not yield and depart, you shall be taking souls with you to the afterlife.
> Withdraw your hand from the holster, fall to your knees, and plead for the bounty hunter’s compassion. Implore him that he doesn’t need to end your life; you shall surrender to incarceration of your own volition.
> [Write In]

>>5839245
>[Write In]
Walk towards the shadowy gunman, hands empty, and arms outstretched.

>>5839245
> Before the clock heralds the hour of twelve, take aim at the bounty hunter. Though you find yourself in the unfamiliar flesh of a vanquished outlaw, but if there’s one thing you know, is how to handle a firearm.
We're still Aug on the inside. if anyone can beat us in a quickdraw, it's ourself... Which could go either way, yeah, but let's give it a go. Fairest fight we've had so far.

>>5839245
>> Before the clock heralds the hour of twelve, take aim at the bounty hunter. Though you find yourself in the unfamiliar flesh of a vanquished outlaw, but if there’s one thing you know, is how to handle a firearm.

>>5839269
>>5839362
>>5839419

Your eye locked on the clock-bearing tower perched atop the town’s hall faux ornate facade: less than a minute remaining until the stroke of twelve. The sand was much the same in the shadow of the town hall as it was outside of it, and there was little left on the ground for it to scorch; even then, the heat seared the air, a wavy haze blurring the bounty hunter’s outline.

You had no reason to follow the duelling etiquette here, of course, but the revolver that was in your reach … it was a stranger to you: every aspect of it was unfamiliar, untested in your hands. A quick glance confirmed one thing: the hammer was cocked and drawn, sparing you a few precious seconds. You reckoned the bounty hunter would make his move the moment your hand would dart for the gun, so you bid your time, poised to meld drawing and shooting into one seamless motion. Yet, with two-thirds of the iron hidden by the leather canvas, you couldn’t tell much about the weapon: the calibre, the balance of its weight, the state of its upkeep, the barrel’s length, whether it housed a full chamber of six rounds, the sensitivity of the trigger, and whether there were any quirks to its wield.

Time was being wasted. Your fingers curled around the brass hilt.

>Set your sights on the chest, the more expansive mark. Amidst the multitude of vital organs there, you are bound to strike one.
> Target the head, the most lethal of all aims, and the spot you favour most for its certainty of a swift end.
> Aim at the arm brandishing the revolver; to incapacitate the hand that’ll go to draw it. If all goes well, you’ll have more moments, and perchance, more rounds in your revolver to continue shooting without worrying.
> [Write In]

>>5841425
>>Set your sights on the chest, the more expansive mark. Amidst the multitude of vital organs there, you are bound to strike one.

No update today, apologies. Vote still open.

>>5841425
>Set your sights on the chest, the more expansive mark. Amidst the multitude of vital organs there, you are bound to strike one.

>>5841466
>>5842780

You hoisted the iron, taking aim on the more youthful you within shooting range. The short barrel slid out of the holster, its brass sights reflecting a red hue under the eclipsing sunlight. With a briefest delay, the bounty hunter mirrored you, drawing his own iron. Your gun went off first—two of your fingers steadying the barrel—the bullet cutting a hissing path through the wavering mirage, leaving behind a swirling smoke trail and an echoing blast. The rider clutched his chest before any of his blood could spill. Stepping forth to regain his balance, the bounty hunter, too, pulled the trigger, his shot’s thunderous roar drowning out the one you fashioned, the burnt gunpowder shrouding him in ghostly haze.

His bullet, like a lead shooting star, blazed through the mist, tearing into your flesh and piercing through your heart, a metallic taste biting your taste buds. You stumbled, the killing pain gnawing at your consciousness and numbing your senses; the iron slipped from your grip, sinking into the sand moments before you followed it. The bounty hunter, now a blur in your fading vision, remained motionless, a gun in hand.

You struck a fatal shot, you reckoned, and you did it first, but he returned the favour in his final breaths.

You didn’t remember being so petty.

Shadows engulfed the frontier town and its surroundings like ink spilling over an unfinished letter, plunging you into an ocean of darkness. You had slain your own shadowy metaphor: wasn’t that enough? Of the outlaws you’d killed, how many had guns? No more than a dozen. And of those, even fewer had their weapons within reach or in hand. It was a foolhardy gamble you’d get to be one of them again, and the eclipse outpaced the count of those you ended, whatever that signified.

You drew a tired breath as a fresh image emerged from the pitch-black backdrop, shadows sliding off the oak-panelled walls and floorboards, then peeling away from the cracked red paint and the wool rug. The room was dominated by a table so twisted only a drunkard could perceive as round, its sides originally carved unevenly and also worn with fractures and age. It surface bore the scars of knife marks, burns from cigarettes, and stains with whiskey bottle rings. Outlaws, each showing off a different style of hat, sat on mismatched chairs with frayed upholstery, all three of them faceless, their features obscured by a pale pink splatter that smudged their eyes, noses, and mouths. You felt stuffed leather below your backside once the shadows receded to allow you to acclimate the unfamiliar body.

Daylight filtered through the room from a lone window, thick grimy curtains obscuring much of the glass. The room was suffused with unnatural, scorching shadows, the pungent stale air swirling with embered dust, making your skin sweat and singeing your nostrils. A chimney stack clung to one wall like a pillar, but it was cold, not the culprit of the heat. The men around you ceased their consternation mid-sentence, but you couldn’t piece the cut words into any coherent sentence.

Someone knocked on the door …

> Ask for a firearm from one of the men, noting your current lack of armament, and then discharge a few shoots at the door.
> Tell the men to flank the door on both sides, ensuring none stand directly in front of it, and then bide your time, awaiting the utterance or action of the one who knocked it.
> Seize a pistol from one of the men's grasp, and, using the opportune moment, make your escape through the window and out of the room.
> [Write In]

>>5844060
>Ask the other outlaws what they know, or think they know, about the afterlife
>Stay calm, for this too shall pass.

>>5844060
>> Tell the men to flank the door on both sides, ensuring none stand directly in front of it, and then bide your time, awaiting the utterance or action of the one who knocked it.

>>5844079
>>5844706

One of the faceless men, donning a six-inch crown Stetson, shifted slightly, inching his head. “Are we expecting someone?” he whispered.

Another, his hand resting on the table, stood up, the floorboards groaning as he did so. Shaking his head, he replied.

“No, we’re all here,” he said.

Reckoning that this was a gang, and you yourself as the gang leader, you gestured towards the door, clearing your throat.

“Flank the door,” you whispered, rising and sliding your fingers across the bumpy tabletop.

The featureless men responded with a unified nod; the two of them moving stealthily to either side of the worn pinewood door, its bottom gap plugged with a rolled cloth. A third man positioned besides the large wooden frame, conspicuously missing an artwork, making it appear as if it was framing a random section of the wall. He drew a revolver from behind his belt, joined by one of the men near the door. Circling the table, you felt your belt for a firearm that wasn’t there.

The door echoed with a second, more forceful knock. Silence followed: neither the knocker nor the men with scrubbed off faces uttered a word.

> Remain in wait, pondering whether the door is even locked or not? You didn’t even know that. Watch and see if abstaining from answering deters the persistent knocker.
> Tell one of the armed men to shoot through the door. You’re living through the last moments of this outlaw’s life, who else could it be but you: August?
> Instruct one of the unarmed men to unlatch the door and ascertain the identity of the visitor.
> [Write In]

I feel like I lost a few players after switching from Goldie's story. Not that I want to complain, or don't appreciate those that are playing, but I wonder if it was because they assumed it was a new quest and didn't need to know what was happening with August.

>>5844079
Sorry, I wasn't sure how to use your Write In.

>>5846680
>> Remain in wait, pondering whether the door is even locked or not? You didn’t even know that. Watch and see if abstaining from answering deters the persistent knocker.

Next Update tomorrow.

>>5846690
Couldn't tell you. I will say that when a quest updated less frequently and also doesn't get bumped by votes, I'm more wont to forget to check in on it and cast my votes every day and it's more noticeable when one or two voters are busy or distracted. My apologies.

>>5846680
> Tell one of the armed men to shoot through the door. You’re living through the last moments of this outlaw’s life, who else could it be but you: August?

Rolled 1 (1d2)

>>5846766
>>5850010

>>5846766
>>5850010

The men shared a silent look before turning to you, seemingly asking for guidance. You cursed under your breathe—not even sure if the door was locked. No, you were overthinking; it likely was locked, given everyone in the room want to keep it clear of uninvited guests. You pressed a finger against your lips, gesturing for the trio of men to be quiet. Though they all nodded, a man in a bowler hat cocked his gun, clicking the hammer into place. You waited, your gaze fixed on the door.

No third knock came, and then shuffling of the boots on the other side turned distant and hollow.

One of the men, scratching at his chin, let out a sigh and asked, “You think that was someone that was looking for trouble?”

“A problem” —the one leaning against the frame said, moving away from it to pull the tattered curtain aside and peer out the etched window— “or our boss; or both—”

The glass shattered, the dusty pane erupting in shards as the bullet tore through it, showering the wooden floor with glass drenched in warm blood of the injured man. Fresh blood blossomed from his shoulder, staining the frayed fabric of his jacket. Gritting his teeth, he stumbled away from the window and slid against the wall, leaving a red smear.

> Grab the iron from the man’s hand and then lean an inch out of the window to see who’s shooting, although you might have a guess. If you can spot the bounty hunter, shoot.
> Keep yourself calm, won’t be your first time dying, and step away from the window, and let the men, who are apparently part of your band, to handle the shooting.
> Rush towards the door and open it, and then try and escape while the outside shooter is busy with the men you left behind.
> [Write In]

>>5850010
The update frequency is my fault, I'll work on it. Thanks.

>>5850432
>Keep yourself calm, won’t be your first time dying, and step away from the window, and let the men, who are apparently part of your band, to handle the shooting.
>Ask the men if they ever think about dying, and teh afterlife

>>5850433
Don't worry over it too much, IRL comes first.

>>5850493
+1

You put some distance away from the broken window, fleetingly eyeing the man leaning against the wall for support, crouching to meet his ailing gaze. The men flanking the door flinched at the sound of the gunshot and shattered glass. The one wearing a Duster’s hat and brandishing an iron shuffled along the wall, looking at the wounded man.

“Who was it?” he asked, torn between peering out himself and staying a safe distance from the window.

“Didn’t catch much,” the injured man said, clutching the hilt of his revolver against his shoulder and coughing out blood. “Don’t reckon it was a sheriff.”

“A bounty hunter?” the unarmed third man in a grey Stetson said, patting at his pockets. After a moment, he pulled out a brass key. “Just one of them?”

“Weren’t nobody around him,” the man groaned in pain. “Fuck, I reckon he hit the bone … hurts like the devil.”

“Was he the one waiting outside the door?” the man with a firm grip on his gun questioned. “Where you be hightailing it? He’s lurking outside.”

“Not no more,” the man in Stetson said, ramming the key into the lock. “Not outside the door. We can skedaddle through the window on the other side without him knowing.”

“Running from just one bounty hunter?” the fella donning the Duster’s hat scoffed at him. “Four of us, one of him. Doubt he’ll best those odds.”

The door creaked open. “Three to one are still fair odds, won’t stop you trying.”

“I … don’t reckon I can climb a window,” the bleeding man said.

Opening the door further, he hesitated, then pulled his hat down by the crown. “Then you can buy us some time.”

“Screw you!?” he yelled, choking on his blood. “You gonna leave me behind?” He looked to you, his words strained by the wound. “Boss, why ain’t you saying a thing?! You’re the one with a bounty on your head, he’s after you no doubt.”

The room fell into a profound silence, like an empty chapel with only the sinner—and the Almighty—within its wall. All three of them fixed their gaze on you, each with their own plan and burdened with their own sin.

You tapped your fingers on the floor. “Y’all ever ponder on dying, and what comes next?”

“What?” the injured man said, worming his body so that the silver barrel faced your head. “Dying is the last thing I want on my mind right now!”

You rolled your shoulders in a weary shrug. For them, the faceless side characters in -your- blurred recollection of an outlaw’s last moments, everything was as real as they come.

> Request a gun from one of your men, then instruct them to escort the injured men away, leaving you to confront the bounty hunter alone.
> Offer a lacklustre apology to the injured man and seize the firearm from his hold. Tail the gentleman in the Stetson, making your escape through the house’s opposite side.
> Make a stand. Rally the group to brace for a shootout with the manhunter. With but two guns amongst the quartet of you, how are you going to make this work?
> [Write In]

>>5852687
>> Request a gun from one of your men, then instruct them to escort the injured men away, leaving you to confront the bounty hunter alone.

>>5852687
> Request a gun from one of your men, then instruct them to escort the injured men away, leaving you to confront the bounty hunter alone.

>>5852754
>>5852793

You reached out your open palm at the bleeding outlaw.

“Give me the iron” —you paused, the hanging silence meant for a name you did not know— “partner. They ain’t leaving you. I’ll go and handle the bounty hunter while you three get away.”

The man with the grey Stetson asked, propping the door open with his hand, asked, “By yourself?”

With a trembling shake—or was it due to blood loss?—the wounded man passed you his revolver. You took it by the grip, lifting and then immediately scrutinising the details.

He returned his hand to the wound, his fingers clutching the blood-drenched clothes. “What if you get plugged?”

“Getting shot shouldn’t be a worry for him,” the Duster’s hat desperado said, his finger fiddling with the hammer of his own gun. “He’s only wanted still breathing, the bounty hunter won’t just gun him down.” He paced across the room and then lowered his eyeless face towards you. “Worst case, he’ll snag him alive—they need you for the judges, right?”

You weren’t savvy of what anything they said meant. “Just like you said, I’m the only one he’ll think twice about shooting at,” you said.

The man shook and then gestured his iron. “And what we supposed to do without you, boss? You’re one with the claim to the Tarbelt, we need your will to do anything with it.”

You racked your brain for any memory of the only-wanted-alive-man, but it had been decades; you drew a blank. Fixing your gaze on the broken outlines of the glass, you got to your feet. It was a tad better than the one from your last memory, the duel, but it was still a far cry from your pearl-handed piece that you were used to, and that the dark August had.

Approaching the door, the man with his hand on it hesitated briefly before pushing it wider, making the stagnant, dimly lit air of the corridor seep inside of the room.

“None of this’ll be trouble if you put him down,” he said, glancing outside. “He’s at disadvantage trying to take you alive, so just put a bullet in him.”

The bandit wearing the Duster’s hat snapped the fingers of his gun-free hand. “Then you can meet up with us in Redwind,” he added, his voice rising an octave.

“Yeah … sure. We’ll rendezvous at the Redwind,” you answered back, cocking the hammer with a loud snap. “Make sure you keep him” —you nodded at the injured man— “living and smiling, tend to his wounds and wrap them up once you find a safe spot. Catch you in a while.” That said, you stepped outside the door and made your way along the unlit second-floor hallway.

You descended the stairs, each wooden step creaking like squashed cockroaches under your boots. You passed a kitchen room—the building appeared empty—and continued towards the entrance, the wind from outside causing the ajar door to slam and quiver on its hinges. Why were you playing along? Your memory of the wanted man you lived through was vague, but one thing was certain—you never took the lawbreaker alive. Assuming it was a misprint on his wanted poster, you shot him like any other outlaw; you had doubts that the ominous representation of August haunting you in those dreams would do things differently.

Perhaps that one faceless dream apparition was correct, and four or three people would be enough to bring down your bounty hunting shadow, so … why hadn’t you agreed to that? Would there be a difference if it was someone else killing the dark August? It wasn’t just your arrogance, was it? You sighed. You didn’t know what you were suppose to do to escape this nightmarish prison; the only thing you were sure of was that you couldn’t let yourself be killed … Grasping the door’s edge, you pushed it open, looking outside the street desolate of both faceless residents and the manhunter. The half-eclipsed sun hung in the empty sky, the encroaching shadows veiling much more of its brilliant surface than before.

Where did he go?

> Step through the door and into the thoroughfare, arms aloft in a gesture of surrender. He may well take his shot, or perhaps, upon seeing your unarmed stance, he might pause.
> Press your back against the door, biding your time to catch a glimpse of him. He could be concealed, biding his time for an opportune shot, or perhaps still trained on the window.
> Quickly retreat into the house and ascend the stairs. If he remains out of sight, it’s plausible he’s made for the opposite side of the dwelling, where the trio decided to slip through.
> Emerge from the door and circumnavigate the house. He may have predicted your escape and gone to the other side. It's a chance to take him by surprise.
> [Write In]

>>5853839
>> Step through the door and into the thoroughfare, arms aloft in a gesture of surrender. He may well take his shot, or perhaps, upon seeing your unarmed stance, he might pause.

No update today. Vote still open.

>>5854437

You bit your lip, your gaze sweeping across the empty town. No, it wasn’t arrogance, you reckoned. You weren’t even sure if killing the bounty hunter would solve anything at all: you had done so before, and it hadn’t seemed to matter. The men you separated from would only be a hindrance. He was your reflection; if anyone knew how to confront him, it was you.

You crossed over the threshold and onto the town’s thoroughfare, arm lifted—a gun clutched in your right—while keeping a sharp eye for any signs of his presence. As you stepped further into the open, a sudden warmth kissed your back, and as you turned, you saw the bounty hunter’s long searing shadow stretch over you. His boots cracked the sand, your heirloom pistol present in his grip. His head was bare, his Stetson hand secured against his neck by a glistening cord. The normally thick beard, not yet fully grown, was coal-black and oiled, devoid of white strands, and trimmed, looking as if a grizzly’s paw was resting on his chin. He was quite young.

“Deciding on sparing me the bother of looking for you?” he asked, his vacant, eyeless gaze fixed on you.

You lifted your arms an inch higher. “Didn’t fancy getting shot by accident,” you countered.

He halted and harrumphed. “An accident? You got the wrong bounty hunter, “Oilhopper”. I only bring my bounties dead-cold.”

“ ‘Only Dead’ Aug. I’m aware.” A smile ghosted across your lips. “But you ought to know that the client needs me breathing, Heart.”

Dark August frowned, his index finger rubbing the freshly cleaned barrel; he turned his head a bit to look elsewhere. “Ain’t got the poster on me. You spinning yarns about the misprint?”

Staying still not to trigger the man’s fast draw, you shook your head. “No, it’s the honest truth.” You mulled on what you heard. “Got something to do with a will and inheritance they’re after.”

The revolver’s barrel dipped slightly in his hand. “Never heard tell of an outlaw wanted only living.” He raised it again, aiming at your head. “I reckon he won’t fuss over the small details.”

Your souls were cut from the same cloth—you both shared the same attitude and sharpshooting skills. But in this lone scenario, you recalled something he couldn’t know: what would follow next.

“They will fuss, Heart,” you said, sifting through your memories. “They won’t just refuse to pay you, they’ll be riled up. They’ll be a real annoyance, might even halt you through the courts.”

Unblinking, the bounty hunter stared, as if looking for sweat—for lies. It wasn’t a lie. You faintly recalled squandering days with the annoying aftermath on “Oilhopper” and his bounty.

With an annoyed grunt, he spat and lowered the revolver. “I’ll leave that $500 to another man, then. Hauling a live outlaw’s more trouble than it’s worth, and doesn’t fit my name. You can consider yourself lucky this one time, ‘Oilhopper’. But if they’ll decide they want you dead and in the dirt, I might have to rethink.” He turned his back to you. “I’d prefer it.”

He walked off, his shadow retreating and the absence of it awashing you with lukewarm chill. You lowered your aloft arms, resting them on your hips instead.

> Bide your time until the bounty hunter vanishes from sight, then, free from the fear of death, see if you can strike the eerie eclipse with a well-aimed shot.
> Take aim at the bounty hunter while his back is turned to you, making sure on delivering a fatal blow. It ain’t how you usually do things, but in a fair fight you’ll die in unison.
> Await the moment the bounty hunter disappears, then make your way back inside the house. Are you doomed to dwell in this recollection, is that it? Where on earth could Redwind be?
> [Write In]

>>5856470
> Bide your time until the bounty hunter vanishes from sight, then, free from the fear of death, see if you can strike the eerie eclipse with a well-aimed shot.

>>5856470
>> Await the moment the bounty hunter disappears, then make your way back inside the house. Are you doomed to dwell in this recollection, is that it? Where on earth could Redwind be?

File: l1.png (2.61 MB, 1500x844)

2.61 MB PNG

Next update tomorrow. Thanks for playing!

>>5856538
>>5856640

You waited until the bounty hunter disappeared from view, his gun no longer a life-threatening presence. After a quick glance at the street, you reentered the house and ascended past the wobbling crying staircase, stopping before the room on the left—opposite the gang’s hideout. The window was flung open, the curtains thrashing against the walls like storm-tossed waves. A bloody trail marred the floor and the cheap carpets, but apart from it, there were no signs that the three bandits hadn’t made their escape, to Redwind, wherever that was.

You returned to the hideout room, turning the cylinder and the rounds within with monotone echoing clicks. Approaching the shattered window, you pulled on the sashes, the cracked glass breaking further, its shards falling like hail to the ground below. Straddling the window’s sill, you swung your leg over it and rested your back against the window wall.
The half-eclipsed sun basked you in its burning shadows, the void on its surface rippling like water trying to swallow the sand.

“Well?” you asked, spitting out and spreading your arms. “What now? What’s your aim here? Planning to keep me holed up here forever?”

No answer came, and you didn’t expect any. You needlessly gripped the already cocked hammer with your thumb, focusing your aim on the eclipsed half of the sun.

“If this is about me feeling guilt, well, I still ain’t got none,” you muttered to yourself. “I ain’t got time to dwell over the past. If you don’t set me free, I’ll make you.”

Gunshot echoed in the room, your bullet piercing the swirling gunpowder smoke as it exploded from the barrel. Turned out, the sun wasn’t as far as your teachers had claimed; your bullet reached and shattered the darkness in just a few seconds. As soon as you made the shadow bleed, everything but you was consumed by the darkness, faster than before.

Reckoning you had only a brief window before another dream struck, you bided your time. The watercolour landscaped failed to materialise, and in the enclosure of the abyss, the silhouette of the manhunter was thrust before you—intimately close: his neck grazing your forehead. His hollow eyes were open wide, and a bead of sweat fell down his cheek. With the shadows streaming off your form, you found your hands gripping an iron with both hands, thrusting the whole barrel inside the man’s throat. Even without irises to read, his fear was evident.

Cold iron touched your chin—his revolver. The confrontation, amid all others, was etched in your memory—Gadfly. You knew what was coming next: you recalled it clearly. By some miracle, a candle’s flicker, your bullet would piece his skull first, scattering the grey matter of his brain. It was the sole hindrance that prevented him from squeezing the trigger, and was what had saved you. But you were the Gadfly now, and you knew death would follow as soon as your senses returned. With the uncanny eclipse drawing near, you were rendered powerless.

The sun appeared before that, unblemished and radiant. Still as a wax figure, unable to move, you were grateful for the fact. The radiance spilled out beyond the sun’s outline, turning everything into a blinding white light.

*** *** ***

The leaden skied heralded your return to consciousness with a thunderous crash, the pale moon, untouched by the clouds, emitting a hushed alien forewarning. The Graveyard Frontier still held you captive, but the nightmare appeared to have ended. The pains, wounds, and lethal injuries made an unwelcome encore—these, you hadn’t missed. With a groan, you leaned on your hand to sit up, casting a glance at your shadow. It was still, unflinching, the dark spirit that once writhed within it seemingly gone. Etched on the moon-bleached sands was a message:

‘Stay here.’

Lyrebird had left you and the man, Abel, alone with the dark shadow. Abel was awake, standing a few paces away, the brim of his white Stetson melding into the moonlight. His shadow seemed no different from yours, also showed no trace of the accursed spirit. Had it followed Lyrebird? He didn’t turn at the sound of your groan. Rocking slowly from side to side, he was staring vacantly at the horizon. He had left his spilled bag be, and everything that had been scattered now lied close to you.

> Stay a prudent distance away from Abel, and see what he’ll do next.
> Seize your firearm and then approach Abel, announcing your presence with a loud word.
> Sift through the contents of Abel's bag, and the things strewn upon the ground, all the while vigilant in case Abel turns to catch you in the act.
> [Write In]

I used both prompts for the update. Sorry it took an additional day. Congratulations on escaping the nightmare.

>>5859914
>> Sift through the contents of Abel's bag, and the things strewn upon the ground, all the while vigilant in case Abel turns to catch you in the act.

>>5860456

Without getting to your feet just yet, you inched towards the bag and the items scattered around it. There were chunks of feeble iron, a large mix of other metals and irons you couldn’t recognise, a curved cattle brand, a belt buckle shaped like an anvil, and a brass whistle. The guiding chalks were missing, you reckoned likely taken by Lyrebird in her escape.

You kept an eye on Abel—he hadn’t looked your way even once. He suddenly took a step, quickening his pace as he approached the mist. The message drawn in the sand was too big for him to miss.

> Pick up the feeble iron—you’d rather be with bullets than be found wanting—and also choose amongst those objects touched by sorcery. Call out for Abel afterwards.
> Pick up solely the feeble iron—you aren’t yet in scarcity, but you’d prefer for it to be in abundance—and then loudly beckon for Abel to halt.
> You ain’t a thief. Leave the items lie untouched on the ground, and hasten towards Abel before he vanishes entirely in the mists.
> [Write In]

>>5862113
>> Pick up solely the feeble iron—you aren’t yet in scarcity, but you’d prefer for it to be in abundance—and then loudly beckon for Abel to halt.

>>5862113
> You ain’t a thief. Leave the items lie untouched on the ground, and hasten towards Abel before he vanishes entirely in the mists.
Stealing from a crooked man down in Hell seems morally justifiable... But aren't we also allied with this guy and Lyrebird for now?

Rolled 2 (1d2)

>>5862199
> Pick up solely the feeble iron—you aren’t yet in scarcity, but you’d prefer for it to be in abundance—and then loudly beckon for Abel to halt.

>>5862316
> You ain’t a thief. Leave the items lie untouched on the ground, and hasten towards Abel before he vanishes entirely in the mists.

Sorry, I got my names confused.
This is Goodwin, not Abel.

The lead resting on the soil resembled the one you had bartered with Goodwin for the chewing spit, but if it were indeed the same, it was a fair trade-off. You were no thief, and it belonged to him by all rights. He and Lyrebird were a pair of crooks, and you helping them was a favour enough; you wouldn’t feel guilty taking anything from them for later use … but you preferred not to steal from your “allies”.

You lifted yourself off the ground and hurried towards Goodwin, his figure beginning to melt into the thickening mist. Before it could swallow him whole, you grasped his arm.

“Where are heading?” you said.

Goodwin shuddered, his eyes widening as he halted, the fog nipping at his ankles. “Away from here,” he muttered, his spectral lips shivering.

You tightened your grip on his wrist, then let go of it. “Didn’t you catch the message left by your wife?”

He opened his mouth emptily like a fish. “Wife?” —he lowered his gaze— “I don’t understand.”

“Lyrebird! Ain’t that what you called her?”

He clenched his jaw and slid a hand to his neck. “I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re saying. Don’t know where I am,” he said. “Why does it feel like my neck’s been slashed?” He drew slow breaths, his voice turning lost and weak.

Your gaze sharpened. “Because it likely has been.”

Goodwin leaned into his ribs. “And here, feels like I’ve been stabbed and bitten.”

Just the same, that was probably what had happened. “You said your name was Goodwin, didn’t you?”

His eyes drifted past you and across the veiled expanse. “Have I? Did I say that?” he mumbled. He turned away. “I … I oughta be moving on.”

“Go where?”

“Anywhere. Can’t say where I am, but this is not where I should be,” he said, pulling at his white glove with the other hand.

> Let the man leave if he wants to, even if it’s plain as day there’s something amiss with him.
> Drag him from the most, back to the site of your skirmish with the shadow. Wrestle with him should he reckons to flee.
> Don’t quarrel with the man. Abandon the sack and its content, and keep pace with Goodwin least you lose track of him.
> [Write In]

>>5863053
> Drag him from the most, back to the site of your skirmish with the shadow. Wrestle with him should he reckons to flee.
We let him leave and Lyrebird will lose it, and likely as not turn on us. Mark my words.

>>5863053
>> Drag him from the most, back to the site of your skirmish with the shadow. Wrestle with him should he reckons to flee.
His wife will probably kill us if we dont keep him here

>>5863070
>>5863349

“Can’t let you leave, partner,” you said, reaching out to clasp his shoulder. “To lay it out plain, your fate ain’t much of my concern, but your wife’ll surely care.”

Goodwin’s frown deepened as he tried, and failed, to shrug off your grip.

“Once she’s back, then you can have your say about leaving to her—how’s that sound?”

He paused, uncertainty trembling in his eyes as edges of blue flames. “I ain’t certain” —he eyed you warily— “you don’t look trustworthy.”

You scoffed, almost laughed. “Look, if you try to hightail it, I’ll have to rein you in, might even get a tad rough if you need be—see? I’m giving you a plain honest talk here, no trickery from me.”

He swallowed as he spoke, “I’m already aching plenty.”

With a nod, you motioned for him to lead the way back. His shoulders hunched, he turned from the mist, his back facing you.

“Just until she’s back,” he said.

You responded with a silent nod. Your gaze lingered on the revolver tucked behind his belt, the feeble iron carcass glinting but remaining untouched by his hand. Returning to the message etched in the alabaster sands, you consolidated all the metals—irons, ores, and artefacts—into Goodwin’s saddlebag, pulling the ropes taut to cinch it shut. You lifted it up and then threw it between you and him, settling yourself on the ground before taking a long, frigid breath. Goodwin stood still, soothing his elbows with his palms.

> Stay silent, not uttering a single word to Goodwin until and if he's inclined to break the silence first; else just bide your time for Lyrebird's return.
> Be the one to break the silence. Inquire Goodwin how much he remembers?
> Covertly draw the revolver from Goodwin's belt whilst his attention is elsewhere. It’s perilous for him to carry it in his condition.
> [Write In]

>>5864200
> Be the one to break the silence. Inquire Goodwin how much he remembers?
Maybe the shadow inflicted the same Penance Stare nightmare anthology on him, and it broke him?

>>5864200
>> Covertly draw the revolver from Goodwin's belt whilst his attention is elsewhere. It’s perilous for him to carry it in his condition.

No update today. See you tomorrow.
>>5864255
Good guess!

>>5864255
>>5864392

In due time, and after a considerable wait, Goodwin joined you on the ground. When he glanced away, you stretched out your hand to grab and pull the iron from behind his belt, executing a motion so seamless that Goodwin seemed oblivious to his loss, as if unaware he had been armed at all. You secreted the revolver behind your coat, away from his sight, then swivelled your gaze back to him.

“Recall how you died?”

His eyes, alight with indigo flames, flared at your question. “Died?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“You don’t recall dying?” you said, crossing your arms and resting your elbows on your knees.

Goodwin hid half his face with his palms. “Can’t recall, no. Try as I might, it’s like grasping at smoke,” he said. “So I … died?”

“What can you remember?”

His words straggled by his hands, he lifted his gaze to the swollen grey skies. “I ain’t sure.”

With a sigh, you pointed at the top of his head. “Remember where you got that white Stetson of yours?”

He paused his gasping breath, then shook his head.

“What part of America you hail from?”

“America?” he echoed, sounding as disoriented as someone rousing from a deep coma.

The wait for Lyrebird stretched on, but eventually, her arrival ended the talk—her blue skirt flowing through the mist like a air-born fish. You stood up first, shooting her a steely cold glare. Lyrebird, with a contemplative air, looked back. She clutched the walnut clutch—the rest of her ethereal shotgun had yet to manifest.

“Ain’t nothing happened to me to worry about,” you said.

She looked past her shoulder, lost in thought. “I see … I’ve ran across Stillwater, or more like, she found me after I used the bracelet.”

Your hand darted for the six-shooter, your fingers wrapping around the pearl handle as you scanned the mist beyond Lyrebird, searching for the target and the threat.

“She didn’t follow me,” Lyrebird added, as if to reassure you. “Didn’t look too eager to lay you low in exchange for her release, ‘Only Dead’ Aug. Can’t say what she’s after, then.”

Goodwin slithered back when her voice grew louder and she stepped closer, retreating behind your legs in an attempt to vanish from her view in your shadow. Normal shadow.

“She done in the thing—Stillwater named it something native I can’t remember—when it tried to get the better of me too.” Her eyes locked onto Goodwin, she closed the gap even more, standing an arm’s reach from you. “Whatever they be, she claimed they’d invade your mind and wipe your memories. She gave me a bearing, a direction, and insisted to quit chasing the white buffalo”. Lyrebird’s head dropped, she herself leaning towards her supposed husband. “Goodwin … ?”

> Take a step back, giving them room under the open sky. Let them converse, allowing Lyrebird to uncover that he's forgotten everything on her own.
> Step away, but not too far. Let Lyrebird talk with memoryless Goodwin, but when the right moments arrive, add your own experience to explain what he might’ve went through.
> Withdraw a spell, yet remain within earshot of them. Let Lyrebird to engage with the memoryless Goodwin, but when there’s a right moment, she light on what he might’ve went through.
> Speak up before Goodwin gets a chance. Be the first to relay the news that, contrary to your fate, it appears Goodwin failed to best the devouring shadow.
> [Write In]

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Bump

>>5866114
> Speak up before Goodwin gets a chance. Be the first to relay the news that, contrary to your fate, it appears Goodwin failed to best the devouring shadow.

>>5868084

You seized Lyrebird’s sleeve, pulling her back from Goodwin.

“He’d forgotten about you,” you said, speaking up before Goodwin could muster the guts to. “That all-devouring shadow you just spoke of, Goodwin took the brunt of it.”

Her auburn brows arched slightly. She looked from you to the main in the white hat, then back, the fire in her eyes in smouldering constant—the licks never leaving the flame. She glared, as if trying to saw through you like a tree in her way.

“Goodwin … you don’t recall me, not one bit?” she asked, her voice holding an unchanging pitch as she stooped down. Brushing a braid from her forehead, she pressed, “Nothing at all?”

Goodwin fidgeted, his fingers tightening around the ends of his jacket as he returned Lyrebird’s gaze with jittery frown. “I can’t recall marrying or knowing you, miss.”

She stood up, her hand leaving her cotton knee. “I see,” she murmured, staring at her palm. “I see,” she repeated like a song’s chorus, her expression unchanged.

After a prolonged awkward silence, Goodwin crawled back and then began to rise to his feet. “If I did know you somewhen, sorry for any debts unsettled.”

Lyrebird ran her fingers through her hair and then pursed her mercury lips, causing a lightheadedness that made both you and Goodwin stagger “You leaving?”

Goodwin steadied himself. “I’d prefer to leave.”

“If you don’t recall a thing,” Lyrebird said, “do you even know where you’re heading?”

“I don’t, but there ain’t much else I can do.”

“I won’t let you leave, even if you try,” Lyrebird said, balling her hand into a fist. “Ain’t nothing out there for you but pain and loneliness.”

“Then what?” he said. “I … I don’t want to follow either of you.”

Lyrebird retrieved a bundle of chalks from the sea-like folds of her skirt. “I’ll leave you be somewhere safe, Goodwin. The Next Stop.” His brows knitted, and in response, Lyrebird let out a sigh. “It’ll be a safe spot for you. Reckon you won’t mind it there now, seeing as you don’t remember why you were averse to religion.”

Lyrebird veered towards you, and added. “First, we’ll follow Stillwater’s lead, then head to the Next Stop. With that done, we’ll tackle the Wendigo.”

> Concur with Lyrebird’s proposal, though it leads you down two detours and forsakes your sole sound strategy – the pursuit of the white buffalo.
> Suggest that you skip “Papoose’s” lead and go straight to Next Stop.
> Insist you continue on your quest for the white buffalo. Question her – is “Papoose’s” opinion of greater weight to her than her loathing for the Wendigo and the salvation of her girls?
> [Write In]

>>5868581
> Concur with Lyrebird’s proposal, though it leads you down two detours and forsakes your sole sound strategy – the pursuit of the white buffalo.
Fine, might as well. Maybe we'll get a lead on how to redeem our soul and avoiding coming back to this or another hell in future.

No update today. Vote still open.

>>5869202

You cleared your throat and spat.

“She’s right,” you said, “heading out there alone is daft. You might not die here, but that’s small solace when you can still be ripped asunder.”

Goodwin fiddled his glove’s ivory edges, pulling on the silk. “What exactly is this Next Stop?” the man asked, his voice as parched as his lips.

“It’s a train station,” Lyrebird said; she rose her hand and pointed somewhere different from the chalk. “Or leastways, that’s what they’re aiming to make it.” You noticed the bracelet she now wore on her wrist.

Goodwin’s gaze shifted between the ground and where she pointed. “Train?”

Lyrebird cringed. With a nod of her head, she started walking, moving with unnecessary haste in front and ahead of you. After a moment of silence, she drawled, without looking back.

“Don’t sweat the details, Goodwin. Just know that it’s a safe place. You’ll be outta harm’s way there.”

You quickened your stride to keep pace with her, finding an once-inch gap between your shoulders. “The first place we’re heading to—what is it?”

Lyrebird rubbed her forehead, her gaze drifting into the distance as her footsteps crunched the forced silence and the sand.

“I only know -where-,” she said.

A few minutes passed before you spoke up in quieter voice, your darkened bones crushing and sinking the sand beneath even louder than Lyrebird. “You are handling this better than expected.”

Her flames flickered as she turned her head, the glow of her cheekbones dimming like an eclipse. “I’m aware I’m not doing it proper,” she said. Abruptly, she stopped, the mist parting to reveal a circle in the sand. Shuffled by moccasin steps, it was nothing more but an imprint. Amidst the sand laid an axe, its silver steel glistening.

> Move towards the etched circle and take hold of the axe. Could it be that Papoose left it for you two, and if that be the case, for what reason?
> Don’t do anything yet. Ask Lyrebird to confirm this be indeed the spot, then watch her next move.
> Forego nearing the circle; instead, aim your revolver towards the vague horizon. Press for answers – is Papoose nearby? Is she laying eyes on you this moment? If so, she better show herself.
> [Write In]

>>5870133
> Forego nearing the circle; instead, aim your revolver towards the vague horizon. Press for answers – is Papoose nearby? Is she laying eyes on you this moment? If so, she better show herself.

I'll finish this thread here. Will take a short break due to work circumstances (Christmas season y'know). Will announce new thread in /qtg/. See you.

>>5871099
Thanks for running, QM! See you in the new year!

>>5871312

https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Wanted%20Dead:%20A%20Western%20Quest

Quest archieved, but I accidentally made it $8 instead of $7, and it's not even the second time this happens! Maybe I need to go back to school. Not sure if possible to fix. Regardless, thanks you all for playing.

If you could share any thoughts about the nightmare sequence, was it too long or maybe too confusing (it was suppose to be disorienting but there are limits to everything). The Gadfly was suppose to be the last memory before the full eclipse happens (and maybe something after that just to give y'all a chance?) but you managed to avoid it.

Other thought: should I go with another OP pic next thread? Would that help with getting attention?

>>5873645
I think this many threads into a quest, most people who plan to join have already joined, so I'm not sure a change of OP matters. I'm still liking it, mind, and I suspect the decrease in participation is more to do with holidays than anything else.

The dream sequences was a bit long/repetitive, though, admittedly, and it felt a bit like we couldn't do anything and also that we were simultaneously in no real danger.

>>5873651
That's true, and I do like this OP pic. I'll probably just upload the entire quest so far as one document so it's easier to catch up if someone would like to.

I can see why it could be considered repetitive, I was expecting more attempts to fight not!August off. I can also see the point of "real danger" not being known until after the fact, but to be honest, everything in Graveyard Frontier should be considered a potential danger he-he.

Merry Christmas.

>>5873676
Merry Christmas!

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