Pasgetti Western

[Frodo]

Okay, here goes: Strider wanted to start a new role-play, since she wanted to join one and couldn't understand the other ones. (can't blame her actually...)

So I said, how 'bout a western? But with some crazy twist of fantasy that somehow winds itself in everything we do anyway?

I'll start with a character profile-thing, but I'll let someone else actually start the story.
Sound fair?

[Frodo]

www.seventhsanctum.com/generate.php?Genname=westernnamer

(I just have to say: this site is AWESOME if you're stuck on names. Give it a try!)

[Frodo]

I think I'll take on a couple minor characters this time...

Willard Morgan
Age: Late 40s
Height: 5'7"
Build: Rotund, gnommish
Hair Color: dishwater blonde, but white at temples.
Eye Color: faded denim blue
Typical Clothing: worn shirt*, suspenders, dark twill pants
Occupation: started out working on railroad, but now is book-keeper at cattle-driving station.
Personality Traits: Merry, fond of drink, loves company and joking and tall-tales. Cannot ride a horse, or shoot accurately to save his life. Has Dutch roots, so that explains much of him.

*dunno the name, but here's what it looks like:

(can you see this picture?)

Doc Pierce Reed
Age: Late 20s
Height: 6'2"
Build: Tall and slender; muscular
Hair Color: black, usually kept quite short
Eye Color: steely grey
Typical Clothing: Long black frock coat (meaning, very long), black trousers, dark brown riding boots, white ascot (and plain white shirt beneath), black esquire hat*. Usuallly the same outfit from day to day, but always meticuously dressed.
Occupation: Surgeon, wherever needed
Personality Traits: Quiet, observant, curt. Likes to brood, ride trains and horses, read, listen to music and sketch (primarily the human body and nature).

* esquire hat looks like this:


The two vaguely know each other...Morgan, in an attempt to defend the railroad from Indian attacks, was shot in the shoulder-blade, and Doc Reed was his care-taker for a while.
After Morgan's wound, he then became an accountant sort of fellow (as afore-mentioned).

And now,
ONWARD!

[Strider]

My turn! Right? ok...

Infernal Hughes

Age: Early 20's
Height:5'9"
Build: Short and muscular
Hair Color: Dusty Brown
Eye Color: Dark Blue
Typical clothing: Worn out jeans, with faded light tan leather chaps; Red button up shirt, and a long tan leather coat..(you know those ones that come to your knee, that they always wear in the movies?)And brown leather boots that are usually muddy..and of course his two six shooters by his side..
Ocupation: Aspiring bank robber
Personality traits: "Though he be but little! He is feirce!" or so he'd like to make you think..He is laid back, and reserved, and always willing to help anyone in need. He likes to work on his aim with his ol' six shooter, and pow-wow with the Indians, when they're not shooting at him...He's an excellent rider, and quick at the draw.

[Strider]

oh and..

Amber Tucker (aka: The Black Bandit)

Age: Mid-20's
Height: 5'7"
Build: Thin and muscular
Hair Color: Dark Red..usually in braided pig-tails
Eye Color: Emerald Green
Typical Clothing: A soft blue cotton skirt, with a white blouse, and brown high-heeled boots (town clothes)..A black button up shirt with black jeans, black leather chaps, black leather jacket, and a red bandana around her face, and a black cowgirl hat..(Recreation clothes)
Occupation: Cowgirl/cattle rustler/stage coach robber/ bank robber/ train robber/ etc...
Personality Traits: Hot tempered and quick at the draw..bad combination..She's very intellegent, an excellent rider, and a pretty near perfect shot, She's known for randomly slapping men, just cause she can..

[Frodo]

LOL
Amber sounds great

[Frodo]

Well....should I start the first paragraph or so anyway?

I guess - I will wait two days - and then I'll post.

[Frodo]

Okay, it's been two days. So I'll start now. (oh, and by the way - I illustrated Morgan! he's in the thread title 'picture book'. I'll be adding more soon. Oh, and feel free to add some yourself. if you don't know how, just ask, and I'll teach you.)

And now back to our regular program:

Willard Morgan sat staring off into space, singing quietly to himself. He could hear an irishman in the distance singing also, belting out his old country's tunes, and probably quite drunk. Morgan laughed. he could hear lots of things from the saloon, even from where he was, in the old office. He squinted as the sun came through the window panes, a ball of red fire shooting all over his eyes. The scene made him think of those blood-thirsty Indians, on their painted horses and war-cries. He clumsily pulled down the shade with his right hand, his stiff arm, and went back to his ledger, counting up the various bank-notes he had recieved during the day. It was tedious, but soothing. His spectacles slid down his long nose, and he pushed them back up with an ink-splattered fore-finger.
"Morgan old man," he murmured, " 'bout time you got settled, don't you think?"
"No sir," he answered himself. "I'm still young."
"Still young - with white temples, and a war wound?"
"Yes sir," he replyed again, and nodded as if to a gentlemen. "yes, sir indeed."
"There's no woman even your age who would even want - "
"I beg to differ sir, yes sir do. yes sir indeed."

"Morgan!"
the voice came from the back room. The swinging doors parted, and a squat man appeared with a load of boxes in his arms. "Morgan, quit talking and get to work. I'm tired of hearing just snippets of your one-sided conversations."
"yes sir," Morgan just quipped back, in the same tone as before. But as the manager waddled back to the storeroom, Morgan chuckled quietly to himself, and continued the conversation silently within his mind.
"yes sir indeed. there's hope yet for me."

[Strider]

The saloon was packed with drunken men playing cards, and dancing women in can-cans entertaining the drunken men. In a corner of the saloon, near the bar, stood a young man watching the many poker games going on in the room, his arms folded across his broad chest, and his left foot propped up on the papered wall. A chocolate brown cowboy hat lay low on his brow, shadowing his dark blue eyes, which seemed to follow the path of the money from the tables of the poker games to the pockets of the winners.
“Escuse me sur…have you some money I can spare? ” slurred an old drunken man, to the young man in the corner.
“Oh, uh..I guess. Here.” The young man straightened up, and searched his pockets then handed the drunk a small “silver coin”, which in reality was an old bullet casing.
“Your welcome.” the old drunkard said smiling at the “silver” in his hands.
“Thank you.” The young man shook his head not knowing why he said that.
He then resumed his position and began watching the tables once more.
The room seemed to quite down as a cold silhouette entered through the small swinging doors. The man at the piano stopped his merry tune, and the dance hall gals stopped dancing. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breaths in fear.

Standing in the entrance of the saloon was a young lady with her soft red hair in pig tails, which draped over her surprisingly broad shoulders. Her light blue dress was covered in dust, and her boots in mud.
“RUN!” The drunken man exclaimed grasping his glass of beer and heading for the door.
“Oh do shut up!” the woman snapped, slapping the poor man across his already red face as he tried to pass her.
“Why did you just hit that man?” The young lad said standing up straight, and pulling his arms back slightly.
“Because he’s drunk, and he’s a man. Need you any more reason than that?” her ironically cold green eyes seemed to burn a hole through him.
“What kind of reasoning is that?” he snapped back.
The lady walked slowly towards him, her boots clapping against the dusty wood floor.
“Hughes! Run!” The cowardly bartender yelled as he ducked behind the counter.
“Ah. Hughes. I’ve heard of you.” She said looking him up and down. Hughes took his hat off and gave a slight bow.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard of you.”
“The names’ Amber, Amber Tucker.” She stretched her right hand out towards him for a shake.
“No Hughes she’s tricking you!” The bartender continued to warn.
“Why are you so afraid of a little lady?” He turned to the bartender and said with a slight chuckle in his voice.
Hughes turned his gaze back to Amber just in time to see a glass mug which was about to meet his skull. The glass shattered, cutting his left brow.
Hughes fell to the ground with a crash, and was out like a candle in a rain storm.
“Little lady my foot.” Amber spat on Hughes. The room was dead silent and all eyes were watching her carefully.
“What?” she asked almost innocently. Quickly everyone in the room continued what they were doing previously.

[Frodo]

OOC: LOL
Ohhh man...this is AWESOME...

IC:
Morgan heard a crash, a commotion - "some ruckus, drunken brawl or some such," he grunted to himself. He leaned back in his creaking wooden chair with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a few more calculations left, but he decided to leave those for tomorrow. With routine-learned movements, he closed up the ink bottle, cleaned the pens, blotted away his mess, and put everything in its place. Then muffling a yawn, he got up and shuffled over to the coat rack by the door. Jamming a mishappen, wide-brimmed straw hat onto his head, called down to his manager still in the cellar, and without waiting for a reply, left.

The barely visible of golden sunlight streamed across the darkening sky. "Shoulda left earlier. Don't like the dark." He slid his hands into his pockets as his back began to ache. The chill night air was coming on, and the old wound was not privy to any kind of weather change. "Rain soon," he murmured. "Yes sirree, some good buckets comin' our way."
He still heard the occasional scrape from an overturned chair at the saloon, but quite suddenly there was a hush as the tinkling sound of broken glass and a low voice floated out.
Curious, the old man decided to peek in a window. There, a fiery young woman, with the form of a crumpled man at her feet, stood. Morgan shuddered, and snuck in the back way, to find out more.

[Frodo]

Just what I needed .

Rierce Reed put down his novel at the sound of broken glass and put an icy stare over the crowd of people, now frozen from the entrance of the girl. He ignored her, but watched the man on the floor. He would live - but that was going to be one nasty concussion. Reed went back to his novel, deciding to clean everything up when they decided to finish their brawl.

[Locked Out]

*snickers* Reirce Reed? I love it!

LOL Sorry... it too good of a cheap shot to pass up. *grins* You know I love you all...

[Frodo]

OOC: *scowls* PIERCE Reed, darling. With a P.
Cheap shot indeed...Hmmph!

[Locked Out]

LOL Where's your sense of fun? Anyways, I didn't make the typo that time. *grins* Love ya!

[Frodo]

*goes back to grumbling...*