Author Topic: The Village [ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining  (Read 102 times)


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[ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining
« on: October 11, 2019, 03:14:24 PM »
Sylvester wishes the wiggling and gyrating in his backpack would stop already. He knows, he knows it's cold and uncomfortable. He wishes there was more he could do - he doesn't have any of those fancy solar panels, though back in the day he would've easily been able to afford them, and the oversight is perhaps one of his biggest regrets; given his deficit, he can't exactly plug a heat lamp into one and sip champagne knowing everything is well taken care of. Poor Dorothy, the python in his luggage, will just have to keep shivering for warmth until he can find suitable shelter. Do snakes shiver? Instinctively, his hand reaches for his pocket, which he knows very well doesn't contain his dead iphone. That's a Google question. He really, really wishes Google still existed. Maybe he could even pull up a map.

He has next to no idea where he is - the northern part of the Sierras, maybe, hopefully nowhere farther north than Oregon. He doesn't know how he got here; at first he'd just been walking along in the forest, trying to find a good spot to bait for mice. He was scouring the roots of great oaks for the entrances to small dens, keeping an eye out for any leaf litter that seemed out of place, when all of a sudden he felt a light sprinkle of snow crunch underfoot. His first thought was confusion. Well, no, his first thought was ew, that's disgusting because he's wearing slippers and now they're bound to get all soggy, as if they weren't already stained with mud and grime, but following that was confusion, and it was palpable. Sylvester doesn't really remember walking all that much, but then again, he's easily engrossed in whatever it is he's doing, and he supposes observing nature is no exception.

He doesn't know what drove him forward, but it certainly involved a rare lapse in judgement. He thought maybe a more wintry environment would help expose more animal holes - they're tiny, tiny things, maybe a few centimeters in diameter, and they're really hard to spot in vegetation - but after quite the length of fruitless searching, which he intended to be for a much shorter period, it occurred to him that, wait a minute, Dorothy is probably freezing his hide off right now, and at that point it was too late to turn back because wherever he ended up would be far closer than wherever he came from.

Then he heard the distant whinnying of a horse, and, with a bit more adventuring, stumbled upon what looked to him like a ghost town, only tucked away in the mountains as opposed to laying somewhere in the dust of the midwest.

As soon as he stepped into the boundaries of that place, barren and empty save for the distant scuttle of the stables, he got the strong sensation that he shouldn't be there. A bit of careful investigation revealed nobody nearby, but that could always just be his bad luck trying to lull him into a false sense of security. Who would just leave all those horses lying around? If they were dogs or something, then he'd understand, but horses ... you can ride those things, and all you need to do in return is let them graze and lead them to water (which he has been reminded time and time again, will not necessarily make them drink.) Not that he knows the mystical art of horseback riding, but he's heard of it in myth and legend and newspaper ads for expensive lessons he never had the desire to attend.

Maybe whoever owns them is out right now. It's dead silent, save for the flaring of a few pony's nostrils; he's sure he'd at least hear footsteps, which he imagines would be hard to disguise in the snow and ice. No, Sylvester is certain he's alone; all the better for him, then. He slips into the stables, and looks over his shoulder as he does it, if only to make sure nobody jumps from behind him and catches him red-handed ... no, he doesn't plan on stealing a horse. He'd look pretty gallant poised on the saddle of a pure white Arabian stallion, but he knows better than to take someone's property, apocalypse or not. That being said, if such picturesque beasts do indeed exist, he sure doesn't see any in this specific lot of equines. There's a lot of brown coats, white diamonds on foreheads, and plain black manes, and none of that really interests him. Also, he already has a best friend, and yes, he might be a scaly handful and not at all practical to have around, but regardless of Dorothy's worth outside companionship, Sylvester still considers his party full at the moment.

He makes his way past the peering eyes of the horses, their big heads poking from their pens to watch him with distrust; he hears a few complaints, a few snorts, and the sound of hooves clacking as they contemplate him, but he pays them no mind other than passing glances to see how recently they were brushed (maybe a few days ago, he deduces, unless they just muss their pelt up that fast.)

With a huff, he slides one of the straps of his backpack from his shoulders, and the other naturally falls to his arm. He lowers it to the dusty floor with the same delicacy one would employ handling a box full of china, careful not to harm its cargo, before finally setting it among a few square bales of hay, the likes of which he slumps down beside. It's cold in here, and sitting in the back of the building on the floor doesn't do much to help that, but most importantly, the walls, however shoddy they are, keep out the wind, and that's all he can really expect from a place like this.

Sylvester slowly drags his backpack into his lap, and then coos at it, or rather the creature contained therein. "There, there," he murmurs, and then there's the harsh sound of a zipper being ripped down; the part of his inventory containing the snake was already slightly agape, just to allow fresh air, but he now spreads it even further open, enough that Dorothy, his python, perks up from the intrusion of light and sticks his snout into the gap leading outside. He's a beautiful snake, really; the parts of him that aren't plain white are a swirl of orange, black and brown, as if someone had melted all the colors of a tiger into a puddle of paint and dappled it upon him. Granted, while he really is quite striking, at least to his owner anyhow, Sylvester would still love him even if he was of a standard morphology ... well, he would own a different snake entirely, because he specifically went shopping for this phenotype when he decided on a whim at the age of fifteen that reptiles are cool, but the sentiment stands.

He shuffles his coat off, tentatively lifts Dorothy from his coil, and then wraps him in his clothes, leaving only his flickering tongue visible from the folds of thick wool. Dorothy keeps trying to slither out of what is essentially a hug, but Sylvester pulls him back down each time he pops upwards. "Stop it, you." His chastising doesn't seem to have much effect, because Dorothy is already climbing up his chest, out of the warm wraps he so courteously provided him with. "Shucks."

Come to think of it, there's probably oats or grains around here somewhere, and you know what eats that? ... Other than horses? While he's occupied with peering around for wherever the feed is kept - he's thinking it must be in a sack somewhere, or some kind of trough somewhere, he doesn't know much about animal husbandry - there's a sudden clang near the door, and that gets his attention pretty quick, more so than the evidence of mouse droppings scattered around a bunch of barely would, anyways.

"What the-"

Oh, shit. The pearly light seeping in from outdoors is suddenly tainted by the presence of long, stretching shadow, one that stands imperiously in the entrance. His voice is reduced to nothing put a small peep, and slowly and quietly as possible, he breathes outwards, trying to stay cool. All Sylvester can really do now, other than perhaps reveal himself with his hands up in the air, is regret going against his instincts - he knew there was someone here, there's fucking horses, of course they wouldn't be far off, those things are probably worth like, a hundred thousand dollars these days. God, he's not the brightest bulb, or the brightest crayon, or however else the saying might go. He just wanted somewhere to sit down and check on Dorothy, and now look. Why is the world just out to get him today?

He hugs his bundle tight and just waits - for words, for someone to notice the small figure peeking out from beside the hay, for anything that he has coming towards him, really. Maybe if he's lucky, nobody will notice at all and he'll be able to slip back out of here scott free.


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« Last Edit: October 11, 2019, 05:43:52 PM by HUECKSTAEDT »
43 | 5'2 | flintlock lodge


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Re: [ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining
« Reply #1 on: October 11, 2019, 05:24:36 PM »
Things that go bump in the night (or the middle of the day) are most likely better off being left alone. Not that he thinks he’s in any sort of danger, but Josef has been listening to crashes and clatters for most of his life and career, and it never means anything good. A wave of exasperation washes over him at the sound, but after a moment, he doesn’t really see anyone rushing over to investigate, and the lack of reaction is starting to bother him.

So, begrudgingly, he gathers up everything in his briefcase, packs it away, and hobbles toward the stable.

The door creaks open, and he finds himself in an unfamiliar territory. For a man that’s spent his entire life inside, hunched over a desk in a dark, dank room, animals and nature aren’t his expertise. Horses are the most terrifying creatures God could have ever invented, and the fact that several of them are gathered together here all in one place is … really giving him the thrill of his life, honestly.

Maybe it was just the horses knocking things over, like the bastard creatures they are, but … he doesn’t see anything of the sort. He does, however, see a quivering shadow in the far corner--which is either a fugitive hiding in the hay or just a trick of the light.

Rather than call out, Josef decides to venture further, and get a better look.

He’s actually a little disappointed to find this walking Christmas tree, adorned with--“Oh, bloody hell, is that a snake?

Baumann immediately takes a step back or five, wielding his cane like a gun towards Sylvester. “What in the fresh hell are you doing in here?" He doesn’t even want to know what’s up with the bloody python.
« Last Edit: October 11, 2019, 06:25:40 PM by BAUMANN »
tags + 70 + flintlock lodge

Offline EDMUND.

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Re: [ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining
« Reply #2 on: October 12, 2019, 04:43:54 PM »
      Edmund always hoped that he'd never grow into his paranoid mind, and yet he felt rooted into feeling overly suspicious and on-edge than falling into the life of complacency he once lived. He was on guard when he was awake, when he was asleep, every single breath he took was so that he could continue onward and keep his family safe. After all, it'd been him who'd caused an uproar from enemies. It'd been him who unwittingly caused a shootout earlier in the year. He always assumed that he was passed all of that mobster shit ever since dad died, but obviously his intuition was no better than the old man's.

Alfred said he'd be home in a week - nobody would harm a hair on his balding head. That was laughable, really, especially because he hadn't been seen since.

Nowadays, Ed felt like he'd escaped the bear and fell to the lion. By putting an end to one group, it did little more than cause exasperation between many groups. A little bit like a domino effect. Many people who knew of the family's whereabouts. Many people who'd probably be willing to trek all away up this mountain and hide out in the stables for an unsuspecting victim. Nobody in Flintlock was safe anymore, were they?

It seemed that Baumann had been the one to fall victim.

Not too long after he saw the older man hobble his way into the stables, Ed followed suit, rifle held in his grasp for when he would inevitably fire at the intruder. Protect the lodge from the result of his naive actions. He trudged in, chin tipped upwards in preparation, eyes squinted, hand twitching to leap into action, and-

Shoulders slumped. Who let Benjamin Button in?

A man who appeared to be middle-aged yet the height of a pubescent boy, at least compared to Eddie's brothers who appeared the opposite - the baby faced Goliaths. This was far from what Eddie had been expecting. He was expecting from vicious shootout between another mobster, but that was only his paranoid mind working hard at making him wary and nervous.

Ed sighed to himself, lowering his gaze as he shrugged his rifle back over his shoulder, then tipping his head to warily look at the stable prowler before stating as dully as ever, ❝ Your snake would have a field trip with all the mice in this stable. I hope that is the only thing you're after in here, though. The horses aren't for anyone to take, nor is the hay. ❞

Call Ed blunt and oddly suspicious, but his heart was still left racing at the misinterpretation of the situation.

Spoiler: tags :: updated 07/20 • show
⋟ edmund theodore stirling-moray // ed, eddie, moray
⋟ goes by the name edmund moray
⋟ male // he/him
⋟ twenty three // ages real time // born seventh august
⋟ member of flintlock lodge // formerly a traveler with his family
⋟ product of an organized crime family, his father the mafia godfather
⋟ joined FL two years ago

faceclaim - finn cole
voice claim - finn cole (tw in video. blood & violence)
⋟ 5'9ft // stocky, well-built frame
⋟ muted blue eyes and dirty blonde hair
⋟ physical health - 100% // current injuries: none
⋟ mental health - 100% // N/A

⋟ quiet in nature but confident in himself
⋟ completely fearless, almost foolishly so
⋟ insensitive and callous // cares for very few
⋟ very calm and calculative // always planning in his head
⋟ disciplined and practices good self-control
⋟ very flirtatious and persuasive // overly lustful
⋟ aloof and untrustworthy // jealous and deceitful
⋟ tactful and knows how to get what he wants
⋟ can be very nasty when he wants to be
⋟ but can also be very protective and faithful too
⋟ has a strong set of morals // has the quality of honor

⋟ alfred stirling x leonora moray // both deceased
⋟ three older brothers // alfonso, dominik & franklin
⋟ the fifth stirling-moray brother, thomas, died years ago
⋟ two younger half-siblings // henry & ida
⋟ bisexual but he stays silent about homosexual activity
⋟ husband to blake moray
⋟ father of thomas moray and charlotte moray
⋟ owns a west highland terrier, angus

storage // playlist // pinterest
⋟ physically: very hard // mentally: hard
⋟ father taught him how to kill at a young age
⋟ insensitive towards injuring or killing others // will do so without hesitation
⋟ very abrupt with newcomers but also willing to help them
⋟ often found guarding the lodge with a rifle

Offline hayley

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Re: [ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining
« Reply #3 on: October 12, 2019, 10:03:25 PM »
hayley was wary, distrustful, of everything and anyone that was not her own. her family, her people, her home; that was all she could trust anymore. perhaps the paranoia was unjust, perhaps she didn't have any more reason than the next person, but distrust was in her nature. when things went bump in the night, she pulled out her gun, but when they went bump or thud or thump in the day, she went for the kill then, too. trust was how you got killed, how your family got killed. she'd lost her husband, she'd nearly lost her daughter, and she was sick and fucking tired of trusting and losing. trust wasn't for the weak, it was for the stupid.

so when she saw some child tottering into the stables from her quiet crouch in the woods, dark eyes narrowed into thin golden slits, and she stood. she'd been out there looking for deer to hunt, or really any form of food, but she could intercept some thief while she was at it. he could be lost, she reminded herself, kept herself from marching in guns ablaze, but she still held her shotgun comfortably in her hands as she approached behind the other two, slipping in behind them, silent as a shadow.

of course it wasn't a child, just a... small man. a small man old enough to be her father, if he conceived her in high school. but still, she didn't lower her weapon, nor did she aim it at him. she stopped beside edmund, holding the loaded weapon in her hands, silent and peering at the man with silent, distrustful eyes.
make your girlfriend mad tight, might seduce your dad type


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Re: [ and a-keepin ol castro down ] joining
« Reply #4 on: October 13, 2019, 08:37:24 AM »
At first, he has a bit of hope that he'll manage to remain hidden so long as he keeps still; the man who entered first, dressed surprisingly prim and proper, with clean hair and clothes free of wrinkles, seems quite old, and if things work in Sylvester's favor, maybe it'll turn out he's afflicted with cataracts in both eyes, or has need of glasses to see more than a gaussian blur of color.

Of course, everything goes sour the moment this enigmatic fellow glances towards the back of the room, because again, that's just his luck, and being honest, hiding behind a shallow stack of hay is a pretty shitty spot to pick to begin with. Before he can do much at all, suddenly he's being approached by this man over a foot taller than him, who, despite being maybe double his age and seemingly frail as a sprig of bamboo, manages to frighten him. Most things frighten Sylvester - he's the kind of person to become genuinely paranoid upon seeing a black cat - so when the old man, enfeebled by age though he might be, starts wielding his cane like some kind of rapier, one familiar phrase leaps to mind.

Oh, biscuits. (He's not going to say the F-word, what kind of ruffian do you take him for?)

Upon mention of Dorothy, especially in that tone of voice (come on, it's just a snake that's nearly four-fifths as tall as its owner, grow up,) Sylvester makes it a point to once more rip the python from his slow ascent upwards and stuff him back into the wadded up trench coat, giving a bothered glare all the while. "You don't have to say it like that," he mutters, and when Baumann begins to back away in either fear or caution, he feels offense rise in his chest, even though he much prefers it to his previous oncoming. Dorothy isn't scary! He's an overgrown piece of spaghetti that likes cuddles! He would never dare utter the word aloud, but Sylvester gets the impression that this guy is a bit of an asshole.

Slowly, so as not to make any sudden movements, lest he meet the same fate as Charles Sumner, he rises to his full height, back straight as he can make it. It's not very intimidating, sure, considering he's a bit stunted in the growth department, but it at least makes him feel a bit more respectable than he would be were he still curled up in the fetal position on the floor. "I was just looking for mice, you see, he needs to eat once a⁠—"

More footsteps, more shadows crawling towards him, and oh, wow. He wouldn't have minded the others flowing in - well, it would've made him a bit antsy, but it also would've been manageable - had they not whipped out their firearms like he's the villain in some detective film, caught stealing priceless paintings before making his inevitable escape out the window. Except he's not in an art museum, he's in a rinky-dinky pen for overgrown deer, and he's not even stealing, unless the mice are somehow their property too!

His throat closes when he sees the end of a rifle, though it's only for a few brief moments; the gaping mouth of that infernal thing points back towards the ground when its owner almost immediately stows it, and Sylvester feels eternally grateful to this man for choosing not to fill him full of lead ... well, he does until he hears Edmund actually speak, and then he's just kind of mad. Him, reduced to the methods of a petty thief?! The nerve! The audacity! He understands how that assumption might be made and all, given the fact that he's a total stranger just hanging out among their horses, but still, what a thing to insinuate - and shamelessly, with his chest, no less! Sylvester really hopes it's just his hearing again, because honestly, how tactless!

His face twists into a look of pure flabbergast. Maybe he shouldn't be getting all huffy when someone else quite literally has him in the range of a pistol, but compared to the howling wolf that is a hunting rifle, he can't help but see it now as nothing but a yapping dog. What's it gonna do, shoot him?

"Now see here!" he says indignantly, and were his hands not currently occupied, his tone makes it clear he'd be jabbing a finger Ed's way, "If I wanted one of those things, which I don't, I'd settle for an Andalusian at the least! And, me, stealing!? Hoh, buddy ... I am perfectly capable of existing without infringing upon the rights of others! I have never laid even a finger on something that wasn't mine! What use would I have for straw anyways?!"

Who even are these people?! He knows he's stumbled upon their property and all, but really! To assassinate his character like that is dreadful!


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43 | 5'2 | flintlock lodge