[P] [m] look away, look away, look away Dixie Land
#1

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: .
because a certain someone is a big ol' potty mouth~

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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

The wheels churned, over, and over, and over, through sloppy half-frozen mud as that trail they had taken wound north, and north still. The chill and flurries had turned to snow, and the trio bundled tight in their wagons looked all the more miserable for it. Santiago had allowed himself to fall silent as time went on, and he could feel Calhoun shiver behind him from the point of contact - the gold man's shoulder, and his mid-back. Evelyn had all but shrunken away into her shawl, and his pallid yellow-green eyes watched the trail. The muddy horses heaved up a hill, the cold earth sucking at their hooves, and Dutch gave grunts of disapproving effort while they trailed along at a sluggish pace.

But they could not venture far enough to feel safe again. For his sake, for theirs, Santiago kept the cart moving. Breath left the snow-bound creatures in long, whipping curls of white and clouds. They were alive, against all odds. Tired. Thin. Low on rations, but alive.

It had always been this way.

Everyone collectively winced, and Santiago shot out an arm to wrap the Vicar's shoulder to keep her from jostling right off the front of the wagon when wheels upturned an old stone - before an expletive had the time to fly past Santiago's lips, the flat rock jammed against the back wheel, rocked the cart up. Calhoun's hands lashed out to grip the walls of the cart and he grunted with alarm - Dutch loosed a shrill whinny, and the backside of their wagon heaved up, before a loud thunk of a sound sank it back down, one wheel down as it bending outward and rattling. The horses were only able to drag forward a few more steps, before snowy mud grasped the wheels and their hooves, and paralyzed their egress. The back wheel popped, and the cart jostled again, before it dislodged from the cart entirely and pulled the horses back a half-step.

"Dammit!" Calhoun's gravelly voice was sharp and alarming while Santiago whirled about to see the damage from his spot, and the two men got up, hopping down into snowy banks to look over their wagon wheel's unfortunate situation.

"Shit. Shit. Alright, this is just a minor set back," Santiago muttered, running fingers up under his cap to scrape against his scalp, before plucking off his hat and throwing it into the snow. "Shit!"


8) hey guise
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#2
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Santiago had fallen silent as they trundled on north, the spitting flurries turning to sheets of snow until everything was a blanket of white, and Evelyn was allowed to sink back into her thoughts undisturbed. Huddled beneath her cloak, her shawl wrapped around her bowed shoulders, Evelyn defied this northern weather and considered worse evils.


When their wagon lurched, the creaking wood and the whinnying horse loud as thunder in her ears, The Vicar managed a gasp but little else. She was grateful for Santiago's quick action, or she would have spilled right over the front of the wagon. Alarmed, she clamped her scarred, bandaged fingers wherever she could find purchase and waited for the heaving and the rolling to subside.


She stayed sitting where she was while the boys assessed the damage, silently stewing while, above, the pearly sky threatened them quietly with its snow and its wind and its cold. But Evelyn, her single fiery eye burning softly, looked away from it with disdain and drew the frayed edges of her hood downward. Think you can scare us off so easy? she thought, her bandaged fingers lifting once her ears were hidden and her face was shielded. Got another damn thing comin'. Gripping her shawl, The Vicar stepped off their wagon and followed her companions.


With the wolves of hell snapping at their heels, she would be damned if this was what got them caught.


She bent to pick up Santiago's hat without sharing in the boys' alarm. Impassively, she assess the damage with the sight of her golden eye and held out the snow-dusted hat without a glint of acknowledgement. Her lips thinned. "Well?" she asked, looking from Calhoun to Santiago. "We just gonna stand here an' gawk? Shit ain't gonna fix itself." The wind breathed down the front of her hood, passing through the crack where her shawl wasn't securely clasped, and Evelyn swore she heard laughter. "What'll we need?"


[WC — 330]


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#3
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Keep that gun locked away, locked away boy
Well you know you're an angry young man

The cartel kept a slow, but steady westward pace toward a town John had passed through in the Spring. Freetown. Rundown as John described it, the place would be suitable to hunker down for the winter. To find warm shelter and resupply. Yet, their little window of time was steady shrinking with the falling snow. The snow drifts grew deeper everyday -- and what was only a few inches now would soon be a few feet, and it would be impossible to pull a cart.

Time was of the essence, and as the days passed, their pace became more urgent.

Yet, despite all this, moral remained high. The crossing of the loch renewed their sprits, proving that even when faced with insurmountable odds, their band would survive through the sheer power of brotherhood and comradery. As they rode, Boone bantered back and forth with his uncle and brother, arguing over stupid things like, who could outdrink who? The gang sang songs to pass the time, and John even taught him an old drinking song from Homestead, the place he and his brother grew up.

Along the path ahead, Boone spied a commotion. He pulled back on the reins and bid his horse to stop. "Woah girl," he said. A cart with a broken wheel, bogged down in the snow. It seemed those it belonged too hadn't noticed the riders in the distance. Boone looked to his uncle. ""s a cart," Boone muttered, stating the obvious.

PP of John approved.

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#4
She'd barely had a chance to settle before word of the Cartel packing up and moving north had come to her ears. Luckily, Tamara hadn't unpacked much, only a few furs to lay on the floor inside her tent, something to ward against the cold.

As the group of coyotes moved north, Tamara stayed to the side, alert, bow at the ready in her hand, the other curled 'round Achim's reins. The cold had seeped into her bones, so much so that she had become used to it, fingers numb and eyes tearing up when the wind got too strong.

Tamara didn't talk much to the others. Achim had been company enough for her for moons before she joined the small group, most of them still strangers to her. They were family, now, though, whether she was privy to every detail of her life or not. Tamara urged Achim forward a little faster, his legs splattered with mud, shifting the quiver that was slung across her shoulders. Something in the distance caught her attention, and she looked back to the party of coyotes, watching to see what they would do.

Boone was the first to say anything, though she barely caught his words. Tamara kicked Achim's flanks, trotting quickly towards the group. The mud made her approach a bit louder than she would have liked. Strangers were often dangerous, but she trusted her aim.

"Is your wagon stuck?" she called, keeping her distance with one hand still tightly holding her bow. Tamara shifted in her saddle, ready to hop off of her horse's back.
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#5
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The growing spectators went unnoticed by The Vicar as she stood, arms crossed and lips pursed. The damage was fixable, but it would not be without cost. They had their goods and they had their food, but they lacked the supplies needed to repair their busted wagon wheel on their own. Evelyn narrowed her eyes, silently cursing this frozen wasteland. Something like this would have been no trouble in warmer, sunnier climes. This place was already proving to be unwelcoming, and the nip in the air suggested it would be unforgiving as well.


"What do we got for trade, Cal?" she asked, snapping her head in her brother's direction. What she didn't say, because she felt certain he would understand well enough by her generalized question, was 'What's it gonna take to fix this?' She glanced at Santiago, but almost immediately her attention was stolen away. Through the fabric of her hood, beneath which her ears were hidden, Evelyn made out the muffled sound of an approaching horse.


She twisted her head toward the voice and the wind tore at her hood, making it rustle. Impassively, Evelyn considered the rider like a pronghorn might consider the wind: vaguely, and only in regard to self-interest. The fire-kissed coyote said nothing for a long time, but neither did she move her eyes – one pale and dull with blindness and the other as vibrantly and lively as could be possible – away from the dark woman's dark face.


Finally, The Vicar spoke. "Nah, we just like gettin' out of our wagon now an' again t' gaze devoutly at our wheels." Her voice was toneless, but not without conviction. Tugging her shawl around her shoulders, Evelyn sighed. It would do them no good to push away potential help now. "Yeah," she continued. "We broke a wheel." Subtly, she shifted her good eye to peer at the figures behind the dark woman and clenched her fingers around the fabric of her shawl.


Would this be an opportunity or a calamity?


[WC — 340]


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#6
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And the stars will be your eyes, And the wind will be my hands

Bless her heart.

Bless the sweet, fire-kissed woman, who got down once Santiago and Calhoun both wrung their hands, their hats, and thought to give up for that brief moment. Instead, she had stooped, and shook the snow off his hat, only to put it back in his palms, and he curled his fingers into the leather of the brim, letting his pallid eyes graze over her features for a long minute. The Reverend narrowed his eyes a moment, and huffed to her words, before he stooped to try and spot where the wheel had come apart.

"Hell if I know," Calhoun had started, before Santiago cut him off, and watched the approach of strangers - shallow, echoing imitations of their own faces, but broad. Different. Northern-hardened, wolf-blooded, and without thinking, he righted his hat back on his head, and gingerly placed himself on the other side of Evelyn, proud and indignant when a stone-colored and stone-faced woman rode up on a horse. Calhoun popped up when his sister spoke, and reached for his own bow, only for his palm to stall at Evelyn's voice prompting him for trade.

"Just a lil spot. A hiccup." Santiago was no stranger to this; they were opportunistic creatures, every one of them, and Calhoun grumbled beneath his breath. "Now, Reverend, ain't that a way to treat visitors?"

The gold man grunted, and tried to heave himself back up into the cart to see what they had left, and Dutch loosed a heaving grunt from the front.

"We got... Summin' to warm the spirit," he had answered after a moment, with great reluctance. "Nothin' more we much care to part with."

Santiago's pale eyes turned upon the interloping strangers, while Calhoun slipped from the back of the cart once more and dusted off his palms. "Where you folks from?"


we got some drank you want some drank
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#7
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(281)

ooc




His fingers clenched on the reins, Obst strained at the cart. He hated the weather here, it was a bitter bitch, a jilted lover. Hadn't he been fucked hard enough by time as it was? John's green eyes raised to the shitty looking sky and he muttered obscenities below his breath. Why couldn't his dumb-ass brother have run to somewhere nice and warm, maybe a tropical beach. Yeah, that'd be nice. No, it had to be butt-fuck middle of nowhere Canda.

Man he missed the Homestead sometimes. Not Ginger, fuck that bitch. But the warm weather was a dream of a memory that he clung to like a life raft.

They passed the time as they always did though, and the camaraderie between them helped to keep him a little bit warm; and wasn't that some sappy shit.

"Yeah, I see that." The 'dumbass' went unsaid but it hung there anyway. He slipped his way off their own cart and strode whilst Tamara rode. He caught the end of the woman's sardonic words and yoteish laughter spewed from his mouth before he could stop it.

He whistled, low and dropping in tone as he caught sights upon their fucked wheel, "That's a real shame." He jammed the cigarette back into his mouth and inhaled, spoke spewing from his maw.

"Jest 'bout everywhere. Some of us are south, some north.." He shrugged nonchalantly, without much care.

John knew how much of a bitch it was to be stuck with a broken wheel and no one to offer help, it sucked dick,

"Y'all want a hand there?" He nodded towards the busted wheel, pinching the end of his smoke and sticking it in the depths of his clothing.


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